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placeinthemiddleofnowhere · 1 year ago

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Reign down on me - Part 3

Pairing: Ghost x Hybrid!reader (eventual poly!141)

No use of y/n or mention of gender/race

Summary: Reader is a wolf hybrid in a world that treats them like second class citizens, given a horrible start in life after being thrown into the military with no preparation. After years of struggle, they're finally taken away from their base by Ghost, now a permanent member of taskforce 141 reader struggles to come to terms with the fact that perhaps there's a life there for them - if only they reach out and accept it.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, Angst, abuse mentions, self doubt, abandonment

-🐺-

When the three of you left Price’s office, you were still marvelling at your collar. Your hands couldn’t leave the leather alone, stroking it and rubbing your fingers over the ridges of the ‘141’ stamp that graced the side of your neck. It had you smiling even despite the nagging feeling that everything was going to go away; that there was a rug just ready and waiting to be pulled just when you were going to get excited about your future with the team.

You were still holding your new handler tag between your fingers when you finally laid eyes on your Sergeants. They were hanging off the sofa in the break room, shouting and laughing as they furiously tapped at the remotes in their hands and shoved at each other like wild animals. You widened your eyes at the display, watching curiously as the man on the screen in front of them warned that they were running out of time.

“Oi, you two! Pack it in, lads!”

The men immediately put the controllers down and stopped the loud music from blaring out of the TV. They bashfully faced your small group, looking from where Price had shouted and inevitably to you.

Gaz seemed to recognise you right away, his face lit up when he caught your eyes, but Soap didn’t give much away. His lips stayed firmly shut into a cheeky smile and his eyes roamed all about you, eventually catching on the shiny new collar around your neck. Gaz saw it too.

“Good to see you again,” Gaz smiled, nodding his head in greeting. “Reppin’ the team as well - nice.”

You froze for a second, not really used to having someone remember you nevermind say it was good to see you again. Though you soon let your hands drop to your sides and nodded, offering a weak smile.

“Thanks, Sergeant Garrick,” you replied, erring on the side of over-politeness.

“Pft, don’t sergeant Garrick me again, you’re on the team now, it’s Gaz or Kyle, ok?”

Your ears raised in surprise. If you’d tried to call Sergeant Maddox by his nickname you’d have had your back flayed. Though when you thought back to it, Gaz had made a face everytime you addressed him before - he’d even tried to correct you and insist on Gaz a couple times. You’d decided in the past that it seemed like a ruse to make you step out of line, though now you realised he probably did just prefer his nickname.

“Alright, Gaz. Nice to meet you too…Sergeant MacTavish?” You said unsure, trying to gauge if ‘Soap’ would prefer his title or his nickname.

“Soap’ll do fine for me, furball.” He snorted, face cracking into a big grin.

Furball would not do for you. You felt your ears drop and had to will yourself with everything you had not to let loose a growl. It mustn’t have been enough to completely hide your displeasure. Ghost put his hand on your shoulder, forcing a flinch out of you yet again, and squeezed. Whether it was meant to be threatening or reassuring, you weren’t sure, but either way you untensed your body and sighed out the rest of your annoyance.

“Behave, Soap,” Ghost tutted.

“What? I’m just being my charmin’ self.”

“Be someone else for five minutes,” Ghost snarked.

“That desperate to hear my impression of you again, LT?”

“Maybe later, Soap,” Price said briskly. “There’s work to be done. Now that everyone’s on site, we can head over to the training I've set up for the day and we can get stuck in. You boys ready to head out?”

Soap and Gaz nodded, picking up their jackets from where they’d been strewn across the couch and got ready to move. You geared up to follow them, but Ghost put his arm out like security barrier, sending you into a surprised stop as you walked into him with an ‘oof’.

“We’re gonna pick up your new boots first, Pup,” Ghost explained, his eyes twinkling when you tilted your head up at him. “We’ll catch up with em’ in a minute.”

“Pup?” Gaz repeated.

He’d stopped in his tracks as he heard that. From your periphery you could see his eyebrows raise.

You felt your cheeks heat up like tiny furnaces and continued to avoid his eyes, simmering in your own embarrassment. It hadn’t occurred to you that Price hadn’t picked up on it, but now that Garrick had, you felt the full flush of embarrassment hit you in a fiery torrent. Just great, the new team are gonna pick up on Ghost’s babying and have a field day with it, you thought dourly.

“Yes?” you said cautiously, waiting for the jeering snipes to begin.

“Do you want us to call you that now?”

Fuck off.

Get Fucked.

Why don’t I call you that?

Those are the responses that your invaluable years of being taunted within an inch of your sanity suppress. Instead you shrugged lamely, forcing your body to relax and your fangs to unsnarl.

“Call me whatever you want,” you grunted, leaving out the silent ‘most people do’.

You braved a glance over at him and watched as his eyebrows twitched upward. There was a distinct lack of mocking grin and on top of that, he didn’t hit out with a rebuttal. He just tilted his head at you and averted his eyes, silently going off in the same direction that Soap and Price had and letting the door whoosh shut behind him.

“Gaz was just bein’ polite, Pup,” Ghost sighed, squeezing your shoulder once again.

“What?”

“He wasn’t trying to make fun of you. He was just figuring out how to address you.”

You looked back up at Ghost and frowned, feeling your brows sink heavily over your eyes. Was he in your head or something? You folded your arms over each other and huffed out a breath, already irritated that Ghost had been the cause of the situation in the first place with all his coddling and cooing.

“Never said he was,” you answered defensively.

“Your attitude gave you away, darlin’.”

You knew then that under his mask, Ghost’s eyebrows would be drawn upward, enhancing his knowing stare underneath that dark mask of his. It sent your heart hammering and your fizzling mood freezing out with a small dying gasp. You wondered what your punishment for said ‘attitude’ would be.

“Sorry, Sir,” you murmured, feeling your slanted tail awkwardly tuck in between your legs. “Won’t happen again, sorry for speaking to you out of turn.”

Suddenly the collar round your neck felt tighter and the cool tags burned your goosebumping skin. The weight of it felt impossible now that it was tying you to Ghost, now that you knew that you were supposed to be performing to a standard that fit a man like him. You were supposed to compliment him, not embarrass him with your silly antics.

“Hey, you’re fine, alright? I’m not angry with you. I only mention it because I don’t want you to think he’s like those men that were on your old base,” he said gently.

You curled your hands into fists by your sides, willing them to stop shaking now that Ghost was watching you closely. His eyes followed the movement and you gulped, not quite sure how to respond. You’d have had your ass kicked for speaking like that to anyone on your old base, nevermind whoever your current handler was at the time. Now Ghost was telling you he wasn’t mad and looking at you with those big stupid eyes of his.

“Honestly, you’re not in trouble,” he sighed, reaching out and stroking a hand over your head. “If it helps, I can stop calling you pup if you don’t like it?”

“No, that’s alright,” you said a little too quickly.

“You sure?”

You nodded, not wanting to embarrass yourself any further by squeaking out anything else. Or perhaps even admitting that you liked it - that it made you feel safe, like his. It felt like Ghost cared for you on a level no one ever had before, following his kind words with kind actions.

How could you willingly let go of that?

-🐺-

Your parents had already taught you that being cared about was not a luxury that most hybrids were afforded. You remembered what it was like being dropped off at Branhaven that first day, that memory haunted you in almost every nightmare you ever had. You’d been so sure that they meant what they said when they wanted the best for you. It only stung all the more years later knowing that everything they said was just a lie designed to cut you off like a limb gone badly necrotic.

They’d taken you out on a car ride, just you by yourself, and you’d been so excited to begin with. Your little tail wagged so hard even despite being pressed harshly into the stiff leather seats. They never usually took you anywhere alone, it seemed like such a special day at first - Your brother and sister always got fun trips and you always got dropped off at your grandmas and plopped in front of the TV for the day. Now your parents had done the opposite.

It was finally your turn to have a day with them. Or so you’d naively thought. Too young at the tender age of ten to figure out that something out of the ordinary was never a good sign.

They’d been so smiley though, giving each other happy looks as they drove far far away from your little home town, humming along to the radio even. It would never have crossed your mind that that day was going to mark the change of everything. They’d even stopped at McDonalds and bought you a happy meal and let you choose a milkshake to wash it down with. That never happened, you’d only ever gotten to jealously watch on as your brother and sister got nice things like that. It was too good a score to stop and think anything bad about.

But then reality hit after a few more hours on the road. They stopped the car outside of what you thought was a toll booth which presided over a big ugly grey building in the shape of one of your brother’s play block towers. That’s when it occurred to you that maybe you weren’t going somewhere fun, maybe you were facing something of the opposite nature. It didn’t help that the man at the ‘toll booth’ said that your parents were expected, that they were pleasantly on time for their appointment.

“Um…why did we stop here?” you’d asked, your voice squeaking out so timidly as you tried not to upset them.

They never liked it when you talked too much or asked too many questions. Behaviour like that was often met with sighing and temple rubbing and ‘would you just be quiet?’. Though you couldn’t contain yourself then as you looked at the facility in front of you, frowning as you caught sight of a crying kid being dragged through the big metal gates, throwing themselves against the fence in hopes to try and cling onto something and not be lead into the building within.

Was it a doctors office maybe? Some kind of specialist you had to see now that you were a growing hybrid on the edge of…what was the word again? Puberty?

“Well kiddo, we’ve had a tough decision to make,” Your dad had said, placing his big hands over your mum’s.

You tilted your head when you noticed that she was avoiding looking at you. Suddenly they weren’t smiling anymore either. The car felt very stuffy all of a sudden, the smell of the fat and salt from the Mcdonalds was clogging thickly in the air.

“What tough decision?” you asked, feeling your ears slowly pin against your head.

“Well…as you know you were a- a shock to your mother and I. We never thought in a million years we’d have a hybrid child, never knew the- the DNA was in us,” your dad had said, saying that dreaded DNA word in the same annoyed hiss he always did. “And we’ve never been prepared for the reality of it, the challenges that come with having a kid that’s…different. As you get older, that’s only gonna get more challenging for us. You’re going to become aggressive, and you’re going to have mood swings and you’re going to be difficult to control - it's just the way of hybrid kids.”

“You’re going to be a danger to your brother and sister,” your mum said, still refusing to look over at you, instead keeping her sights pinned on the entrance to the building. “To us.”

“Yes, and then what can happen is that you start wandering off, going out and getting into all sorts of trouble like those awful stories you hear on the news. You could get involved with gangs, you could hurt other people and go feral, you could do all sorts of damage and then the police would be forced to hurt you, maybe even kill you if you became a real danger. And you don’t want any of that do you?”

You frowned. Of course not! You shuddered to think that you would ever hurt someone, you’d always been the exact opposite of everything they'd just described. You were a pushover. You were kind to a fault, always trying to get on people’s good side on the off chance that you might receive a shred of their kindness. You’d never dream of being aggressive or of hurting any of your family.

“No, I don’t want that!” you agreed, searching your dad’s eyes and looking for him to acknowledge your plea.

You wanted him to know that you weren’t like that. You hoped he knew that you’d never ever want to hurt him in a million years, he was your dad, you loved him endlessly. Even when he barely showed you an ounce of his own love in the meagre years you’d been alive, you would do anything to show him that you weren’t like those other hybrids. You were theirs, you had their DNA, even if yours had wolf in it, you didn’t think that mattered.

“We know you don’t want that,” your dad said sympathetically, his voice dramatically pitching as he showed his ‘understanding’. “That’s why we’ve made the decision to sign you up for a program that the government recently started. It’s designed to help good hybrids like you, ones that want to grow up to be good people, to become productive members of society.”

You always laughed bitterly thinking back to that now. Member of society - hah! You were made little more than a slave, kept locked away behind fences or escorted around by groups of strange men with guns, and yet that program was supposedly to turn you into some paragon of virtue for all hybrids to aspire to.

“I want to be good,” you affirmed, smiling as your dad smiled back at you.

And you did. All you ever wanted was to be good.

“I know. And we think you’re gonna be so happy here, and you’re gonna do so well with the program! So we’re gonna go in and finish signing you up and you’re going to answer all of their questions honestly and politely, ok kiddo?”

“Oh…ok!” you’d said, not wanting to immediately bother him with your annoying questions. “But um- sorry - can I ask? What is the pro- program?”

Your dad’s mouth pressed into a thin line and you baulked, gulping as you realised you’d annoyed him after he’d just been so happy with you a second ago. Stupid dog! You were immediately frustrated at yourself, getting him worked up just when he was so proud a second ago.

Though you were pleased to see he would answer you regardless, he was just so kind as to explain things.

“It’s with the military, we were told by the helpline that this was the best place for you to go. Since you’re a wolf hybrid, you’ll be happiest here - you can get all your energy out properly and be part of a big ‘pack’ when you get assigned to a unit. They said it’ll be just like school, like a special school just for hybrids! They’ll train you up first and then you’ll begin getting sent out to places around the world where people need help, until eventually you get your very own personal handler who looks after only you and takes you with them everywhere,” your dad explained, his voice slightly strained as he tried to position the job as nicely as he could.

You frowned. You ignored his ‘don’t question me anymore’ eyes. Questions bursting from your mouth before your head could quash them down.

“A handler that looks after me? But you and mum look after me,” you laughed, “Why would I need someone else to do that?”

“Because you’re too old for us to look after anymore, we have to let a professional take over now,” your mum said, finally turning around to look at you, waving off the hard look your dad shot her. “You have to stay here, where its safe for us and you. They’ll know how to handle you properly here. Hey now! No, don’t make a fuss. What do we keep telling you? You’re not a baby, you don’t need to bother with crocodile tears!”

You couldn’t help but get panicked then. Halfway through her speaking you realised that they actually intended to drop you off here and give you away. How could they just do that? You had to be mixed up, you reasoned, you had to be thinking stupidly as usual and you were getting it all wrong.

“B-bu-but I…do I- I’ll get to come home and visit right?” you spluttered, trying desperately to withhold the tears that were streaming down your cheeks, rubbing furiously at the evidence that you were in fact the baby she was describing. “You- you said it’s like school! I’ll get to come home on the weekend then, won’t I? I’ll get day’s off on Saturday and - and Sunday and I’ll get to c-come home, right?”

Your mum was about to speak again, but your dad forcefully dug his hands into hers, grabbing with enough force to shake her, practically baring his teeth at the barest hint of her mouth opening. She shut it promptly again and he breathed out a loud sigh, one that still reached your ears over the frantic rushing of your own blood stream.

“Oh kiddo, you’re getting yourself all upset just before you have to meet the nice people! C’mon now, stop the silly tears. We’re gonna get you inside and you can ask all the questions you need to. In fact I think they’ll be very excited to get to talk to you. Now dry your eyes and come with me, that’s it, just breathe and calm down. No need to be a silly baby, because you’re not a silly baby are you? That’s right, you’re a big strong wolf. Come on then!”

Your mum stayed in the car, offering you a small smile as you went. Though as you think back to it now, you realise it was probably a smile of relief. One reserved only for herself.

Your dad’s parting words were little better than your mum’s smile. He’d said he’d speak to you again soon. That was just before he’d sent you packing into the strange office after signing in at the front desk, escorted away by a big bald man in a crisp green uniform, barely able to turn your body enough in his iron grip so that you could get one last look at your dad. He did a great job of feigning concern as he smiled encouragingly through the doorway. It was enough to help you calm yourself a little, thinking that at least you’d probably see him again on the weekend since he told you he’d see you soon.

From then on however, you weren’t able to ask any questions, it hadn’t gone at all like your dad had said it would. You still weren’t able to confirm if you were getting time off to go see your family again, still weren’t getting to learn what it was you would be doing. You were cut off at every turn.

Your hands were smacked with a ruler when you didn’t give the lady the answers she wanted because you were too busy trying to determine what the hell this program really was. You’d jumped the first time she did it, wailing from the shock of it at first before the burning sting set in. She’d just tisked at you and repeated her last question in a shout, asking you about any possible allergies or health problems.

Little were you to know, you’d face much worse in the years to come.

You tried to do everything that was asked of you just to avoid that horrible ruler for the rest of the day. However it wasn’t enough to make them happy, nothing was. They didn’t smile at you or speak to you encouragingly, their monotonous voices were like sandpaper on your ears. They shuffled you along from room to room, processing your forms and getting you set up with a bunk - in a room full of similarly sniffling hybrid children - before whisking you away to a building outside that looked much like a garage.

They’d thrown some items of clothing at you from off the racks and told you to get changed behind the makeshift curtain they’d set up, ordering you to hand over your old clothes afterwards. The room smelt like stale laundry detergent and bleach. The air stung at your eyes while you changed, biting at your overstimulated senses.

You’d felt all the more inconsolable as you gave away your favourite tshirt, mourning the loss of the happy little cartoon dog as you had to trade him for a plain green button down. You struggled to put it on with your shaking fingers, huffed when you had a hard time squeezing your tail through the toughly stitched hole in the rough trousers. Military issue wasn’t built for comfort, that was one of your first hard learned lessons.

