#mosswriting
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
wip wednesday!!
tagged by @heartbreakincident <3 thank u!
technically, im workin on my dc series some 24/7, but i am on the last legs of the second chapter for my '09 ghoap fic so the snippet will be of that :)
Ghost, on the last throws of his fever, staring at him with big pupil-wide-black eyes and all that inescapable love, watching and watching and watching his every movement. Ghost, clinging to his voice and calling out his name. (John isnât blind, nor is he stupid, but he is a professional man with rules he follows and then some more. Knowing Simon âGhostâ Riley is in love with him is something similar to knowing the sun is yellow and healthy grass is usually green. Knowing that, however, doesnât mean he gets to do stupid shit like kiss him, because John âSoapâ MacTavish knows that a kiss is far more than he could or should ever give. It seems that John is far stupider than he thought himself to be, anyways, or maybe Ghost is just something inescapable, someone that has already sunk his teeth into Johnâs flesh without his knowing.) Christ. Heâs fucked and fucked up.
taggin whoever sees this <3
#ghoap haunts me im never gonna stop writin them#mosswriting#moss rambles#tag game#call of duty fanfic#cod fic#cod fanfic#ghoap#ghoap fic#ghostsoap
10 notes
·
View notes
Text
i said i'd sit around and listen to caamp for a title but then beige came to me thanks to the god of folk music that lives under my bed sometimes so you get a yoke lore lyric as the title. ANYWAY LOL read my redstone and skulk fic boy
#mosswrites#redstone and skulk#rns#NOT SHIP!!!!!!!#I HAVE TO BE SO CLEAR#yeah they're cute and do shippy things but they are not Together together you feel me#it's complicated#courtesy of your aroace author
81 notes
·
View notes
Text
-navigation-
this is my main/random fandom blog/where i reblog everything
old blog was @dxvilmanlev
my other blogs:
One piece: @eustassmoss
the walking dead: @mossdixon
tokyo revengers: @mossloveskazutora
art blog: @moonmossart
multifandom: @mosswrites (jjk, demon slayer, naruto, etc.)
my linktree: here
my tags below \/
#nanami my beloved đ©”#rindou my beloved đ©”đ#draken my beloved đ€#nahoya my beloved đ©·#kazutora my beloved đđ€#perona my beloved đ©·#eustass kid my beloved â€ïžâđ„#killer my beloved đ#zoro my beloved đ
1 note
·
View note
Text
-About the Writer-
Hello! Iâm Moss!
23
I have adhd (please be patient with me)
Iâm Non-binary, my pronouns are they/them, iâm also bisexual and polyamorous
i love the color green!
I love anime, video games, art and writing!
Some of my favorite video games:
fallout 4 & new vegas, minecraft, slime rancher, the legend of zelda botw & totk, sims 4, house flipper, stray, the last of us 1 & 2, pokemon: legends of arceus, pokemon violet, the assassins creed series, and the resident evil series
Some of my favorite animes:
studio ghibli films, one piece, tokyo revengers, jujutsu kaisen, naruto, gangsta, k - project, my hero academia, attack on titan, cowboy bebop, tokyo ghoul, demon slayer, and violet evergarden
Some of my favorite tv shows:
all the walking dead series, stranger things, breaking bad, american horror story, the last of us, and the 100
Mainblog: @moonmossblog
Art blog:
My âThe walking deadâ Blog: @mossdixon
My âTokyo Revengersâ Blog: @mossloveskazutora
My âmultifandomâ Blog: @mosswrites
1 note
·
View note
Text
wip wednesday
its not wednesday anymore but @heartbreakincident tagged me and i tag whoever sees this <3
this is actually a part of a request/idea my friend @holysxxb gave me :) ive been writing it very slowly but it is bein written
Jason Todd knows fear. Knows it intimately, not too far off from how he knows his middle, from how he knows the shape of his helmet, strips it down to his mask, to the shape of his face, a matryoshka of identities that he knows.
Fear is much the same, just a shape of feelings that Jason buries in his soft underbelly and pushes past and doesnât show the world.
Bruce WayneâBatman strips him of his ability, his years of work, his countless achievements, strips him of his need to deal with his own fear, at the tip of his fingertips, never past it, never more than it should be. Never freezing.
Heâs freezing now, he finds. Trembling hands, heightened heartbeats, staring at two of his brothers tied together, above a bubbling vat of something or another. Acidic, if Jason had to wager a guess.
#wip#mosswriting#fic: give another sleepless night (giving you my fucking life)#thats probably the title of it#this is gotham war âfailsafe in Jason's brainâ based#but it doesnt follow the canon at all
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
wip!! something
the lovely @heartbreakincident tagged me!! and i tag... whoever reads this
have the latest written excerpt from the second part of my current DC (Jason-centric) series <3
Heâs sixteen (still, maybe?) and undead and going to fucking die again.
(the earth will embrace him, again, the dirt will remember the shape of his body.)
Thereâs an echoing of a voice, âfightâ.
(why did he even come back? No one asked him to. No one dared him to. No one forced him to.)
It doesnât sound like Gotham.
He finds his belt buckle, thinks it some salvation that itâs ostentatious and probably tough, and he squirms and struggles and near-cries as he unbuckles it, slides it out of his pants.
Wields it like a weapon, bangs its pointy edge against mahogany wood as he kicks his probably-shiny shoes up, too, and screams and screams and screams, for a father that canât hear him, for a world that doesnât give two shits about him, for something, anything.
(Gotham screams back, her voice sweet and terrifying, booming against his chest, clawing its way back to his lungs and heart, wraps around his ribs.)
âFight, childâ, the voice says, and something like light flickers at the edge of his vision, âleave and live and never come backâ, like a blessing instead of a curse.
The wood splinters, gives way, and dirt rushes down towards him.
He sobs, keeps breaking apart the wood, claws at the dirt and ducks his face.
How did it go, again?
Cover the faceâhe manages to slip out of his jacket, wraps it around his face, his hands feel weak.
Move the dirt towards the feetâhe lets his legs go still, braces his forearms against the newly-broken lid, pushes and pushes and pushes, the wood giving way again and again and again.
Claw the fucking way outâ
âBruce!â he tries, again, something sweet rushing through the air. Salvation, maybe. Hope, unfortunately.
He starts digging through the tightly-packed dirt, nails bending, fingers trembling.
He digs and digs and digs, until his hands are more wound than flesh, until he sticks a hand through the dirt and feels water on his open wounds and cries out in pain, in relief, in hope and hope and God.
He kicks his feet. He clamps his hand hard and steady against soaked dirt-grass.
He claws.
He claws, and he gets the fuck up and out of his own damn grave.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
intro post <3
hi there :) i'm Moss, a writer who posts on ao3
(i also have an art account, @aemossart)
i have a kofi <3!!
