#over the week more and more builds up in spite of the cleanings

[shuckstruck]

This is Oliver- or OLLIE

He’s my mom’s dog and has been plagued by truly horrific yeast infections in both ears For Ever. (He is getting all the care available to us but for a variety of reasons we Can Not seem to kill it).

And, honestly, over time the fur immediately outside of and below his ears has become caked in a mixture of cleaning solutions and medicine and sticky, weirdly pungent, and extremely smelly earwax.

BUT TONIGHT. I manage to take a pair of fur trimming scissors to his ears. I cut away several small, sticky mats and finally made Actual progress from there on

I don’t have before pictures but I assure you these are like brand new ears. I’m honestly rly pleased with myself

[moondirti]

warnings: smut, afab!anatomy, unprotected p-in-v, eye contact, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral sex (female receiving), biting, hickeys, drooling, literally a good for nothing thirst, pwp

Miguel O'Hara likes to watch your face as he fucks you.

Doggy style and cowgirl are good 'n' all, don't get him wrong. There's a particular way to them that allows him to hit parts of you inaccessible in any other position. But Miguel O'Hara likes to watch your face as he fucks you – sandwiched between your spread legs, rutting in missionary – because nothing gets him going like the subtle unravelling of your expressions. The manner in which your brows screw up, or the tears that droop your lashes. How glossy your lips get with the spittle you've no energy to swallow, drooling, fucked silly on his cock.

Yeah, if he had it his way every time, he'd choose to be real up close and personal, his full weight on top of you. Nothing gets him going like when your noses touch one another, your jaw captured in his hand. He holds your head in place because he knows how flustered you get with constant eye contact, all demure in spite of the wanton moans he thrusts out of your chest. So, you're either a shy thing or his attention is too intense, severe reverence pouring from carmine irises onto every tenuous reaction. The room, your shared space, heady and sweltering hot with sex.

And he never misses a thing. He sees the way your teeth clench when he pinches your clit, ignited by the strict pleasure. He sees how your cheeks cringe, pull, drop, when he plugs you with his cock, siphoned into stillness by your spasming slit. And when he whispers filthy promises onto your chin, mouth pressed there in a perpetual kiss – gonna fuck you full, corazón. my pretty girl, clever girl. gonna cum into you and lick it clean. you'd like that, hm? uhuh. yeah, i see you. i know you would – he revels in the hot bursts of breath that fan across his cheeks. He's always close enough that he can feel, not just hear, your moans.

That's the thing. Miguel likes panting in tandem with you – warm, dry palm smoothing the matted hair off your cheek. He's always infinitely more composed, though. A thin sheen of sweat glazes his bronzed skin, and his cock is slick with both your juices, but he still manages to keep his wits about while you hardly remember yours. They're always honed in on you; how you respond, what you like, what he does that draws the loudest scream. He peppers your face in kisses and nips the fleshier bits. He nuzzles the plane under your jaw. He keeps his efforts almost exclusively focused on your head and cunt, equally divided amongst the two, and it's only on the rare occasion that he ventures away from either.

To take a nipple into his mouth, maybe, tongue lapping at the pebbled peaks. To lay hickeys over your chest – a personal favourite past time when the rise and fall of it is another indication to your enjoyment. To drag his fangs softly on the soft expanse of your tummy. He always makes good on his word, so he eats you out like your pouring into him will quench him for weeks, stuffing his face on puffy folds and refusing to come up for air.

All the while, though, his eyes will remain trained on you. They never left. He props your neck up by a pillow so your expressions are still accessible to him, and when he moves gradually down your body, they're focused upward through dark lashes. If you squint through the foggy pleasure that obscures your vision, you in turn can recognise the subtle smirks he makes at every ministration. The sniffs when you cum on his lips for the umpteenth time. The lewd wet of his fingers when he sucks them in preparation for your needy hole. He scissors them into you, stretches you enough, then dives back up to squash a bruising kiss to your lips as his cock finds its way back in again.

Because he can't forget the other component of his promise, of course – to pump you full of his seed. It's so much, an hours worth of build up, straining his heavy balls from the moment you started. He humps you until every last drop is adequately milked from them, groaning into your mouth as his tongue wrestles yours. It's hard to breath with his body pinning you down, all broad shoulders and defined muscles, and the unrelenting attention battering you into something stupid – yet the hypoxia only adds another intoxicating angle to the mix. You have to make the decision between stopping for air or taking him in in all his vigour.

And, more often than not, it's the latter. It's the least you can do after all he's given you, after all.

[irisintheafterglow]

he's the death you chose (you're in terrible danger)

summary: married life with husband!gojo means cleaning up bodies at 2am.

wc: 1k

cw/tags: mentions of violence, blood, and deaths (nothing graphic), mild angst/comfort with happy ending, some swearing, yes this is the albatross coded

note: honestly not sure where this came from! was just listening to ttpd and thought about what being married to gojo realistically would be like (aka always being targeted as his weakness that it becomes routine). hope you like it :)

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <3

Wise men once said, “Don’t sleep with your windows open,” and you should have listened to them. If you had, there wouldn’t be three dead mercenaries in your living room, and another somewhere in your kitchen. There were five, originally, but you figured the last one was being hunted down a hallway as he tried to escape your building. The blood-spotted microwave’s clock reads 2:08 when you glance at it to grab cleaning supplies from the cupboard. 2:10 is when Satoru re-enters the apartment and kicks off his shoes. 

“I called Ijichi; he’s sending over cleaners right now,” he says, carefully stepping around the blood and curse guts splattered on the floorboards. Stray drops of who knows what speckle the photos on the bookshelf and he wipes them with his sleeve, scowling. “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” 

“Yeah, there’d probably be less of a mess,” you admit, wiping down the kitchen island and guiding the crumbs and dust into the trash. “But they’d still be dead, so I guess it doesn’t really matter in the end.” 

“You handled yourself pretty well for being out of the country for a few months,” he adds appreciatively, retrieving the carpet cleaner from under the sink and sprinkling it onto the living room floor. “I still think it’d be better if you lived on-campus, though.” He squints in the pale moonlight at the pile of abrasive powder and decides to dump a little bit more for good measure. 

“I know–Hey, what’d I tell you about wasting the carpet cleaner? A little goes a long way, remember?” Satoru sets the tube down and puts his hands up in surrender, reaching back and tightening his blindfold before he approaches you in the kitchen. “I can hear your thoughts as they make their way to your mouth, dear.” 

“Look, I know what you’re gonna say–”

“Don’t ask what you’re about to ask, then, if you already know the answer,” you interject with that lightning-quick wit he adored so much. You move to grab the broom from next to the fridge, but he gently catches your wrist and turns you to face him. 

“You’d be safer there,” he continues and you pull your lips into a tight line. 

“Only place I’m safe is wherever I'm with you, realistically.” You had a point. In any other circumstance, the sentiment would be sweet if it wasn’t horribly true. You’d heard time and time again from Satoru how he stared restlessly at the ceiling, anxious about what danger might be coming wherever you were. He theorizes that the higher-ups promoted you to spite him, to have you travel even more often than he was and visit more places across the globe than any seasoned sorcerer would be comfortable with. Phone calls weren’t enough to verify that you were safe; he had to see you, feel you, know you were alive. “This is, what, the second time this month? The first time was when I came back from Paris, right?”

“I don’t think that was this month. It might’ve been the last week of the month prior. Monaco, maybe?”

“Eh, same thing. They always come after me when I get back from Europe. You think they’re trying to catch me off guard or something?”

“I don’t know if we can predict a schedule with these guys, babe,” he grimaces. As much as he liked that you were making light of the situation, the churning in his gut about what could have happened if he didn’t come was too painful to ignore. “Your dad would kill me if he saw how much danger I put you in.” 

“It’s a step up than sneaking me out of the third story of the house, I’ll admit,” you tease. How you could still find humor in times like these, he could never fathom. It’d taken months to convince your father to let Satoru court you, let alone marry you. To your family, he was an impediment, an obstacle, and, unfortunately, the love of your life. “Maybe even as bad as the food poisoning you got from that one place in Sendai.”

“I don’t think ‘in sickness and in health’ is supposed to apply to attempted assassinations. Food poisoning and sprained ankles, sure, but that other one toes the line a little too much.” The frequency of your life in danger was why he wanted you to live full-time on one of the Jujutsu Tech campuses and become a teacher, like him. Sure, a selfish part of him wanted you closer all the time, but he’d pick your safety over your proximity any day. 

“How far are the cleaners?” You yawn, washing your hands at the sink and scanning for everything in your home that needs to be wiped or scrubbed. 

“Ten minutes, tops. I can wait for them if you wanna go back to bed.” He knew you weren’t going to take him up on his offer. You were never able to sleep properly after attempts like this unless he was in the same room. “Though I know you won’t.”

“Isn’t it a little fucked up that we know how the rest of these nights usually go?” You chuckle, a soft, airy sound that takes some of the weight off of Satoru’s chest. You were truly sunlight incarnate and he was the darkest, unseen side of the moon. 

“I’d say this is all my fault, honestly.” You look at him curiously and he shrugs. “I’m the one who made you fall in love with me, after all.” 

“By that logic, I’m also partially to blame,” you point out, flashing him the ring on your left hand. The glow of cursed energy Satoru had embedded into the gemstones glows like Christmas lights in the darkness. The energy was more concentrated than your own body’s natural reserves, allowing him to pinpoint you immediately as long as you were wearing it. Danger and plans A through Z, and everything in between that came with marrying the strongest sorcerer in existence. “I can’t count the number of people who warned me about you.”  

“Why didn’t you listen to them?” 

“Because they’re not you,” you smile. “If you say that you’ll keep me safe, then I trust you to keep your word.” Sunlight incarnate, he thinks again, and God help anyone who tries to block you from him.

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[agoofyannoyancetolaw]

Command

a/n: I wrote this out of pure spite and the fact that I got another cold and realized I hadn’t posted in forever 😭 this is an utter blurb and I’m seriously writing this after my sixth sick nap of the day. Literally no idea what this even is ngl

minors DNI

“Please just tell me what to do- please?..” graves whimpered through the phone without a care in the world if you had speaker on or not, your voice being the only thing keeping him awake other then the blunt feeling of his plastic dildo against his rim

“you know what to do baby, come on- you really miss me that much?” Your static voice humming through the phone followed by his whimpers and whines as he lowered himself down on it inch by inch and accompanied by little huffs of breaths from you as you lazily stroked your aching cock. You could easily imagine what he looked like, down to the little tears dotting his eyelashes and his slack jaw.

this wasn’t the usual late night call for you, but he had practically begged you for you to at least call him so he could have some relief

graves needed to be told what to do! years of work and military and pmc work wearing at his mind.. he needed something to do in his retirement before he went damn insane. Waiting for you to be back from your missions was so boring and he was so pent up for the months you were gone :(

he had waited for a full week for you to be able to call, and when you could it was very late at night, sleep already making his eyes all blurry. Your voice was more static than usual on the call, but it was enough to make him get all hot and bothered.

“feels good, hm? Doesn’t feel the same without me though?” He could hear you mutter with a soft chuckle

��y-yes sir..” graves mumbled back, If you could see his face now he’d be bright red. God your such a tease. “Can I- I-“ graves said, his little whimpers and winces audible through the speaker

“can you what? Use your words?” You remind him. You knew what he was asking for but hearing him stumble over his words so easy from just a simple toy and a phone call was too cute of an offer to pass up.

“can I go faster, please? Please please please I promise I won’t be too loud?” His words were already broken, punctuated by little breaths as he worked himself up and down the toy, still not content! He wanted you- he wanted your hot breath on his neck or your cologne filling his senses. This isn’t fair at all! He could already feel the warm coiling and constricting feeling building up in his mind by the time you gave him permission to go faster

it only took minutes before you could hear his pretty moans from the call, his breath getting heavy and you could practically see his eyes rolling back. You had seen him like that so many times to the point you already new he was close.

“C-an I?” Graves whispered into the mic in between broken whimpers and whines, his gummy walls clenching around the plastic as he patiently waited for you to give him permission- like a dog waiting for its treat.

Before you could even finish replying you could already hear him gasp and moan as he painted the towel below him white. Hanging up and knowing he would be cleaning himself off and waiting around for you to get home again.

[gabessquishytum]

Time for me to be a little problematic maybe. 👉👈

Hob is a poor, peasant child, so when his parents, who have too many kids and are struggling to keep them fed, get an offer that Hob could get an apprenticeship with housing and food, they take it, no questions asked. They don't question the fact that Hob is 6 years old and a wild, almost untamable child, and what could the people possibly want with him. At least he'll be fed.

Hob feels special for being picked out of a crowd. That pride quickly vanishes as he learns that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of kids like him who will be getting the same education. Or apprenticeship. Or whatever. There is more food than he's ever seen in his life.

Over the years, most of the children are sent back to their families. It is uncertain what it is in particular that makes them "unworthy". One kid loses the sight in both eyes but stays. Another loses a finger - he can still do most jobs with 9 fingers! - and is sent away. The most kids are sent away for misbehaving and breaking the rules. But some - Hob among them - can get away with almost anything. Not without punishment or without making his teachers disappointed, but he never gets sent away for stealing, fighting, being rude.