“The fit’s alright,” the bald man had confirmed when you were out, staring at you with a bored look of a man that was going to be doing the same assessment with tons of other hybrids for days to come. “Look after those clothes, you won’t get another set until you progress to the next stage.”

-🐺-

“Pup?”

You snapped out of your thoughts and lasered in on Ghost, suddenly realising how badly you’d zoned out. How long had you been ignoring him for? Fuck!

“Yes,Sir? Sorry, Sir,” you said quickly, trying to rectify your mistake. “I…”

He’d asked you something…

“I asked you if the boots fit alright?” Ghost chuckled, ruffling a hand over your head.

You sighed and looked down at the shiny new shoes, still blown away by how easily Ghost had acquired not only those but also a full new set of hybrid uniforms and underwear. The quarter master hadn’t even blinked at his request, he’d just gotten Ghost to sign a few forms and just like that you had a brand new wardrobe full of new and perfectly pressed clothes.

Normally you were only allowed to replace one new piece at a time, and usually you’d be met with annoyance and huffing at every request. The old quartermaster would drone on about money and what a waste it was to give you something new. This one just smiled as he handed you a bag with all of your fresh new things, telling Ghost to let him know if you needed any new patches for your shirts while you did all you could not to gape at him.

“The boots are good, thank you. They just need broken in,” you shrugged, already feeling them rubbing a little uncomfortably across your left ankle.

“Mhmm, just let me know if they dig too much. I can tell Price if you need a break today. Remember what he told you earlier, we want you to communicate with us, alright?”

“Alright,” you answered, still feeling like you’d landed in some kind of alternate reality overnight.

“That’s my good pup.”

He squeezed your shoulder and led you off to the training area then, his back turned as you stared up at him with big eyes. My good pup. Your spine had tingled so warmly after hearing that, you’d even felt your traitorous tail wag a little before you gripped it tightly in your hand and stopped it.

The whole way to the training area you repeated his words in your head, almost drunkenly swooning over the rumble of his accent. It kept you following slowly behind him, trying to ensure he didn’t see the ridiculous little smile that had refused to leave your face after his praise. Not that it was just the praise itself, of course, no he’d called you his specifically.

It was only when you were met with Price again that you were able to think straight. Your posture went rigid when you met his eyes and noted that he looked serious now. The job was officially starting.

You’d been led into a cavernous building with big bright lights glaring over your head. It’s floors were filled with tall panels of wood that stretched high above you and even over Ghost's towering frame, filling the room with a cheap sawdusty smell. From inside you knew there were men waiting inside the labyrinth that surely lay within, you could hear their heartbeats echoing in the expansive space, you could smell their sweat as they adjusted to the warmth of the blaring overhead lights.

Everything was set up for a simulated mission. You’d done similar drills many times before, your heart was already beating fast with anticipation, base instincts beginning to bubble to the surface. You were ready to run, ready to hunt.

However the nature of your quarry was still to be revealed. That kept your head just human enough to listen to what Price had to say. It never did to misunderstand the mission and run straight into failure, and at that point you wanted to do everything you could to try and dodge any punishments.

“So we’ve got a simple set up for today, this is mainly to get you properly acquainted with the team and get you familiarised with us,” Price said carefully, keeping strict eye contact with you to make sure you understood him.

If you were to hover outside your own body you knew your pupils had probably already dilated. Your chest was probably already noticeably heaving as the wolf inside you seized control over your mind. He’d know you were almost gone, and would need carefully given instruction.You flicked your ears for him, letting him see that you were listening intently to what your new Captain was saying.

Little did he know there was a new part of you now primed and ready to receive his praises, endorphins were ready to fire as you got ready to impress him. You felt like you had a real chance to shine now, to do well for someone other than yourself.

“Basically we’re going to run you through some tracking drills. We’ve got some bits of clothing prepared for you to scent and you’re gonna run through the maze taking down hostiles and securing your ‘hostages’. This is gonna help you remember our scents so that you can find us in the field in future, and it’s gonna give us a taste of what you can do when you’re up against an enemy. You’re gonna start off with Ghost keeping you in a collar hold to start, you’re gonna alert him when you find an enemy or sense a hostage, but we’ll let you do some solo runs as well. Sound good?”

“Yes sir,” you answered in a growl, the wolf inside straining to go.

“Alright. Ghost, help Pup stick their gear on, I’m gonna go up to the stands and get ready to watch.”

With that Price moved up to the metal steps to your left, ascending to the high walkway above so that he could watch over the maze and track your movements. With each thud he made, your heart beat with it. You tried not to wriggle too much while Ghost got you ready, but you did receive a small ‘hey!’ and a tug on your collar when you tried to look past Ghost and toward the course. After giving you a second to calm down, he stuck you in a vest and hooked your comms up to his and Price’s, ensuring he secured a looped earpiece round your ear to hear them with as well.

From then on it was like torture waiting for Ghost to get himself ready, it felt like time was moving at half speed, your tail swished impatiently as he got himself into safety gear and took his sweet time grabbing one of the training guns from the racks. You shivered with anticipation, heavily scenting the air already while you stepped from foot to foot. Your body was burning with energy, your legs ready to pounce.

“Alright I’m gonna get the lights in a second, we’re gonna simulate a city street at night, so you’re going to have low visibility,” Price explained, voice sparking to life through the comms in your ear. “If you walk round to the entrance you’ll see Gaz and Soap’s jackets. You’re gonna get a good whiff of em’ and use that to track em down, Pup. You ready?”

“Ready, Captain,” you answered, already straining in Ghost’s hold.

“Fuckin’ hell,” ghost rumbled.

He’d gripped your collar after he finished sorting his gear and now you were primed to go, struggling to try and pull him forward as you sensed the job was starting. ‘Work mode’ had shuttered off any other thoughts. All that kept you in your spot was the incredibly tight grip that Ghost had on you - that and all the training you’d had not to abandon the handler that was collar holding you. You might’ve tried to squirm free otherwise.

“That’s one strong wolf,” Price chuckled, disappearing as he shut off the lights with a loud click. “Hold on tight, Ghost.”

Your instincts flared ever more wildly in the darkness. The flickering lamplights above were just bright enough to lead you around to the starting gate of the course and to the discarded jackets strewn on the floor.

Ghost took one of them in his free hand and held it up to your face, letting you drink in the scent of it while he kept a firm grip of your collar. Almost immediately you were getting warm notes of aftershave and undertones of rich home cooking. Gaz, you guessed in the back of your mind, vaguely recognising the scent from back in the break room. Ghost lifted the next one for you, repeating the procedure again. Annoyingly that’s when you realised that Soap was an expert in demolitions. You knew that now from the hints of explosive materials that you could sniff out.

You whuffed out an agitated breath and stopped Ghost from taking the jacket away, holding it longer so that you could try to find something to pinpoint Soap properly by. Sniffing out explosives and associating that with a friendly would be a very very bad idea, even with your clouded brain you knew that, so you wanted to establish his scent by something better. You inhaled again and gulped the scent in, holding onto the gentle hints of sage and cigarettes that emanated from below the plastics and frowning when you swore you could detect a familiar hint of spicy citrus peels…

You dropped the confusion as soon as it came, satisfied that you could accurately identify both Soap and Gaz. There was no point wondering why that secondary scent was on there, and now you were far too eager to get started. You rushed forward and had Ghost quietly swearing again as you set off through the wooden course, soon greeted with more accurate building facades as you stepped out onto an almost abandoned city street.

You huffed in deep lungfuls of air, twitching your ears all the while as you listened out for hostiles and tried to scent out your targets. There were so many intermingling scents, so many distractions to sift through. Only a few steps forward you detected something in an alleyway to your left and turned to Ghost, flicking your head in the direction of the possible enemy ahead.

Ghost nodded and flicked two of his fingers to his side, signalling for you to heel while he raised his gun. Luckily your training allowed you to tamp down the instinct to run off and chase the enemy like a snarling beast, otherwise you’d have run off to do just that.

Instead you quietly followed along with your handler while he picked off the hostile with a suppressed shot. Your ears twitched nonetheless when it came, feeling like a fly had buzzed right into it with the noise that it made. The training guns were always too high pitched, never able to quite simulate the real sound of a shot.

“Good,” ghost whispered, just barely enough so that you could hear.

Your tail swished and you smiled to yourself as Ghost took a hold of your collar again, allowing you to lead him further through the street, brimming with pride after being complimented. It took a little time to work your way through the course, keeping yourselves pressed tightly into the shadows. The two of you crouched and ducked through the alleyways, picking soldiers with weapons off one by one and leaving the fake civilians to wander.

When you finally came to a building that emanated with the smell of amber tinged aftershave, you stopped suddenly and perked your ears, alerting that you’d found your target. Ghost made his way to one of the windows and peeked inside, whispering to you that there seemed to be two men, and one was holding a gun to Gaz’s head. He released your collar and swirled his index finger by the door, signalling for you to wait by it and get your orders

“I’m gonna take the man with the Gun out from here. You try to go inside and take the one by the doorway. You can surprise him if you act fast,” Ghost whispered. “On my signal.”

You nodded and primed yourself at the door, ready to fling it open and throw yourself inside. You watched Ghost intently from your periphery, doing everything not to snarl with all the adrenaline that coursed through you. The warm buzz of a mission going well never failed to make you happy, always showing you that you were capable and strong. Something to be feared when out on the field.

Ghost grunted at you to go and just as his shot rang out, you ripped through the doorway and set yourself on the man inside. He screamed loudly as you took him down, a sound like a strangled cat leaving his throat as you swiped at the target pad that had been put there. It always terrified people when you did that, making them realise just how much of a threat you were when you easily ripped the foam and simulated a perfect kill.

In real life that kill would’ve been near silent once their vocal chords had been torn, but the man before you was shrieking as you loomed over him. It was enough to bring his friend rushing out from the shadows, emerging from a room just behind Gaz in a blaze of shock from all the noise.

Just as the man’s trudging steps hit the floor, you leapt from your old target and toward the new one, snarling and growling up a storm. You were ensuring you drew the fire to you and not your hostage, just as you’d been trained to do. Though before he could get a shot off, you were on him, slamming his gun hand to the ceiling above and overwhelming him with a few snaps toward his precious face.

That was usually enough to have people panicking and forgetting all of their training. In this case it was as well. The man screamed and tried to use the butt of his gun to hit you, but you directed his hand away easily and barked loudly in his face. When you bit at the foam by his throat, he screamed all the harder, sending you into a revelry as you savaged the fake target with glee.

By this point your mouth would be dripping with blood, and your teeth practically burned with the lack of wetness there. Your mouth watered at his pathetic cries, jaw working as you willed yourself not to clamp down on him and bite. It took everything in you to remember this man wasn’t actually your enemy, and you’d already ‘killed’ him. You didn’t need to do anything else.

“Oi, shut it!” Ghost shouted, pulling you promptly off of the terrified man while glowering down at him. “You know better. Dead men don’t whine and piss their pants.”

“Sir, I-“

Ghost shot him a warning look, forcing the man to bite his lip and let himself fall back, closing his eyes as if he’d just drawn his last breath. You snickered to yourself and hummed with pleasure as Ghost raked his hands through your hair, roughly petting you with his thick skeleton gloves.

“Good Pup. Price was right, you’re fast!” he praised, working his hand over your vest and giving you a few encouraging pats.

You rumbled out a happy little chirp, already non-verbal as the adrenaline fully set in now. You were deep into the mindset of the wolf, trusting your instincts and training to keep you right. Shut up, focus, signal, bite the foam; your deep rooted commands played like an old mantra.

“We both told you,” Gaz said, “that one’s a beaut in the field.”

You looked over to him then, some of your humanity returning as you realised how embarrassing it was to be petted and cooed over in front of your Sergeant. Though Gaz’s compliment didn’t escape you and, dumb animal that you were, you chirped at that too. He smiled at the sound and shook his head, looking over to Ghost and away from your horrified widening eyes.

“So mister saviour,” Gaz said, fluttering his eyelashes and clasping his hands by his face. “Are you gonna get me out of here?”

Ghost snorted and pulled you close to him, firmly keeping you fixed to his front.

“You wait here while we get Soap. We’ll get you both out at the same time.”

“This Soap guy sounds like an idiot. You should just leave him and take me away,” Gaz grinned, his character voice cracking as he laughed.

“Don’t get too jealous, Garrick. I’ll be back for you soon enough,” Ghost rumbled. “I can take you then.”

You blinked as you watched Ghost wink and felt your cheeks flush. The men had an easy friendship; not the kind you’d seen between the guys at Branhaven that were quick to shout ‘gay!’ If they had to shake another man’s hand. They certainly wouldn’t have pretended to flirt while on a training simulation with the Captain watching.

Speaking of-

“Get on with it,” Price drawled, making you jump as you remembered he was on the comms.

With that, Ghost allowed you to lead the way to Soap while Gaz picked a spot to hide. You made your way easily through the streets, jointly taking down more of the men while they ran around in a frenzy.

After hearing all the gunshots they were like noisy wasps buzzing around, guns pointing out in front of them like angry stingers. They were sloppy though, and loud, easy targets for you both to tear through until you found Soap’s trail and sniffed him out to a fake multi story flat.

You ascended the stairways and took all the men that stood in your way, checking each door and systematically destroying all your opposition until you found the door that Soap was behind.

Sure enough you could sense his racing heart and smell that familiar warp of plastic and Sage and cigarettes. There were other smells there too though. More hostiles. You turned to Ghost and held up 3 fingers, letting him know about the others in the room. He nodded his head and quietly got to work bringing out a camera, allowing you both to see the position of your targets.

Just like Gaz, there was a man holding a gun to Soap’s neck. One other man was pacing the room and the other was facing the doorway, ready to shoot. Ghost sighed out an annoyed breath and retrieved the camera, looking up to the ceiling as he thought about how to go ahead.

“I’ll take out the one facing the doorway first. You take down the one with his gun to Soap and I’ll get the restless one after that.”

“But then Soap’ll get shot,” you murmured, not sure if this was one of the times you should be verbalising.

“We’ll both get shot if I leave someone facing us. Risking the hostage is a move we have to make, not like they’ll be any better off with us dead and one left with a gun in their hands.”

“You can shoot from the side and let me run at the one facing the door. He won’t swivel in time to get Soap.”

That was the kind of plan you were used to. Usually the human soldiers and the hostages took priority, while your life hung in the balance. It was mostly only saved by your incredible speed, sometimes your vest, as you weaved your way forward, bounding toward the enemy with unpredictable animal movements.

“We go with my plan,” Ghost said firmly. “Take down the one by Soap on my signal.”

There was no room to disagree. You readied yourself and waited as Ghost kept his hands primed on the door. You breathed out and listened to him countdown, bolting through the doorway like a bullet when you saw it open wide enough.

You beelined for the man over Soap and threw yourself at him, sending him flying backwards as you ripped into the foam. The man struggled at first, but settled on the ground once he saw the foam torn apart in your teeth and stared up wide eyed and silently.

Your heartbeat thrummed in your ears and you turned then, hurling yourself over to Soap and curling round him with a growl. Your hair stood up on your neck as you looked out for anyone that might crawl out the woodwork to attack him, ready to face a similar scenario just as you’d had with Gaz. Your limbs shivered with anticipation, ready to strike. You snarled out a bark, body expelling every bit of nervous energy it could.

“Woah there wolfie,” Soap laughed, wrapping one of his big arms around your shoulders, curling his hand round your collar in a restraining grab. “You’re good, you got em all. You’ll terrify the shit out of a real hostage makin’ all tha noise.”

You huffed indignantly and settled back, letting your growls die out in your throat as you realised he was right. Ghost shot down the wanderer when you’d taken a protective stance of Soap, and now you were in a silent room with only fake dead men as your teammates stared intently at you.

“Good job though, you really got that guy,” Soap affirmed, petting your head even more enthusiastically than Ghost, sending you grumbling and pinning your ears back as you felt your hair fill with static.

Soap jumped a little as he heard you, reeling back his arm and regarding you with a careful look. You fell silent as you saw him, frowning at his sudden show of fear. He was holding his hand to his chin, pulling it away quickly once he caught you staring.

In the darkness you swore you could make out a scar there. The light bounced off of the ridges and sparkled in his glassy eyes.

“Jesus! Remind me not to cross this one,” Soap said breathily, shooting a nervous smile at Ghost.

“Pup’ll remind you just fine,” ghost snorted, “got a good growl on ya, isn’t that right?”

You shrugged and avoided his eyes, realising that you had been pretty noisy. Though you couldn’t help it when it came to all out confrontation. It made men quake in fear, made them sloppy. It was one of your best weapons, limited as you were to using your teeth and claws and, ever so occasionally, knives.

“Come on then, you two. Best get moving.”

You awkwardly stood away from Soap, trying not to scare him anymore than you already clearly had. Normally you wouldn’t worry about that sort of thing, but Soap hadn’t actually been mean to you yet and you didn’t want to provoke him into behaving that way. You'd already learned from your past mistakes.