my works on ao3, with some tags, below the read more
COD: ghostsoap
set your teeth against my throat (give me something pretty to wear beneath my blood-stained clothes)
slow burn, Soap POV, religious themes, angst with a happy ending; accompanied by Ghost's POV (rated E)
death is in the air (wish i could be brave)
Ghost POV, injured Ghost, recovery, angst with a happy ending
made a bed with apathy (years worth of dust and neglect)
request, Soap POV, religious themes, implied/referenced child abuse, angst with a happy ending, implied/referenced sexual assault
ghostsoaproach
something you say or something you do (a taste of the divine)
Soap POV, mission gone wrong, serious injuries, near death experiences, angst with a happy ending
so touch me again (will you cleanse me with pleasure)
major character undeath, Soap POV, werewolf Soap, vampire Roach, human Ghost, angst with a happy ending, religious themes
alerudy
dawn comes (you're there lying with me)
various missions, Rudy POV, explicit, blood kink, praise kink, rudy loves like a dog, alejandro is a lot into it
pricegraves
selfish, broken, cruel (i am all the things they might have said to you)
graves lives the tank (ignoring canon), Graves POV, explicit, angst, getting back together
priceghost
take a bite of me, just once (this is a giving, an offering)
fake dating, Ghost POV, pining, yearning, explicit, trans Ghost, drunken sex, homoerotic wound care
pricegaz
the difference between prayer & mercy (is how you move the tongue)
fwb, explicit, angst with happy ending, religious imagery and symbolism
stranger things:
steddie
subatomic interactions (if it's all good)
post season 3, into season 4, Eddie POV, Chrissy lives, queerplatonic affection, season 4 rewrite, pining
DC:
oh, bird, worry not (the blessings rain on battles)
Jason-centric, Jason POV, character/relationship studies, familial affection, non-specific timelines, angst with a happy ending, good siblings batfam, later roy/jason
funeral pyre, winged insect
series!! jason-centric retelling <3
part 1: why do i beg my legs to take me (much farther than they were meant to) - MCD, retelling of canon events + not-canon extras, jayroy, unhappy ending
part 2: if you must live, darling one (just live) - angst with a happy ending, good batsiblings, brief romantic relationships, good mom talia, batarang incident, meh bruce wayne
2 notes
·
View notes
Note
Okay, hear me out, this should be anonymous bc digital footprint and shit but whatever HEAR ME OUT!!!
Soap was sexually abused in his childhood by a close family friend, a man from the military they met in church (military part optional, it'd be more for plot convenience, but church part is important)
He's an adult now, it should be fine, he's grown taller and stronger than that man ever was, but when someone far too similar to him (or, if u want that extra step of drama, actually him) appears, all that emotional stability CRUMBLES.
HE FEELS LIKE A CHILD AGAIN, LIKE THE BOY WHO BEGGED FOR PROTECTION BUT GOT TOLD OFF BY HIS PARENTS BC "XX is a good married Christian man, he's not a fag."
I just need to see Soap spiralling and diving headfirst into depression and the panic attacks that follow a single touch from any of his colleagues EXCEPT Ghost.
Because it's always Ghost, it will always be Ghost.
If this is too chaotic lmk I got very into it
It gets worse before it gets better, for sure.
thank u so much for the lovely request <;3 u can also read it over at ao3!
rating: mature
tags: #angst #slight it gets worse before it gets better #religious trauma #religious guilt #religious themes and imagery #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced past rape #getting together #comforting through the worst imaginable #they argue #they solve it right after but #anger #lots of it #starry nights and coffees #witchcraft practices mentioned and slightly done #self-harm #soap bites the skin around his nails until they bleed #pierced ghost
---
Soap has always been told that anger lives in the pits of the stomach, and when it comes up to show itself, it is a monster. It is a monster that burns up from soft intestines, burns upwards and upwards and upwards until it reaches the mouth, until it bears and grows its teeth, until it sinks its fangs into the world and controls it.Â
But, for him, the anger is a monster that travels fast and burns even brighter and it comes right from the tips of his fingers, up into his knuckles, and he is just like his father when he strikes first, asks later.Â
When the world bares its fangs at him, Soap raises his claws, and he obviously strikes first, he knows how to find exactly where it hurts every single time and he attacks precisely there. He is entirely unlike his mother, with her cold and slow anger.
So maybe itâs some sort of karmic retribution when a man walks into their meeting room and Soap reels. He has memories of the past in the forefront of his mind, because that man he has those same eyes that haunt him, that same fucking build that once towered over him, the same sharpness on his face that he so used to adore in that fucked up way he did and even the same beard that would cut and hurt. The same cross necklace smacking his chest, God is mocking him even now, at his big age. The same military standing that he used to idolise.
It all reminds him far too much of the past. A past he has striven to forget, a past he has worked tirelessly with countless therapists to overcome, a past that should not affect him like it does just thenâhe feels all his organs shut down.
And he thinks, over and over again, that by his big age, he should be fine and he should be completely and utterly saneâyet his fingers twitch, his jaw sets, his breathing hitchesâGhost looks at him and itâs fucking humiliating, the way he can see right through him.
He canât stop the memories that flood his brainâhe still remembers the begging, the blood, the angry screams, the pained screams, the god, the prayers, the tears, the touches, the grandmotherâs protection. He is empty of everything that is good, if he remembers the past and that man so fucking vividly. How empty of him, to be so full of someone he hates.
He knows, internally and in a very faraway part of his brain, that none of it is real. Not anymore, anyways. But his body still clams up, he is still terrified, and the world still tips and eventually crashes when Price calls out into the room.Â
If there is a God, Soap will swallow Him whole, will make Him cry.
God has a mean and sadistic streak, and Soap almost laughs at the irony of the situation, and he wouldâve and couldâve just ran away if it werenât for the tears springing into his eyes and threatening to overflow.Â
He hates Him.
Perhaps he would strike first this time too, of the anger won in the end. He would have God kneeling, the fucker at the tip of his knife, the world cradling a bomb.
âThis is the team weâll be working alongside for this mission,â his voice is calm and collected and he has not noticed Soapâs inner (almost outer) panic. Soap does not blame him for it, yet he wants to. Price does not know anything about his past beyond what he needed, and he did not need to know of the predator that lives in Soapâs mind.Â
The manâs eyes fall on him, and he has to do everything in his power to not simply get up and walk awayâor worse, pull out a gun and shoot the fucker in the faceâ, to ignore the pull and tug of the world wanting to tip and fall apart, even though the man has done nothing and Soap is just projecting his issues into innocent people who donât deserve his anger.Â
He doesnât even know the man. Perhaps he is a wonderful soldier, perhaps he is not even religious, just uses the cross in honour of someone else. But his brain doesnât care about that, and he is entirely ruled by his emotions, and the man is just old enough to remind him of a married man with wandering hands and God as an excuse for wanting someone as young as Soap had been.
He feels like a sobbing child again, asking a God he doesnât believe in to save him because no other adult would.Â
He feels like a bitter and angry child again, asking why neither God nor anyone ever saved him.
âI hope you will, at least, be cordial with each other,â because Price cannot ask for people to like each other, especially not people glued together with just the wishes of peace.
He continues with his talk, goes over the details of the mission, which Soap pays no attention to, which will bite him in the ass later on, he assumes, but he is seething in anger and fear and he knows Ghostâs eyes are on himâintensively, extensivelyâbut he finds he canât make his jaw work beyond its clenching and his stomach is so twisted that he feels heâs going to puke. His fingers are going into overdrive as he taps them against his bouncing leg. He wants to go back to his bad habits, to bite his fingers until they are raw and bloody. Heâs so fucking tired of being afraid of men with just the right characteristics.
ââdismissed,â is the last word he catches from Priceâs mouth, and he watches as everyone slowly gets up and leaves. Gaz hangs back to stay with him, touches Soapâs shoulderâ
âDonât touch me,â he demands, he is mean beyond what he needs to be, and he watches Gaz's excited face crumble. Of course, he didnât notice anything, he was excited about another mission, about another opportunity to save the world of all its evil. Ghost tenses up beside him.
Price calls for him before he can even say anything. Heâs eternally thankful for it. Heâs sure he wouldâve snapped even worse if he had remained, if he had asked. He doesnât want to deal with questions.Â
He can feel Priceâs eyes on him. He ignores them with a ferocity only dogs should know.
He watches them move, with a perspective that makes him feel as though he is in a body that isnât his own, watches his own body remain stuck to his chair. He feels a presence on his side, and he almost lashes out.
âSoap,â Ghostâs voice comes with a kindness he doesnât know how to deal with, hasnât really heard it like that before, and if he were in any other state, he would think about it for days to come. Maybe even daydream about it. But in his current state, they just make his walls come up higher, stronger. He doesnât deal well with kindness in the face of his fucked up past.