What they learn is mostly etiquette, fighting, and literature. Hob is taught to read and write, and he has to sit through countless lessons about other people who could read and write. He sleeps through the lessons mostly, catching up on sleep after spending the night wandering through the restricted areas of the building or stealing sweets from the pantry.

Then one day, while he is wandering through the forbidden part of the library at the early hours of the morning, Hob runs into someone. It's a tall, black-clad man. He had seen him around 3 or 4 times. The teachers treated him with respect and he never stayed longer than a few days. He never interacted with the young, but he watched them from afar sometimes.

Hob remembers every millisecond of the encounter. The man asks him why he's in the library, and he says he likes to break rules. The man asks him what other rules he had broken, and for some reason, Hob just... confesses everything bad he's ever done. Even before he was taken in by the teachers. The man listens and his face doesn't show anything. No scandal, no disappointment, nothing. Then he suggests - only suggests - that Hob should try to be a better person. And then he's gone. He didn't walk away but just disappeared.

For a few weeks, Hob becomes the worst version of himself, just to spite that man, because there is no reason to be good. This is not a good world, so why should he be? But then he trips one girl as she is asked to come recite something in front of the class and she starts crying after she falls and she is immediately sent away, and he realises... That it would cost him zero effort to not be a bad person. That the girl would continue to have food and shelter if he didn't do anything, and he wouldn't be worse for it. There is enough for everyone.

Hob gives the being a good person thing a try. And it feels, to his surprise, good! He doesn't get any praise or pride from his teachers for the change, no reward, and the dark man doesn't show up again for many years. Only for a moment, passing by Hob, the barest smile on his face. And that is enough. In truth, Hob would continue working on himself even if he didn't get that smile. But it's a nice bonus.

It definitely takes effort, however. His instinct is to steal and cause harm, and he has to fight the urge every day. But the success tastes incredibly sweet. Better than the candy he used to steal.

When Hob is an adult by human standards, there is a sudden change. No longer is there plentiful, rich food, clean clothes, interesting books, and intensive lessons. There is illness, cold, hard work that yields only enough money to get them all by. It seems that whoever was paying the teachers to raise the kids has stopped, but they keep trying to lead them in the right direction. But many have become spoiled, and as many of the teachers succumb to illness, many of the kids - now adults - lose whatever quality was keeping them there and they are kicked out. For the better, perhaps, as outside there are jobs and opportunities. But Hob stays. The place and the people are his home and he cares.

Years later, there are only seven of them left and only three other people - teacher Lucienne and the two grounds keepers. Then one day, the money or whatever returns. Food is served and new people hired. And then, another year later, the dark-clad man returns. The seven remaining apprentices are told to line up. Hob doesn't expect to catch the man's attention another time, he thinks there is nothing special about him. The others are exceptionally smart, talented, or pretty. He is not outstanding at anything.

The man takes a close look at all of them, and it feels like being cut open and having someone look at your organs. Two others scream when that intense gaze lands on them. Hob only gasps in wonder. He swears there are stars in the man's eyes!

When he is done with the examination, the man thanks the teachers. Lucienne joins his side when he announces that he is pleased with their work and he will leave now and this place will cease to exist and it will be forgotten by the time the sun goes down tonight. Then he beckons to Hob, choosing him.

Hob follows, curious and maybe a liiiiittle scared. They don't get on horses or into a carriage. They walk right into the deep forest nearby. There, in a tree that Hob has seen countless of times, is a door that has never been there before. And the man opens it and they all walk through into a huge palace.

There, Hob is informed that he will be wed to the Prince of Stories, the King of Nightmares, Dream. He has been raised for this purpose and he did not disappoint. He worked hard. At that, Hob objects. He is actually still a slow reader and he's not good at any important thing. He carves animals out of wood, but no-one has considered it important. He doesn't sing, doesn't create poetry.

Dream tells him that Hob has worked the hardest by changing himself, humbling himself, and continuing to do so even without any reward, even when the life of being good became uncomfortable and brought him suffering. That is why Dream chose him, in the end.

Hob doesn't get a say in the matter. Before he knows it, he is married to a man that looks no older than he is but who has, apparently, been watching him grow up and had taken interest in him above great poets, singers, and other amazing people. Thankfully, Dream seems like he will be a good husband. The wedding night definitely gives Hob high hopes.

(Dream, tired of his relationships ending in ruin, decided to send his most trusted people to the world of humans to find him a perfect partner. He is not disappointed. Lucienne was right that there was something good even in the rotten apples and they can yet bloom into beautiful trees.)

Hob is given immortality and he is spiked to hell, of course. The end.

- 🚒

ONCE AGAIN LOVING IT WHEN YOU GUYS DROP A WHOLE INTRICATE FIC OUTLINE INTO MY INBOX. I'm so here for this. Weirdass fae Dream essentially grooming a child to be his future husband has just the right balance of creepiness, sexiness and moral questionableness. And Hob’s character arc is moving af??? I think in canon one of the lovable things about him is the way his life does go up and down and I love when this is reflected in au fics. Hob is definitely moulded so much by his experiences and I love the idea of Dream deliberately moulding him into the perfect husband. And Hob still at the end of the day being a normal ass guy??? That's the best part. The carving animals out of wood really got me fr.

I am soooo curious about how their married life would actually turn out. I feel like Hob has definitely been raised to have great loyalty, and that he would stick by Dream no matter what. Ultimately that's probably the main quality Dream is looking for, even if he won't admit it. Would Hob resent Dream for putting him through such a strange existence and taking him away from his parents when he was only a child? I suspect he would try not to think about all that.

Thank you so much for the brain worms, friend!! This is excellent!

[tigers-eyes-26]

Work Injury

Their Papa had helped them get the job at the Wrecking Crew. They were grateful for the job, but the boss wasn’t so grateful for their help.

“What are these two pipsqueaks goin’ to do?��� Spike cried when he saw his new hires.

Mario stepped up to defend himself and his brother. “We are strong! We are athletes! Let us prove ourselves! We can do whatever you ask us to do!”

Spike asked them to prove themselves day after day after day. Giving them tasks that would take several people to complete, much to Spike’s chagrin, they would usually complete it by the end of the day. Spike had a bet that they would quit within the week, but it didn’t look like that would be happening. To get back at the brothers for ruining his bet, he had them clean the work vans until they sparkled. They did it. Then he blamed them for making a small dent in the van that had already been there. 

One day while inspecting a building a raccoon jumped out at Luigi causing him to jump and scream like a little girl. This amused Spike. Now when they would inspect a building Spike would hide around corners just to scare Luigi. Mario would get on Spikes case about scaring Luigi. Spike would say ‘it’s all in good fun’ and that they were ‘being weenies.’ Mario rolled his eyes.

One day Spike scared Luigi causing him to fall down a flight of stairs. That day Spike got a fist in the face from Mario. Mario complained to his family about the mistreatment.

“Whatcha goin’ to do sue Spike? We can’t afford a lawyer! Youse aren’t in a union just yet!”

“Your Papa had to pull a lot of strings to get you guys this good paying job!”

They all had experienced mistreatment at work before because they were an immigrant family. He just needed to suck it up and get the money they needed to “live the better life their nonno had sacrificed for them to live.” Mario left the room in a huff.

Even though Mario had punched his boss he showed up to work the next day.

Spike sneered down at him. “I’m surprised you showed your face around here again. I thought you would be home babying your brother.” Some of the other workers snickered.

“You want another black eye Spike?” The workers all gave a quiet Oooooohh. “I’m here to work and that is what I’m going to do.”

The workday was horrible. Spike made all of Mario’s tasks extra hard just to spite him. Mario took it all silently.

At the end of the day Mario sat on his brother’s bed and cried out his frustrations.

Luigi recovered but his knees were weaker than they used to be. Luigi used to jump higher than Mario did and now it was all gone. Mario hated Spike. He was the first person he ever truly hated. Mario would take on some of Luigi’s tasks so as not to hurt his knees more.

Spike took notice. “If he can’t carry his own weight, he shouldn’t work at all!”

“He is carrying as much as he can! If you hadn’t messed up his legs…!”

“I’m sorry your wussy brother is made of glass!” Mario clenched his fists. “If you hit me again, I’m going to sue you for as much as your family is worth!”

A dark shadow came over Mario. “I quit.”

Luigi came up to him. “Mario, you don’t have to quit! I’ll quit that way HE doesn’t have anything to hold over you. You’re the best worker here Mario! I can get another job somewhere else.”

“NO, I’M SICK OF HIS CRAP! I QUIT!” Mario stormed out. Luigi looked up at Spike staring down at him expectantly. Luigi groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. “I quit too!” He followed Mario out.

*******

Throughout his misadventures Luigi had run and jumped and fought and climbed but it was all fueled by adrenaline. After getting the super star his knees didn’t feel weak anymore. It was a miracle! He felt like he could truly help Mario out now. He could keep up! The brothers had always wanted to help others as a job. They were strong and worked well with their hands. He now felt more motivated than ever to help others. He felt more confident.

Mario and Peach challenged him to complete the training grounds. They both were blown away at how high he jumped over the obstacles. He completed the training with flying colors.

After jumping down from the flagpole Luigi got tackled in a hug by Mario. Mario shook his shoulders. “That was amazing!”

Peach skipped up to the brothers. “You did better than Mario!”

Luigi got his brother to stop shaking him by poking Mario in the belly. “Heheh! Does that mean Luigi is number 1?” He stood up tall and gave Mario a cheeky look.

“No, I still hold the record,” Luigi slumped a little. “But you are definitely second place!” She encouraged.

“At least I didn’t take all night!” Luigi resumed pestering his brother.

Mario swatted Luigi’s hands away, “Hey hey hey now! I could have completed it first try!”

Luigi held up his hands in a challenge, “Oh yeah? what stopped you eh?”

Mario didn’t have a comeback and started to become flustered. “Come ‘ere you!” He started to chase Luigi who jumped away through the training course. Peach laughed at the two brothers. It seemed all was right with the world.

--------

Authors notes: I'm making fanfiction of the small throw away lines in the Mario move that made me think. This one was "I have bad knees."

another one was: "Destiny Del Vecchio from high school?"

[ego-meliorem-esse]

I feel like Francis and Arthur would do that thing with baby Matthew that people do where they put the dog in the middle and both call for it to see who it loves more haha. Except neither of them really care who Matthew loves, they just want to spite the other. Arthur wants to show off Matthews obedience to him and Francis wants to very smugly undermine that. Matthew gets a brief moment of thinking they both desperately want him. The illusion shatters very quickly.

wow mate you're almost more brutal in your interpretation of their relationship than me. Don't get me wrong, what I'm trying to interpret here is that as Matt for all intents and purposes was lonely and frankly miserable with his bio father, the frog. However I do not think François outright didn't care or love Matt. He, did but in his own distant and Empire-y way. What 'm trying to portray is that Matt didn't get love. He didn't feel it. He felt nothing coming from his papa. Whether or not François felt love for his firstborn and only son is irrelevant when it comes to Matt and his experiences. His experience is that where love should be, has always been a tabula rasa. I am a bit of a softie (unimaginable lol) and I am keen on making François feel love in a sense of "Yeah you're my son. I love you but you are a bit boring, and I have court stuff to do". And what I've mentioned is a few asks is that François is only realising his assholery when it's too late, and the boy has found a father to replace his biological one. In the modern era they may even reconnect slightly, they may even meet to get coffee, during a meeting break they might smoke outside the building together in silence, Matt even might stay over at his pops place during a summit week in Paris.

the ignition of remorse may even begin in the vast and smooth void of François' mind.

As for Arthur, he expects the boy to be useful. In 1763 and maybe a few years after that, he feels as if he has a mini François in the house. Until ofcourse he realises that he is angry at this boy sitting opposite of him despite the child having never even uttered a single word, not even made a disagreeable face at that. He softenes up to the boy eventualy. A decade later he starts to not see his enemys face every time he looks at this scared child. Canada indeed is expensive, and England is an Empire. Therefore, the colony WILL be useful. Has to be. Otherwise. That's his mindset, at least for a while. Granted that while lasts a long time but by the modern era Matt his his closest confidante, a friend, and a son. And by god, blood, sweat and tears have been shed for those titles by Matthew. He was needed when he entered those trenches clean, shaved and anxious, he was loved when he left the trenches covered in blood, a broken spirit, with half of his previous eyesight intact.

Not because he risked everything, but because he was willing to.

[toshidou]

Chapter One // Mouth Wide, Fangs Revealed

Series Masterlist

Pairing // Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader

Word Count // 7.9k

Tags // angst, descriptions of injury and violence, swearing, ghost is a little bit of a bitch but we still love him, angst, the enemies to lovers is enemies to lovering

Summary // two weeks out from an injury that left you shaken with repressed memories, it becomes apparent that soon you'll be face to face with the man who haunts your nightmares, and fuels the spite in your veins. the question is, will being confronted with him leave you broken once again, or will you rise from the ashes?