Once you’d all left the building, you regrouped with Gaz with little effort and Price had turned up the lights and rejoined you all. He praised you for your skills while reprimanding the others for messing about too much and then said the simulation would reset and everyone would switch a few more times.

The day went on with you ‘rescuing’ the whole team at least once, allowing you to become acquainted with Price’s earthy tobacco and dove soap smell when it was his turn to play hostage. It didn’t take long until you didn’t need to smell their clothing before being sent out into the course. Ghost had had a turn, switching out with Price, and you found him easiest out of everybody, primed to seek out his citrusy orange peel scent like it was a second air source. You hadn’t needed the old balaclava that Price offered, shaking your head as you pulled him toward the entrance.

Price had grunted and swore something awful while he took control of you, sending Ghost laughing over the comms. Ghost was nice enough to stay hooked up so that he could advise Price when needed. He told him to put a little pressure on the scruff of your neck if you pulled too much. He’d needed to do that a couple times as you raced ahead, trying valiantly to get to your proper handler while the Captain fought against your fast pace. You were so wrapped up in the situation, too far gone worrying about Ghost’s pretend capture, to even be scared when Price threatened to get a hobble for your legs if you didn’t behave.

It was a heavy day, by far one of the most intense training sessions you’d had in a while, but one filled with high praise that kept you raring to go. After having enough simulations that you lost count, all the running around and growling had burned your throat ragged and you were truly finished.

Ghost caught you almost doubling over with the effort it took to stay standing after the last bout and stuck his arm round you. He held you firmly to his hard vest as he petted your head and encouraged you to take a few breaths.

“That’s it, take it easy, good pup. You’ve done so well today, you’ve impressed me,” he whispered, leaning down just so that you could hear him. “C’mon let’s get you outta that gear. Time for a break, hm?”

You nodded tiredly and looked up as the others glanced over at you both curiously. You didn’t have enough energy to be embarrassed while they watched Ghost help take your gear off. You just clung to him and groaned when the weight of your vest was removed and you were left in your uniform again. You couldn’t help shivering now that the cold air had started to seep in through the metal walls of the warehouse building.

“Cold, Pup?” Price asked, voice gruff from all his shouting at the soldiers.

A lot of men had had to be reprimanded for screaming and struggling against you; all being told that if they acted like squeaky toys they were going to get bitten like squeaky toys. It certainly felt true as you struggled against yourself with each hour that ticked by, finding it harder and harder to resist the urge to attack. You wanted to do a good job, wanted to end the enemy and protect your pack. It took everything to remind the wolf in you that they weren’t the real enemy and your ‘pack’ were perfectly safe.

You looked up to Price, suddenly very aware that you saw him differently now. You saw each of the 141 differently as you cast your eyes over them - saw them not as your deceptive antagonists, but something new…something you hadn’t encountered before.

“It’s freezing in here,” you huffed, answering Price’s question honestly, without fear that he’d reprimand you for it.

“Here, take this.”

Gaz stepped forward and pulled his hoodie out of his jacket, separating the sleeves before handing it to you. His scent drifted up from the fibres, piercing the cold air with its warmth. You took it gratefully, but tilted your head up at him, confused as to why he’d give it to you.

“But won’t you be cold?” You asked with a frown.

“Nah, I’ve still got my jacket,” he said, wrapping his jacket around his back for emphasis, “take it, it’s fine.”

You bit your lips, mind racing as you lifted it up and wrapped it round yourself, noting how oversized it was as it crept down your legs. The soft grey material hugged the cold from your bones and you smiled, savouring the warmth that it offered.

“Thanks Gaz,” you said, almost groaning as you felt your tail wag wildly from behind you.

Something told you that you were going to be doing that a lot more often now…

#simon ghost riley #Simon Riley #Ghost #mw2 #ghost x reader #Hybrid!reader #reign down on me

1K notes · View notes

harmonicakai · 6 months ago

Text

Be Around Me

Part 1 of the "Love is Embarrassing" series

Pairing: Gyuvin x Reader, Ricky x Reader (one-sided), Haobin crumbs, Jiwoong x Reader teeny tiny crumbs

Summary: Gyuvin is the type of guy to get flustered over everything, but little does he know that you secretly think it makes him even cuter.

Tropes: basketball star!gyuvin, journalist!reader, college AU, basketball!zb1, frat!zb1, secret admirer, fluff, slow burn, crack, unrequited love, mutual pining, gyuvin is a LOSER

Word Count: 4.4k

Warnings: Ricky is annoying lol, mentions of masturbation and sex (mdni!!!)

A/N: y’all will have pry zb1 college basketball au from my cold dead hands!!!!!!!! also for once in my life, y/n is not super insecure we cheered!!

FIC INSPIRED SPOTIFY PLAYLIST <3

“It's obvious she's so out of reach And I'm finding it hard 'cause She makes me feel, makes me feel Like I try, like I try, like I'm trying too hard” —Try Hard, 5 Seconds of Summer

On the court, Kim Gyuvin is the star player of the Wakefield Roses. With his long limbs, he handles the ball with ease, capturing the hearts of everybody in the crowd every time he grins after scoring a basket.

Off the court, he’s an awkward mess. Combine that with the fact that you, the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen, are usually the one covering games for the school news, and he’s a goner.

As if it isn’t hard enough for him to make eye contact with the camera, he also has to make sure he doesn’t stare too hard at your shiny hair or glossy lips. His teammates would never let him live it down if he was caught being an absolute creep on video.

What started out as a little crush has grown into a deep admiration. He reads every article that you put out into the school newspaper, sometimes even cutting out the ones you’ve written about him and his team. Everybody makes fun of him for being too scared to just ask you out.

He’s never been one to flirt with girls, but the way you make conversations so easy during interviews, even when he’s stumbling over his words, makes him feel at ease around you. Still, he wonders how much of it is just your journalist persona versus you actually liking him.

Sharing a double with Ricky means he gets exiled a lot in the name of his roommate getting laid. Sometimes, you come back from getting your morning coffee and catch him sleeping on one of the lounge’s couches.

One morning, when your arms are full of pastries that you intend to hoard in your dorm for the upcoming week, you spot him curled up yet again on your way back to your room.

Without much thought, you stop to leave a muffin and a little note next to it on the table in front of him, conveniently forgetting to sign your name.

It began with cutesy but vague things, like “breakfast for a champion,” but quickly escalated as soon as Gyuvin started leaving notes back for you.

After a couple exchanges, he even wrote that you didn’t need to be leaving him food at all and that he just wanted to know who you were. Truthfully, you had a really big crush on Gyuvin, but didn’t everybody?

Despite being a bit camera shy, he was always so sweet before and after your interviews, doing his best to make small talk and smiling his smile that could make anybody swoon.

Plus, you’ve seen how much more comfortable he is with other people, even the cheerleaders, who are all super pretty. He must just be really nice.

So, you continue to leave the notes unsigned, despite each one growing in flirtation. You like the thrill of being mysterious, but you’re mostly just scared of getting rejected since he’s never given you a reason to think he likes you back.

It isn’t until Ricky catches you one morning, a sly grin on his face when he sees you leaving a whole stack of notes on the table.

When you lock eyes with Gyuvin’s roommate, you know the jig is up. Surely, he’ll tell him it’s been you all along.

“Y/N,” Ricky nods when you approach him, his arms crossed. “I have to say, I had my suspicions.”

“Listen, Ricky, I would prefer if we could keep this between us.”

“Gyuvin’s been going on and on about some secret admirer for weeks now. It’s cruel that you won’t tell him who you are.”

“He’s welcome to stop writing back if he doesn’t want to,” you shrug, although it would probably devastate you if that actually happened.

“Oh, trust me, he wants to. Especially if he found out it was you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that every time he finishes an interview with you, he might always run home and lock himself in our bathroom because you get him so riled up. If you know what I mean.”

Your eyes go wide at the revelation. Ricky is surely just messing with you. “That’s—that’s not funny, Ricky. You shouldn’t joke about those kinds of things.”

“I’m not joking,” he chuckles. “Listen, Zeta Beta Omega is throwing a party tonight and the whole team will be there. You should come.”

“I don’t do parties,” you scoff. “Why would you even want me there?”

“Because maybe after a few drinks, you and Gyuvin won’t be so scared to tell each other how you feel. Then you guys can knock off this silly game and he can stop whining about not knowing who his mystery girl is.”

“And go back to whining about how all his roommate does is kick him out every night so he can fuck whoever he lays his eyes on?”

“Exactly. See, Y/N, you get me,” he practically purrs. “So, you show up looking all pretty and talk to my poor, lovesick roomie, and I won’t spill your little secret. Deal?”

“Ugh, fine, I guess. I can’t believe you’re blackmailing me. Deal.”

“Trust me, it’s for your own good, sweetheart.”

You cringe at the pet name. “Is this how you talk to everybody?”

“Yes. Why? Is it working? Are you going to start leaving me notes too?”

“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Ricky. I’ll see you later,” you say, walking past him. Even if he’s annoying, it’s genuinely impressive how he managed to brush off every insult you threw his way.

“See you, Y/N.” You don’t even have to look back at him to know that he winked as he said that.

—————-

Gyuvin knows that staying up all night waiting around for his mystery girl would be an invasion of privacy. At least he thinks the person who keeps leaving him baked goods and notes is a girl. Or maybe he’s just being hopeful that it’s you.

He’s never seen your handwriting before, but he’s been close enough to smell your perfume and he swears he can catch hints of it wafting off the sticky notes.

In fact, he’s started looking forward to Ricky kicking him out of their shared bedroom just because he knows he’ll be waking up to the sweetest surprise when he sleeps in the lounge.

Tonight’s party should be a good distraction from all of the wondering. Maybe, if he’s drunk enough, Ricky will be more embarrassing than alluring and Gyuvin will get to sleep in his own bed. Still, he can’t get this morning’s notes off his mind.

You’ve left him clues, little doodles of your favorite things. Your coffee order, favorite color, favorite animal, and so on. He’s hoping you’ll be at tonight’s party so he can see if you mention any of the stuff drawn out, but you never show up to these kinds of things.

That was before Ricky got involved. You stood outside the ZBO frat house wearing your worst sneakers and a baby pink minidress, as suggested by one of your suitemates.

If only you didn’t show up by yourself. There were a few familiar faces from class, and of course, the entire basketball team, but nobody you were really friends with. All you could focus on was how sticky the floor was and how much you needed a drink.

“Hi,” you say, finally making your way over to the bartender. It’s the team’s captain, Hanbin. “Just give me whatever tastes the best.”

“One rum punch it is,” he smiles, his whisker dimples making your heart flutter. Why was everybody on the team good looking? “Y/N, right?”

“Yep,” you say, taking the plastic cup from him. “You’re Hanbin. You know, I’ve been meaning to interview you, but you always seem so busy with other things at games.”

“Don’t worry about it. It wouldn’t be nearly as cute as when you interview Gyuvin,” he laughs, eyeing the line of guests waiting for their drinks. “I’ve got a job to do, but I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Thanks for the drink,” you say, holding it up in a sort of cheer before walking away. You take a sip and savor its sweetness, the liquor’s flavor blending in perfectly to the juice. Hanbin’s words stick with you. Were you and Gyuvin cute together?

Sure, he’s so tall that he practically towers over you, but he refuses to ever make eye contact and always keeps his replies so short and polite. Then again, he sure seems to write a lot in the notes that he doesn’t know are going to you.

For a second, you start to consider that you might actually have a chance with him, until you spot him with a beautiful girl touching his arm and whispering something in his ear. Before you can mope for too long, someone is tapping you on the shoulder.

“There you are,” a familiar voice calls over the music. You turn to see Ricky grinning at you, his hair looking almost white under the lights. “You look good.”

“Thanks, I guess,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest to prevent him from checking you out any further. He glances past you at his roommate.

“Don’t worry about her,” he assures you. You don’t know whether or not to believe him. “Gyuvin has never taken a girl home from these parties, let alone kissed one.”

That’s a relief. “Don’t you have a hook-up to hunt down?” you ask Ricky. He cocks an eyebrow at you, sipping his drink.

“Oh, Y/N. I keep my girls on speed dial,” he chuckles. You cringe at his playboy persona and for once in his life, Ricky is embarrassed. He shuts his mouth, hoping you can’t see him blush.

“Wow,” you say, tilting your head at him. “Don’t tell me young and rich, tall and handsome Shen Ricky can actually feel shame. I really wish I had a cameraman with me right now.”

“Like I said, it works on most people,” he attempts to reason. “You’re just immune to my charms, I guess.”

“Guess so,” you smirk, downing the rest of your drink. You glance behind your shoulder to see Gyuvin still talking to that girl, then back at Ricky, who’s deep in thought.

“Do you want to meet the rest of the team?” he asks, surprising you. You give a slight nod, and that’s all he needs to see before grabbing your wrist and pulling you through the crowd.

At first, Ricky lingers as you make small talk with Matthew, Taerae, and Gunwook, and explains to you that Yujin is actually at home because he’s still in high school. You feel like a horrible journalist—have you been so preoccupied with Gyuvin that you didn’t notice there was a literal child on the team?

By now, Ricky’s abandoned you to go find something, or someone, more entertaining. He’s dropped you off with Jiwoong, the oldest player, who is as aloof as he is annoyingly handsome. The way he eyes you makes your stomach do cartwheels, and you’ve had enough to drink that you can’t see the harm in flirting with a cute boy.

He’s spewing some bullshit about meditating when you cut him off. “I like your hair,” you blurt out, catching him off guard. He turns and smiles at you for the first time since you started talking.

“You do?” he asks, running a hand through it. “I think it’s a little long. I might get a haircut soon.”

“Keep it like that,” you say, not taking your eyes off of him. “It looks good.”

Jiwoong is grinning now, but he remembers that you’re Gyuvin’s crush, and it would be totally wrong to kiss you no matter how badly he wants to. He eyes the crowd, searching for someone to save him from the tension.

“Hao!” he says, grabbing a boy passing by and pulling him into the conversation. He looks familiar, but he’s certainly no basketball player. “Y/N, this is Zhang Hao. He’s our equipment manager. I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”

“Hi, Y/N,” Hao says, clearly caught off guard. “You’re the one who does the interviews, right?”

“That’s me,” you confirm. Jiwoong’s departure right when you thought he was going to kiss you was beyond bizarre. “I didn’t realize how many people knew me.”

“You’re basically a celebrity to the team,” Hao laughs. “They all think you’re pretty.”

“Makes sense,” you smile, sipping on your third drink of the night. “I am, in fact, very pretty.”

“Agreed. So, which one do you have your eye on?” he asks, leaning in to hear you better. “Or should I guess?”

“Go ahead and guess,” you say, eager to know what he thinks.

Hao takes a second to gather his thoughts. “Well, it’s clear that you’re into Gyuvin based on the way you giggle at his seriously unfunny jokes, but you were also just eye fucking Jiwoong. Then again, wasn’t Ricky dragging you around earlier by the hand?”

“By the wrist,” you correct him. “And yes, I do like Gyuvin. But he’s been talking to some other girl the whole night.”

“He only has eyes for you,” Hao says immediately. This is the second time you’ve heard this tonight, but the first where it’s coming from a trustworthy source.

“And you?” you ask in return, shifting the conversation onto him. “Which one do you have a crush on?”

Hao’s eyes widen. “I–I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not—I don’t—”

“Hao,” you cut him off. “You’ve glanced at Hanbin at least six times since this conversation started.”

He swallows, knowing he’s been caught. “It’s that obvious, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“We talk all the time,” Hao mutters, looking down at his shoes. “I’m basically his personal assistant.”

“Do you talk about anything other than basketball?”

“No.”

“Do you even like basketball?”

“...No.”

“Hao,” you say, gripping him by the shoulders and turning him towards the drink station. “Go over there and get your man.”

—————-

As if it weren’t enough of a shock to Gyuvin that you actually showed up to a ZBO party, he’s had to spend all night watching you chat up the entire team except for him.

They’ve no doubt let it slip to you that he has the biggest crush on you on campus, maybe even the entire world. But he’s way too nice to tell one of his classmates, who attends every game just to hold up a sign with his name on it, that he isn’t interested.

That’s how he ended up nursing his drink with a tight lipped smile, listening to what’s-her-name ramble on about things that would be more interesting to probably anybody else, all while keeping an eye on you as you bounce around the party.

Your interaction with Jiwoong made him jealous beyond belief, and he makes a mental note that while he’s made his crush on you very clear to his teammates, you’re technically not his and free to flirt with whoever you want.

He watches as you grasp Hao and shake him, muttering some words of encouragement before sending him over to the bar. Finally, you’re alone again. It’s now or never.

“I have to go walk my dog,” Gyuvin lies, not even bothering to let the poor girl react before making his way over to you. You’re wearing pink, his secret admirer’s favorite color. Surely, it’s not just a coincidence.

“Y/N,” he says a little too loud, startling you. You jump, accidentally knocking yourself into him. Both of your drinks go flying and suddenly, you’re covered in sticky red liquid.

At this point, Gyuvin might as well just die alone. How did he manage to only spill his drink on you and not himself? He peers down at you, guilt written all over his face, as you take in what’s just happened.