âWhat?â comes his harsh reply, instead. Ghost straightens, looms over Soap instead of leaning into his eyeline, his face settles into something harsher instead, the lines of their boundaries boldens. Soap raises a hand up to his mouth anyways, starts slowly peeling away at the skin on the tips of his fingers, right besides his pretty fucked up nails, he has not done this in years. He bleeds almost instantly.
âWhat happened?â
âNothing,â he mumbles it around his gnawing. He can almost tell Ghost wants to slap his hand away, but he thankfully doesnât. He allows Soap a moment of self-destruction. Soap feels like he deserves that moment, that piece of self-destruction, he held himself together quite well. Is still holding himself together⊠well enough.
âYou look like youâre about to explode.â
âOh, aye, Lt, wish that were the case,â he wishes he could explode. At least that would be pretty. âItâs nothinâ, thereâs nothinâ wrong. Just leave, aye? Sure Price is callinâ ye or somethinâ.â his accent lulls out stronger. He wants to be left alone, he wants Ghost to keep pushing. He doesnât know what the fuck to do. Doesnât know what the fuck he wants.
âPull yourself together,â the words lull out like a bullet and he knows Ghost doesnât even know heâs holding a weapon, but it strikes him all the same. His jaw moves all on its own, but Ghost hasnât stopped talking. âWe need you clear and sane for the mission.â he turns on his heels, leaves the room with a slam of the door.
Belatedly, Soap wishes he hadnât left. Wishes even more that he hadnât acted like he did. He feels like a child again, feels entirely too much like he is turning into his father, always quick to anger and quick to snap.
âFuck.â his voice cracks around the edges. He closes his eyes, tears spill out without his permission, and he is now entirely grateful that Ghost did not stick around. He does not want him to hear the shake of his voice, does not want him to see this part of him, so shameful and entirely ugly.
â
When the sun rises and the teams roll out, Soap is cursing all the gods alive and dead and inbetween for putting him in the same fucking team as the fucker that keeps triggering his past memories. His fingers are raw and bleeding into his gloves and he questions all that there is in the world, how dare God allow this to happen to him? What kind of God even is He?Â
Sure, it isnât anyoneâs fault but his own that he didnât speak up and tell them about it or, at least, tell them to keep him far, far away from himâbut who wants to admit to a past like his own, to people who supposedly admire him and his work? Not him, certainly, because he has a penchant for making life harder for himself.
His jaw is clenched and his teeth hurt from the strength of them on each other, and his hold on his gun is firmer and stronger than it ever has been before, and he knows Gaz is looking and looking at him like heâs a total foreigner in the body of Soap, with the way he remains silent through it all, with the way he gives Ghost one-worded replies whenever he needs to. There are no jokes he can tell that donât make his heart race.
Soap really hopes he wonât ask anything, especially not where they are and not once theyâre done here, because he knows his reply wonât be good, or kind, or even make sense to people who have no context.
âSoap,â he hears that manâs gravely voice, fucked through years of cigarettes burrying in his longs, and he locks upâflashes pass through his mind like heâs back there, the name is different but heâs there. âYouâre clear to detonate.â and he unlocks all at once rapidly, because the mission is far more important than his triggers, and heâs nodding his head before he realizes it and he starts stepping towards the building. Thereâs simply something in him that knows how to fight and when and whereâhe knows this fight since he was very small, he carries it like a badge of honour through the ages and the years. And the fight is only outwardly when it calls for it, and it hasnât called yet.
He doesnât know what heâs exploding, exactly, but Price gave his orders and so did this captain, and he just knows he is and thatâs all he really needs to know for the maniac inside him to feel delighted in making anything at all explode. Even though he feels heâs the one who he should explore.
He knows heâs doing something reckless when a hand belonging to that captain fucker brushes his back in a pat and a low âwell doneâ is murmured right into his ear, because the finger on the detonation finger is so very intentional and his press of it even more.
The building explodes in a beautiful symphony of sounds and colours and collapses.Â
The team is only far enough for minor injuries to happen, but when his comms come back to life, his ears ring and yet he can still hear his captainâs voice, Priceâs harsh voice echoes in a way that is entirely too familiar.
He should feel a certain type of regret, but he only regrets not being inside the collapsed building, so maybe he should hold off on feeling things like that.
â
âWhat were you thinking?â is the first thing Price says to him, because as soon as he saw him, he motioned with his hands and kept his mouth firmly shut. And now theyâre back on base and it is deserted except for them. Gaz and Ghost are there too, but they definitely look like they donât want to be. Gaz shifts his weight between his feet, Ghost holds his chin high. âDo you understand that that couldâve gone entirely wrong?â
âI didnât meanââ he did, in some way. Price taught him all about fighting the wrongs of the world, gave him ways of aiming his anger at the right people, taught him how to bare his teeth instead of just his fistsâand he knows he used it in the wrong goddamn place.
âBut you did it,â Price says, with a certain firmness that has Soap reeling. He steps closer to Soap, hits his chest with a finger, Soap breathes and breathes and only hears the words spoken because theyâre so fucking insane. âSo youâre on timeout.â
âWhat?â he asks, incredulous, almost laughs at the situation. âWhat am I, a kid?â he feels utterly unfloored, and his hands twitch at his side, and Priceâs finger imprints into his chest like a burning that doesnât feel good, at all, and he knows Price is nothing like the man in his memories, but any touch at all has him spiralling. âYe cannae just do that.â and he canât because it feels like heâs back home, with his parents blaming him for someone elseâs wandering hands, with his parents telling him it was all his fault and that they didnât believe his pleas for safety.
âIf you behave like one, youâre gonna be treated like one. What else did you expect?â he shakes his head, taps at Soapâs chest again and his eyes settle harder when Soap slaps his hand away. âIâm your captain, Soap, donât forget that. I can do what I please, and youâll listen, and comply.â
âOh, fuck right off. Ye cannae be serious!â his voice raises beyond what he wants it to, and in the ultimate not-child-like move, he leaves the common room, stomps (heâd like to believe he walked) into his own room.
The door slams behind him, and he knows heâs being entirely insane, and he knows he did something stupid and he can and will full well admit it at a later time, but his heart is beating too fast and heâs so beyond fucking scared that he doesnât know what else to do.
He moves through the room with a nervous fluttering of steps, he turns the whole place upside down until he finds what he wantsâuntil his hands come across silver pentagrams and old tarot cards and random crystals, and he remembers his grandmother, and he almost starts sobbing right then and there, as he clasps the necklace tight around his neck.
He misses the only person who ever understood him, the only golden thread tying him to his lineage, the only one that he bears with pride.
He feels like life is always going to be like this, terrible and haunting and burning.
He goes through the motions of his rituals, of his vigils, of the things his grandmother taught him and that he kept close to his chest. He doesnât care if he believes its actual protection or notâhe does it all the same, finds comfort in the way the sigils come to him with ease, in the overwhelming scent of burning candles, in the prayers his grandmother made, in the protection he believes he still carries from her.
He thinks he should have a hold of his emotions far better than this, but he doesnât and he doesnât and he doesnât, so he just watches his hands stain the paper sigils as he places them against each other, as he burns them, as he claims them.
When thereâs a knock on his door, he thinks for half a second that it could be the man, and he knows thatâs ridiculous yet he thinks it all the sameâbut Ghostâs voice sounds out and his heart half-settles. He swallows down the panic, places down the candle and the sigil.
âSergeant.â knock, knock, knock. A melodious little thing.
âWhat do ye want, Ghost?â heâs tired and heâs angry and heâs exhausted of all this fear that he masks as anger, all this anger that comes off like fear, and his voice sounds entirely like not his own at all. He just wants to scream at someone, and yet he knows none of the people he can scream at have any fault, so he holds his tongue and his anger.