AN // honestly this is the longest thing i've ever written, and it's only chapter one. guys i'm scared. anyway this is just near 8k of build up to the girl's fighting <33 love that for them

Prologue

The deafening sound of whirring helicopter blades leaves your ears ringing, not in the slightest aiding the dull throb that builds behind your closed eyes, weary fingers reaching up to massage slow circles into either side of your temple.

“You good, Viper?” 

You muster a snort, peeling open one eye to cast a glance towards the brunette man opposite you. 

“Just peachy, Phoenix.” Macintosh merely grins in response, pushing himself from the thin steel bench, reaching for the handle next to your head as he yanks the sliding door open, a low whistle pushing past pursed lips as he takes in the base, bathed in darkness save for blinding flood lights that illuminate the airstrip.

“Another late one, eh?”

A new wave of pain blossoms as the chopper makes contact with the landing strip, metal foot pedals meeting rough tarmac, the action causing your aching body to jolt forward, hissing when your finger slips and digs into the scabbed cut on your forehead. 

It’s been roughly two weeks since you were flung like a ragdoll by C4. Two weeks since your body was left wrought with wounds, both new and old. Much to your chagrin, your Captain had given you strict orders of bed rest, the remainder of your time in Al Mazrah had been spent tossing and turning in an uncomfortable cot, being fussed over by medics as they cleaned and stitched your wounds, badgering you at least three times a day with inane questions like, “can you tell me your name?”, and “do you know where you are?”, you had come close to tearing your own fucking hair out. But as much as you hate to admit it, even those two weeks glued to a bed weren’t enough to fully heal your body, still afflicted with lingering aches and pains that leave you wincing at every bump in the road, or supposedly ‘encouraging’ slap to your back, courtesy of one Brodie Macintosh. 

“C’mon, Boss sounded pretty serious about us being on time for this meetin’, y’know what that means.” Doe huffs, shoving her hand into her trouser pocket, fingers emerging with a pack of painkillers pinched between gloved digits, thrusting them in your direction without sparing you a glance. 

“Means I’ll probably get to have at least one hot shower before we’re jettin’ off to another crisis, think we’ll ever get more than one night off at a time?” You just barely make out Macintosh’s words over the thunderous roar of blades above you, not at all aided by his thick Geordie accent that blurs every syllable. You take the drugs, popping them from their casings and swallowing them dry, cringing lightly as they slowly work their way down your throat.

“Probably not Nix, turns out people are dead set on starting world war three.” With more effort than you care to admit, you heave yourself off your seat, and climb down onto the tarmac, ducking your head as you run under still whirring chopper blades. Without turning back, you begin the walk from the landing pad to your Captain’s office. 

“Which means we have to deal with your ghastly stench for another fortnight.” You can practically hear the grin that stretches at Jane’s lips, don’t have to turn to know that Macintosh most definitely stuck his tongue out at her in response. 

“Yeah, real mature, dickhead.”

You sigh, dropping your head to hide the laugh that threatens to spill past cracked lips. 

“Shut ya gob, Bambi.” 

Their banter helps lighten the anxious mood you feel clinging to your bruised form, an unease that’s been ever present since the accident. You’ve gone so many years successfully keeping him out of your thoughts, never letting an ounce of his presence creep into your memories, or haunt your dreams. For a fleeting moment, you finally felt free from the grip he’d always maintained upon you. But then Al Mazrah happened, a stone cold reminder that he will always plague your mind, hiding in the shadows, waiting to render you a puppet to his power once more. 

Your squad knows your injuries surpassed the superficial, that whatever you experienced changed you somehow, made your muscles taut, your gaze sharper, like you were constantly on the defensive. 

Footsteps echo through empty halls, dimly lit by cheap bulbs that cast an ugly yellow glow against the plain cream paint of the barrack halls. The silence is broken not by you, or your two companions, but from low voices that leak under the crack of your Captain’s door, the words indistinguishable, but the deep grunt that curls around intelligible syllables has the hairs on the back of your neck rising. Jane raps her knuckles against wood thrice, leaning against the door frame as she waits for permission to enter, given mere seconds later by the booming voice of the one and only Ryan Samuels. 

You fight past a sudden feeling of nausea as you step past the boundary of the office door, eyes locking with the unmistakable figure that is Captain John Price, leader of Task Force 141. He’s not joined by his infamous squad, praise the Lord, but his stance carries the staunch confidence of a man who knows how much power he alone wields, hands gripping onto the leather straps of his harness where it meets at his collarbones, azure eyes narrowed as they lock onto you. He sniffs, head jolting to the side as he motions for Macintosh to close the door behind him. Only once the click of the lock sounds does he speak, turning back to your Captain, who sits at his desk, his broad back ramrod straight against the spine of the imposing black leather chair. 

“Let’s get started then, shall we?” Gruff words accompanied by the slam of documents as they’re tossed onto the mahogany desk below, each stamped with a bold red “CLASSIFIED”. You try with every ounce of residual energy you can muster to pay attention, to follow along with the rough drawl of the man before you, but it’s near impossible to hear him over the hammering of your heart against your fractured rib cage at the sheer thought of who exactly it is that works under his command. Though you knew this day was coming, the inevitability of bumping into him grew nearer with each day you became stronger, knowing that climbing the ranks in this institution could only ever end with one outcome: working with the Ghost. 

It’s something every other soldier in these barracks waited for with baited breath, grown adults huddled in groups and whispering to each other as soon as a mere rumour of Ghost’s presence at camp began circulating, all counting down to the day that they could brag about having worked with one of the most revered, and feared soldiers known to the SAS, if not the world. 

But you? You turn your nose at the notion of enduring his company, professionally or otherwise. You’ve never shared the reason, never trusting anyone enough to tear out your own threadbare sutures and show them the ugly truth that hides behind military garb, not even your squad. It feels wrong, revealing that you not only knew Ghost, but had once known him intimately. Romantically. It’s always been unbearably uncomfortable to hear strangers hypothesise about his past, crafting theories on why he wears the mask, but especially when they gossip about his possible romantic or sexual endeavours; revealing in hushed whispers about an encounter they witnessed where he leaned a little too close to a nurse in the medic’s bay, or when they swore they saw him take a lady home from the bar in the rec centre. 

It leaves you shaking every time, fists clenched so tightly part of you fears the bones may shatter under the pressure. And it’s pathetic really, that you let clearly erroneous rumours get the better of your carefully crafted composure, but if you’re being honest with yourself, he has always been an outlier. Different from the rest in a way that drove you insane, that still gets under your skin half a decade after you last saw his face. He knew you like no one else ever bothered to, peeled back the layers of your brain until he was left with the core of who you were; he could predict your every movement, holding out a tissue before you even knew you were going to sneeze. It ended up being both the biggest blessing, and most detrimental of curses. 

You zone back into the conversation just as Price has finished his spiel, hands coming down to collect the files spread sporadically across Samuels’ desk. One look at both Doe and Phoenix confirms the dread in your stomach is not misplaced, twin pairs of eyes gleaming in the twilight, giddy hands wrung behind their backs as if that hides obvious excitement, like children on Christmas morning. 

But the final nail in the coffin comes from your superior, the man who took the broken remnants of your psyche and crafted a monster, forged a weapon from bitter resentment and all-consuming spite, now unwittingly handing you the ultimate challenge to your hardy resolve. 

“Looking forward to working with you, Captain.” 

— — — —

Just one mission. A collaboration between the SAS’s most successful counterterrorism task forces, a decision that apparently “felt natural”, two groups fighting a common enemy are best working together, Macintosh accentuates an exaggerated rough timbre as he quotes Price’s earlier speech. If this were any other circumstance, you wouldn’t hesitate to poke fun at his clear idolisation of the 141’s Captain, instead, you’re left to amble two paces behind, feet dragging against dirt laden tiles, like a woman walking to her own execution. 

You have 12 hours to prepare yourself, to concoct your own mask, moulded from false confidence and an exaggerated bravado, rather than reinforced plastic in the shape of a skull. 

A mere 12 hours until you see him for the first time in 5 years, in full military attire, large, imposing, and hauntingly familiar. The idea of the Ghost doesn’t intimidate you the way it does everyone else. No, what terrifies you most is looking at him and knowing that just under his left eye, concealed by hard white plastic, is a small mole. That his nose and cheeks are dusted with light freckles, barely visible until your forehead brushes his. You're scared shitless of looking at the monster and seeing the man behind it, the man you once forced to dance around the kitchen, strong arms nestling you safely to his chest, white flour smeared across cheeks, his lips stretched wide with an adoring smile saved only for you. 

The same man who turned on his heel and so casually removed himself from your life. No, the only Ghost you’ve ever feared was the one he left behind, haunting the corner of every room in the house you once owned, turning precious memories into taunting nightmares. He never came back to collect his belongings, cruelty to the nth degree; you spent too many nights huddled on his side of the bed, nose pushed into a sweatshirt that no longer bore his scent and wondering if he longed for you too.

Joining the SAS had given you the opportunity to move on, to push those things behind you, to sell the house and everything in it, leaving the new owners to throw out the things you could never bring yourself to. But despite longing for nothing more than a new beginning, you only felt like you had finally been gifted the chance for a new life when you met Captain Ryan “Tiny” Samuels. An ironic name for such a mountain of a man.

It still seems so fresh in your mind, the memory of you meeting your current Captain. It had been during sparring practice, Lieutenant Phillips giving half-assed commands with a nonchalant wave of his hand, too busy nursing a thermos flask full of God knows what to even spare a glance at the makeshift fighting ring comprised of a patchwork of padded mats. Sweat had dripped down your forehead in a near constant stream, but despite your bone-deep exhaustion, you never once relented. It was a classic game of King of the Castle, one person stays on the mat until they’re pinned, or yield, replaced by the victor. You had been undefeated for a period of 45 minutes, and all because one corporal had been stupid enough to call you out first, mistaking you for an easy target. It had taken roughly 10 seconds before he was face down into the mat, slapping his free hand against the PVC as you held him in an arm bar. You hadn’t left the mat since. 

Little did you know that lurking in the dim corner of the gym, watching every soldier fall to your unshakable resolve and instinctual ability to fight, was the man you would soon call your superior. You had finally fallen 20 minutes later, a swift kick to the gut that sent you spluttering to the floor, chest heaving with built up fatigue. The winner extended their hand out, aided you to your unsteady feet with a supportive clap on the back, your lungs still burning with the lingering embers of enervation. You hadn’t even made it to the changing rooms before he emerged from the shadows, hardened hazel eyes locked to yours as he told you, with no room for possible argument, that you would be transferred to his troop. 

You’ve been firmly under his wing ever since, transformed from a Corporal fighting just to feel something, to a Sergeant, a weapon within your own right. The soldier no one sees coming, a viper. He taught you how to hone your rage, your sadness, your guilt, and reshape it into clean strikes and a sharp mind. 

The door to your quarters shuts with a definitive bang, the click of the lock automatically sliding into place has you blinking the sheen from your eyes, mind reeling as you rouse from your daydreams. The low echoes of voices from Macintosh and Davies slowly drift until you’re met with silence, a silence that should feel like an old friend, yet feels just as oppressive as the office you’ve just come from. There are so many reasons that you hate him, but it’s your relationship with the quiet that he so efficiently destroyed that you despise him for the most. You used to bask in quietude, used it to recalibrate your mind, let the silence soothe your anxiety-addled thoughts. But you can’t fucking stand it now, whispers of the past reverberate through your skull in neverending droves, memories you wish were long forgotten playing on loop, inescapable, and downright harrowing. 

You only feel the tension seep from your rigid muscles when the sound of the radio fills the bare four walls you’ve learned to call home. It’s like a cold compress to a pounding head, the way it has your shoulders melting down from where they were hunched at your ears, finally alone in a way you can tolerate, mind vacant of its usual intrusive thoughts. The bed creaks as you perch on the edge, fingers gripping the thin mattress either side of your thighs. Blinking red lights illuminating your room with a taunting flash of the time, 1:58 AM. 

10 hours. 

Fuck. 

— — — —

Somehow, you must have fallen asleep, joints creaking as you shift and peel open your eyes; squinting as the dawn leaks through open curtains, dousing your room in rich tones of burnt orange and deep amber. 

‘Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.’ Even the sun is supplying you with its judgement upon the day ahead, and its forecast is foreboding at best. 

Crackled voices continue to emanate from the radio that remains perched on your dresser, a reliable and constant source of companionship, as pathetic as that may seem. You allow yourself a few minutes of slumber, never sinking into the deep of restful sleep, instead you simply lay there and listen to radio hosts chatter about blissful nothingness. But seared behind your eyelids is the clock. 

6:13 AM. 

You meet with Price and his squad at 12, a quick ‘hello’ on the tarmac before being shoved into a helo and sent back off into the fray. Fighting side by side with the once love of your life, turned bitter, repressed memory. You can’t hold back the snort of disbelief, unable to comprehend the car crash that is your life. With a crack of your neck, you set about your usual morning routine with little enthusiasm, blank eyes darkened around the sockets meet yours in the mirror. 