“Here,” he says, reaching into his hoodie’s pocket and pulling out wadded tissues. “They’re clean, I promise. I have, uh, I’ve got allergies, so I carry around a ton.”

He unfolds one and gently pats the liquid off of you without so much of a second thought. Your silence makes him panic even more, and he’s so focused on drying you off that he doesn’t even notice he’s basically rubbing the tissue on your cleavage.

Gyuvin freezes once he finally notices where his hand is, immediately pulling away and putting a good distance between the two of you. “I am so sorry. Holy shit, I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not a pervert! Please don’t think I’m a pervert.”

“Gyuvin,” you finally say, your voice just as sweet as always. He’s pacing as much as he can with everybody packed in so tightly, his long legs taking tiny steps. “It’s okay. I don’t think you’re a pervert.”

He stops and looks down at you. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“Really,” you reassure him. “Although I might think you’re a klutz. Who knew Wakefield’s star basketball player was so clumsy off the court?”

“Technically, you bumped into me,” he asserts, his smile returning. “But you’re also the one who got soaked, so let’s just call things even.”

“Deal,” you agree. Sure, it’s fun when boys are obviously flirting with you, but the way Gyuvin has no clue what he’s doing is just so charming. It feels natural when you’re with him, a nice departure from the overused pickup lines and generic compliments that are usually thrown your way.

Gyuvin takes in your stained dress, the red punch seeping into the pink fabric like blood. You look straight out of a horror movie.

“Here,” he says, shrugging off his varsity jacket and wrapping it around your shoulders before taking in the sight of you. “Wow. You look so…”

“Silly?” you answer, the expanse of material wrapped around you like a tent.

“Cute. You look so cute.” Gyuvin meets your eyes for a split second before looking away again, his ears now feeling even hotter than when he saw you with Jiwoong. “I can get you a new shirt, if you want. My room isn’t far from here.”

“You want me to go with you to your room?” you giggle, enjoying how flustered you make him. Hearing his teammates talk about how much he likes you has taken a weight off your shoulders, and you don’t know how you ever thought he wasn’t into you before.

“No! Well, yes, but only if you want to. And I’m not using this as an excuse to bring you back to my room. I just know you like pink and I have this one pink shirt that shrunk in the wash and I think you’d look really good in it. Plus, I can start a load of laundry and get your dress all clean.”

This is the most you’ve ever heard him talk, his voice a few pitches higher than usual when he’s rambling. Plus, if he knows how much you like pink, he must be following your clues. “Let’s go to your room, then.”

—————-

While Gyuvin’s side of the room is much neater than you expected, Ricky’s side looks weirdly perfect. Not a single thing is out of place, with every item labeled or color coordinated. You’re shocked that two basketball players can manage to keep such a small room so tidy.

“Sorry, it’s kind of a mess,” Gyuvin apologizes, moving to make his bed. “You can sit here.”

“If this is what you think is messy, you don’t want to see my room,” you say, taking in all of the decorations. Usually, when you’re in a guy’s room, it’s all navy blue and manly movie posters, but Gyuvin’s walls are so colorful and covered in photos of his family and friends.

One piece of paper catches your eye—the very first article you wrote about the basketball team. You scan his wall, catching more and more newspaper clippings, all penned by you. Gyuvin’s too busy putting things away and rustling through his drawers to notice you staring at them in awe.

“Here we go,” he calls out, turning and holding up a shrunken pink t-shirt and a pair of sweats. His grin fades as soon as he catches you reading one of your own articles, which have been on his wall for so long that he’s forgotten they’re even there. “Oh. Uh, please don’t think I’m a creep.”

“It’s not creepy. It’s sweet. They’re all about you, anyway,” you say, turning to take the shirt from him. It has a picture of a silly looking greyhound on the front of it.

“Right,” Gyuvin says, shrugging off the interaction. He pulls himself onto the bed next to you, sitting cross legged and making sure to leave a gap between you and him. “That’s my dog, Eumppappa.”

“Eumppappa is an amazing name,” you muse, turning to smile at him. Your faces end up being so close that Gyuvin thinks his heart has stopped beating. In his attempt to scoot back, he ends up tumbling off of his bed.

“Fuck,” he says as he lands on the ground. You peer down from the lofted bed at his long limbs sprawled across the rug. If you didn’t think he was a complete loser before, you probably do now.

“Are you okay?” you call out, watching as he sits up and rubs his head.

“I’m good,” Gyuvin assures you, taking a breather before getting to his feet and heading towards the door. “I’m going to step out and let you change. Let me know when you’re decent.”

“Will do,” you smile, giving him a thumbs up. You strip your clothes off, throwing on the t-shirt and sweats and pulling the drawstring until you know they won’t fall off of you. “You can come back in, Gyuvin!”

He stumbles in, practically waiting with his body pressed against the door for the moment he could see you again. God, could you really not tell how much he liked you before tonight?

Gyuvin eyes you drowning in his clothes and he knows that he’d move earth and heaven if it meant that you’re who he got to wake up to for the rest of his life.

“I’ll go throw this in the washer and then we can head back to the party,” he stammers, snapping out of his daydream and grabbing your dress. Your smile is so pretty right now, even after all of his awkwardness, that it takes everything in him not to get hard just looking at you.

By the time he gets back from the laundry room, you’ve decided you don’t want to go back to the party, especially not dressed like this.

“Oh,” Gyuvin says, disappointed that his time with you has been cut short by his clumsiness. “Do you want me to walk you back to your place?”

“I live down the hall,” you remind him. You hope he doesn’t realize you could’ve just as easily grabbed your own change of clothes.

“Right,” he grimaces. He knows that. He’s always trying to time leaving his room perfectly so that he runs into you on the way to class.

Just like whenever you interview Gyuvin, there’s an awkward silence, except this time it can’t be edited out. He’s back to looking everywhere in the room except at you.

“It’s not even midnight,” you say, glancing at your phone’s lockscreen. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

“Like, together?” Gyuvin asks in disbelief. You nod, an amused smirk on your face. “Duh, of course you meant together. Yeah, sure, let’s watch a movie.”

Moments later, you’re sitting in the dark with Gyuvin, your legs pulled close to your chest as you watch Amélie projected onto the wall above Ricky’s bed.

Every once in a while, Gyuvin lets himself relax, his arm or his leg brushing against you by accident. After spending half of the film pulling away out of fear that he’s bothering you, he finally settles for having his fingers barely touching yours.

“You know,” he starts, his eyes still locked on the movie. “I kind of have my own mystery going on right now.”

“Really?” you say, feigning shock. “About what?”

“Someone keeps leaving me notes when I sleep in the lounge. Sometimes treats, but mostly notes. They don’t sign their name, but today they left me some little doodles as clues and I’ve been trying to figure them out.”

The way you’re reacting makes his stomach turn. How could it be you when you have a look on your face that says you have no clue what he’s talking about?

“Well, I’ve been meaning to work on my investigative journalism. What if I helped you track your secret admirer down?”

If you aren’t going to fall for him, he’ll at least settle for being friends. “That’d be awesome, Y/N.”

Suddenly, Ricky comes crashing into the dorm room, his lips attached to some girl’s face. He pulls away from her for a second, barely registering that you’re even there, before pulling out his wallet and throwing a couple hundred dollar bills at Gyuvin. “Get out. Now.”

Before you can protest, Ricky’s already unbuttoning his shirt, and you’ll gladly evacuate if it means you don’t have to watch whatever freaky shit is about to go down.

“I didn’t know he pays you to sleep in the lounge,” you laugh, your arms full of Gyuvin’s comforter as you walk down the hall. “With that kind of money, he could just buy an apartment.”

“He could,” Gyuvin starts, holding his pillow in one hand and the stack of notes—your notes—in the other. “But then he wouldn’t get the true college experience. Plus, he only throws money at me when it’s a last minute thing.”

“How much was that, anyway? Like $300?” you ask. He stops and takes out his wallet.

“$400. Pretty standard,” he shrugs, counting the bills. Your eyes widen at the total.

“Are you going to share?” you pout. “I got kicked out too.”

“You can have it,” he says, handing you the money, his brain short circuiting at the way you bat your eyelashes at him. You marvel at the crisp bills. “This is just another Friday night for me.”

“Okay, young and rich, tall and handsome Kim Gyuvin. Thanks for buying my dinner for the rest of the semester!” You don’t know this, but if you asked him to, Gyuvin would buy you whatever you wanted.

Before you can get down to helping him figure out the doodles, or throwing him off your trail, the two of you are fast asleep. Instead of the lounge’s couch, Gyuvin curls up on the oversized bean bag on your bedroom floor. It’s much too small for his frame to actually be comfortable, but he somehow feels more content just being around you.

—————-

Taglist: @orangesodafoam @theresawtf @nerezza123 @gyvnexe @xiurmy-everything @wollycobbl3-blr @cloudgyubi @yunnie-11 @wheatrice

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brodygold · 2 months ago

Text

The Team Manager

Martin had always hated sports. The sweat, the competition, the loud cheers, all of it was something the 54 year old avoided like the plague. He preferred his quiet life of books, music, and quiet nights in with his small group of friends. So when he received a mysterious invitation to attend a meeting with Richard, the captain of a soccer team he had never heard of called the Golden Army, he had no idea why he even considered showing up. But something about the gold-trimmed letter with the sleek team crest caught his attention. Maybe it was curiosity, or perhaps the strange allure of the name "Golden Army." Against his better judgment, Martin decided to go. What was the worst that could happen anyway?

The meeting took place in a lavish office inside an old stadium. Richard was already waiting for him, dressed in his signature golden soccer jersey. His sharp, charismatic presence was undeniable, and though Martin had no idea what he was doing there, he felt an unusual pull towards the man.

"Martin," Richard said with a calm yet authoritative voice. "I've been watching you. I believe you have what it takes to become something more."

Martin scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I think you're confusing me with someone else. I can't stand sports."

Richard smiled knowingly. "That’s precisely why you’re perfect. You’ve avoided competition all your life, but deep down, you have a drive for something greater. You just need the right... guidance."

Before Martin could protest, Richard’s eyes seemed to shimmer, locking onto his own. There was something mesmerizing in them, a golden hue that flickered like candlelight. Martin’s protests died in his throat as Richard’s voice became softer, more commanding, filling his mind like a gentle tide washing away his resistance.

"Relax, Martin," Richard said softly. "Let go of your doubts. You’re going to help us lead the Golden Army to victory. You’ll become the heart of the team—the manager we’ve always needed."

As Richard continued speaking, Martin felt an overwhelming sense of calm. Thoughts of sports, of his hatred for competition, melted away, replaced by an eagerness to serve, to lead, to belong. His mind emptied, and in that void, new ideas and images began to form. Visions of him guiding the team, organizing strategies, and celebrating victories with his players filled his consciousness. He could see himself now—a proud figure standing next to Richard, leading the Golden Army to triumph.

At that moment, Martin could feel something happening to his body. His grey hair went back to its original brown color and old hairstyle, while his wrinkles melted away into youthful skin, making him look like he was in his late 20s at most. Muscles he had never worked out started bulging from his body, giving him an almost bodybuilder like appearance.

A warm, shimmering light flooded the room, and Martin blinked as Richard handed him a shining gold suit. It sparkled in the light, the material sleek and metallic. He felt a strange compulsion to put it on, and without hesitation, he changed into the suit right there in front of Richard. The shiny gold fabric clung to him perfectly, wrapping him in a sensation of power and purpose. He buttoned up the equally gleaming gold shirt and tied the matching gold tie around his neck, each action feeling like a step toward his new role and self.

"How do you feel?" Richard asked, his eyes still gleaming.

"Ready," Martin said, his voice steady. Any doubt was gone. Now, he stood taller, his chest puffed out with pride. He looked into the mirror, barely recognizing the man staring back at him. This was no longer the shy, sports-hating Martin. This was someone else—someone important. Someone who could lead.

"You’re no longer just Martin," Richard declared. "From this day on, you’re our Golden Manager. You’ll help us rise to victory, and together, we’ll lead the Golden Army to greatness."

Martin nodded, his old self fading with each passing second. "Yes, Richard. I understand."

Richard clapped him on the back, a triumphant smile on his face. "Then let’s begin. The Golden Army needs you, and there’s no time to waste."

As they walked out of the office and onto the field where the team was training, Martin’s eyes scanned the players, dressed in their signature gold jerseys. He was no longer the outsider looking in—he was a part of this, part of the Golden Army. His heart swelled with a sense of belonging and pride, feelings he had never experienced before.

And he knew, deep down, that he would do whatever it took to lead the team to victory as the new manager.

#soccer tf #golden army #thegoldenteam #male transformation #golden team #hypnotised #male tf #jock tf #jockification #suit

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factual-fantasy · 4 months ago

Text

31 asks! Thank you! :}} ☯️

Now I'm gonna be totally honest, I DO have a favorite twin and its Ingo <XDD But I also fully understand and support your point!

What makes Ingo and Emmet so fun and interesting to me is their bond! How they mirror each other, how they interact, their strength as a team! Sure separating them for the angst is great an all- but truly showing them together and more importantly as equals is where the good stuffs at!

This is also why I usually try to wrap up their separation arcs in my AUs, and also don't really enjoy reading any Legends Arceus content.. seeing Ingo alone is not only heartbreaking,, but its also just not as fin. Ingo and Emmet are stronger together :)

@sallychaosaura (In response to this post)

Miiiight be a bit too late for that <XDD

@orangesideirrational

Thank you! :D I'm glad :))

Sorry, no can do! <:( Also thank you! :))

(Post in question)

(It was very intentional! :}) He's stressed. 😔

Ugh.. well, thanks for letting me know.. and at least the commenters know I don't consent to reposts..

😔

@thatweirdocryptid

TORPEDO??

@soulful-rodent (Post in question)

Well in-game we was traded to a friend and back so he'd evolve..

Buuuut lore wise, without a trainer..? <:D No idea-

Probably somewhere around 100 <XD

@xtra-collab

Absolutely terrifying! Next question XD

@lost-brain-privileges

No, no, aaaaand poorly, XD I'm doing fiiiiine won't worry! :)

@beeboboingo

AAATHANK YTOU SOMNUCH!!!! :DDDDDDD

I can imagine when he first gained the ability to hide in peoples shadows, he probably gave many people quite a scare without meaning to <XDDD

@cat7890

Thank you! :DD And Their stories are kind'a vague when I take out my trainer..

I'm thinking that somehow, Midori met Gloria in their first evolutions and became friends. Then they found Grim..

later on Midori found Anastasia after she had run away from a battle. She tried to hide but her shiny gold color made that impossible.. Midori took her to Gloria and they took care of her.

Afterwards they met Sylvester..

Beyond that, I don't have any details in mind.. 😅 Sorry!

Typically I prefer horror games/movies, but ONLY when they're being played by or watched by someone else in a YouTube video XDD

Some of those YouTubers being Elvis The Alien and Markiplier! :}}}

@fragmented-ghost (Pokémon Violet team master post)

AAAA I'm so glad you like them! :DD I plan to draw them more at some point, but atm I kind'a got sucked back into the Violet grind XDD I'm just about to beat the main game! :0000

@justanintrovertedweirdo

I have! :DD I like it quite a lot an have drawn some things for it here and there! Though I never got around to completing the game..

Someday I'd like to go back and beat the game. I can imagine I'd jump right into the fandom afterwards if I did XDD

XD Probably!

I don't remember talking about that.. if you had a link to the original post maybe I could remember with context..? <:0

@tallchest13-blog (Post in question)

XDDD I'm glad you like them! :))

XDD All of those titles made me laugh! And I see your point, but I have a few counter points to this ask..

For 1, to keep with the theme, I would want to/have to make this cape IRL in order to add it to my sona. Now if the last 4 quilts have shown me anything? Its that I'm not super great at making quilts <XDD

If it was that challenging to make it on a smaller scale? I cant imagine how much trouble I'd have trying to make a full size one! <XDD Plus buying the materials... having to physically get up, go buy the stuff I need and make it. With these health issues I've been battling, that's not something I wanna do atm.. 😅Not to mention with how hot its been lately, I don't think I need a quilt anyways-

And then lastly- I'd have to draw myself with it every time! I like my sona being a simplistic blob that has minimal colors and not much of a model to keep too. I worry a quilt might take that away.. :(((

XDD I'm glad I'm not the only one who sees the potential! :))

I have a few times here an there. Just to hang out with some friends :)

I mean, I don't know the history between you two... But my advice is to leave them be. If they ghosted you, they probably want space..

@iloveseriess

I altered the story of Welcome Home to make my version of Sally a teenager. So I was thinking she could be bluish-white to look like a young star..? But looking back I don't like the blue.. For story purposes she might stay a teen, but I think I'll keep her yellow <XDD

@anikakitty11

Yoo! :DD She's so colorful! And that black shadowy arm is so spooky.. Does she have a story? 👀👀

(Pixel art tutorial in question)

I'm glad it helped! Happy pixeling!! :}} 👋👋

@minnesotamedic186

XD Don't worry its fiiiiiine!