But where does he put it? Where does he put the anger, so it wonât lash out? Where does he put it when he doesnât want to set it down, because if he does heâs going to cry.
âIâm your babysitter,â he lets it hang in the air for a little. âLet me in.â
âThe fuck do ye mean, my babysitter?â he opens the door, anger brimming again and again and heâd lash out, he knows he would, if it were anyone but Ghost standing thereâor at least he believes that he can hold himself back from hurting Ghost. Could he even hurt him? His words arenât worth that much.
(he left the door unlocked, just in case, and now he regrets it.)
He shrugs, waits for Soap to step to the side before he steps inside the room, because Soap does step aside, leaning against the wall as Soap stands there, arms crossed and angry, always angry these past few days.
âDonât know,â he tilts his head, eyes focused on Soap, and he knows Ghost knows and Ghost knows he knows, and thereâs no need for all these fucking riddles, but they speak through them all the same. âPrice thought you might need a handler.â
âAnd youâre it?â itâs ridiculous that his anger doesnât settle into the joke of the situation, doesnât dwindle and die out.
âWho else?â Soap thinks, doesnât come up with anyone, and he feels the distaste in his mouth, swallows it down so he doesnât scream out. âExactly. Now, settle down. Stand down.â
Soap shakes his head, he doesnât know what the hell Ghost is thinking, but he cannot possibly think he can handle Soap when heâs off his handle.Â
He doesnât move, not even when Ghost nods his head towards his bed, as if motioning him to sit down.
âWhat happened?â
âYe know exactly what happened,â he says it slowly, like Ghost is stupid for even asking that.
âI know what happened, yeah, from my point of view. From Priceâs. Even from Gazâs,â he moves a hand through the air, and Soap almost flinches at it, at the similarity of movementsâhis father in the shape of God, the lingering hurt in his body. âNot yours, though. So,â like heâs just casually asking for the weather. âWhat happened?â
âItâs entirely none of yer business, Ghost.â
âThatâs where youâre wrong, Sergeant,â he tuts, looks Soap right in the eyes again. âBecause weâre both here, ainât we? So itâs my bloody problem when you fly off the handle like that.â
âI didnât fly off the handleââ
âNo? So you put your team at risk just⊠for the fun of it?â
âI didnae mean to put ye in dangerââ
âBut you did,â Soap frowns. Where the hell are they going with this? âAnd I know you enough to know youâd never do that without reason. So Iâm asking.â because he could be doing something else, he could be digging, he could sink his teeth into Soapâs brain and come up with all the answers he needs, that he wants.
âYe wanna know? Go lookinâ for it,â he sees the movement of Ghostâs jaw, the tensing of his shoulders. âCause I wonât tell ye shit, Lt, cause it ainât none of yer business, and if ye just leave me alone, Iâll be back to normal tomorrow.â
âThatâs not gonna fuckinâ work,â Ghost tilts his head, taps his fingers against his thigh, crosses his arms after.Â
Soap just brings his hands up in the air, shrugs like theyâre at an impasse.Â
Somehow, he feels like heâs losing this argument by losing his temper, yet he cannot hold back the way anger shimmers and burns at the center of his palm.
âLeave, Ghost.â
Ghost doesnât move and Soap closes his eyes, breathes in and out, wrings his hands together and feels the sting and burn of his torn-up skinâit doesnât help settle his anger, at all.
âGhost, Iâm not in the mood for this shite, alright? So just leave me alone for a fucking second and weâll return back to normal.â
âStill not possible or plausible, sergeant,â he shakes his head. âNot when I was there when you got like this. So, spill, or youâll overflow and get yourself killed and, Johnny, Iâm not gonna watch that, or even allow it to happen.â
âAnd why the fuck would ye care, Ghost? So what if Iâm losing my damn mind?â he knows he is an animal let loose, baring its teeth at anyone who dares get too close, his anger feeds itself off of his body and feeds him anger back. âThe fuckâs that gotta do with ye? Besides any professional basis, cause what youâre doinâ here ainât fucking professional worry or some shite like that.â
âJohnnyââ
âNo! Iâm serious here, what the fuck are ye doing here? Price sent ye? Really? Ye expect me to believe that?â
âSoapââ
âCause I donât, ye know? Believe thatââ
âIf you let me speak,â Ghost raises his voice just above Soapâs, watches him flinch and step back. Lowers his voice again. âI can tell you why Iâm here.â
Soap sets his jaw. Nods.
âIâm worried about you, Johnny,â and that is a confession he wasnât expecting. It almost makes him break. ââCause I saw you in that meeting room, and I know that look. I know that look and those eyes and that fear, and Iâm really hoping youâll tell me Iâm seeing shit or projecting.â
âWell, ye are. Now, leave.â he points at the door, like that will entice Ghost to step out. Ghost remains against the wall, as he has for their whole interaction. âPlease, Ghost, just leave.â
Ghost taps his arm, sighs, bumps his head back against the wall.
âWhy are you even being stubborn?â
âBecause itâs private, alright? Ye ever heard of privacy? Iâm sure ye have shit ye donât want me to know aboutââ
âNo.â
âWhat?â
âNo, I donât,â he shrugs. âYou can ask me anythinâ you wanna.â
âOh, thatâs bullshit and ye know it.â
âAsk, then.â
âIâI donâtâthatâs not the point!â he brings his hands up in the air, moves them around. âWhy are ye being like this, honestly? I donât wanna tell ye anything, and Iâm not gonna, and I wish yeâd stop asking about it.â
âThen weâll just stay here like good olâ boys until you calm down.â
âIâm perfectly calm.â
âDidnât know you had a thing for lying.â
âOh, fuck off,â he throws him the finger, mildly wonders why and then does it more firmly. He turns around so he canât look at Ghost. If he canât see him, Ghost canât see him back, or some other bullshit logic like that.
Heâs almost vibrating out of his skin. He can feel his hands shaking. He brings one up to his mouth and he tastes iron and smells blood immediately and yet he bites at the skin anyways. His eyes burn. Oh, he really doesnât want to cry.
He hears Ghost moving, hears the shuffling of his uniform, the strength of his steps. He feels him looming over his back for a second and holds his breath. Then hears the creaking of the bed, the coldness of his back.
âThese beds donât get any better,â he hears Ghost mutter, almost laughs, but the laugh that bubbles up in his throat turns into a sob and he tilts himself even further away from Ghostâs line of sight.
Fuck.
His shoulders tremble, his whole body does, and he clutches helplessly at his pentagram, blood mixes with iron mixes with tears.
He feels Ghost at his back again, gentle hands on his elbows, and heâs being dragged to bed and made to sit down. He curls up, draws his body down until heâs almost chest-to-knees, and he cries because he started and now he canât fucking stop.
Ghostâs hand is on the small of his back, making soothing sorts of motions over and over again.
âThis is stupid,â he mutters to himself mostly, between sobs. âThis is so fucking stupid.â
âHey,â Ghost starts but Soap doesnât let him finish, snaps up and looks at Ghost, even though heâs crying and he looks pathetic and red and blotchy.
âNo, alright? This is stupid and Iâm being stupid and this whole thing shouldnâtâve happened and Iâm sorry, okay? I justâhe justââ he closes his eyes tightly and waits for the words to form correctly. âHe looks so much like him. But itâs not him, and I keepâfuck.â he shakes his head, looks at Ghost, almost startles at the way heâs looking back at him. Like he knows. Like he understands.
He forces his eyes and head away, stares holes into the ground as he tries to stop crying.
He hiccups and takes stuttering breaths in uneven manners, feels the crawling of fear like it is a good friend, understands that his eyes are overflowing and his mind is running far too fast.
Ghostâs hand wraps around his wristâbefore Soap can fight him and snap, Ghost brings it to his chest, presses his palm tightly over his heart.