You should be a little more concerned about the stranger you see in the reflection, but you can’t bring yourself to care. If you’re unknown to even yourself, what chance does he have of recognising you? In a fucked up way, it’s that thought that has your chin lifting, your shoulders squared, watching as you sharpen from the weary Sergeant to the snake. You’re not the same person who he left to shrivel up and die all those years ago, your wounds long since patched up. Sure, he left you without a heart to pound beneath scarred skin, but you never needed one of those in your line of work anyway; he’ll find out soon enough just what kind of monstrosity he helped create. 

You spend the next few hours gathering your belongings together, a small duffle bag filled with a couple of spare uniforms, some loose tops and shorts for the restless sleep you’re sure to be suffering through for the next few weeks. The biggest bag is still empty, sunken where it slumps next to the door, ready to be filled to the brim with an array of weapons. You haul the duffle over your shoulder, sneaking one final glance at your reflection in the full length mirror. 

A black halter vest tucked into military cargo trousers, sunglasses perched on the end of your nose, steely irises just visible over the top of solid black frames. You clench your jaw, and feel the last section of your mask slide into place, crushing any remaining trepidation you let linger at the back of your mind. Nothing will get in the way of you maintaining the reputation you’ve earned, especially not him. Never him.

Your steel capped boots pound against the vinyl flooring, each stride bringing you ever closer to the armoury, your hastened pace faltering when you hear a low whistle from your right. 

“Now there’s the Viper I remember.” 

“Don’t be weird, Brodie, you saw me yesterday.” Despite your faux irate tone, you can’t help the smug grin that tugs at the edges of your lips. 

“Ouch, bringin’ out the first name, you wound me, noodle.” 

Fucking noodle. He’s been calling you that ever since you were given the alias ‘Viper’, you can still see the playful glint in his eye when he pulled up the google search ‘danger noodle’ on his phone, pointing to the first image and just barely dodging the slap to his arm as he told everyone, ‘Look, identical right?’. 

“Not my fault your ego is so easily damaged,” your neck twists towards him, your spare hand coming up to gesture to the open door of the armoury, “Ladies first.” He sweeps by you with an exaggerated coquettish smile, fluttering his eyelashes so fast you’re scared he might be having a seizure. 

“Such a gentleman.” 

You tip your head down in response, letting yourself enjoy the banter that always flows so easily between the two of you. You still can’t quite pinpoint when Macintosh had gone from your over-eager colleague to a firm and loyal friend, a brother in arms. But truth be told, you’re not sure if you’d have made it to the position you’re in today without him and his unwavering support and steadfast humour, never dwindling no matter how dire the situation.   

You send a nod to the soldier at the front desk, enduring minimal pleasantries as he quickly locates both yours and Phoenix’s keys to your weapon lockers, tossing them over the desk into eagerly awaiting hands. All it takes is a swift glance to your side to notice the way Macintosh is practically vibrating out of his own skin. It’s unsurprising, really, you’ve spent many a long night listening to the stories he’d heard about the 141, the bitter reminder of him numbed by the glint in your friend’s eyes, a look you recognised immediately as immense admiration. He’s wanted to work alongside them for as long as you’ve known him, and you let that desire to see his dreams fulfilled settle alongside the volatile thrum of pent up apprehension, if only to pacify the feeling for a moment long enough that you can truly be happy that Price showed up in your Captain’s office. 

You set the empty bag at the foot of a red steel locker, your name clearly labelled across the front in bold black letters, and twist the key where it resides in the lock, sighing happily when you’re met with the sight of your beloved gear. You waste no time unhooking the brown leather harness and fixing it in place across your torso, loading each holster with your pistol, and an assortment of knives. With a firm tug, you tighten the straps until they’re secured against your chest, the familiar feeling of leather digging into your shoulders shouldn’t make you as happy as it does; maybe it’s the knowledge that you’re fully suited up, any crack in the armour is patched up with the weighted security of weaponry within immediate reach. 

It’s only once you’ve zipped up your rifles that Jane finally saunters into view, sending both you and Brodie a two fingered salute before wordlessly packing up her own gear. A large sniper rifle, an SP-X 80, her angel of death, as she so morbidly refers to it. You shrug in response to Macintosh’s bemused nudge at your shoulder, leaning down to secure your fingers around the straps of your weapon bag, the cutting sting of nylon webbing eased by the black fingerless gloves you adorn. 

“C’mon, shitbags, let’s get movin’, can’t keep Cap waitin’.” 

“Yes, Lieutenant.” You hum, barely audible over Macintosh’s booming voice as you both easily fall in step with your superior, you at her left, Phoenix at her right, a natural formation for your little trio. 

Rays of light stream through scattered clouds above, casting what seems like a spotlight on the airstrip before you, the stage set for what is sure to be an explosive show to say the very least. It all seems too perfect, poetic, like this exact scenario has been written by the forces above, and they expect it to be carried out with nothing less than spectacular grandeur. Except you don’t want drama, tension, or an eager audience to make light entertainment out of your torment, you want nothing more than to put your head down, and get your hands dirty. 

As much as you promised yourself to not let him cross your mind, not even your steadfast determination can stop the morbidly curious thought that surfaces once the helo appears on the near horizon.  

‘How the fuck is he going to react to this?’

As far as you’re aware, your presence is unknown to him. In the many years you’ve been with the SAS, you have effectively managed to evade every room he’s bothered to grace with an ease that would rival his infamous ability to blend into the shadows. Your name is unknown to most, those outside of your squad only knowing you as the Viper, a choice you made to delay the inevitable for as long as you were physically able. So it’s you who has the element of the surprise. For once, it’s you who holds the power in your gloved grasp. 

What has loose tendrils of doubt unfurling from the box you enclosed every ounce of anxiety in, however, is the complete inability to predict what exactly is going to happen the second recognition flashes behind cold chestnut eyes. All you know is that you’ve had five years to prepare yourself for this moment, and as much as you wish you could say the thought has never graced your mind, long nights spent running through this exact scenario say very much otherwise. 

You’re ready. 

Until blurred figures sharpen. 

Until their softened edges become defined. 

Until your eyes lock on harsh black, and stark white. 

Until you see the spectre that’s bedevilled your existence for entirely too fucking long. 

Until he provides the spark that ignites the anxiety in your stomach, blue flames scorching the blood that thrums though pulsing veins, leaving nothing but fury and ash in its wake.

Your wrath has a hunger equal to that of a forest fire, greedy and vicious, never satiated, never full. But it’s controlled within the confines of your skin, locked behind the bars of well taught self-restraint, a lesson you have Samuels to thank for as you focus your attention on said Captain, his eyes meeting yours with a barely there smile lifting at the edges of usually stoic lips. 

“Here they are, fashionably late, as always.” Your Captain hums, a gleam to his eyes you’ve come to recognise as him toying with his squad. You expect Doe to pipe up, jokingly back talking to her boss that only she could ever get away with. You even suspect that Macintosh may jump in, knowing that his excitable nerves will have his lips looser than ever. What you never could have predicted, however, is Gaz. 

“Viper? Damn, long time no see, eh?” It’s almost comical, how quickly your head snaps in his direction, an easy smile gracing your no doubt tense features at the sight of an old friend.

“Some might say not long enough, Garrick.” You quip, internally reminding yourself to thank whatever God has taken pity on your long-standing plight and blessed you with the distraction that is Kyle. 

“Why, still need time to practise your aim?” 

Ah. You’d first met Gaz on your first assignment under Captain Samuels, a god awful mission in Greenland, chasing some bastards who thought hiding their base in the middle of a snow riddled wasteland was a wise idea. In theory, of course, it had initially worked quite well, until a snowstorm had penned them into the very base they thought would protect them. Getting them to surrender had been a walk in the park. What had not been so easy, however, was leaving. 

Just as they were trapped, you and your team were too. So of course as everyone waited for the storm to pass, and for the evac team to eventually clear you a route out, it had been a rough 29 hours spent huddled together for a glimpse of heat. But the boredom was as deadly as the frigid chill, until Garrick set up some targets in the form of flimsy cups from a water dispenser, and handed you the unloaded rounds from his gun. You both spent the remainder of your time throwing bullets at styrofoam, with you losing by a mere point after he jabbed your side milliseconds before the projectile left your fingertips, sending it spiralling way off your initial target. 

“I hope in your old age you haven’t forgotten that you cheated to get that cheap victory, Sergeant,” You tilt your chin up, gazing at him through the darkened lens of your sunglasses, “I’d be happy to honour a rematch though, I’m nice like that.” He rewards you with a grin, any words of retaliation dying on his tongue as Price clears his throat, narrowed cobalt eyes glancing between you and Garrick with barely concealed interest. 

“That’s enough chit chat,” A light chill trickling down your spine where the gruff of his voice curls around words like smoke, “Let’s get to work. Ghost, make sure we’re prepped for takeoff.” 

It’s only then that the blissful banter and light mood dissipates, the moment shattered as the reminder of who else shares your presence hits you with a force akin to a freight train. It’s sheer instinct that has your gaze settling on the man in question, and it takes every fibre of self-control in your body to keep your face neutral, and your muscles relaxed. 

Because there, stood but a few feet from you, wide eyes burning holes into the side of your face, is Simon motherfucking Riley.

The silence is near unbearable, although in reality it can’t have lasted any more than mere seconds, it’s more than enough to let you know your sudden appearance has truly thrown him, a feat you didn’t know were possible until this very moment. Whilst never letting his gaze leave yours, he slowly begins to stalk backwards towards the helo door.

“Affirmative.” 

Rough. Rumbling. Sonorous. His truly unforgettable cadence rattles through your bones, shakes you to your core. It’s like suddenly you’re transported back to five years prior, like no time has passed at all and you’re still the lovesick fool who so desperately wanted his approval, craved his unwavering support that you’d grown wholly too reliant on. But somehow, despite the flood of once buried feelings, you maintain eye contact, refusing to back down from whatever this moment between the two of you is. 

“Well, that was weird.” A new voice chimes in, steeped in a Scottish timbre, one you connect with the infamous ‘Soap’. 

“Tell me about it.” When you turn to face Macintosh at his abrupt inclusion, you’re met with a rare stern expression, one that contorts his eyebrows until they’re nearly pinched at the top of his nose. A face that promises to ask you plenty of questions regarding the tense moment that transpired between you, and a man that you should have no connection to.

A short shake of your head conveys your message to him well enough, a sharp ‘I’ll tell you later’, it’ll be enough to get him off your back for now. Though you know that no amount of time will ever be enough to figure out how exactly you explain your relationship with the man he knows as Ghost. Samuels saves you the trouble for now, however, his baritone inflection cutting through your racing thoughts. 

“By now, you should all know the mission brief, infiltrate AQ’s base in north Adal, retrieve stolen intel, and get the fuck out of there. If we do it right, they won’t have realised the intel is missing until we’re halfway across the ocean. The two task forces will be split into three teams,” Samuels crooks a finger at Davies, “Lieutenant Doe and Captain Price will be providing sniper support from the surrounding hills. Soap, Viper, you’ll be on the ground clearing the way and ensuring there’s a safe path in and out of the encampment for Ghost to safely retrieve the stolen data, and return it back to us. Gaz, Phoenix, and I will be creating a diversion outside the perimeter, should keep them busy enough that the ground team shouldn’t incur too many issues. Understood?” 

A cacophony of ‘Affirmatives’ ring across the airstrip, all except yours, an exasperated huff falling from your lips in disbelief, because of course you’ve been put in a team with Simon. 

“Got an issue, Sergeant?” All eyes turn to you. With a low grunt, you hike your duffle bags higher up your shoulder and begin walking onto the awaiting transport helicopter, the blades slowly beginning to turn as the engine roars to life, with one last glance, your eyes lock with Samuels’, and you send him a forced grin.

“Never, Captain.”

— — — — 

The ride, to be put simply, is 6 and a half hours of torturous awkwardness, the air surrounding its inhabitants remaining stilted and uncomfortable for the entire duration. You attempted to pass the time by cleaning your weapons, despite the fact that each one is already spotless, not a fleck of dust, dirt, or blood to be found on any of them. But the repetitive motion of wiping a cloth across sharpened metal, or the meticulous deconstruction of your pistol in order to reach every nook and crevice helps occupy your mind. 

It doesn’t stop you from feeling every minute of the journey though, seconds dragging endlessly until eventually the chopper meets tarmac. Unsurprisingly, you’re the first one to exit, desperately needing to suck in a lungful of air that hasn’t been tainted by him. The heat of Adal is just as suffocating, however, the air dense, and claggy, each breath feels as though it sticks to your lungs. Thankfully, the three awaiting cars are parked firmly in the shade, providing momentary relief from the blistering sun in the form of air conditioning. The reprieve doesn’t last for long though, seconds after you collapse onto the seat, haphazardly throwing your bags of clothes and equipment into the boot, the light flooding in through the open door blacks out, shadowed by the eclipse that is Ghost. 

The cooled car no longer feels as refreshing, your chest constricting as he takes the seat next to you, leaving Soap to awkwardly climb onto the bench opposite, sapphire eyes darting between the unlikely duo as though you're wild animals. 