I've wanted to draw evil Grim and Sylvester again in general, but I don't really have any ideas for them yet.. 😅

#my response #pokemon legends arceus #ingo and emmet #submas #gengar #pokemon scarlet and violet #welcome home

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lazybutsmexy · 2 years ago

Note

NOOO NO NO NO TAKE IT BACK APOLOGY W TEARS RN IM SOBBING CRYING DON'T DO THIS TO ME THIS IS A PERSONAL ATTACK(it was delicious, scrumptious wow i love seeing sadness) MAKE IT BETTER OW OW BRING THEM BACK(it was so good i love your writing eating it up yumyumyum) I crave more of them all being platonic (HURT/COMFORT?!??!) plsplspls begging for crumbs in tears ill do anything

Hmmm... I am a slut for hurt/comfort myself...

Task Force + affectionate reader Pt. 3

Pt. 1 Pt. 2

Warnings: HURT/COMFORT, bit of cursing.

The people who smile the most are often the saddest. The people who share the most love often don't feel any towards themselves.

Or: it's your team's turn to show affection

It was one of those days.

One of those days where you didn't have the energy to care about yourself. You were able to keep up with your little routines around base, somehow. But it was dimmed, a matte finish to what was once all shiny and sparkly.

Because it was one of those days.

You always became like this after taking leave for longer than two days. You'd visit your family during that time - or rather, they would come to you as soon as they realized you were at your place downtown and not the barracks - and bombard you with anything they set their minds to.

No matter how grueling your missions were, your family always managed to make you feel even more drained during leave. Their constant demands and mental games, the guilt-tripping and manipulation, always made you feel as if you were walking on eggshells around them.

Tracking down and dismantling human trafficking rings seemed like a walk in the park compared to dealing with them.

You personally tried your best to keep your personal problems away from your work, greeting everyone around you with the same cheery tone, and going about your little routine with the others as usual.

But they had started to notice how your smile didn't reach your eyes, and how you seemed unable to shake off the frown in your brows.

And to avoid unwanted questions that you were too ashamed to answer, you simply chose to distance yourself.

Price shared a look with Ghost, who stood across the room from him, and he shared the same concern in his eyes as they watched you walk into the debrief room

you sat yourself at the back, whereas you'd usually choose to sit in the middle of your team

they immediately knew what was going to happen, you were about to start isolating yourself.

they were having none of that.

Price had always kept a close eye on the family relations of his team members.

it was a security measure, after all, to make sure that not only they weren't targeted by dangerous people, but also to make sure they were no connected in any way to their missions.

but in your case it was different, he monitored your family to make sure they never stayed close to you for too long.

it seemed it hadn't been enough this time, and he saw your haggard state as the consequence of that failure.

he would definitely fix that

he began talking to both Laswell and his superiors to get you one of the smaller houses within base

even though you were unmarried and didn't have any children, he knew it would be impossible for those pesky family members to get close to your home without permission

your parents had managed to talk your landlord into giving them access to your apartment - that would not happen under Price's watch

he would actually blacklist them if he had the chance to do so

he wouldn't let you know he was trying to get you a house, at first - he didn't want you to feel like a burden

but he was not exactly subtle when he began asking what colors you preferred on your walls, if you minded only having a shower head or if you preferred a bathtub, etc

Soap wasn't subtle at all, oh no

boy got you hooked in a one-arm hug for as long as you'd let him

that could be a few minutes or all day long, he didn't mind one bit

endlessly squeezed and smooched on your hairline whenever he caught you lost in thought

definitely the one to (lovingly) manhandle you into a blanket burrito and snuggle you into his lap to watch movies

surprisingly a great cook, he would go all out and cook you whatever your comfort food was

it didn't matter if it was 3 AM

you would be fed, and you could almost taste the love he poured in it

definitely wore a 'kiss the cook' apron to make you giggle and try to get a smooch from you

Gaz is the king of self care

you would not let your skincare/hair routine go under his watch

he would do it for you if you didn't have the energy to do so

he would just sit you on the toilet and he'd take care of all the steps of your skincare routine

if he didn't have all the steps memorized, he definitely had a bulletpoint list of specific instructions to guide himself

same with your hair - trust this man with your hair, you won't regret it, ever

this man had magic hands for scalp massages fight me if you disagree

if you aren't comfortable being nude in front of him, he would simply put a chair in front of the sink like a makeshift hair wash basin and work like that

if you were comfortable being nude in front of him, he would make it into a full-body wash

after working with your hair, he would scrub your body down

every now and then he would massage your tired muscles while telling you how much he appreciated you as both his teammate and his friend

after shower cuddles were a must

you would very likely doze off in his arms while he held you impossibly close to him

Ghost didn't see himself as a person capable of comforting others

but all doubts flew through the window the moment he saw your downcast gaze and a tired hunch of your shoulders

at this point in time, you had become about 80% of the team's moral incentive

of course he knew it was quite unfair to dump all of that on you, he supposed you would have your down days too

but you were part of a team, and no one fought alone - be it terrorist organizations or their own inner demons

he would work alongside Price to get you a new living place

any person trying to ask you stupid and/or unwanted questions would find themselves at the other end of one of his famous death glares

or at the aim of his fist

when you approached him to pat him on the shoulder like always, pretending that everything was all right, he placed his own hand on your shoulder

he looked into your eyes and spoke to you with such sincerity that you were shaken to the core

"...You know that you are just as deserving of love as everyone else, right?"

moments later, you were clutching his middle, with your face buried in his chest while he hugged you tightly

he didn't mind that his shirt felt a little wetter with your tears

he focused on stroking your hair and rubbing your back, while glaring at anyone who dared to look at you questioningly

he would let you hug him until your arms fell off if that's what you needed

more cuddles!!

...he wouldn't mind it too much either if Soap and Gaz joined in a cuddle pile - he pretended to be annoyed, but he thought it felt nice

imagine how much nicer it would feel for you :)

#ask #answered #anonymous #nonnie ask #task force 141 headcanons #captain john price headcanons #john soap mactavish headcanons #simon ghost riley headcanons #kyle gaz garrick headcanons #gaz headcanons #captain price headcanons #ghost headcanons #soap headcanons #cod mw2 headcanons #cod mwii headcanons #cod mw2 #cod mwii

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7-wonders · 9 months ago

Note

what if jessamy lived and matthew was brought in by lucienne as extra help and matthew gets a little crush on jessamy and you notice how matthew seems to be strutting around a lot, his feathers are shiny and he always puffs out his little birdy chest when ever jessamy calls him handsome and theres something that seems familiar but you can't quite place it

until you call morpheus gorgeous when you see him in a new outfit and he somehow seems a little taller, his hair is extra fluffy and he has whatever the dream lords equivalent of a spring in his step is

When Morpheus finally freed himself from his captivity, Lucienne had been faced with a decision to make. Her Lord was determined to find his missing tools immediately, never mind the fact that he was still weak and without any sort of help. While she couldn't do anything about the first part, she could certainly assist with the second. Though Morpheus didn't approve (he was still traumatized by the death of Jessamy, but he would never admit it to anybody, least of all himself), he begrudgingly allowed this new raven, Matthew, to travel with him to Hell.

Imagine their surprise when Lucifer revealed they had taken Jessamy's soul for their own in the hopes that they could use it as a bargaining chip with the Lord of Dreams. This was unacceptable, and so a wager had been made. If Morpheus won The Oldest Game, he got his helm...and Jessamy. If Morpheus lost, then the demon Choronzon got...him.

Thankfully, the former had been the outcome, and Morpheus left Hell with his helm and one more raven than he entered with. But to say there had been some growing pains as the two Ravens of the Dreaming adjusted to both being the Ravens of the Dreaming would be a gross understatement.

That was then though, and this is now. By the time you came into the picture, there were hardly any signs at all that there had been animosity between Matthew and Jessamy. They worked together in harmony now, the perfect team. One could even call them friends...even if Matthew maybe had feelings that were a little more than friendly.

You're in the library with your two feathered friends when Jessamy's head perks up, an obvious sign that Morpheus is summoning her via the mental link he has with his ravens.

"That's me, then." She sighs as though it's a chore to have to go attend to Morpheus, but you know how much she enjoys it. How much she enjoys every moment of her second (third, really) chance at life.

"Official raven business?" you ask.

"The most official." She stands and shakes her feathers out, but stops before taking flight. "Matthew?"

He looks at her in surprise. "Yeah?"

"Your feathers look nice today."

"Oh! I—uh, I flew through a waterfall this morning because I wanted to try something new. Wasn't sure if it would work out."

"It certainly did."

Matthew tries to stutter out an answer. You can hear Jessamy laugh as she swoops off to catch up to Morpheus. If Matthew could blush, you're sure he would be.

He's still staring after her minutes after she's gone, and you can't help your amused smile. "You okay?"

"Absolutely." He nods, his chest puffed out in pride. You stifle a laugh and replace it with a hum, pulling your book up past your face so he can't see just how well you believe him.

These instances, of Jessamy playfully flirting with a head over heels Matthew, are not rare. She enjoys doing it, and who knows? Maybe she feels the same. Their routine is rather sweet, actually, but you can't help the weird sense of deja vu you get when you watch those two dance around each other. You've seen this act before, but where?

The next time you and Jessamy are together, you're both in a position that you did not ever think you'd find yourself in: watching Dream of the Endless play fashion show.

Normally, Morpheus just conjures up whatever look that he wants without a second thought. He can change his appearance at a whim, even though he prefers sticking to his familiar, all-black wardrobe. But this week, he's hosting his siblings. All of them, save his wayward brother, are to be in the Dreaming at the same time for the first time in centuries (Morpheus can't say for certain how long it's been, which is how you know it's been a long time). A "conclave of the Endless," he called it.

Weird way to say you're having a family dinner, but whatever.

Though he'll never admit it, he's nervous. Nervous about his siblings being in his realm, nervous about how the Dreaming looks after having spent so long returning it to its former glory prior to his imprisonment, nervous about proving himself and his power once more. This dinner matters to him, and since you can't be there to support him—he refuses to possibly put you in harm's way and/or at the mercy of cunning and powerful beings who enjoy making mortals their playthings, which you appreciate immensely—he's trying desperately to control the few things that he can, including his outfit choice for the evening.

And there have been a lot of potential choices. Seriously, he's tried on so many outfits that you're starting to lose count. Coats and cloaks, robes and rubies, boots and blacks. It's a dizzying blur by now, and Morpheus looks as done as you feel. He's nothing if not relentless though, so the rigamarole shall continue.

He turns to face you when he's settled on a new choice, and you both look at his outfit with the discerning eye of a critic appraising a work of art. After a few moments, Jessamy, sitting on the back of your chair, is the one to speak up first.

"The collar does not suit you, my Lord."

His gaze goes to you, and the helplessness in his eyes almost makes you say that Jessamy's wrong and you like the look. You'd be lying, though, and you like to think that a core tenet of your relationship is honesty. With that in mind, you grimace and shake your head.

"She's right," you begrudgingly agree.

Huffing is an action that's below Morpheus. It's a very mortal thing to do, so naturally the Ruler of the Nightmare Realms does not huff. If he were to pretend to huff, though, the way that he abruptly turns back around and sighs heavily through his nose would be a very good impression. Your lips twitch when you glance at Jessamy out of the corner of your eye only to see her pulling the exact same move towards you, but you stay silent and go back to the watching and waiting game.

About three outfit changes later, something clicks, and you sit up in your chair in excitement. "Ooh, that's it!"

"You're right," Jessamy echoes your earlier words, only this time in a far more positive connotation.

Morpheus raises an elegant brow. "Elaborate, please."

"That's your outfit for tomorrow," you insist. "You're gorgeous, my love."

He stops fussing with his outfit and looks at you through the mirror. "You truly think so?"

"You look so handsome in that outfit. I mean, you're handsome all the time, but c'mon!" You grin, because how can you not? He's one of the most attractive men (-shaped beings, if one were to be picky) you've ever met in your life, and he's yours.

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, as though attempting to detect any deceit from you, before inspecting his appearance one final time. With a nod and a very small, very self-satisfied smile, he says, "Then I shall wear this tomorrow."

"Perfect." Next to you, Jessamy sighs in relief, and you shoot her a furtive thumbs-up for a job well done.

Since your part in ensuring Morpheus has a successful dinner is complete, you leave the Dreaming hoping for the best and preparing for the worst. What this means is that you're expecting to fall asleep the day after the dinner is scheduled and walk into the worst hurricane that would ever be recorded were it in the Waking. Morpheus likes to act like he has no emotions, but the reality is quite the opposite. In fact, he has so many emotions, and they're all so strong. He just doesn't know how to deal with them, and chooses instead to hide them away until they burst.

Instead of the anticipated disaster zone, everything is...calm. Actually, it's a beautiful day. Think of the nicest spring day, and multiply it by at least 10 (maybe more). That's what this weather is. The sun is out and shining, the temperature is warm but not hot, and everything is in full bloom. Hell, there are actual flower petals dancing through the air right now. Flower petals!

You snag one of the petals and hold it gently between your thumb and forefinger, feeling the silkiness against your skin. "What kind of Disney movie am I in?" you mutter.

You feel Morpheus's presence behind you a mere moment before he asks, "What was that?"

Even with the environmental warning, he still makes you jump, and you turn around to face him. "Hi! How did it go?"

"Far better than I could have expected."

There's something...different about him. His hair looks especially messy and windswept (not that you're complaining, you love that), he's still wearing his special dinner outfit, and did he get taller? You feel like you have to look up just a little bit more to truly look at him so yeah, he definitely got taller.

"Good. I knew it would, though."

"You did?" he asks curiously.

"Of course. I had complete faith in you."

Those starry eyes of his twinkle brightly as he smirks at you, and the realization hits you like a truck. Now you know why Matthew's mannerisms have been so familiar! Because you've seen them before, and you're seeing them now. Morpheus thrives off of your compliments. How...interesting, and a theory that you need to test out immediately.

"I'm really proud of you, y'know." His lips turn upwards into something that's almost a smile, so you continue. "I know how hard this was for you, how much you worried, and you handled it beautifully."

The beautiful flowers surrounding you burst into the air, their petals falling down around you in the multitudes. You start to laugh, but Morpheus doesn't let you make another sound, instead ducking down (from his markedly taller height, mind you) to kiss you. Though you're caught off-guard, you quickly get with the program and return his affections.

"I would like to celebrate with you." He says before moving his lips to your ear, even though nobody around can hear him whisper, "In my chambers."

You pretend to think for a moment, because a moment's all you can spare. "I'm certainly not opposed to such plans."

He pulls you to him in a way that suggests you didn't really get a choice otherwise and grabs his sand from his robes. You press your lips together to hide your smile and happily hold onto him. Oh, you are so using this to your advantage from now on.

#morpheus x reader #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless imagine #morpheus imagine #is this good? really not sure

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joaofelix70 · 1 year ago

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A CRESCENT LOVE, AN EPHEMERAL PASSION | joão félix sequeira.

summary: you and joão spent all the summer together. you even met his friends and brother. could this be the beginning of a crescent love or just an ephemeral passion? his friendship with his ex would ruin everything between the two of you?

author's notes: after the win against luxemburgo, where portugal national team set the record of goals, his ex just posted "mysterious" pics with floki, his dog. joão was also there, almost hidden, actually. we all know she always does it, never assuming anything maturely, but instigating the frustration of the fans who care about him and to make every gossip website and tv show talk about it, just like a teenager who wants attention would act. basically, this inspired me. i really don't hate anyone, by the way. even thought influencers who don't spread any impactful content and nepobabies with no talent and only standard beauty annoys me, i can't lie.

warnings: bad language (of course it's joão saying the words), chaotically humorous almost all the time, but also involving sadness and angst. implicit sex reference, i guess? maybe?

what do you feel when you hear my name? shame? embarrassment?

does your brain even bring you any sign or memory involving me?

do you ever think about me?

are your moments with her comparable to ours?

can we talk? can we communicate?

is it my fault? do you miss me?

your head was drunk for the whirlwinds of questions that piled up and get bigger, like waves. they seemed to be drowning you. the glowing light and peace of your woody brown gaze gives you triggers. his smile remains embedded, in your heart, an eternal home. the numbness and wrapping of his lips, every inch of his tanned skin and firm muscles being appreciated and admired by you. his hair was shiny, soft and full by the salty waters of the european beaches: always caressed for you. his laughs at you giving him the most silly and lazy hairstyles, with you pretending to be a professional who was filming your customer to tiktok.

“do that pose! yes, your hand against your face! now, give me that playboy eye. just like that! you’re doing amazing, sweetie!”

when you get carried away in the game ‘who am i?’ and tried so hard doing the mimes, jumping excitedly and demonstrating your animation in a loud tone, before covering your own mouth and feigning naturalness, just to repeat the same instant acts.

when you made joão watch your random dances as soon as you won at uno and he’d tell how hilarious you were. when you cooked your regional foods and desserts for félix, his brother who’s hugo, alex — the photographer — diogo from the movemind channel and all of his friends. when he used to hold your face, rest his touch on your waist and thighs. tracing his fingerprints across your scalp, reveling in the ethereal smell of your hair, laying his lips against your entire face and stature, exalting you completely: from your ears, neck, collarbone, belly, legs and even your feet. being a gentleman, joão opened the car door for you, he intertwined the hands of you both in every single opportunity and helped you eat: having the cutlery for you to open your mouth and giving you support with the napkin. when you did his goal celebration. when the two of you invented a handshake, along with various inside jokes. for example, when joão posted many videos of him swimming and playing in the ocean.