âBreathe with me, Johnny,â he murmurs, voice low and calm and he has this sort of magic way of making Soap feel better with so little. It makes him feel like heâs not too far gone to be healed. âCome on. Good boy,â Soapâs chest trembles with the slow breathing, with the way his eyes still shed tears.
âSorry,â he says between cries and breaths. âJustâI donât know. I donât know how to not tell Price and have this⊠figure itself out.â he appreciates Ghost all the same, even between the frustration of circling around each other for months at this point.
âDonât think Price is gonna allow you in the field anytime soon,â Ghost hums at his own words, taps Soapâs wrist and presses his fingers harder against Soapâs back. The weight is comforting. It makes breathing easier again. âYouâll get an eval soon, even.â
âThey know, anyway. They cleared me back then. Itâs just⊠an episode, or something.â
âThink theyâll clear you now, too?â Soap bites his tongue, feels the inner turmoil in his brain blare. And then he shrugs.
âHopefully,â his voice cracks and he winces. He looks back at Ghost, sees himself reflected back in his brown eyes. Feels the squeezes of his wrist. âI need a coffee. And fresh air.â
âI think I can allow that,â but Ghost doesnât move. His jaw grinds back and forth, like he wants to say something. Soap steals his hand back, rubs both his hands over his eyes, cleans up the tears and breathes in far too deeply.
âJust say it, Ghost. What is it?â
âI know a spot.â
âWhat?â he laughs a little, confused, staring up at Ghost through his hands.
âStargazing. I know a spot for that.â
âFar?â
âNo, pretty close.â
âTake me there, then, warden, donât wanna be in this prison.â
âOnly a little dramatic.â Soap shrugs, gives him a watery type of grin. Soap watches as his mask folds and unfolds, hiding his smile underneath it.
Ghost gets up, turns to Soap, and outstretches his hand. Soap takes it with glee, and allows himself to be dragged up from his bed and out of his room.
â
The world breathes its tale as Soap waits for Ghost to return with their coffees. Heâs checking his fingers and the damage he has done to them, face crumpled in guiltâhe had worked so hard to break the habit, and he just completely fucked up his own progress.Â
He supposes triggers work like that, anyways, but it doesnât make him feel any better or less guilty or less wrong.
He supposes, too, that he was simply born wrong, that he wonât ever be forgiven for all his sins, that his birth was against the word of God and He cursed him and lodged Himself into his body to never allow happiness to course freely through it.
Itâs⊠a tad dramatic.
He laughs at himself, shakes his head. He wishes he could rid himself of thoughts like that.
âWhatâs so funny?â he tilts his head back and up at Ghost, who appears suddenly, who looks utterly ridiculous with the silliest mugs in hand and that intimidating build and fucking skull mask.
âRight now? Ye are. Did ye know ye look ridiculous?â
âThought you liked it,â he sits down next to Soap. âWith all that staring you do.â
âI donât stare,â Ghost just looks at him, and passes him his mug (this cat shaped, horrifying thing) and he looks back, and then crumbles, takes the warm mug in his cold hands. âFine. Whatever. But ye still look ridiculous.âÂ
Ghost laughs, this startled little noise in the back of his throat that slips without him wanting it to. Soap delights in every note of it.
Ghost sits down next to him, just a few spaces closer than usual, and Soap bumps their knees together, then remains against the warmth of Ghostâs legs. He wants to lean further against him, but his heart unsettles at the thought of it, and his mind races in just the slightest incorrect manner.Â
Soap isnât an expert on silence, and this whole situation has been slowly eating him up from the inside-out, and he taps his bloody-bleeding fingers against his knee to maybe shut himself up.
It doesnât work.
âI used to go to church,â he starts, slowly. âThought it was so cool to be with my parents for a day of the week, where they wouldnât argue, and they wouldnât yell at me for some shite I probably did.â
âDoesnât surprise me you were a troublemaker.â
âAye, still am, ainât I?â
âExactly.â
âI was really good at it, which was totally a reasonable thing to want, Iâm sure,â he shakes his head. âI knew the books back to front, front to back, talked to so many priests they knew me by name, by sin.â he clicks his tongue against his teeth, feels the rising of blood that overflows his mouth. âAnd then he showed up. This⊠cool military guy. I was⊠eight, maybe.â
Ghostâs hand finds his, presses palm into knuckles, intertwines fingers tightly. He sighs, both at the warmth that spreads through him and at what heâs about to confess.
âI thought he was so cool. And he would know everything, too. And he would be so willing to answer any and all of my questions. I used to wonder why,â he wets his lips, swallows the lump in his throat. Ghost squeezes his hand, a silent you donât have to talk anymore. He works past the stoppage on his throat, anyway, because he wants to give Ghost some more of him. âNow, I know why, but back then it was all this wonder and admiration. All this⊠love, for some sort of fatherly figure that wouldnât punish me for my questions.â
He closes his eyes. Heâs not sure why heâs saying all this anymore. What will it help? Does talking have to help?
âThe first time⊠it happened, I was nine. And he asked me to come home with him because he had something to give me,â he looks at Ghost. Ghost looks back. He can see the way his brows are furrowed. âI wish I hadnât gone. I remember crying, I remember telling my parents, I remember their yelling, their punishment, like I made that fucker do what he did to me, like I wasnât the victim in the situation. It kept happening and IâI donât even remember half the times it happened, I just know they did, because Iâd write it down. âIt happened againâ, in this pink diary I stole from one of my sisters.â he moves a hand through the air. âDunno where it even is, anymore. I hope no one found it, donât wanna traumatise them with the shite I wrote in that.â
Ghost inches closer, their arms are pressed together now, too, and he shivers. Ghost remains silent, lets Soap work through the words swirling in his brain, wanting to spill from his mouth.
âI know it wasnât my fault, ye know? I went through intense therapy for this, back when I was 18 and threw myself at the army like itâd stop the church from following. The same thing happened then. A captain that was just a little too similar to him. Thatâs how they even found out anything happened, I mean, there werenât any police reports or anything. Just⊠word of mouth, back then,â he shrugs. âSmall towns, aye? People talk.â
âYeah,â Ghostâs voice punches out of his throat, he looks like heâs the one suffering for Soap. Soap bumps shoulders with him, takes a sip from his coffee, warms up at the hotness of it, at the way Ghost knows his order even though he teases him for its sweetness.
âMy nan was the only one that believed me,â he tugs at the pentagram hanging from his neck. âShe was upset with God, with the church, even more with my parents, with her own son. I remember her turning to me, all anger and beauty, and saying âweâll figure out our own religion, make up our own Gods, and theyâll protect ye correctly this timeâ. She found paganism, witchcraft. I didnât⊠donât believe in it, same as how I donât believe in God, but I thought it was fun, and it would give me an excuse to be at her house for longer than I should. And her house would always smell really nice, and I could be a kid freely and without fear.â
âIs your grandmaââ
âDead. Few years back. Old age, or something. Fucked me up real good, too. The therapy sessions had to start up all over again and everything.â
He sighs, slowly lowers himself to the ground, bumps his head against the soft grass. Thereâs a pretty yellow flower at the corner of his view. Ghostâs head follows his movements, but he remains upright.
âI thought I was over it for good. I mean, Price looks nothing like him, but heâs a captain all the same and I like him, donât feel any fear around him. And maybe I stupidly thought that Iâd never find anyone like him ever again.â
âNot stupid.â
âI know. Just⊠I was naive. I was unaware of how much that fucked me up when I knew I shouldnât be,â he tugs at Ghostâs hand. âI shouldâve told Price, right?â
âYeah. Itâd be important for him to know. Couldâve prevented you almost killing your own teammates.â
âSorry,â the apology isnât even meant for Ghost, really, because all he did to Ghost was not talk to him, and compared to almost killing someone, he thinks that might be on the lower half of the importance list. He apologises anyways. He missed their banter. âI was just⊠so angry, and so tired of being afraid of everything andâand a part of me thought⊠that ye wouldnât believe me, or just⊠tell me to suck it up, be a man,â he runs his tongue over his teeth. âBeen in enough teams where that happened, yâknow? The brain really fucks ye up, aye?â
Ghost is silent.