You’ve never minded small spaces, in some cases, they’ve almost been comforting; now, however, you’ve never felt so claustrophobic, the right side of your torso pushed as far against the opposite end of the car as your body, and unrelenting metal will allow. In your momentary panic, you almost miss the large hand that appears in your peripheral, muscles going stiff as soon as you realise that his fingers are extending towards you. 

“Comms, take it.” 

Harsh. He’s pissed. Or upset. In the time you’ve spent apart, it’s disconcerting how much, and yet how little has changed. 

You snatch the ear piece from his grasp, not risking more contact with him than strictly necessary, and slide it into place around your left ear, threading the wire through your clothes and linking it to the device attached to the strap on your harness. It only takes a push of a button for the transmitter to spark to life, unfamiliar voices of surrounding soldiers flooding your ear, quickly amending it to receive the assigned channel for your team to avoid any risk of an ill-timed headache. 

“Testing, Ground Team, do you copy?” Doe’s voice crackles, a much needed comfort when you realise this is the first mission you’ll be heading into for a long time without your team right by your side, instead having to entrust your safety into the hands of a complete stranger, and a man you’re nearly 100% sure despises you. 

“We copy, just arrived at the dropoff.” 

“Understood, we’re a minute off being in position. Captain, we’ll wait on your signal.” 

The only response is rough static, faint voices heard just under the white noise that threatens to deafen your left eardrum. You see Soap’s lips open, mouth ready to form words, when he’s abruptly interrupted by an explosion, smoke pluming so quickly towards the sky it begins to black out the sun. 

“That’s our signal.” Ghost grunts, large hands ripping open the side door and wasting not a single second to turn back to either you or Soap before he disappears. 

Two can play at that game. 

In your haste, the bag of rifles and shotguns you packed is left stranded in the boot, but you’ve gone into missions with much less than a handful of knives and a pistol and made it out with only a scratch to show for it.

“Soap, that’s our building there,” you hum, dragging his head to your eye level, steady arms pointing out the large blue building that sits directly in the middle of AQ’s makeshift camp, “If we make our way across the rooftops, we’ll drastically reduce the chances of bumping into any sorry fuckers who might get in our way.” 

You unclasp your pistol from its holster and flick off the safety, feeling that oh-so-familiar surge of adrenaline at the echo of shouts and gunfire emanating from the front gate.  

“Let’s do some parkour then, aye?” Soap straightens up, retrieving his own weapon and sending you a wink, lips curled up in a light smirk before you both set off, running towards the nearest building, guns raised as you approach an open door, just barely hung on by loose hinges. You can’t help but grin, watching as Soap tentatively pushes the door further ajar with his foot, gun raised and at the ready. Meanwhile, you’ve already calculated your way in. 

Without so much as a word, you run at the decrepit AC just to the left of the door Soap is guarding, jumping on top of the dented metal and propelling yourself up until your fingers curl around the splintering wood of a window pane, any glass blocking your path in long since shattered. It takes little effort to pull yourself up, and jump into the second story room, just barely catching the ‘Steamin’ Jesus’ from Soap where he still stands downstairs. 

Within seconds you clear the building for any possible intruders, calling out to Soap that he’s free to enter as you begin bounding up crumbling steps two at a time. You’ve already plotted out an easy path to take across the rooftops by the time Soap joins you, shallow huffs of breath pulled past cracked lips as he sidles up next to you. 

“Y’know, when I said ‘let’s do some parkour’, I meant when we got to the rooftops.” 

In response, you slot your gun into its holster, and stretch out your calves, your head just tilting in his direction as you slowly back up from the building’s ledge. 

“Try to keep up, yeah?” This time it’s you who sends him the wink, taking great satisfaction in his surprised expression before you take off, the short run up giving you enough momentum to leap from the rooftop Soap still occupies to the next. You don’t once look back to see if he’s following, trusting the 141 are competent enough to keep up with a small amount of aerobics. 

It’s moments like these when you fall in love with your job the most, rough wind driving small grains of sand against your exposed skin, fingers scraped red from gripping onto ledges and scrambling against harsh rock, knees lined with small cuts and blossoming bruises, because you’ve never felt more alive. 

It’s the screaming from below that keeps you tethered to your work though, a gritty reminder that your team is down there, risking their lives to give you cover, to get the mission done. 

There’s only one more building that separates you from the peeling blue paint of your target, you hardly hesitate on taking the leap onto the rooftop below, body automatically rolling to alleviate the impact. It’s only when you’ve come to a stop do you realise you’re not alone, a man with a sniper rifle lays prone against the concrete, the red of his laser focused upon the chaos below. You fingers have just wrapped around the hilt of a knife before your transmitter hisses to life. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered spidermonkey.” The impact of the bullet driving through his skull should send you to the floor, heaving whatever’s left of your breakfast onto the scorching stone. But you’ve been in this game long enough, and all you feel is relief at the sound of Doe’s jovial tone, a solid reminder that your Lieutenant is always looking out for you. You send a loose salute in what you assume is her direction just as Soap lands next to you, sparing you a withering glance before you’re both making your way to the last jump, muscles showing the first sign of exertion as you pull yourself into the vacant windowpane. 

“This is Viper,” You murmur, fingers wrapped around your transmitter, “Ground Team have made it to the target building, route has been cleared for extract.” 

“About time you caught up.” You hate the fact you jump, hands automatically drawing a knife until it resonates that the voice is one you’re far too familiar with, exhaling a shaky sigh as you right yourself and jam the knife back into its rightful place. 

“You need to be more careful about who you sneak up on, might end up with a blade through the eye.” You can’t stop the words that spit out of you, not sure if you even tried to hold them back, eyes just barely casting over to his figure, half hidden by the shadows. 

“And you need to be more careful when you’re addressing your superiors, Sergeant, might end up without a job.” 

Rage flows anew within you, rabid fire rattling against the bars of its cage from where it once lay dormant under your skin, its teeth bared, saliva dripping from exposed gums peeled back in a show of nothing less than unadulterated aggression. But under your skin, it remains. Instead of throwing fists, you hurl him an unimpressed glare, only just managing to retain your composure when he tilts his head at you in response, harsh, cold eyes fixed to yours. Without so much as a sound, he pushes himself off the wall he leant on, large strides covering the distance between you both in a scarily short amount of time, your breath catching in your throat as you belatedly wonder if this is where he chooses to confront you. 

Yet he breezes past you, the side of his bicep just barely grazing the skin of your shoulder as he disappears from your vision. 

“Room’s this way, get a fuckin’ move on.”

And you’re left with little other option than to turn on your heel and follow him, trying to bury the hint of a reminder of how his skin felt when it used to brush yours, to take those bittersweet memories and feed them to the flames. 

For the rest of the mission, you daren’t open your mouth. Not because you’re scared of Ghost, but for fear that once you let your lips part, the torrent you’ve so diligently held within you will rip itself from your grasp. Because despite any intense personal feelings, your desire to do your job, and do it fucking well, will always be your number one priority. You utter not a single word. Not when the intel is successfully obtained. Not when you make your way back back to your exfil in the searing heat. Not when the car door slams shut behind you, tires spinning against loose asphalt as the car speeds away from the scene behind you, only just able to make out dark clouds of smoke in the rearview mirror. The car is deathly silent, save for the occasional transmission between the other two teams, all members having successfully made it to safety, and are on route to the safe house, provided by a friend of Captain Price’s. 

But it doesn’t matter how silent you are. You can feel the way tension builds, sporadic sparks that threaten to ignite the air that sits heavy in your lungs, so thick it risks choking you. You know that this can only end one way, that the hostility can only be stretched so far until it gives in to the force and snaps. You just weren’t expecting it to happen the moment you got out of the car. 

Your eyes have only just found Macintosh’s before a hand clamps down on your shoulder, your muscles coiling in retaliation as you attempt to throw his weight off you. 

“What the fuck are you doing here.” 

When you turn to face him, it’s like staring into a mirror. A reflection of every ounce of rage burns within his blackened eyes, staring down at you as though he hated having to even acknowledge your existence.

“Last time I checked, I was doing my job, Lieutenant.” Try as you might to keep your voice level, you can’t help but grit out his rank, lips hissing around the syllables like it pained you to utter them.

“You know damn fuckin’ well what I meant by that.” 

You leave him with a scoff, shaking his hand from your skin and storming off in the direction of the safe house, a last ditch attempt to hold off a confrontation you’ve dreaded for at least another day. You’ve almost made it to the door when you hear your name snarled into the desert, echoing between the walls of abandoned houses, blown apart by war, old blood seared into crumbling brick. It looks like the remnants of your relationship, fragile and too far gone to be repaired. Maybe this is what Simon saw before he turned his back on you, just someone who wasn't worth the effort it would take to rebuild.

It’s that lone thought that breaks you, that has the weathered bars of the cage within you finally giving in to molten heat, your skin aflame as you whirl back around on him. 

“Do I though, Simon?” You stalk two steps closer, eyes narrowed to slits as your words snap through bared lips, “We both know you’re fucking awful at communicating, might have got the wrong end of the stick somewhere between your indecipherable grunts and shitty attitude.” 

If you weren’t so consumed by your own anger, you may have withered under the sneer he hands you in response, almost able to see the way his face twists with rage from under unyielding white plastic. 

“If you did all this just out of spite,” his finger points to your team behind you, circling back to him, “Joining the fucking military, risking your life, just to get back at me, you’re a whole lot stupider than I ever took you for.” 

“Oh, because you signed up with purely heroic intent, didn’t you?” The change in his stance should give you enough warning, but he’s fanned the flames within you too much for you to back down now, the fire only rising to his straightened posture, “You weren’t using deployment as an escape at all, were you Simon?” 

“Enough,” Growled words gritted out from behind clenched teeth don’t deter you in the slightest, if anything they only bolster the adrenaline that burns through shaking limbs. 

“Did you ever stop and think that this is what I wanted all along? That you were only even holding me back from doing the one thing I’m fucking good at? Or do you only ever think about yourself, huh? I signed up to the SAS not because I wanted to get some petty revenge on a man who walked out on me, not because I was running away from a shitty childhood, but because I fucking wanted to! Got it?” You end your speech roaring, the words screaming from your lungs and burning past your throat, each ragged breath you take grates against raw flesh. 

The flames begin to dwindle just enough for you to grab your bags from where Soap had placed them in the sand, right your posture, and turn. You can’t bring yourself to spare a glance at any of the others, where they no doubt stand dumbfounded outside the safehouse. You only grace them with sparse, stilted words, hoping to God they don’t see the red leaking through your shirt, a sign that the sutures you tried to hide for so long were finally ripped out, leaving nothing but the gnarly truth in their place. 

“I’ll take first watch.”

Tag list // @shuttlelauncher81 , @txmbstone , @xentari94 , @hypernovaxx

[rishiguro]

03; VENDING MACHINES

“thanks” with a tight smile on your lips you said goodbye to the woman behind the counter and immediately left the small pharmacy inside of the sterile building.

you put your prescribed medications in your bag as you walked, skillfully ignoring the voices all around you.

you would think that after so many years and countless admissions, you would be used to hospitals and maybe in a way you were.

you were well acquainted with the bright lights and the smell of disinfectant, not to mention many staff members, nurses, doctors, other health professionals and even some janitors and the administrative staff.

pretty inevitable since by now the hospital was basically your second home, much to your dismay.

sighing to yourself you took a turn, navigating through the clean hallways and throwing smiles and nods at staff you knew, but never exchanging more than simple pleasantries.

your nose scrunched at the smell of disinfectant, stomach turning slightly. the smell was something you had always hated, no matter how used you got to it and no matter how often you told yourself that it wasn’t so bad.

shaking your head you sighed to yourself. it’s not like you could do anything about it. these were the cards that you were dealt and now you simply had to live with them. you couldn’t change it, you couldn’t reverse it and you certainly couldn’t fix it.

but it would be nice to not have to go to your doctors so often. it would be nice to not take multiple medications that you couldn’t even properly pronounce for years. and it would be nice if you could at least blame yourself for your suffering, and not the simple coincidence of a genetic deficiency.

this was so unfair.

maybe something sweet would boost your mood. some chocolate or gummies maybe. a jello stick that you could take a picture of and send to suna just to spite him.

yeah, that sounded like a good plan.

you wandered through the hospital, navigating the halls skillfully until you reached a small seating area. as you stood in front of the vending machine your brows furrowed slightly, thinking scanning over the contents. it was surprisingly empty and much to your dismay there weren’t any jellos left.

“not even one?” you muttered to yourself in disappointment.

“try number 67 if you haven’t yet” your head whipped around in shock as soon as the stranger spoke behind you. “they’re pretty good”

you blinked twice as you looked at the figure.

he was tall and buff, with spiked-up dark hair on his head and relatively thin eyebrows above his green eyes. he wore a grey tshirt, tattoos poking out of the collar, and a sweatshirt draped over it.

the stranger that you bumped into last week, famously known as “the hot stranger” in your friend group.