“hey, flounder! ‘the little mermaid’? i loved it!”

“why am i not your ariel, tho?”

“why you didn’t say you’d prefer to be eric of the real life?”

“give me some respect, i’m the protagonist of this shit!”

“slay, king!”

you remember singing the songs that played in his car in the most chaotic way, using his hand as a microphone and taking the opportunity to kiss all over it and his fancy bracelets. you offered him affection biting his skin and enjoyed acting like his personal masseuse. you called him ‘my prince of portugal’.

“please, don’t become a stranger.” your last words, face to face. the intensity of the summer weeks of vacation, which were already ending, consuming you.

“you know i’d never do that. look, you’re such a unique person, and even though we’re gonna go back to our busy routines, i still wanna keep you in my life. i still wanna be that close to you.” joão declared and they both found comfort in each other’s arms. his perfume granted the beg leave and penetrated your lungs, giving you life. you felt like you shouldn’t let it go, but there was nothing else to accomplish. you were single, so was he. you ask yourself if everything would be different. maybe if you had tried your lips once again: asking him to give a chance to them, to have more. to not leave what you went through, together, in the box of forgotten memories. would that really suffice, though?

"it's obvious that you’d choose the blonde influencer with light eyes, slender body and member of a rich family. the one who was with a formula 1 racer days before she went to meet you. before you just disappear from my life, without saying anything. the one that doesn't show an ounce of authenticity and, of course, affective responsibility. who am i in comparison to her?! right, joão?" your voice flashed the disparity of fragility and indignation, trembling hands clutching the phone.

“y/n, listen to me. you’d never understand it, okay? you’re not inside this relationship, me and her are. you’re seeing it from the outside, just like everyone else. yeah, she was hanging out and making out with other people. so was i with you. but then, some things changed.” john seemed to be busy. echoes of other people's voices ran through the call.

“nothing has happened between us since the vacation, joão. what doesn’t make sense because i thought you were liking me. i only think about you!” you vented out and received silence. his answers tried to become existent and complete. he stammered, the audible sound of his familiar backwards cap being pulled off and his honey-colored hair being rubbed against his own fingerprints.

“do you think i don’t like you? holy shit, y/n. i even thought we could have so much more. a future together and everything. i think about you and i swear in the name of my family, and i already said that they mean the fucking world to me. the thing is: there’s something that still keep me going back to her. i don’t know if it’s because i’m with her since i was younger, but…”

“joão, this is emotional dependence. i’m sorry to tell you this, however, it’s necessary. i care about you. you’re so internally and externally beautiful, precious, successful and talented. you deserve better!” you interrupted him, stepping back and forth.

“y/n, i love her. when i looked at you…”

“she’s all that you see, right?”

“hm… yeah…” félix found himself in a bind. paralyzed, he remained without an answer for a while. the coldness of the material of his gold necklace touches his tongue: a way to combat the nervousness that generates the gnawed nails.

“my toxic behavior wants to help and fix you so badly, but i know i can’t get more involved than that. i’m not the one for you.” the words reproduced by yourself reinforced the fragmentation of your heart.

“j, baby… are you coming or not? i’m waiting for you, floki is waiting for his dad!” you heard that female voice call to him and realized the way that just this factor made his breathing destabilize.

“i think this is officially the end of whatever we had, joão. goodbye!” your voice was unstable and he realized it: sharp as deep, transparent and suffocating waters.

“i wish you the best, y/n. i apologize for not being what you expected, what you needed, and…”

“caralho, joão! que merda! (holy fuck, joão! what the hell?). come on, give me your phone!” the girl began to rant. her heels against the floor were exclamatory. she was running out of patience.

the call is over. again, you were superimposed on the ocean of blazing tears. you tried to convince yourself that everything went the way it was supposed to be.

but was it for real?

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bucknastysbabe · 11 months ago

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Rating: Explicit

Tags: Modern!AU, Pseudo-Incest, hightowgaryen reader, stepdad Criston, sexual tension, infidelity, family holiday shenanigans, Daeron erasure? Not in my house, age gap undisclosed but she’s above 18, pnv!sex, ye olde $qu1rt, the father who stepped up amirite, Aegon Is Tired, daddy kink, happy holidays!

A/N: totally didn’t beta but just went back over to fix some things

The addition of Criston to your household wasn’t necessarily a big change. He’d always been around, a family friend, dutiful guard, more of a father since your own was sickly and preferred his first child and her offspring. The man was there for most of the hardest moments of life, him and grandpa stepping in. He handled the boys, Otto a doting grandparent for you and Helaena. Alicent always just tried her best, neurotic as she may be.

They were married by the time you and two of your siblings had moved out. Aegon had been back home, fresh outta treatment and raw. Daeron was a junior in highschool. It seemed to be a marriage of convenience after your father died. Someone to support and guide the boys with fatherly love, keep things in array.

The wedding was quick and short, no hub-bub, no Rhaenyra or her family. A sharp snub but…what was new?

You hadn’t been home since he moved in. The ancestral home was monstrous, you wouldn’t have to see anyone if you so desired. But holidays were here and your finals were over. A long flight from your study abroad program in Yi-Ti’s capital would be rather horrid. While you centered on foreign affairs, Helaena was studying entomology and Aemond soon to be a forensic medical examiner.

There was always pressure to be the best— Aegon cracked wide open his freshman year. The rest of you had your own little chips and hairline fractures. Maybe not Daeron, the cheerful fellow. He was rapidly advancing to be on a professional football team at the mere age of 17.

You didn’t expect what it would be like at home for the Feast Day of the Father. Supposedly a cheery time, all the servants decorating the manor with garlands and shiny lights, a large ironwood in the foyer. Blue winter roses bloomed and bowls of smokeberry sat around. You couldn’t make it for the Harvest Festival as Yi-Ti didn’t celebrate that, luckily you were now on a school break. The memories of the past Feast Day were more unpleasant than anything.

Criston was to pick you up from the Airport outside of King’s Landing. You felt strange. He was a bit distant with you. Helaena too, but Aemond and Otto seemed to be the only ones she would open up with. Sometimes with you, mainly about her bugs.

You’d always held a childish affection for Criston. A shiver of embarrassment and goosebumps erupted on your arms at a memory. You were young, thirteen maybe? You’d gotten your period and the beginning of breasts. It was the Maiden’s day and you wore the prettiest white dress, hair and makeup done. Batting your eyes and blushing when Cole complimented, “A proper young lady, you look beautiful.”

You seethed with jealousy the rest of the evening, the Dornishman surrounded by maidens, holding young Daeron in his lap. Sharing a dance with Alicent and little Baela. Until a shadow loomed and his lips curled as he asked gently, “C’mon princess, you get a dance too.” You laid your head against his chest, pretending the dear family friend was your boyfriend.

Then it was over and that was that. Criston distanced himself further. Thinking about how you pressed yourself to his bigger body made you pinch the bridge of your nose. Now he was married to your mother. Hopefully Cole didn’t remember. Aegon sure had a field day, the prat.

You nodded off for the long flight, stopping over in Tyrosh before the arrival in King’s Landing. The familiar city line and bay gave a sense of nostalgia. The Red Keep no longer belonged to any royals so the Targaryen’s relocated to Summerhall and Dragonstone. Summerhall being Alicent’s home, while your half-sister lived on Dragonstone.

Jet lag was already setting in. Yi-Ti was many time zones ahead of Westeros. Grabbing your carry-on and other trunk of clothes and gifts you went to the usual terminal. As you hunched standing around others, shivering in the chilly air, a sleek SUV pulled up.

Just in time, some royal fanatics were beginning to notice a Princess in the midst. Criston ushered you into the car, quickly packing away the bags. Once climbing into the automobile he hummed, “Pack rocks in there? Good to see you princess, you look well.”

“Yi-Ti has wondrous gifts, I figured I would get some for the family. How’s Aegon?” The gold band around his left hand shone against the street lights. Criston’s mouth twitched, thinking over his words. He deadpanned, “Slow. He goes to meetings and such but is not having a good time at home. Alicent won’t let him back to school until he gets a year of sobriety. He’s working.”

You snorted, “Aegon, working? Wow.”

Criston rolled his eyes, offering a lopsided smirk. Your stomach fluttered a bit. He drummed on the steering wheel, questioning, “How is it out in Yin?” The fact he even knew the capital made you smile. You couldn’t help but gush, “Oh if I didn’t study the customs before I would’ve been laughed out. They’re a very complex society. I’m now fluent since living there. Very kind people, although a bit stingy.”

Criston let you babble about your foreign excursion, occasionally asking a question. He’d always been recognized as a good listener. Somewhere in your detailing of the history and the issues with Leng— sleep came back. Summerhall wasn’t a short distance.

The vague memory of being carried and shushed by pretty lips and a low timbre accompanied your strange dreams. You’d slumber deeply for the rest of the night.

Apparently morning too, jerking up at 2PM to speed shower off the airport grime and make yourself presentable for the family. Hustling down the stairs the smell of something cooking hit your senses— you didn’t realize how hungry you were.

Daeron was hovering in the kitchen while Criston cooked up some sort of stir fry, looking domestically lovely. Seven above, you needed to stop. Daeron did a double take and hugged you with a cheer, lanky arms holding suprising strength.

“Sister! I’m so glad you could make it, about damn time!” You hugged the baby of the family tightly, chuckling, “You try living across the world, jeez let me down! Daeron! I swear you grow a foot every time I see you.” Criston peered back to smile before returning to the task at hand.

You eyed your baby brother, chiding, “Looking ever the athlete. What are they pumping you with? HGH?”

He scoffed and flexed his legs, “No, simply protein shakes and plenty of exercise. Braavos FC is showing interest but mother wants me to go to school.”

“Do what you want Dare, not like everyone gets the chance to go professional,” you looked around, ”where is everyone by the way?”

Criston interrupted, “Aegon will roust eventually, your mother is working, Aemond in the library, and I think Hel is in the gardens with Otto. They’ll come around, I’m almost done- why don’t you two sit down I’ll fix some plates.”

The pair of you shrugged and did so, chattering about this and that. Aegon shuffled in, looking much healthier, but hair a mess and his clothes ill-fitting. He grumbled, pulling down a tight jumper, “I know I’m fat- piss off sis.”

“Well hello to you too big brother,” you laughed.

He huffed and hugged your seated form, a rare gesture from Aeg. He grabbed a soda and plopped down, yawning. Propping a chubby cheek on his hand, he complained about being out in the middle of nowhere and the irritable retail job he had.

Daeron began to chuckle. Aegon glared his way, mouthing something. You interjected, “What am I missing here?” Aemond’s stern voice filled the awkward silence, “Dear Aegon works at a lingerie store.”

“Women’s intimate apparel,” Aegon droned.

You guffawed, totally not surprised, the damn hound. Aeg muttered, “It’s more returns and angry old ladies asking about hosiery than a babe. Enough about me. Criston you done yet?”

Aemond, ever the prick, “Hope you made extra.”

Criston was in fact done now, placing the big bowl in the middle of the table, returning with some sauces and a side of Leng slaw. You blushed a bit and asked, “A street favorite in Yin, make this for me Criston?” All shades of purple eyes turned to the step-father.

His own olive cheeks darkened and he waved it off, “Just in case you missed the place.”

Lunch was eaten amicably besides Aegon and Daeron fighting over the last servings. To which Aemond snatched to bowl up for Otto and Helaena, informing Aegon he needs a diet. The eldest bristled, “I can’t help I’m always craving shit! I’m clean and sober, be happy about that!”

Things were escalating before Criston shut down the argument, dismissing everyone. You patted the dismal Aegon and softly uttered, “I’m proud of you Aeg.” He offered a brisk smile and stomped outside to light up a cigarette. You took the task of helping your step-father clean up.

It was a bit quiet, water running and dishes clanking. You almost bit your cheek bloody before blurting, “How has it been for you? A big adjustment, marrying into a bunch of loons.” He stared down at his hands scrubbing the plate, lips working around a response again.

“It’s alright. Quiet. Formal. Nothing new I suppose. I didn’t think I’d enjoy all of you back like I did. Brings some life around the place besides Alicent being a workaholic and Aegon moping. I’m a glorified house-husband.”

His dark eyes grew wide. Criston spluttered, “I- I don’t know why I said that. Father forgive me, that was rude.” His calloused hands scrubbed harder at the plate until you thought he might break it.

Grabbing a strong wrist, he jerked his pretty face to your own, panic poorly hidden. You stroked the softer skin on the inside of his wrist and murmured softly, “I know how mom gets. Your secret is safe with me.” You padded away, the man seeming stunned.

You’d go outside to catch some air, feeling a bit lightheaded and guilty getting in your step-father’s space like that. His little admittance was a surprise yet not. Criston was career military, before becoming the head of Royal Guard under Viserys. Rhaenyra dismissed him upon her assent and then he soon married mother.

You had expected less of a strain between the two, they had an obvious lack of chemistry, chaste kisses. Your mother picked up a lot of royal duties still, off working and traveling. Leaving poor Cole alone. Once again you needed to stop. Thoughts began to slip between the cracks.

Aegon was out with his sobriety sponsor for the night. The wine flowed while he was gone. You’d finally gotten hugs and warm welcomes from Hel, Grandpa, and Mom. It was just family, smiling and giddy off the taste testing mother ordered. Even young Daeron was giggly and pink cheeked.

Aemond indulged slightly— the most you got was a looser tongue. Everyone shared stories around the crackling fire, laughing. Your own head was pleasantly swimmy, nestled next to your older sister. She seemed to be in the present for now.

Alicent and Criston shared the love seat, his long arm around around her perfectly postured shoulders. You kept making eye contact with him, blushing and looking away. Why was he staring? You launched into a story about Aegon trying to drunkenly ride a mule at the Crownlands Fair.

That seemed to release a barrage of other Aegon tales, making your sides hurt with laughter. Even a couple of Aemond’s sharp witted barbs at the few full Targaryen gatherings were discussed. The middle brother smirked and snorted, rolling his good eye.

It went on until everyone was either sleepy or borderline too drunk to continue. Your heart felt full, escorting Daeron’s drunk self back to his room. He mumbled with a goofy grin, “I love when you all come home, so much happier.” Tucking him in and grabbing a water out of his mini fridge, you made the teen swallow.

“What do you mean?”

“I dunno’ Aeg’s cranky, mom’s always gone,” he stopped and poorly whispered with wide eyes, “Mom and Criston don’t sleep in the same room.” Patting your brother on the head you gently scolded, “Don’t repeat that, take your meds and drink some water, night night Dare. Love you.”

“Love youuuuu, sorrryyyy.”

Quietly exiting his room you turned down the drafty hallway to meet the familiar dark pools of Criston’s eyes. He stared intensely, you peering back, an unknown force stalling you two. Eventually you padded to him, a little wobbly from the wine. He wasn’t quite sober either, faint Dornish accent lilting his voice toward the end of the night.

He licked his lips, still quiet. You peered upwards, the man towering over you this close. Your heart was beating rapidly, frantic feelings arising after Daeron’s admission. You whispered, “How long?”

He knew, blowing out a sigh.

“Eight months or so. I love your mother, alright dear?” His tone was wavering, weak, as if he was convincing himself. You stepped closer, enough to smell the sweet red on his carved lips. He inhaled sharply, hands balling at his sides.

“Why were you staring at me all night?”

“I could ask the same.”

He looked away, running a big hand through dark curls. Criston muttered, more to himself, “I can’t, not again.” Nodding in affirmation you stated, “You’re right, this is wrong. Good night Criston.” Pain bloomed in your chest turning away. Taking two strides a warm hand tugged your wrist, you biting back a squeak as the man maneuvered you into the wall.

He breathed, “We’re drunk. What is it with you Targaryens?” His warm forehead pressed against your own, hands secured around your waist. A whimper bubbled up from your throat, his warm body caging you in, impossibly toned thigh slotted between your own.

“Just kiss me, I’ve dreamt about this since I was thirteen.”

He groaned, seizing your waiting lips, gently kissing in measured movements. You arched into his hard frame, arms wrapping up around broad shoulders, fingers tickling at brown curls. Criston tilted his head, feeling his way in with sensual little laps. Opening for the elder you met his probing tongue, dancing slowly together as your lips smacked.

His huge hands came down to your ass, slipping under the skirt to hoist you further onto his hard thigh. You mewled again, Criston shushing with another kiss. He whispered into your ear, “Be quiet, hm? Bad enough as is.”