Soap would take offence to it, or maybe clam up all over again, if it werenât for the tight hold on his hand, and the bright shine of the starry sky, and the moon is full and beautiful. It all feels like a holiness he can have and hold.
He closes his eyes. Breathes in the soft scent of coffee mingling with fresh and beautiful grass mingling with Ghostâs wood-like aroma.
He hears a lot of rustling, feels Ghost move, but he never lets go of his hand, so he only opens his eyes once the noises stop.Â
Ghostâs bare face overwhelms his eyes.
He blinks a couple too times.
And he is entirely over the overwhelming shame religions bring, but Ghost just looks like something holy, like something he cannot have, and he craves it, craves him, wants him entirely and selfishly to himself.
âHi?â he watches Ghostâs face break into a smile, and he is entirely enamoured by it.
âSecret for a secret.â
âThe whole team knows what ye look likeââ Ghost tilts his head, and Soap looks closer. There is a glint in the silver moonlight, that catches light and has Soap sitting up and getting far too uncomfortably close to Ghostâs face. âThe hell is that?â
âCanât actually have them,â Soap brings a hand up, touches Ghostâs eyebrow and glides along it, circles the glistening piercing there. Ghost lets his eyes flutter shut.
âYe have so many of âem. Does Price know?â
âYeah. Found out by accident,â Soapâs hand tracks the path of his face, of his scars, meets his nose in all its elegant brokenness, taps at the little stud on the side of his nose, flicks his septum piercing up just to watch Ghostâs face scrunch.
And then he lets his hand drop, doesnât dare going too far, going as far as touching the ones decorating his lips. Ghost opens his eyes again, looks at Soap.
âI think my secret is far more interesting,â Soap says, frowning just a little, just playfully enough for Ghostâs brows to raise.
âYou donât look like you actually think that.â
âWell, Ghost, ye are a very interesting man,â he tilts his head. âAnd I already knew my secret. SoâŠâ he mumbles, eyes trained in the way Ghostâs mouth moves, the way he darts his tongue over the piercings, the way his tongue also has a flash of jewellery in it.
Ghost squeezes his hand.Â
Good gods, if Ghost were the one to destroy him, heâd allow it. Follow him into broken buildings and collapsed thoughts.
âReally fucking sucks that youâre actually handsome,â he frowns at Soapâs statement, confusion written all over his pretty face. âEven worse that youâre cocky about it. How am I meant to compliment ye? Ye already know it all, itâll feel empty.â
Ghost laughs, shakes his head. He brings Soapâs hand up and kisses his knuckles so tenderly that Soap almost falls apart.
Maybe this is when and how they break and break around each other, when and how they allow themselves to put each other back together like puzzle pieces.
âThinking âbout me long enough to wanna compliment me, Johnny?â
âOh, come on,â he rolls his eyes, pokes Ghostâs cheek to earn the unamused stare he gets. âDonât act stupid.â
âIâm not,â Ghost tilts his head. âJust wanna hear you say it.â
âHm,â Soap hums, sighs, lets his head fall against Ghostâs shoulder.
Ghost allows him to stay resting there for a few seconds, but then heâs tugging at Soapâs wrist and placing a hand on the back of his head.
âWhat?â he asks, raises his brows at Ghost, delights in the little squeeze it gets him on the back of his head.
Ghost kisses his forehead. The cold metal of his piercings send a shiver down Soapâs spine. His mouth feels dry. They are so close, even closer than usual. Ghost has never given him more than a few of his fingers, and now it feels like heâs giving him his whole fucking body.
âWhat are ye doinâ?â he asks in a low tone. Heâs afraid that his words will be the ones ruining the moment.
âGaining courage.â
âCourage?â
âTo kiss you,â Soapâs breath stutters, heâs pretty sure he even gasps. He nods, feels Ghostâs lips press against his temple.
âOkay.â he allows him to take his time, because he also needs to take his own time. To take a step back and try to figure out how this happened.Â
He supposes it was always coming.
Is being vulnerable a requirement for Ghost? Heâll be as goddamn vulnerable as the human body allows, if thatâs the case. Heâll bare himself fully naked, mind and thoughts and body if he wants him to.
Ghostâs lips press against his eye, which automatically closes, and it feels like a kiss of devotion.
They press a kiss against his cheek, next, and Soap nuzzles into him. Feels Ghostâs smile against him.
Before Ghost has the courage to properly kiss him, Soap presses his hands against his chest. Feels his stuttering breath, the way his heart is speeding out of his chest. He places his mug down in some location that heâll definitely forget about.
âGhost,â he makes a face, almost like utter disgust, Soap smiles. âSimon.â
âWhat?â
âCan I kiss you?â he makes a face, this pouty thing that makes the rings of his snake bites jut out. Soap brings a hand up to his face, feels and watches him nuzzle his cheek against it.
And then he sighs, like he resigned himself to his fate, like his heart isnât racing, like his ears arenât blushing-red.
âYes.âÂ
And Soap kisses him.
Itâs this soft and tender thing, at firstâthe press of lips, the slight moving of mouths, the freezing of metal against warm skin, the smell of coffee on both of their breaths, the hands of devotion.
And it evolves into this needy, passionate thing, with Ghost pulling him into his lap, pulling them impossibly closer. Soap is pretty sure he bites Ghostâs piercings, tugs on them a little, and Ghost groans.
Ghost tastes like dreams and coffee and everything Soap has ever wanted, everything he has dreamed about for nights upon nights upon nights.
His hand on his hip, the other on his hair, his own on his chest and the side of Ghostâs throat, all keep him steady-unsteady, and he realizes he is slowly forgetting the ache beyond his eyes, the old scars in his mind.
If kissing Ghost can make him replace the unpleasant emotions, even if for just a moment, then he has all the more reason to indulge.
They part to breathe, and Ghost looks at him with this adoration in his eyes that makes Soapâs life feel like itâs restarting in all the right ways.
âWanted to do that for a while now,â Ghost huffs against him and Soap hums at his words, smiles without any kind of fear.
âMe too. A long while,â he buries his head in the crook of Ghostâs neck, breathes him in like he has never breathed anything better before in his life, and tightens his hold around him, now with both arms around his torso.
âCanât believe it took you having a mental breakdown to happen, though.â
âI make my best decisions when Iâm not doing too well.â
âDonât think thatâs too healthy.â
âIâll work it out in the therapy sessions Iâm totally due, donât worry.â
âAs long as you keep kissing me, I wonât.â Soap answers by kissing his neck, buzzing in warmth at the soft sigh that passes through Ghostâs lips.
Ghostâs hands move to his hair, to his back, bury themselves in the places they belong, soothe Soapâs mind further and further.
âDo ye wanna know something?â he asks against his neck, and then pulls away from it, so he can look him in the eyes.
âWhat is it?â he tilts his head, speaks in this soft tone Soap will have to get used to, because it contrasts so much to his usual one.
âI think I love ye, Simon.â
âI know I love you, Johnny,â is his easy reply, the smile on his face, the squeeze of their bodies together.
There is a world in which Soap is loved, and he is in it, and he does not have to suffer alone. Not anymore.
There is love beyond the hurt. There are hands that will hold him kindly. There are sentences that can be spoken without words. There is love, right where he can reach itâand he reaches for it, embraces it with his whole body. The rest will figure itself out slowly and surely.