“are they?” you responded, turning back to the machine to search for the number. you examined the brightly colored plastic wrapped around the snack before you looked at the stranger again. “you sure?”

he affirmed with a nod. “promise. that is, they’re good if you like sweet and slightly sour stuff. may i?”

stepping aside, you allowed him to take your place, watching him as he inserted a coin and pressed the numbers into the machine. only a couple seconds later he pulled out the bright package, fiddling around with it before he held it in front of you. “take it,” he offered.

“huh?” you blinked at him, confused, holding your hands up in defense. “you really don’t have to, it’s okay, i-“

“please,” he interrupted you immediately while shaking his head, “i insist. try them”

with a rather shy smile on your lips you took the snack out of his hands. “thank you”

he only shrugged. “take it as an apology for bumping into you and almost running off,” he stated smiling. “i’m actually not that much of an asshole. not to strangers at least”

you raised an eyebrow. “just not to strangers?”

the stranger laughed, shaking his head slightly. “well, maybe not to my friends either. only if they deserve it. i’m iwaizumi by the way, iwaizumi hajime”

“oh i know how that feels,” you replied, immediately thinking of the latest messages between your friends, “i’m (y/l/n) (y/n)”

silence settled over the two of you. you were looking back down at the snack still in your hands, while he looked at the vending machine, examining it’s contents.

should you just leave now? you got what you wanted — well, maybe not what you wanted, but you definitely got something to try — you thanked him for his kindness and that person turned out to be none other than the one you collided with last week. to be fair, you got more than you were expecting.

“do you have any suggestions?” iwaizumi broke the silence, turning to you again. “i want to get something for my best friend’s nephew. the two of them accompanied me, actually”

“51 is pretty good,” you said, pointing towards the pink candy, “it’s very sweet though, so keep that in mind”

he thanked you as he inserted a coin once again, shortly after pulling out the candy and putting it into his sweatshirt’s pocket.

“glad to be of help,” you smiled. the two of you went silent again.

was it alright if you would just go now? you didn’t want this to become awkward.

“alright then, i better get going,” you announced after a while, already making moves to turn around and leave, “you should too. don’t keep your best friend and his nephew waiting”

the dark haired male nodded absentmindedly before reaching out to you. “hold on, one more thing”

you looked at him with raised eyebrows. “yeah?”

iwaizumi lifted a hand and put it behind his head, scratching his neck with a sheepish smile. “i hope this doesn’t come across weird or anything, and feel free to decline, i won’t be mad or anything, but could i get any of your socials? i mostly use twitter so, maybe your handle, if you use it too, that is?”

evanescent

/ɛvəˈnɛs(ə)nt,iːvəˈnɛs(ə)nt/ — “soon passing out of sight, memory, or existence; quickly fading or disappearing.”

mlist | previous | next

[junetoosoon]

It's 3am and I can't escape the thoughts about Stirling so let's do this (SPOILERS FOR PORTAL: REVOLUTION):

(My sleepy ass can't figure out how to make the "read more," thing appear here so apologies for the potentially unavoidable block of text for anyone not reading)

First and foremost, I adore Stirling so much. He's so fun and silly, the writing for all of his dialogue is so good and William Neal delivers them perfectly. Especially when Stirling stops pretending to be an announcer and speaks more naturally.

I think partly because of how much I loved him I feel mixed on where his character goes towards the end. I think his betrayal happened way too fast to feel right. It's barely a few chambers before that he's genuinely thanking us for the help we've given him, yet the next time we meet him he's decided we're going to betray him?

Using Portal 2 as a comparison point, Wheatley's betrayal also happened quite suddenly, but there was at least reason for that. He got put into GLaDOS' body which fucked up his mental state and made him insanely powerful, the perfect combo for a power trip. Plus Wheatley as a character is clearly insecure. He constantly tries to look smarter than he is, so it makes sense that when he trips on power, he lashes out due to those feelings.

All of those things make it work. Yet with Stirling there's nothing like that. The impression I get of Stirling is just a guy who wants to do his job and clean the facility, and he needs your help to do that. He's dedicated to that job and Aperture over everything else, but he does still come to bond with you over the course of the game. I could see his dedication being a really good way to write in his betrayal, but it isn't, at least not well. He just seemingly decides we're working against him and that's that.

In spite of this though I did love the ending. The dialogue between him and Emilia was so funny, I could've listened to so much more of them. Hell, more of them talking could've helped build up to the betrayal before it happened. I definitely didn't grow as attached to Emilia as I did Stirling, I think partly again because the ending felt quite fast. We don't get much time with her before we're picking her over Stirling and he's evil.

I saw a comment somewhere of someone suggesting we pick between Stirling or Emilia towards the end and I would've loved that. During the game itself I was wishing for that sort of option. I was fully down to help Stirling restore GLaDOS and then be escorted out the facility. Obviously lore wise GLaDOS wouldn't actually be woken up, but I would've picked at least trying to help him any day of the week.

In conclusion: Portal Revolution is an amazing mod, the visuals are great, the gameplay is great, the puzzles are amazing, the voice acting is really good, the dialogue is super funny, and most of the writing in general is really good. It's unfortunately just the ending that feels rushed, which is a shame considering how good it is before that.

Anyway if anyone actually read that mini essay, thank you!! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the game and its characters.

[builder051]

Whumptober 2023 day (something)— I have 3 prompts planned to be in this story, but it’s going to be a long multi-chapter ordeal.

*Warning* This chapter (well, probably this whole fic) is some heavy stuff. Poor mental health, depression, passing mention of suicide, death (canonical), grief, descriptions of war (Operation Iraqi Freedom), mentions of drug use… that’s all I can think of.

This is powers/No powers.

The dreams in which I’m dying

I find it kind of funny

I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I’m dying

Are the best I’ve ever had

I find it hard to tell you

I find it hard to take

When people run in circles

It’s a very very

Mad world

—Tears for Fears

———

There’s a water main break in Sam’s building. His apartment has escaped the damage, but the water has been turned off for the entire complex. He’s fine without access to a shower or dishwasher, but the toilet and the tap pose problems.

Well, some problems. Sam could cope with a hand-dug latrine and bottled water for his toothbrush. The Air Force deems sanitation a necessity. Clean clothes and regular bathing are only priorities in the Civilian world. The thing is, Sam’s having enough trouble with his own problems. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. If it’s not insomnia, it’s unpleasant dreams. Neither provide the opportunity to rest and recharge. Stress is steadily building, and the monuments run is losing its meditative properties. Either that or he’s becoming treatment resistant.

Autumn in general doesn’t agree with Sam. He begins sniffling when the leaves fall and clump in wet piles to grow fungus. He doesn’t take anything for it, not even what’s available over the counter. He likes to have as little on board as possible. It’s a habit from his flying days; being mission-ready required his body to be free of substances. hasn’t shaken the habit from his flying days. The Air Force’s definition of ‘mission ready’ calls for a body to be free of substances. No beer. No Benadryl. Certainly no Prozac.

It’s calendar that gets to Sam the most, though. He’s antsy when it’s time to turns the page to the next month. The weeks and days have slipped through the autumnal equinox and the start of a new fiscal year. He tenses even more as the days pass steadily toward Halloween. Sam would throw out his calendar if he thought he could function without it, but it stays stuck to the kitchen wall. He’d forget everyone’s birthdays and anniversaries.

Sam doesn’t actually know if that’s true. It’s more of a convenient excuse. The series of dates immortalized in his mind are far from celebratory. They shouldn’t matter. It’s certainly been long enough.

The lines of squares continue to spite him, though, as he marks through through the days passed. It’s the middle of October now, and Sam is caught in the middle of an agonizing countdown.

———

Twelve.

The day Riley’s parachute didn’t open. Sam watched him flip himself over as he struggled with the cord to his backup. What was supposed to be a lifeline wound up as a death sentence. Sam watched him plummet in slow motion, foolishly believing that he’d catch Riley by the ankles if he swam through the air fast enough. But gravity and physics were against him. Against them. Sam was only halfway between the helicopter and the sand when Riley hit the ground head-first.

———

Thirteen.

The day the enemy line backed up far enough for a crew to gather what was left of the corpse. Sam wasn’t picked for the mission. He’d wandered to a table of donated books and DVDs. One corner was overtaken with teetering stack of bibles. Sam meant to glance and move on, but he found himself rooted to the spot. If he’d ever believed in god, he certainly didn’t anymore.

———

Seventeen.

The day Riley’s remains left Kandahar for Regan National. Sam had seen the open cargo hold of the sleek passenger jet, but someone in an orange safety vest jogged around the plane and slammed it shut. Too late. All he was left with was Riley’s terrified expression. That, then a view of the bottoms of his boots. However impersonal, Sam would’ve preferred to see his friend off in a long rectangular box.

———

Nineteen, or so Sam assumes. Maybe twenty. Or twenty-one.

Sam knows the time it takes to get someone to back to their hometown and into a flag-draped casket is highly variable. He’d still found the feeling of anxiety overwhelming his grief. He felt excluded, out of the loop. Then it occurred to him that he have the right to be in it. In truth, he has no ties to Riley. But that didn’t keep Sam from holing onto strings of their bond, struggling to knit them back together.

———

Twenty-four.

The day of the funeral. Sam didn’t attend. He didn’t know it had happened. He’d entertained the thought of asking for leave, but there was no way he’d be approved. He’d get two days, maybe. At most. Too little time to make it stateside, let alone attend an event for which he didn’t know the date or time. Sam’s anguish made him want to try anyway. But in the end, he let logic win out.

———

Thirty.

A letter from Riley’s grandmother showed up for Sam at the makeshift post office. The message seemed canned, though Sam didn’t doubt its sincerity. Riley had been laid to rest. Sam was a good buddy who should’ve been at the service. He was always welcome to visit. Riley was in a better place now. Arlington. Not heaven. But that was Sam’s interpretation. He should’ve folded the pages back into the envelope and placed it in his bag of personal belongings. A better man would’ve. Sam’s angry disappointment backtracked through the previous six days. The image of a flag-draped coffin disappeared in his mind to be replaced with that of an elderly woman who had just outlived her adult grandson.

———

Thirty-one.

The day Sam dropped the torn pieces of stationery into the trash outside the mess hall. He didn’t watch the shreds flutter into the bin; he’d done an about face and headed out for the day’s mission. He hated every second he rode in the rickety rear-facing seat. Sam tried to hold it together, but he threw up during the HH-60’s descent back into camp. He hadn’t done that since before PJ school.

Laying low and slinking toward his bunk had been impossible; the rest of Sam’s unit was outside enjoying cigarettes and melted chocolate bars. It took him a moment to remember the American fascination with Halloween. A boom box thumped in the background with more crackle than bass, and Sam felt sick again. It was as if he was a ghost in the middle of the crowd. Someone passed a hand-rolled cigarette his way, and the sensation of invisibility was broken. He accepted the smoke, hoping it would get the taste of bile out of his mouth. Sam swallowed a gag when he realized he’d just dragged on cannabis. As he got in position to sleep, Sam was sure he would spontaneously combust if he ever smelled pot again. And Werwolves of London should be abolished from the earth.

———

This month is passing in the same way, no different from before. Sam tries reminding himself that he’s made it through the fall and winter months for six years running. Six Octobers. Two during deployments. One at his sister’s house. Sam hadn’t been reaching out for care. He’d just needed a place to sleep before he could sign his lease on the first of November.

Spending time with relatives or squadron buddies doesn’t lift his spirits. He’s far too troubled to open up. In the presence of others, Sam feels like he’s wearing a mask to hide his dour expression. The mask isn’t held in place with straps around his ears; it’s attached with nails that dig deep into his skull. Just thinking brings on throbbing pain. And there’s no dignified way to take it off.

Sam has yet to find proper support, if that’s what he needs to feel better. He imagines an outlet where he can emote without obligation to explain himself. Something with a balance of familiarity and anonymity. Support group feels too formulaic. Sam’s loss seems to close, too personal to be dissected as part of lesson in trust falling. That’s why he prefers to be the leader. He can cue and comfort much more easily than take the plunge to share.

Per his usual, Sam’s been ignoring what’s going on inside him. His issues haven’t yet caused the choking and vertigo of a real panic attack. Those tend to be as embarrassing as they are painful; Sam feels weak and guilty knowing it all stems from heartache. He knows he’s barely hanging on, though. Sam would gladly accept orders to repel to the ground in the whipping wind of the bird’s propellers and run into the middle of a firefight. That would be easier. A welcome distraction. Instead he’s suck wallowing in his marshmallow bed and existential thoughts, lying to himself and denying the fact that he’s past dark thoughts and well into depression.

Sam knows it’s not a fault, but truly a disease. He hates the idea of his body being slowly destroyed by ravaging sickness. And he has the terrible feeling that whatever he has may be contagious. Nobody ought to be around him right now anyway. Sam’s touchiness and vulnerability are turning him into a different person, someone irritable and rude and cold. The stupid broken pipe prevents him from melting his frost in a hot shower or a cup of coffee.

Perhaps the current situation in his apartment is a sign. Even in his current state, Sam wants to be more than than a lump in his bed. A psychopathic robot in the office. His suffering isn’t bringing Riley back. He’s known that from the beginning, but he’s aware that his actions are completely contradictory. There are lifelines. Sam knows the suicide prevention hotline number by heart. He scribbles it on the back of business cards and hands them out to new faces at the VA. But Sam’s nowhere near that far gone, and chatting with nameless, faceless strangers isn’t his style.