He returned to taking your mouth, quite enjoying the sloppy kisses. You shivered and he eagerly swallowed any noises, dragging your cunt across his thigh easily, aided by your bucking hips. The friction against your clit was sending you into a tizzy. Criston had to reluctantly place his hand over your mouth to muffle helpless whimpers.

He chuckled, “You sound so pretty, lovely, gods.” Instead he laid plush kisses down your sensitive neck and collarbones, humming in delight. You were sweating and drooling, climax quickly reaching an apex, wetness smearing all over Cole’s thigh.

Chest heaving and thighs twitching he ordered, “Now, come my lovely, come for your step-father.” Step-father? You gasped behind his palm, shivering and stiffening as your overstimulated pussy soaked through thin panties onto Criston’s thigh. He eased you down, bright teeth glinting in the low light.

You felt tears welling up, wiping at them aggressively. Nothing new, stepping on a bug made you cry. Certainly nothing to do with never having this again. No. The Dornishman seemed concerned, dark brows pinching.

“C’mon, I’ll walk you back,” he more or less ordered, hoisting you up bridal style. You sniffled, “Sorry, always do that after a good orgasm.” He scoffed, “Sure sweet girl. I’ll take care of you, no tears. Not like anyone pays attention, heads so far into their own asses.”

He gently placed you down, helping aid the still tipsy debacle of undressing and changing. A large shirt and panties would do. You climbed ungracefully into the bed, snuggling under the thick covers. Criston sat on the end of the bed, palm on your ankle.

“Are you leaving?”

He gave a sad smile, “I’m afraid so. I’m just down the hall.”

“Would you do this sober?”

He squeezed your leg, voice lowering, “It would’ve happened before you headed off I think. No one has paid me much attention in a while. You always seemed to idolize me, now I’m an old man fucking around with the girl he watched grow up.”

“I don’t care. When mom leaves again I want to fuck you.”

Criston rolled his eyes, “Now you’re drunk talking.”

“I mean it. I want you to fuck me. What they don’t know doesn’t hurt. Make me cum on your cock.”

Criston groaned, “Stop it or I’ll take you right now little princess. We’ll see.”

It wasn’t long before the elder man had you bent over his bed, strong hips snapping into your weeping pussy. One hand pushed your back into an arch, the other pinching your sensitive nub. You slobbered and bit into the pillow, rubbing your tits into the rough fabric of the bed.

He panted, “Gorgeous girl, sucking me in, you wanted this huh?”

The rest of the family was out for lunch. You feigned illness, Criston offering to watch. No one batted an eye. Wasn’t long before he picked you up and snarled his intentions.

He smacked your ass, you keening, “Yesss- fuck yes— don’t stop! M’gonna come!”

Then tanned man plastered himself to your tinier frame, biting gently on your shoulder, muttering dirty little secrets. He roughly grabbed your jaw to get at your lips, fingers still maddeningly swirling around your engorged bud. He rasped, desperation tinging his tone, “Me too, mmfuckk, my perfect princess, gods!”

He swallowed up your wailing cry, body covering your own, like the man would envelop you if he could. He jerked your hips a weird way, you choking on your spit as his cock jammed into that sensitive ridged patch. Whining his name, heat and a strange sensation lit up between your legs, gushing helplessly onto the bed and the man’s cock.

Criston sounded like he’d died, groaning raggedly, cumming into his condom with a few more sloppy pumps, thighs trembling too. You fell forward, your step-father rolling right beside, chest quickly rising and falling. He managed, “I made you squirt.”

You nodded jerkily, moving weak limbs to curl into his perfect body. “That you did, daddy,” came the breathless reply. He grinned like a boy, smacking your thigh playfully, dark eyes sparkling. Criston laughed, “You need to watch yourself or I’ll eat your pretty cunt until you learn to watch your mouth.”

Stretching lazily you sighed, “That sounds like a good idea to me. I guess it’s good I’ll be hobbling around, they won’t realize I’ve had the daylights fucked out of me.” Criston twisted to give you a peck on the cheek, getting up to dispose of the condom. He called back, “Perfect, I love nursemaid duty.”

#hotd fanfic #hotd smut #criston cole x reader #modern au

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lyxurious · 1 year ago

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So you like Luo Yunxi: A drama recommendation list

So you watched "Till the End of the Moon", and all you got is heartbreak, brainworms, and a shiny new lowkey or highkey obsession with Luo Yunxi (perhaps other people from the amazing cast too, but we're focusing on him here)? You want to see more of him, but you don't know where to start? Fear not, for this list is here to hopefully help you out with that.

Here be some (non-spoilery, but might mention if it generally ends well or not) spark notes on all his past dramas with him in the first male lead role, that are currently available with English subs (+ 2 very important supporting roles + 1 bonus). In chronological order, from most to least recent!

Light Chaser Rescue

Type: Modern, rescue missions, human drama, romance

Episodes: 40

Available at: WeTv, YouTube, viki

What's the deal? Jaded and cynical lawyer meets cute and icy doctor lady who is not here for his bs, and discovers the joys of love and most importantly, volunteer rescue work.

On the one hand: Detailed and extremely realistic scenes of all sorts of natural disasters happening. The production team collaborated with a real life team where anyone can volunteer and get training as a rescuer. They built a wholeass glacier for the final episodes and you could never tell it's fake looking at it even on HD. The side characters are mostly likeable (which is something you can't say for every drama), although flawed and human. FL is a cool-headed independent grownup woman who bottles up her feelings like a fine vintage.

On the other: The pacing is rather choppy and makes it feel like they planned out the disaster scenes/rescue missions first and everything else was added later to link said missions together and give the characters stuff to do in between. Since this is a drama and they have a limited cast, the team's abilities are a bit exaggerated at times (they turn up for everything that happens anywhere, doctor FL is a swiss army knife of specialties). Ending feels a bit abrupt.

Watch it if: You enjoy seeing Luo Yunxi suffer physically, you like stories with ordinary people being heroes while also remaining very much ordinary people.

Lie to Love

Type: Modern, romance, office, suspense

Episodes: 32

Available at: WeTV, YouTube

What's the deal? Local woman is convinced her one night stand during a mountain hike killed her father, so she returns after 2 years to go undercover in male nerdy Paris Hilton protagonist's glitzy hotel business and cancel his entire existence. Spoiler alert (but not really because this is actually not even the first 6 eps): he is a good guy and didn't do it and they fall in love and together they set out to uncover the truth and take down his shady uncle.

On the one hand: Objectively speaking, the plot for this is on the better side for a drama of its type. It's got suspense, it's got plot twists, it's got fluff, it's got drama, it's got more communication between the main CP than one would expect on a regular day, misunderstandings don't last long, the nice side characters are likeable, and 2nd ML is doing an incredible job at being a 2-faced creep. LYX is serving many a great business wear look in the 2nd half especially.

On the other: The FL is Cheng Xiao. A severely miscast Cheng Xiao in a role that is core in the plot and on paper, challenging. For fans, winner winner chicken dinner. For the rest of us, it's up to each viewer to decide if overall as a drama, the points in the above section are strong enough to balance this casting out.

Watch it if: You have a thing for men in suits and glasses (that makes two of us), you prefer ignoring the FL in dramas so you can make elaborate headcanons shipping the ML with the psycho stalker 2nd ML or the goofy rockstar 3rd ML instead.

Broker

Type: Modern, office, medical research, suspense, romance

Episodes: 42

Available at: YouTube, viki

What's the deal? Spy is ordered to infiltrate a lab and lowkey honey trap his way into stealing female scientist's multi-million research, is uno reverse carded when she fixes his broken heart and trust in humanity.

On the one hand: The rare case where he is a morally grey character in a modern setting. The other rare case where he gets to do action sequences in a modern setting. There's a shower sex scene (sit down, implied and partially dressed of course, this is still a cdrama), and one where he gets whipped on a table. There is a very badass sidekick girl who is just as broken as him if not worse, and very shippable with the FL's perky and spoiled little sister.

On the other: The premise is cool but sadly, there's way more filler office drama (in the lab) and 2nd CP being a frustrating snoozefest than spy activities. It's a drama that was held up for a long while in censorship limbo, and a considerable chunk of the ML's backstory and scenes were left in the editing room, which unfortunately throws the show off balance by a lot.

Watch it if: You are a diehard Luo Yunxi, Victoria Song or Xu Kaicheng completionist (in which case you have permission to come cry on my shoulder), you find yourself trapped in a cave, the rescue team is 48 hours away, and the only thing in there with you is a device that has no other data on it but all 42 episodes of Broker.

Love is Sweet

Type: Modern, romance, office

Episodes: 36

Available at: iQiyi, YouTube, amazon prime

What's the deal? Local woman applies for a job in huge investment banking company where she runs into her childhood friend -slash- nemesis after 10 years, they both gradually discover time makes people grow and occasionally fall deeply, ridiculously in love.

On the one hand: Sugar and fun and shoujo manga tropes aplenty! God tier CP chemistry! Some of the most epic makeouts to ever slip under the nose of the review committees. Characters that have actual profound growth under the "every romcom ever" cheeky banter. 2nd ML also offers shirtlessness and angsty backstory if you cannot live without those. There's even an adorable and very plot-relevant corgi!

On the other: The tremendous main CP chemistry has made this drama the exception for many who otherwise avoid both modern dramas and romcoms, but if that doesn't carry the show for you, I'm afraid there's not much else to see here. The 2nd CP is fuel for the "2nd CPs are annoying and waste screentime" complaint fire. (although, protip: even on the first watch you can probably skip their scenes without missing anything of value). The tear allergy is a bit of a ridiculous premise, but it's a real thing (who knew!), and it's not addressed much after a point.

Watch it if: You need something sweet and cute to fill the gaping hole Till The End of the Moon left in your chest, you love the tsundere overbearing CEO archetype but you also prefer it when he is more than a dry irredeemable asshole, you love romcoms because you enjoy both the "will they won't they" and the cute "we're an item now" domesticity.

And The Winner is Love

Type: Costume, wuxia, romance

Episodes: 48

Available at: iQiyi, YouTube

What's the deal? Dashing, elegant, fan-wielding dreamboat young master falls in love with girlie burdened with the heavy responsibility of leading a sect with bad rep and protecting a very powerful and thus dangerous cultivation manual. Supposedly.

On the one hand: Luo Yunxi looks like this:

for the whole drama. Every novel writer who ever wrote about a flirty and sophisticated young master whose beauty made flowers bloom along his path and women as well as men fell in love with him at first sight and all that purple prose-y stuff, has actually written about Luo Yunxi as Shangguan Tou whether they were aware of it or not. He is The Archetype and his popularity among bilibili fmv editors is proof. There's some great wire work in the first half. The soundtrack is pretty solid.

On the other: If you're looking for plot, run away and don't look back. I've watched the whole thing and I could not tell you how the story goes. I went in with a "idc about plot, i just want to look at Luo Yunxi in costume for 40 hours" mentality and I still struggled, make of that what you will. Chen Yuqi is the FL, saddled with a poorly written role and a choice of VA who arguably wasn't the best fit for her or the role. Chemistry is passable depending on your standards, but for most of the 2nd half of the drama it takes a nosedive together with the plot. Luo Yunxi got injured while filming this so they had to cut action scenes by a lot, so in the last 3rd or so it's wuxia without the wuxia. It's the only recent case where he also had to be dubbed (covid didn't allow him to get in the studio and do it himself, as he usually does).

Watch it if: You are a yumejoshi and need material to self-insert into a costume drama FL's position, you are more determined to watch lyx look pretty in costume, all else be damned, than Samwise Gamgee was determined to make sure Frodo throws the One Ring in the flames of Mount Doom.

Princess Silver

Type: Costume, court drama, romance, some wuxia elements

Episodes: 58

Available at: YouTube, viki

What's the deal? Princess RongLe wakes up one day with amnesia (no, hear me out) to the news that she is to be sent to another kingdom and marry a prince she's never met for political alliance reasons (no, hear me out!). There, she is faced with unexpected revelations and finds herself looking for the truth while she gets embroiled with the aforementioned haughty prince, a shady general, and her (sometimes a bit too?) caring and overprotective brother.

On the one hand: (mild spoiler alert?) His character ends up stealing the show. FL can act and has good relationships with other female characters (arguably better than with any man in this, even in the chemistry department). Story and plot are quite decent. It's one of those rare cdramas that builds up as it goes instead of deflating in the last stretch.

On the other: LYX is 3rd ML in this, so if he's your main motivation to watch, be prepared for limited screentime, especially in the 2nd half of the drama (until the final 8-10 episodes where it's all about). If you're not into the FL with either 1st or 2nd ML, the first half can be a drag, like, personally I started appreciating this drama for real after episode 25-30.

Watch it if: You are patient, you like getting emotionally sucker-punched, you love a good, earthshaking final plot twist.

Ashes of Love

Type: Costume, xianxia

Episodes: 63 (or 60, depending on the version, content is the same either way though)

Available at: Netflix, YouTube, viki, WeTV, amazon prime

What's the deal? Bottom of the food chain grape fairy who was deprived of the ability to feel romantic love and her life was honestly better and carefree like that, trips and falls into a love triangle with overconfident golden boy Heavenly Prince Phoenix, and his older brother, abused wallflower Heavenly Prince Dragon. Things go very great and not complicated at all from there. :))

On the one hand: Xianxia 101, it hits all the items on the checklist. The lavish costumes, the sprawling sets and world building, the entanglement over multiple lives, mortal arc, immortal arc, demon realm arc. CG that still holds up well for the genre 5 years later. The epic and emotional OST (someone has yet to surpass Sa Ding Ding's 左手指月 for the title of "best cdrama ED song", i don't make the rules). Arguably, The most iconic 2nd ML in a cdrama, responsible for a significant chunk of its long-lasting chokehold on the audience. Even if you've never seen the drama, if you're in the asian media adjacent internet, you've most likely seen this:

On the other: Xianxia 101, a double-sided coin. All the clichés are here, and if you're not here for them you get aboard the struggle bus. The show's views on romantic feelings can be a bit, let's say, old fashioned, even for the genre's standards. If you're not into the main CP, you're in for an uphill battle of frustration. If you're Team Runyu prepare to hate almost everyone for there is no justice in this land. (In AoL one is either Team Runyu or Team Xu Feng, no middle ground, and if you're reading this, especially because you liked lyx as Tantai Jin, I don't see how you could end up Team Xu Feng, so I'm gonna run with this assumption). (in theory you can also be Team No One, but in practice if you're that, sitting through this entire drama must have been as fun as having a tooth pulled out with no anesthesia)

Watch it if: if you're any degree of a lyx fan, period. Runyu is a mandatory class.

Children's Hospital Pediatrician

Type: Modern, medical, romance

Episodes: 42

Available at: YouTube

What's the deal? Aspiring surgeon -slash- frustrating disaster girl makes a huge blunder on her first day of her hospital residency, and can only stay as a pediatrician. She hates it and makes her literal saint of a secret husband's life miserable. We watch as she gets to grow as a person to the detriment of everyone else's mental health. Secondary cast has subplots of various dating entanglements.

On the one hand: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, hmmm..... well... there's a scene where lyx takes off his shirt for a physical exam, if that's a bonus (ep40, 27:13-28:05, you're welcome)? Queen Zheng Li is in it? I am scraping the bottom of the barrel here.

On the other: It's way too long for absolutely no reason, the FL is the most frustrating and irrational baby I've ever seen (which is by no means a low bar), 90% of characters who are not the FL get their development butchered to make her look better, 2/3rds of the cast are incompetent at acting and the other 1/3rd is being wasted in this mess. I am trying to be as objective I can in these, but I've got nothing for this one.

Watch it if: You have chronically low blood pressure that no medication can fix, you have watched literally everything else on the list and having a manic episode where you will chew on the walls if you don't look at Luo Yunxi's face in something you have never seen before, you want to watch some other mid drama, so you want to watch something worse first in order to appreciate the other drama more.

Fox in the Screen

Type: Costume, xianxia

Episodes: 22

Available at: YouTube, viki, amazon prime (as The Screen Foxes)

What's the deal? Orphan girl wins by drunken mistake a magical screen that houses 3 fox demon guys, they help her with her screen shop and also with crossdressing to pass the exam for the position of palace screen painter. She earns a grumpy boyfriend with a tragic past in the meanwhile.

On the one hand: It's short and goes fast, and in all honesty, considering it was made on a budget of 3 paperclips and a piece of gum, the story is much more concise and watchable than I, at least, personally expected. You get to witness the caterpillar stage of lyx on this path to guzhuang drama godhood. If you're one for tragic love stories there is one hiding under the DIY production. White Fox and the prince are a solid ship.

On the other: It is very much made on the aforementioned budget of 3 paperclips and a piece of gum, and it very much shows. Everything is rough, the costumes, the makeup, the editing, the acting for the most part. Having even half an expectation is the wrong way to approach this drama.

Watch it if: you have the heart of a mother watching her kids at the school play and admiring what a great job they are doing or if you are like Marie Kondo and love mess in an affectionate way.