#mosswriting#fic request#ghostsoap fic#i loved writin this#so much#thank u <3#requests open#taking requests#im hopin it formatted well over here
15 notes
·
View notes
Text
wip wednesday on a thursday
tagged by @heartbreakincident!! thx lots :)
havent been writing all that much (health issues) but! i THINK this was the last thing i properly wrote, from my DC fic series (part 2)
Gotham is toxic against his back, whispering and whispering, like something vicious and unkind, and Jason hears her beck-and-call as the warning it is. (âleave,â she says, mournful and kind. He wants to frown at herâthereâs no one who is smart enough to leave Gotham. âYou will come back,â she reassures, herself or him, he doesnât know, through the ripple of ghosts that make less and less sense the more he looks at them. âThe mistakes you have made will return tenfold, if you stay, child. Leave, and know that you cannot escape.â) He did what he had to doâmostly, with the tied-up confusion it all turned into. Thereâs love at his fingertips, and he doesnât quite know what to do with it all. He presses them against the mud that re-covers his grave, and half-wonders why Bruce never got rid of it. His eyes firmly ignore Sheilaâs grave. Too close. It reads something akin to âgood anything at allâ, and Jason knows the truth too intimately to not ruin the grave if his eyes linger on the words.
1 note
·
View note
Text
heads up seven up fic sharing game
tagged by @veilkeeper <3
rules: share the last 7 lines of your most recent wip and then tag 7 people to do the same!
from my latest fic, so spoilers!!
She brings her other hand in, and cups Jasonâs between them, by the back. Thereâs something unbearably soft in the lightness of her touch. Jason has wanted to cry for seven-and-a-half hours. âWeâll rebuild,â she reassures. Jason swallows back bile and looks away. Doesnât tear his hand from her hold because that would be unkind, and heâs growing exhausted, today, of being unkind for so long. âYouâll rebuild.â The manor sprouts into view, and Jasonâs grateful for the fact that he wonât have to reply.
tagging: everyone who writes and wants to do this <3
1 note
·
View note
Text
i used to write such little (less than 10k) fics. what the fuck happened.
0 notes
Text
Last Six Sentences
@heartbreakincident tagged me <3 thank u so much!! i tag whoever sees this and wants to do it, as i dont know if i have any other writer moots
Rules: Post the last six sentences of your latest work!
Bruce stands up, presses his fingers to Alfredâs back as he leans over him to turn off the television, brain muddled and absent. He leans back, and Alfredâs staring at him. Staring, staring, staring. âOh, dear child,â is how he ends up, with his arms around Bruceâs hulking form, gathering him in his embrace like he used to do, when Bruce was so much younger and smaller than he is now. They both cry, right then and there, in the dining roomâs floor. Bruce, curved and curled into a ball, hanging tightly onto Alfredâs waistcoat and shirt; Alfred, curved over Bruce, protective arms wrapped tightly and tighter even when a hiccupping sob wrecks through Bruce.
#mosswriting#technically#this is spoilers#for my current fic#and im currently writin#or well no now im takin a tumblr break#dc fic#tag game
1 note
·
View note
Text
@silverskye13
"You what?"
"My surgery? This is where I got it done?" Tanguish reiterated, gesturing at the run-down building they were passing on their way to the apothecary. It was in an out-of-the-way part of town, with generally more misshapen houses, but it was a nice enough neighborhood compared to other parts of hels.
Helsknight stared at the house. The roof had sunken in, and the windows almost looked like crying eyes instead of windows. The stones around the front door were cracked and weathering away. Tanguish hadn't thought it would be such a big deal, but the look on Helsknight's face indicated otherwise.
"How in hels did you recover? What, were you operated on with rusty tools, too? Do I need to worry about tetanus around you?"
"I had health potions," Tanguish replied with a pout, crossing his arms. "It really wasn't that bad."
"You didn't have counseling? Or even try to find a real clinic?"
"There's counseling?"
Helsnight heaved a long-suffering sigh and dragged a hand down his face. "Nevermind. Come on, we're on a schedule here." Tanguish rolled his eyes, but followed.
#I HAD TO WRITE SOMETHING LMFAO#they take up so much space in my brain#is this good??? is this even good???????#sorry for the tag if it's unwanted ;_;#mosswrites#redstone and skulk#tanguish#helsknight
84 notes
·
View notes
Text
i wrote another oneshot with exactly the same plot as the last one guys đ
takes place after red crusade
#mosswrites#redstone and skulk#rns helsknight#rns tanguish#good mornign!!!!!!#itgs 2:30am i have class todayyyy#how am i supposed to talk about my photography when i've got these two idiots in my brain instead of product photog#unironically and very off topic i'm gonna post my flat lay at some point bc i'm proud of it#anyway!!!!!! guys cuddling!!!!!! go read!!!!!!!
38 notes
·
View notes
Text
After stumbling unwillingly through a lantern and experiencing life in hels for themself, Fin develops an inferiority complex so strong it sends her spiraling into a quest to prove that she's really the stronger half between her and Eight.
(Working title: i put Hallownest in minecraft)
[This has to be worth it. I have to prove myself.]
[I don't know where I am.]
Things being Fin's size for once was actually pretty disorienting. After years of coping with larger-than-life appliances and structures in her daily life, she wasn't prepared for the whiplash of finding buildings that were already bug-sized. The fall into the little world wasn't pleasant, but the cozy town in the middle of the wastes was something.
Down the well, the Elderbug had told them. All the adventurers disappeared down the well. All but one, anyway.
Below Dirtmouth, the allegedly once-sprawling kingdom was in ruins. Zombie-like husks shambled in repetitive paths, but did not seem to acknowledge Fin as they crept past. Something about the orange glow behind their dead eyes drew her near them, until someone yanked her out of the husk's grasp.
"That was close!" the pillbug exclaimed, poorly hiding his anxiety behind a laugh. The corpse shambled on as he continued pulling Fin out of its way, backward toward a large temple. "Those are husks, they're not exactly friendly! Though, now that I think about it, they didn't seem particularly keen on attacking you," he continued.
Fin took his distraction as an opportunity to free her arm from his hold. He stared at her for a moment as if trying to remember something, then seemed to snap out of his stupor. "Apologies. I'm Quirrel. What brings you all the way to this old kingdom?"
Fin didn't know how to answer. "I fell, and now I'm here. I'm... looking for a challenge, I guess."
"Ah, I've already met many adventurers who seek the Colosseum in this kingdom. I believe it's on the edge of the City of Tears. That seems to be the direction that many of them were traveling, anyway. I wish you luck in your quest!"
"And you in yours," Fin replied, giving a slight bow before Quirrel turned and became engrossed in the temple's heavy door.
This Colosseum could be their way to develop their skills beyond what was available in their home world. Beyond what was available in hels, even. (Seeing how difficult it was for a helsmet like Eight to survive in hels had shaken their own sense of capability. Eight was happy in that hellhole. Eight sold jewelry to get buy instead of anything useful like weaponry or armor. Eight had friends. My hels is happy, and I'm not.)
---
They met another bug searching for the Colosseum while in the aptly-named City of Tears. Though his hood was soaked, the water rolled right off his carapace as he spoke, full of bravado. Fin felt more jealous of his waterproof-ness more than anything else. "It's near here, I'm sure of it. Somewhere between the City and the Kingdom's edge. I don't need your help to find it." He drew himself up slightly and left, headed in the direction that it planned to go.
Fin watched him go and scoffed to themself. An ego that large wouldn't get him far, even if he did find the Colosseum.
[Your ego won't get you far, either.]
Something told them not to follow after him, a nagging feeling in its chest that pulled them in the opposite direction. They'd already seen and considered the statue of the so-called Hollow Knight, but followed the pull anyway, all the way to the other side of the city.