He has people he knows. He even has friends. His motivation is the size of a mustard seed, but Sam feels the push to try again at living his own life. The first step will be getting out of his place with no plumbing.

———

[crawlspacefics]

WIP - That Night Beneath the Moon

(Sequel to "A Bit of Mischief")

Chapter 1

Setsuna followed the young scientist through the halls of the research building.  He chatted animatedly, mentioning again how impressive her resume looked for a first year graduate student.  She caught a glimpse of herself in a large, shaded window and unconsciously adjusted her crisp white lab coat even though it already hung perfectly straight over her blouse and skirt.  They came to the end of a hallway, and her new boss punched his keycard into a reader before holding the door open for her with a flourish.

Three months ago, she wouldn’t have guessed this was the door she’d be passing through today.

In the first few days after dealing with the mischievous Venusian goddess, she and Kaya had just had fun.  It was a long weekend for frivolous things and a little bit of time for themselves.  In spite of that sentiment, Pluto had woken each morning with a tense caution, waiting for the Goddess’ whispered reminder of her duty and place to become the command to return to The Gate.

Yet that command never came. 

Their long weekend stretched into the next week as Kaya’s classes resumed.  At first, Kaya would rush home every afternoon, hesitancy in the way she opened the door followed by visible relief that the apartment wasn’t empty.  Setsuna’s promise not to leave without saying goodbye did less to reassure Kaya than the simple passage of time did.

Another week passed, then another.  A daily routine set in - Kaya became less cautious of spending more time at the library or working on a lab project, Setsuna began acquainting herself with the astronomy lab in an attempt to keep an eye on her greater mission.  Setsuna cooked, though she couldn't completely break Kaya of her take out and convenience store chicken boxes.  Thursday nights at nine were set aside for reruns of Detective Zima and every morning started with tea on the balcony. 

Setsuna had even gotten herself a new name - Meiou.  She and Kaya had tossed around a few ideas, and Setsuna had chosen this one because it was the closest modern equivalent to her family title.

So now here she was.  First year graduate student Meiou Setsuna being enthusiastically introduced to the research group she hoped would give her access to the equipment and data she needed to begin finding her team and tracking the force she was destined to destroy.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Kaya rolled her shoulders and shifted in her library chair.  Ideas for what she wanted to do for dinner tonight for Setsuna’s first day of work were superimposed over her books and a journal article on cardiac ultrasonography she was digging way too deeply into.

She was so caught up in it all she didn’t hear Suoh coming up behind her.  He dropped the stack of books he was carrying on the table beside her, making her jump.

“Ten minutes, Kaya,” he said, a combination of bored and weary.

Kaya smirked.  “Nice try, Suoh, but I know you’re open until eight tonight.”

Suoh held out his wrist and tapped his watch.

Gray eyes went wide in horror.  “No, no, no,” muttered Kaya as she hastily started shoving her belongings into her backpack.  “Not tonight.”  Then she looked at all the extra books and journals strewn out on the library table.

“Oh, no,” said Suoh.  He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.  “I am not cleaning up your mess so you can go screw around with your smoochie smooch smooch.”

“Come on,” pleaded Kaya even as she was backing away from him and the messy table.  “What’s the difference between this and the return cart?  We’ll call it a favor.”

Suoh signed dramatically.  “Fine.”

“Thanks, Suoh,” she smiled as she started moving quickly to the exit.  "I owe you one."

“Yes, you do!” he called after her.  “And I want to know how you get yourself out of this one!”

[riahlynn101]

"Request #1: Custody Arrangements."

Set in the "Of Headaches and Heartaches" universe.

Original Prompt/request from Taru_lee_fly

"....a small wholesome peak into Evan’s arrangement with Venessa and Luis when it comes to Gregory? 🥹 Like does Evan see Greg once a week? Twice a week? Etc etc..."

--

It was the end of his twelve-hour shift. Evan was bone-weary from head-to-toe. His feet ached from standing on them for hours on end, and his stomach grumbled from a lack of food. He smelled like fry grease and the beer that a customer threw at him in a fit of drunken rage. His coworkers commiserate all the way to their respective cars, but all Evan could think about was the upcoming weekend. 

His boss had allowed him to take a weekend off every other week. Which was generous of him, given that their busiest days are Friday-Sunday, but Evan was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

He had one stop to make before going home. Evan made sure to clean up the day before, so he should be all good in that department. And he even remembered to go grocery shopping as well.

In spite of his exhaustion, Evan couldn’t help the excitement from taking over. It buzzed through him, keeping him alert. By the time he entered the apartment’s parking lot, he felt like he'd gotten a full night’s rest (not really but he couldn’t tell the difference, bounding towards the building). 

He passed Luis’ car on his way in, which made him even more eager. It’d been a while since he’d seen his old mall buddy. 

Evan knocked on the door a little harder than necessary. His son was halfway out the door before it opened fully. Gregory giggled. 

Evan couldn’t help his eyes misting up, especially because he was seeing his son for the first time in forever (read: two days. He took Gregory to the park a couple days ago). He scooped him up, peppering his chubby face with kisses. 

Vanessa laughed, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed. “Did you miss your dad?” 

Gregory nodded. “I always do,” he answered. 

Evan and her exchange a knowing look. At the end of the weekend, they’d be having this exchange in reverse. With Gregory clinging to Vanessa instead of him, and he’d laugh it off (knowing that his son’s heart was big enough for all of them). 

He bounced Gregory, making him squeal. “May I come inside for a moment? I saw that Luis was here, and I-”

Vanessa interrupted him. “Of course.” She stepped aside, letting them in. “Uh. Sorry about the mess.” She followed him to the living room. “ Someone decided to do arts and crafts in the living room.”

Evan frowned. “Gregory,” he started. 

“I wish it was Gregory,” Vanessa said. She looked pointedly at Luis who was seated at the coffee table, a bottle of glitter glue in hand. 

He looked up at them. “Hey, Evan. Long time, no see.” If he’s aware of his girlfriend’s ire, he doesn’t say anything about it. 

“How have you been?” Evan asked, sitting on the couch. 

They spent the next hour chatting. He watched the sun set from his place on the couch. Gregory growed heavier, sinking into his hold. 

Vanessa left the room and came back with a Freddy-themed backpack. “He picked this out,” she said. 

Evan suddenly felt bad. “How much was it?” He tried his best to support his son in every way he can, especially monetary as he knows things can add up. He patted his pockets with his free hand. “I don’t have much on-”

Vanessa waved her hands. “Nothing. It was a spur of the moment type of thing.”  

“Are….are you sure?” He asked. “I know that those backpacks can be expensive.”

“It was on sale,” Luis explained. He was scrubbing the coffee table with a rag. The glitter glue he spilled earlier was putting up one hell of a fight. 

“Ah.” Evan forced himself to calm down. Even though he knew that Luis and Vanessa wouldn’t hold it against him, he couldn’t help but worry that he wasn’t doing enough. As his father, he should be doing more. Right?

“Is something wrong?” Vanessa asked. She fidgeted with the ends of her sleeves. 

Evan thought of suppressing everything, but he knew from experience that it all comes back eventually. Besides, he was half-convinced that Maria would materialize anytime he went through a crisis (small or otherwise). 

“I…” he trailed off, unsure of how to start. Vanessa and Luis waited patiently, though the latter of the two kept cleaning the table. “I feel like I’m not doing enough.”

Vanessa was quick to respond. “You’re doing the best you can.”

And that somehow, doesn’t make Evan feel better. But he knew her heart was in the right place, so he just smiled and nodded his head. 

She visibly deflated, frowning. “That didn’t make you feel better, did it?”

“No but thank you for trying. I appreciate the effort.” And he did, honestly. That was more effort than his family ever put in while he was growing up. “I think it all comes back to Maria.” The guilt he felt for not being there for her will haunt him for the rest of his life. 

Vanessa tensed but remained otherwise relaxed. A better response from last time Maria was brought up. 

“I know that my opinion doesn’t matter here, but I think you are a great father. You know, given the circumstances.” Luis shrugged, looking down at the coffee table.  “Too many parents give up, but you haven’t. I think that has to count for something, right?”

Evan hadn’t thought about it like that. He’d come across many deadbeat parents, some worse than others, but the one thing that tied them all together was their lack of effort or participation. He smiled at his son who slept soundly, pressed to his father’s chest. “And I guess it doesn’t matter as long as Gregory’s taken care of.”

“Exactly,” Vanessa agreed. “And I promise you that, if I needed money for Gregory, I would either pick up an extra shift or ask you for it. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad.”

Evan jerked, causing his son to groan in his sleep. “Wait, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I just was worried that I wasn’t paying enough child support. I know children can be expensive and I-”

“Evan,” Vanessa interrupted. He looked at her. “You didn’t make me feel bad. I can only imagine how hard this is for you, and I wouldn’t want to make it any worse. And yes, taking over care for a small child is expensive, but we’re doing just fine. Your support helps plenty.” She jabbed a thumb in Luis’ general direction. “And it’s not like Luis doesn’t spoil Gregory whenever he gets a bonus.” She laughed, and it was such a comforting sound that he found himself relaxing. “I promise you, your son is happy.”

Evan nodded to himself. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I needed to hear that.”

They say their goodbyes, and Evan left with his son and Freddy-themed backpack in tow. 

That weekend was spent playing games, baking cookies (for a touch too long. The cookies come out hard as rocks), and spending as much time together as possible. 

At bedtime, he tucks Gregory in, and reads to him from the same storybook Maria used to. When that doesn’t tire him out, Evan tells his son stories about their life together as a family before it all fell apart. About how beautiful and kind and wonderful his mom was, and how much she loved Gregory.

When that didn't tire him out, Evan resorted to telling his son how loved he was. Not just by him, but by Vanessa and Luis as well. He weaved their kind deeds into a fairytale. 

(Gregory might not be able to understand everything that had happened in the past year, and none of them are keen on telling him until he’s older. But Gregory was old enough to understand kindness and compassion, so that was what he’d focus on for now.)

He told a tale of a queen and king taking in a prince from a faraway land. 

His son listened through most of it, but exhaustion finally won out. Evan finished the story. “And they lived happily, ever, after.” Kissing his son’s head, he turned the lamp off. “Goodnight, baby.”

The next day, Sunday, Evan took Gregory back. He took his time, though. Not that he could drop him off before Vanessa was home from work. So, he took Gregory to a park for a little bit, and then to the local ice cream parlor. Which he seemed to already be familiar with, greeting the owner when they ordered. 

And then, the time that he dreaded every single time came. 

As soon as he spotted her, Gregory raced to Vanessa. “Mama ‘Nessa!” She scooped him up just like he did a couple days earlier, and he threw his arms around her neck. “Missed you,” Evan heard his son murmur. 

It should make his heart hurt, but it doesn’t. He smiled, exchanged a few words with Vanessa, and returned to his car. 

His son was happy and healthy, and that was more than he could ever ask for.

[progenytm]

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS KEIRAN AEMYS ; the PRINCE of VOKANIA.

—- REMEMBER WHY YOU STARTED.

hey, listen! did you see KEIRAN AEMYS ? i heard the ELF has been in vokania for HIS ENTIRE LIFE. the CROWN PRINCE hails from SCORSE and is known to be WARM-HEARTED and BRAVE. word has it that they can also be SENSITIVE and SELF-SACRIFICING. with their ability of SUMMONING THE WEATHER, i’d be a little scared to get on their bad side. their loyalties lie with VOKANIA, but you didn’t hear all of that from me. they’re often associated with A BLEEDING HEART FILLED WITH NOTHING BUT LOVE, HONOURING YOUR MOTHER WITH EVERY CHOICE THAT YOU MAKE, SWEET HONESTY IN GENTLE EYES, AND LEARNING THAT DIRTYING YOUR HANDS WILL KEEP YOUR PEOPLE’S CLEAN. only time will tell what fate has in store for them. 

full name: keiran aemys age: eight-hundred and ninety-seven species: elf gender + pronouns: cismale , he/they sexuality: pansexual marital status: unmarried court + allegiance: scorse, vokania

height: 7'3" build: broad shoulders and lithe, a hulking presence hair: dark mop eyes: green eyes complexion: tanned skinned cultivated from years of laying in the sun elf: large, pointed ears

i. his birth is decreed from the mountains so that even the verdorians know that their future king is born. keiran is set for greatness and great he will be. he is born of a fine bloodline, of the most ancient of elves, with the power to summon forward the sun and shake the rain from the clouds. his people will never starve because there will never be a drought. but with a gift as large as his, in palms as small as his, it takes a long time for the prince to control his powers. after all, auros will not move for a little boy. it is years for the prince to win over the clouds, even longer for the rain, and it is only when he's grown to his full, monstrous height that the sun answers to his call as well. 

ii. but keiran grows into more than his powers. with age, he grows into the mantle of being the crown prince. he was born for it. the greatness was his to take, the glory is his birthright. but after centuries of this life … of basking in the glory of the sun ... it is empty. as if he is standing at an empty well, demanding wishes of her dry stores. he is a prince with power to command lightning and yet, he is empty. how can this be ? and so, his mother suggests that he travel — perhaps a pilgrimage to the elves is what he needs, to stand barefooted on the grass of his ancestors, to centre himself among the razed trees still healing after the war. he doubts that this is the answer to his problems, but because he loves her, the prince tours their kingdoms and he meets their people. he finds his purpose in small orphanage in the churon forests.

iii. his purpose is named sage. she's a little changeling left behind by fae parents, having likely swapped their baby for a healthier human baby. her life span is dictated to a handful of decades but she uses each one in full. the little girl bites back at fate, scrawling her own narrative as she champions the children. when she passes, he carries on her mission. but, despite his greatness, in spite of his centuries of wisdom, no one is interested in his lengthy dissertation on the wellbeing of the nation and enduring another iteration of his coffer-draining plan to establish more schools across the continent. your dedication to the children is admirable, they say. shall we table this discussion for next week? his mind is large, and his eyes are dreamy, but his court intrigue could use work. the changes he makes are minor, but with centuries of small changes ... the prince is a dreamer. they all hope that his feet will touch the ground before the crown touches his head, and yet ... despite the hundreds of years leading up to this moment ... he's still not ready. oftentimes, you can find him at the foot of his father's throne ... almost as if waiting for his guidance.

iv. in terms of personality, keiran is a really chill guy. if you let him talk about his child enrichment plan, his passion really shows, but otherwise, he just likes to hang out in the sun. he likes to meet new people and very outgoing. perhaps too outgoing for someone who is as important as he is, but he has a genuine love for his people. he just wants to build a better world.

tldr ; the crown prince just wants to build schools ! he wants to improve the country's infrastructure !

[letsedensmith]

Ten Essential Tips for Cleaning and Maintenance the Washing Machine

Most of us are dependent on our washing machines for the tedious task of washing our clothes. From ordinary clothes such as t-shirts, tops and trousers to heavier clothes such as towers, sheets and curtains, these machines have made our lives easier and better. So it makes sense to operate those machines in good condition.

Regular maintenance of the washing machine is very helpful in helping these machines last for years to come. The truth is that you and your family can do most of those things at home.

Ten Tips on How to Maintain Your Washing Machine

Here are some maintenance tips for washing machines that will help you take better care of your device.

1) Deep Cleaning

People expect their washing machines to give 100 per cent each time. However, it does not always happen. Problems with washing machines occur and devices begin to lose their effectiveness after some time. You may notice that your clothes don't look as clean as when they were new. The main reason behind this is the scaling that occurs because of the micro residuals present in the water. This can be a major problem in regions where the water is hard. In this scenario, you should thoroughly clean your machine a little more. Use a sturdy machine cleaner that is capable of removing all scales without damaging the metallic and plastic parts of the appliance. This does not necessarily mean that you have to buy the most expensive machine cleaner on the market, but buying the cheapest one is not recommended.

2) Clean the Rubber Gasket

It is an important part of your machine that suffers greatly from wear and tear. The rubber seal wraps around the edges of the washer-dryer and protects your garments from damage and your hands from sharp edges. Whether it's a front load or a top-load machine, a certain amount of dust particles get in whenever you open the door. These dust particles generally collect around the edges and sides of the joint. Detergent and softener particulates also leave residue on the joint. Being located outside the bathtub, it suffers from regular discharges, but remains impure that we tend to ignore it completely. This is another reason why you must regularly clean the rubber seal with a moist cloth. Once a week should be sufficient.

3) Protect the Finish

New and clean appliances improve your home's look. However, an old washing machine generally does not look good and can even alter the appearance of the bedroom or home. Some people ignore this aspect and do not worry about cleaning the exterior or top of the machine. It is the front-load washing machines which suffer the most. Their smooth upper surface makes them a magnet for matching things that never ceases to accumulate upon them. People forget that despite their cumbersome equipment, washing machines are delicate and require appropriate care, both in terms of work ability and look. The tips for keeping the machine in search of new ones are simple.

Clean the top and sides of your machine with a glass cleaner to protect the finish. Maintaining the pre-installed factory finish is the best way to keep your machine bright and airy for a long time. Also, keep the machine covered when it is not used and do not put heavy equipment on top. It will stop the scratches from developing.

4) Protect from Spillage

Washing machines also collect waste from detergent spills. In spite of your efforts to use the best detergents or softeners on the market, their residues become sticky over time and begin to smell bad. The best way to clean this sticky residue is to wipe it with a gentle dish cleaner. Also, be sure to clean the inside of the drum with a damp cloth as it also builds up lint, detergent and dirt residue over time.

5) Leave the Door Open

Do not shut your washing machine's door immediately after use. This is one of the biggest mistakes that most people do while using the machine. They think keeping the door open is going to cause dirt and dust in the machine. This is true to a certain extent, but it does not mean that you should close it immediately. Keeping the door open for 15 to 30 minutes removes moisture and prevents mild and bacteria from accumulating in your machine. It also properly dries the tub and protects the delicate parts against moisture damage. A good way to ensure the inside has no moisture is to wipe it off with a thick dry towel 15-30 minutes after the washing has ended and the leftover moisture has dried somewhat.

6) Clean the Detergent and Fabric Softener Dispensers

Automatic washing machines are equipped with separate receptacles for detergents and fabric softeners. These machines automatically mix these materials with water and pour them into the tub. This is quite a clean process as you don't have to wait for the detergent to mix in the water and then put on the clothes. However, the extended use of these containers without proper cleaning makes it a haven for bacteria and concentrated toxic elements. It builds a transparent and sometimes green texture which feels dirty to the touch. Imagine that your garments are washed in the extract of this accumulation of harmful bacteria. This will contaminate your machine and will also affect the cleanup quality. To get rid of these problems, you should clean the dispensers periodically.

7) Keep Checking the Hoses

For fluid water flow inside and outside your machine, you need to keep an eye on the machine's pipes. Both semi-automatic and automatic washing machines have three tubes, two of which are entrances and one is an exit. Ensure that the entrances are properly connected to the water source and that there are no cracks or leaks. This will also prevent water from being wasted. Also, be sure to check the status of the outlet or drain pipe from time to time. Since it removes dirty water, lint and micro particles of tissue often build up in the drain filter and block the pipe. If something goes wrong, try unlocking it with an expert technician or completely replace the drain with a new one.

8) Clean the Filter

Semi-automatic washing machines are equipped with a lint filter inside the washing tube. This filter extracts lint and other dirt particles from the washing process and gathers them into a bag. It should also be cleaned from time to time. This is because once the filter is full, it cannot collect any debris that will remain in the water. These pieces will get stuck on your clothes and accumulate in the machine as well. This, in turn, will reduce your machine's lifetime and adversely affect its performance. In extreme cases, it may also significantly damage the plaster or stirrer. You had no idea such a small thing would cost you that much, did you? Begin cleaning your filter at least once per month.

9) Use It Carefully

Your washing machine can have high washing ability and a powerful motor, but it is always a delicate piece of equipment. It requires careful operation and proper care. Clothes must not be put into the machine. It is not about your travel bag where you can fill more things than its ability. Placing more than the suggested amount of clothing means that the machine will not turn properly and this will affect the circular movement of the drum. You'll get stuck in partially cleaned clothes. Additionally, it may damage your machine's motor as well. Do you want to operate your machine at full capacity?Put the clothes according to their weight ability and follow the instructions provided in the manual. If you have any doubts, contact your brand's customer support.

10) Choose the Right Detergent

Choosing a good washing machine detergent is dependent on your budget and your specific needs. Some people prefer to use machine-specific detergents whereas others use regular detergents. The point to remember is that the detergent you use must not be too harsh or heavily alkaline in nature, as this will damage both the machine parts and your clothes. Then choose the proper detergent.

Book washing machine repair near you in mumbai at best prices.

[deadcityhq]

**CHARACTER NAME:** elliot rian gallagher

**CHARACTER FACECLAIM:** paul mescal

**CHARACTER AGE/DOB (if relevant/they’re not old af):** 29 | april 19th, 1995

**CHARACTER PRONOUNS/GENDER IDENTITY/SEXUALITY ETC:** he/him | cis man | bisexual

**CHARACTER FANDOM (if relevant):** oc

**OC OR CANON:** oc

**CHARACTER TYPE (for example: werewolf, shadowhunter, warlock, demon etc):** the worst hunter you’ve ever encountered in your life (according to him)

**HOW LONG HAVE THEY BEEN IN NEW YORK/WHY ARE THEY THERE ETC:** elliot has been in town a handful of years, and is hiding from any of his family members who might be able to track him down.

**IMPORTANT CHARACTER INFORMATION TO NOTE AND SHARE (this could be important headcanons for initial plotting, mini bios etc, supporting docs):** 

in any universe elliot has existed in, childhood was for other people. the gallaghers had staked out the west coast as their territory; they were hunters of all things that liked to chew on innocent civilians, perhaps not dating back as far as other… infamous hunters, but elliot does vividly remember sitting in the passenger seat next to his grandfather at seven, being taught how to run down a werewolf. he remembers being drilled on loading a firearm, on taking one apart and cleaning it. he remembers using all of his ten-year-old body weight to tighten a belt across his aunt’s arm, because it’d been bitten nearly in half at the forearm. 

  that was simply how the gallaghers were. it was a given that he and his four siblings would follow into their lineage, and what they wanted simply didn’t play a factor in any of it. there was a strict doctrine that was to be adhered to, and even after the reigning patriach craig gallagher passed away from a pulmonary embolism rather than at the hands of the creatures their family kept between their crosshairs, their mother, teresa, became almost more fantatical. elliot was thirteen and it all became burning buildings to the ground and no mercy given, full stop. and elliot was expected to step up and count as an adult. 

  he was ragged, it was beginning to show. elliot felt like he was fraying apart, trying to keep everyone and everything together. it began to sit uncomfortably with him, the way that their family was growing more and more militaristic and almost…doomsday oriented. thankfully he hardly had time to think about it, between caring for his siblings and taking point on hunts at 16 years old. substance abuse was almost a given; his aunt had begun to rely on it and multiple forms of it were already in casual use among the adults of their family and those they worked with. a drink or six after a hunt was commonplace, or having a little skii trip to stay awake during one. 

  elliot wanted to make his mother, his aunt, the rest of his relatives proud, he wanted them to feel like they could rely on him. and at the same time, he desperately wanted to escape, in any small way he could. even just to stop thinking for a few hours. it all began to build, to the point where he was politely termed “functioning” but was rapidly becoming anything but. it all compounded and came to a head when elliot wrecked his truck driving back from utah after being awake for 72 hours straight. he had just turned nineteen the previous week. it was a particularly bad wreck that left elliot in a hospital under the name on the fake id he’d been carrying at the time, and he laid there with a fractured pelvis, six broken ribs, safety glass embedded in his left temple, lacerations all over his arms and face, bleeding in his lungs and swelling in the brain that left him in a coma for the better part of two weeks. 

  and when he woke up, he woke up alone. no one had come to find him. 

  in spite of his upbringing, elliot hadn’t really believe much in a higher power. this, however, on top of everything he’d begun to have misgiving about, felt like a sign from the universe. he didn’t go home; instead he recovered the truck, sold it for cash, and made his way to the east coast with the new junker he’d bought. elliot didn’t have a plan, beside staying far away from his family for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate yet. though of course with a junker that was held together with shoddy welding, duct tape, and dreams, he made it to st. louis in early february before it broke down. leaving it on the side of i-70, elliot started walking through the snow in the hopes he might find a town. 

  which is how he ended up on a vampire coven’s doorstep, half frostbitten and alive. which, he didn’t know was a coven until they’d already helped him get the honda civic he’d abandoned and loaned him the tools to repair it. they were a self sustaining little crew, with a neat and tidy little earthsheltered house built partially into the ground outside of hannibal. elliot had already been questioning the bloodthirstiness of his family’s methods, but it felt more cult-like than ever seeing how the coven flew under the radar and took care of each other. they did, however, offer him a permanent place. especially after elliot fell in love with teddy, one of the members. and elliot was very close to accepting. 

  ultimately elliot ended up leaving, a rift forever between him and teddy at his refusal. the coven had been kind to him and would have been happy to keep him around, but even though elliot had decided against the way his family had been living, things had blown up so terribly with teddy that he had to be anywhere else. he eventually wound up in new york city, offering his services in a more equal opportunity way. he wouldn’t slash and burn, but he felt like he was one of the few humans capable of offering help to both humans and non-humans alike who’d gotten caught in bad situations. 

  **THREE AESTHETICS THAT REMIND YOU OF YOUR CHARACTER:** empty bottles of sunny d, having smothered and covered hashbrowns at waffle house at 3am while a full brawl breaks out behind you, singing *’what’s up?’* by 4 non blondes at the top of your lungs on a dive bar’s karaoke machine at 2pm on a wednesday. 

OOC INFORMATION: 

**MUN NAME/ALIAS:** jesse

**MUN AGE:** 31

**MUN TRIGGERS:** n/a