Good thing, because they found a fellow nailsmith (for swords were nails in this kingdom, however odd the terminology felt on their tongue) who offered to sell them some armor for a few hundred geo.
"This is very discounted compared to what I would regularly charge," the Nailsmith informed her. "Though I suppose there aren't many of you left to buy my wares anyway."
Fin couldn't think of anything to say. Everyone in this kingdom was on the edge of a metaphorical and literal precipice, living post-apocalypse with no hope and no way out but to leave and brave the wastes. Even Fin couldn't get out the way it came in, not with their torn wing. They simply bowed their head in thanks, donned their new helm, and retraced their steps.
There was a small, peculiar bug at the foot of the statue when Fin returned. It stared up at the Hollow Knight blankly, clearly not capable of expression behind its mask. It turned its gaze on Fin as they approached and flinched backward.
The two stared at each other for a long moment before Fin gestured toward the vacant buildings in front of them. "Care to speak with me somewhere drier?" The little bug nodded and followed behind Fin.
"I'm looking for the Colosseum," Fin stated, taking off their helmet and shaking as much water off it as she could. "Do you know where it's at?"
A map appeared in the bug's hands, and it was soon spreading it out on a nearby table and pointing to a doorway near a large lift that connected the City to the Crossroads. It drew one little pointer finger down a long hallway, ending in a drawing of what could only be the gaping maw of a large, dead, grub-like bug.
[Oh, perfect. A Colosseum built into a corpse. I'm sure it smells great.]
Fin did their best to bite down the complaint in front of their guide. "Thank you, fair Knight. I wish you well on your journey."
The bug seemed to try to blink at them, but their mask remained stiff and unchanged despite the welcoming air about them. Fin placed their helm back over their head and gripped the hilt of their nail as they walked. Their resolve wavered.
[I have to do this. I love doing this! I haven't fought in a long time. This is what makes me happy. I...
I just want to be happy again.]
---
The lift didn't stop at the ledge that Fin needed it to, and pulling the lever to send it upward shut the doors on them. Without flight, they opted to climb atop the lift itself (who put spikes on the roof of a lift??) and scale the chain that pulled it upward. Their forewings and cloak helped it glide to the platform, and it was only a straight shot to the Colosseum from there.
It was indeed located in the corpse of a massive bug.
"Oho, another warrior enters!" A tiny pillbug hung upside down, bound in chains, greeted Fin as she entered. The sounds of battle could be heard further down the hall, and several corpses hung similarly behind the pillbug. "Ours is the final destination for all seeking trials of intense and deadly combat," he continued.
"How do I enter the tournament?" Fin asked plainly.
"All one has to do is place their mark upon their Trial Board of choice and lo! The arena's gate will open," the bug answered. "There's a small fee attached to each trial, but I'm sure as skilled a combatant as yourself will have accrued a wealth of Geo.
"Now, before you draw your nail and rush eagerly to battle, I'll offer one quick word of advice. There's a warriors' pit just below here, where others like yourself await their own trials. I'd strongly advise using it to rest up before placing your mark." Fin nodded in response.
"Oh, and have no doubt, I'm a fearsome warrior myself. Don't go judging me by my size, or my current⊠errr⊠constraint. The Colosseum beckons us both! I'll be back in battle soon."
[Mhm. Sure.]
They left 100 geo with the bug and made their way to the pit. It was filled with snoring warriors, all large and clad in six-eyed armor much sturdier than the crafted shell that Fin wore. Another twinge of doubt twisted in their chest. Their eyes landed on the ant from long before, hunched over on the lone bench and eyes lidded in something like focus.
"Oh, soft thing. You've made it as well. I hope you're prepared, because if you last long enough, you'll face me, and then..." he trailed off meaningfully.
[I'll show you soft.]
The Trial of the Warrior was easy enough. The spike floor was unexpected, and the floating platforms tested her balance but Fin made it through without much fuss.
After the Trial of the Conqueror, they felt like they were still covered in the sickly orange venom that all these bugs seemed to carry with them. Poking around the warriors' pit, Fin found a hot spring that seemed to heal their wounds and ease their mind without feeling like they were getting dunked in water. She lingered in the spring, letting it work whatever magic it was.
The two trials had been... exhilarating. But fun? Would they call the trials fun? Would anyone be jealous of their position at this rate?
There was only one trial left. They had to finish this.
They paused when they read the name of the final trial on the board.
The Trial of the Fool.
Fin certainly felt like a fool toward the end of the trial. She was exhausted. This wasn't fun anymore. Was it ever to begin with? What were they trying to prove anymore? They were just jealous of Eight's happiness, that's what sent them down this awful path. Who were they, to stoop to jealousy? Of a helsmet, no less? How pathetic.
There was a break in the waves, for a single, brief, beautiful moment. No more, no more, I want to go home, I'm so tired. I'm such a fool.
The ground shook.
The gate opened.
A little roach on the back of a large Beast entered the arena to the fanfare of the crowd. Fin had almost forgotten the crowd was there, so lost in the battle.
The God Tamer, she was called.
She leapt off her beast and readied her weapon, and Fin did the same, despite the exhaustion weighing on its limbs. Dodging the beast's rolls and acid spitting was easy enough, but the God Tamer fought with more precision, coordinating her strikes with her steed's.
If they died here, their corpse would be thrown out the back with the others and fall, down into the windy wasteland of the kingdom's edge, until it was either reanimated by the Infection or dissolved in a pit of acid.
Lighten up, they thought, and it sounded like Eight's voice. You're so dour! Then she'd say something like, Come sit with me, I can't finish this muffin by myself and I won't have any more customers until after the battle.
Something like yearning flared in Fin's chest, growing and eating them alive from the inside. She just wanted to be safe and happy now. Where was all of this getting her? They parried another blow from the God Tamer and dodged to the side of the Beast.
The glow of the lanterns caught their eye. Something like yearning. Something like hope.
These lanterns were not made the same as the ones in the Overworld, or even the ones in Hels, but it could work. With enough determination, pure want and will, perhaps Fin could go home.
They hesitated only a moment, gathering themself, before throwing their body at one of the lanterns in the arena.
She barely heard the crowd gasp before they were sailing over Eight's counter and into the middle of the street. A lizard-shaped helsmet stopped short, momentarily blocking anyone from stepping on them, and then Eight was speaking and helping them up and around the back of their normal-sized stall. Back in the world of giants. Back in Hels.
Fin could tell that Eight wanted details, wanted to have a long talk, and Fin wanted to have that talk now too, but they were still exhausted from the last trial. For now, she accepted care from her helsmet, closed her eyes, and breathed.
#rns but make it hollow knight flavored#mosswrites#probably not gonna crosspost on ao3 because idk how to tag ocs over there#i'm really hoping that theoretically the traveling between hermits and helsmets is mutual#actually either way it lends to the thing i'm kinda doing here#like who's really the hermit and who's the helsmet?#these guys absolutely cannot figure it out#or at least fin can't#you're insecure.... dunno what for... ya turnin heads when you walk thru the doo-o-or#sorry don't know what came over me#LOL. ANYWAY.#eight the moth#fin the moth#i listened to sealed vessel while writing the god tamer fight. if u care.#actually i listened to helsknight's playlist while writing the majority of this#these tags are a mess#WHAT THE FUCK IT'S LIKE 4AM?????#*posts this and goes to sleep*
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
wake up babe i wrote more tpoh (but not really i just kind of expanded on what's going through hero's mind on pages 468 and 469 because the scene kind of sat with me for a while and i needed to write about it haaha)
#shorter than what i usually post but whatever#i need to get over this mental block of not posting things that end up being <1k#like if it ends up being 800 something words i'm still like NOT GOOD ENOUGH!!!!!#my standards are so fucked#treewords#mosswrites#tpoh#the property of hate#tpoh fic
12 notes
·
View notes