Bonus: PhantaCity

youtube

PhantaCity was a tv show back in 2018, whose concept was making short plays and having actors perform them live in a single, do or die take for a studio audience. Luo Yunxi and Wu Jinyan, both with a background in ballet, are paired up in a short musical, acting as the hands of a newly repaired clock. If you ever wanted to see him dance, sing and act all in one thing, don't sleep on this. It's short and beautiful, and the official upload embedded above is subbed in English!

#luo yunxi #drama recs #till the end of the moon #(only tangentially related but i will have to use the tag)#light chaser rescue #lie to love #broker #love is sweet #and the winner is love #princess silver #ashes of love #children's hospital pediatrician #fox in the screen #Youtube #i tried to be as objective as possible to not color impressions #i think i deserve a cookie for how civil i was with one of these #iykyk

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starwolfskin · 2 months ago

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Time to share the Pokemon teams I made for Phel and Sett!

I based Phel's team a lot on his weapons, and for Sett I based it more on his colors, style and skins! More details on each below cause I love to explain things-

PHEL'S TEAM:

Severum (Shiny Absol): an easy choice, really. Absol fits his style imo, and the scythe theme + shiny color being red is perfect for Severum

Calibrum (Inteleon): sniper! It just had to be, coloring may not be perfect, but still fits the team's overall style.

Infernum (Chandelure): well, flamethrower. I picked it mostly for the colors and being fire-type, considered Ceruledge for it but its such a sharp pokemon it wouldnt fit the flamethrower theme much...

Crescendum (Shiny Bisharp): the blade shapes work to fit the chakram! I picked the shiny for the coloring as well, the blades are white anyway so it works!

Gravitum (Galarian Slowbro): my fave of the team, it has the poison type AND an arm cannon, plus it fits the weapon theme of slowing down the enemy! It was a match made in heaven, it was my friend's idea but it really is so good I had to adopt it.

Lunari (Umbreon): I missed the opportunity to make it shiny and name it after Phel's ult, as someone pointed out on twitter (rip), but I like it just being a little mascot for him.

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

SETT'S TEAM:

Firecracker (Typhlosion): badger pokemon, there's no wolverine so I'll make do with badgers. Fire type works for him, and the fire on its neck matches Sett's cape with all the fur!

Boss (Incineroar): I mostly think of Sett and relate him to dogs when not taking into account that he is a wolverine/badger, between cat and dog energy I think of him more of a dog, BUT! Incineroar is really good for him due to its style of being a fighter, a big show-off with a soft heart, it just had to be part of the team.

Heartsteel (Shiny Obstagoon): another badger!!!! When I saw the shiny colors matched Heartsteel Sett's hair and eyes I just had to include it on the team. A little rockstar buddy <3

Obsidian (Koraidon): wasn't gonna have legendaries on the teams but I just think it works. Koraidon is the only fighting type I managed to sneak into the team somehow, I wanted it to be his primary type but as it turns out I prefer the team matching in style than picking up random fighting-types to fill the gaps.... anyway, named and designed after Obsidian Dragon Sett!

Truffle & Southpaw (Shiny Lycanrocs): Spirit Blossom Sett has his little badgers, and here I translated it into 2 doggies! I think lycanrocs fit this duality idea well for having different forms, night and day, Akana and Kanmei... And the colors for the regular lycanrocs works too but to fit with the SB badgers I made them shiny!

I had abilities and movesets for all of them but I'm too lazy to detail them rn, just know I thought of them kfdnslgdk

#settphel #sett #aphelios #pokemon au #fanart #league of legends #sws art #I care deeply abt these lil guys #but gravitum is my fav no doubt #also big fan of obsidian #pls enjoy my lil ideas for them #also moon ball for phel is obvious #luxury ball for sett cause he wants the best for his partners #illegal money spent on quality pokeballs

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kadeeesworld · 3 months ago

Text

War of hearts

Chapter 1: MIA

I just wanna say I don’t much like this maybe it’s because it the first chapter or whatever who cares it’s proofread but not really enjoy!

Also it’s my first time writing for COD and I know some people are much better at writing their accents but I’m so American it’s painful so stick with me here!

Okay and trigger warning I suppose: mentions of drugs, and abuse, mentions of a gun and kidnapping, child abuse and rape.

the task force was in the middle of a briefing Laswell breaking down the facts for them as everyone got a vanilla envelope.

“She’s a 16 year old girl highly trained and she’s escaped”

“Escaped? Escaped from where?”

John spoke up his brows furrowing as he took in the little bit of Information they had of the girl.

“A top secret facility buried deep in Russia, they kidnap young girls and boys train them into killing machines and send them out onto battlefields with our soldiers just to have them killed.”

Gaz looked around the table.

“How’s she only 16 though—“

“She was taken at 10 actually from the states right out of her front yard.”

Ghost flips the folder closed and tossed it to the middle of the table

“Bloody fucking ‘el as if we don’t have enough going on now little brats are being snatched?”

“She’s not a brat anymore, shes dangerous and she’s trained almost as well as you guys be careful.”

“She’s just a girl how hard could it be?”

The team suits up and gets ready to get on a flight to the states it was going to be a long 8 hours.

“Remember lads this isn’t a vacation this is a mission treat it as such, we get in we get this girl and we bring er’ home.”

“What if she doesn’t wanna go?”

“She doesn’t have a choice.”

A few days pass.

“Who’d ave thought that finding one bird would be this hard we haven’t heard or seen anything.”

“Speak for yourself mate I’ve heard about this underground club where the company is exceptionally young, think our girl could be there?”

“Wouldn’t doubt it Kate did say she was only 16 and we haven’t found her yet it might be worth a shot.”

After a 45 minute drive to a part of town that seems all to sketchy they walk down into an alleyway and bang on the door the eye hole slides open and a man with a nasty scar over his face peeks through and then open the door and the file in.

Once inside it looks just like a normal club expect for the fact that only girls younger than 19 are the ones on poles and serving drinks it’s disgusting and quite frankly sad.

“This is beyond fucked up.”

“I know lad but it’s part of the job, let’s look around for our girl yeah?”

They break off and find places to sit they make conversation and eavesdrop on discussions all for it to amount to the owner has some of his specialty girls in the back they cost pretty penny though.

With a nod to the others price heads off to the shiny leather door and the back and knocks on it another eye hole opens

“The fuck do you want?”

“We’re er’ about uh your specialty girls.”

The man smiles it’s sick makes your skin crawl.

“Of course gentlemen,” he opens the door wide for them, “right this way.”

They all file in and sit down on a plush leather couch the girls scattered about the room and each of them takes them in

“Aren’t they beauties? I paid good money for them these are the youngest ones I have…”

John speaks up

“Have you got anybody new…maybe someone you’ve got recently I’d prefer…well we’d prefer someone fresh if you don’t mind.”

The man’s face lights up

“Oh of course of course only the finest! For my new guests and you can call me jimmy by the way.”

He holds out his hand to John and John shakes it with a faux smile.

“Price.”

“Right, I’ll be right back.”

Jimmy steps away and walks further into the back room coming back with a girl her hair was matted and he body covered in dark bruises some lighter and in different stages of healing and on her arms multiple needle marks her veins are definitely shot, the icing on the cake though was the way she seemed completely out of it her eyes glazed over looking off into space the looked so hollow…so empty.

“This is the latest that we have, picked her up a while ago I just saw her walking the streets it’s was late one night and I just knew I had to have her. I had to know what she smelled like, what she tasted like and let me say she didn’t disappoint.”

He pulled her down onto the couch by her arm and into his chest petting the back of her head and cooing at her.

The boys looking at her could tell this is the girl they’d been looking for but she certainly wasn’t the trained girl Laswell had spoken of…

Jimmy got up and walked around the large glass table and sat her down on prices Lap.

“She’s good right? You like her, all of you?”

Price looked into her face and a just for a moment sympathy and pain was etched into his face and his eyes told everything he couldn’t say in that moment ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you’

Price turned his head back to Jimmy

“She’s perfect…”

“Great! Now it’s 10 an hour!”

Soap looked almost surprised.

“Dollars?”

Jimmy spoke up with a joker like grin.

“No mohawk man, grand!”

John spoke up again before anybody could make a fool out of themselves.

“That’s fine we’ll take er…”

“Yes, she’s new hasn’t been with anybody but me yet she’s still fresh now if you’d like I could bring you another girl that would drop you down to about 5 grand an hour.”

Jimmy spoke as if they were conducting to most regular business transaction in the world he spoke as if he didn’t just bring out a 17 year old girl to four grown men knowing that if these weren’t good men she’d probably be getting fucked and all other manner of things.

“I don’t think so mate.”

“Mate? Well aren’t you funny sounding, where’d you say you’re from again you don’t sound American…”

“We didn’t say…”

“Right of course…”

Jimmy looked as if he’d just seen a ghost and deep down it’s almost as if he knew he was caught and it was only a matter of time—-

Jimmy hopped up flipping the table towards them and making a run for the leather door they had just come in soap being the closest hopped up after him tackling him to the ground they got what they came for na snow it was time to call it in and get authorities and ambulance here to help the girls.

While gaz and Simon did crowd control of the rest of the club ensuring nobody got away so they would be able the face what they’re down the way they deserve John sat with the girl in his lap he’d wrapped her up in a blanket and he held her.

“You know lovie we don’t even know your name…you didn’t have one on file it was almost as if you’d been completely erased from existence…even when we looked back to when you were taken and reported missing, nothing. It’s almost as if someone wanted to hide you away from the world forever.”

Simon tapped on the door

“Ey’ cap the coppers and medics are here, let’s get her situated yeah?”

Price looked back down at her and sighed

“Yeah.”

About a week passed and finally she’d woken up came out her drugged state and she was clear now the boys didn’t know what that would mean for them but for now all anyone else was worried about was the fact that she wouldn’t eat or drink anything she’s just lay there…

“I really am worried about her gentlemen, she hasn’t spoken a word or eaten a thing she’s losing what little weight she had and she keeps muttering something I can’t understand. I don’t know what’s going on or what was happening to all those girls in there but if this keeps up we’ll have to sedate her and push a tube down her throat to make sure she doesn’t die.”

Well that wasn’t fucking good.

“We’ll see about er’ ma’am thanks for the report.”

“Sure thing.”

The nurse walks back behind her station and the boys face her hospital room and walk in there’s one of the standing table trays over her legs a plate of food on top completely untouched and she eyed them when they walked In like predator does prey once they’ve decided you’re who they want for dinner.

“Hey there…heard you weren’t eating a thing lovie…why’s that?”

Silence.

John just smiled at her and tried again.

“I know it’s shit bird but you’ve got to eat somethin it’s not healthy for you to starve like this, we need you healthy so we can take you back—“

Before he could even finish she up holding her fork to his eye trying To push in further down she’s is pretty strong but without eating for days price easily overpowered her pinning her down to the bed and she lost it. Screaming. Yelling. Kicking and scratching. The nurses rushed in and sedated her and slowly she calmed down her hands gripping onto John shirt before she fell unconscious.

It was hours later when she had woken up and her room was empty she sat up and threw the covers off of her sitting for a moment to gather herself before pushing off the bed and walking over to her window there was a single nurse behind the station and the men seem to have gone.

She quickly slipped out of her room and down a hall but before she could turn a corner soap and gas were standing in front of the vending machine staring at her and she right back at them. Nothing was said she just bolted and had and soap were hot on her tail yelling after her, she cut corners and pushed people down and out of the way to put distance between them and finally she caught a break and slipped under a sheet what was on a gurney after a moment or two she heard them run past but she kept still after a moment or two the gurney started to move and when it finally stopped she was in the basement morgue the room was empty safe for a few black body bags.

She got up off the gurney and started looking around for anything she could use to help her get out of there after a bit of searching she found a clear bag with a name on it something she couldn’t quite understand and inside was a gray hoodie and back jeans and a dirty pair of sneakers a wallet, a bus card and a photo of people she didn’t know must be the family of the deceased.

The hoodie had blood splatters and the so did the sneakers but clothes were clothes and this isn’t fashion week. She found a rag and wet it scrubbing the blood off best she could as to not stand out she didn’t need anyone stopping her asking if she was okay she just needed to get away from the hospital but first she needed a weapon.

She used the stairs to get back on the patient floor looking for anything when she was passing a room she overheard a doctor talking about a patient needing sedation in a nearby room and telling a nurse to get everything ready she watched the nurse ready the tray and take it into room setting it down before she left again to go get gloves with quick precision she slipped into the room grabbing the syringe and getting out after roaming the halls for a bit longer she found exactly what she was looking for. Security and because this is America of course he had a gun.

She backed into a room finding a medical waste bin and sticking her hand in to cover it in blood making sure to not wet her sleeve before pulling it back down and walking out she started up the the harsh hospital lights until her eyes started to burn and water then she walked over to the guard.

“Sir could you help me please my friend she’s a patient here and she passed out in the bathroom I think she hit her head she’s bleeding!”

She pulled him into the nearby women’s bathroom and once he rushed down to the other end with his back turned she stabbed the syringe into his neck pushing all the milky liquid into him before snatching it back out and watching him fall helplessly to the ground once his eyes shut she reached his body grabbing his gun and slipping it into the back of her pants before grabbing his wallet and taking out over $50 bucks shoving it into her pocket before heading back down to the basement it would be the easiest way to get onto the street without walking back through the entire hospital and risk being caught.

Once she got out, an open exit though the ambulance bay she stepped onto the just New York street finally breathing some fresh air but that didn’t last long before she knew it she heard a familiar British accent her eyes snapped open and there they were running after her, she ran right through the oncoming traffic dodging cars and running the sidewalk till she came across a lone man about to get out of his car she pulled the gun from her pants and pointed it at him.

“Woah! Lady what the fuck!”

“Give me your fucking keys and your wallet right now!”

The man tossed his keys and his wallet her feet and move she picked them up she hit him with the butt of her gun and sped off. Once price and the others finally caught up all they saw was her burning rubber hitting a corner and a man with his forehead split open.

“Clever girl she is…”

“Bloody fucking fast too, I don’t even run like that in PT!”

Gas grunted before hunching over his hands on his knees trying to clam his breathing.

“I guess Laswell was tellin nae lies bout’ the bonnie lass she’s quick.”

“Lots of stamina still for someone who wasn’t eaten in days she must be starving by now.”

“She is, that’s where she’ll head next.”

After some terrible driving and almost killing two civilians she finally parks the stolen car in an alleyway two blocks away from a Waffle House and she gets out she finds another parked car by the side of the road and steals the tag off it and switching them out before heading to eat she was in fact starving so much so it hurt.

Once she got in she seated herself and a waitress brought her a menu. She smiled so sweetly down at her.

“Do you have any idea what you might want?”

“What can fifty bucks buy me?”

“Oh! Well…”

A pile of plates later, and the cook and waitress watching her eat like an animal with her hands she had finished wiping off her face with her sleeve and wiping her hands on her pants and left the bill on the table and walked out, she walked the two blocks back to her stolen car and slid into the back laying down on the seat.

The rain came down hard hitting the roof of the car like pellets it kept her up she couldn’t sleep she just looked out of the window watching the raindrops race and how the city lights shined through as of giver her, her own private show of color.

The solitude though was short lived and she was napped out of her trance by a knock at the window it’s them.

“Alright now lovie that’s enough running for now right? You come with us you won’t have to sleep in a cold car tonight.”

Soap pushed past pulling the door open.

“Ye know for someone whose name we don even know you’ve given us hell since we’ve gotten ye!”

#task force 141 #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod modern warfare #ghost cod #cod x reader #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john price #cod #soap cod #cod mw3 #simon riley x reader #john mactavish #kyle garrick #platonic

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loupy-mongoose · 1 year ago

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Pardon my immodesty, but I just came up with a really cool idea. XD

This is about a potential future scenario for Momo and Midas, so I'll hide it under a read more. No art this time, just text idea-spewing.

So, while hatching some eggs, I was doing a casual (unsuccessful) shiny skim in an outbreak of Dragalge, and it got me thinking.

I can easily see Momo becoming a Dragon type trainer, if she becomes a trainer at all. And I started fantasizing about what Pokemon she would train.

And naturally, I can't think about Momo without Midas intruding on the train of thought.

Now, for a long time I've known that Midas would be a Grass type trainer. I haven't really thought about what he would train, but I was hit with a glorious, accidentally perfect thought.

Applin.

The Grass/Dragon type.

Its evolutions are a SOUR variant, and a SWEET variant.

Momo and Midas' taste preferences.

So then I started thinking of them as a Tate and Liza type Gym Leader set up, where they each have two Pokemon of their type specialty, and their respective Applin evo.

They could of course each have a full team of their respective types. But I ADORE the idea of them having twin/sibling Applins as their starters. Midas would have a female and name her Candy, while Momo would have a male--Bonus points if he's shiny, lol! (I haven't thought of a name for him yet. Smith, maybe? Real original, I know. XD)

I've always liked Flapple WAY more than Appletun. But this could be a chance to turn my opinion on Appletun around. I'm already finding myself with cute images of Midas and his little Candy apple. ^w^

Anyway, that's my idea. Just another "wouldn't it be neat if" to throw on the pile. Thank you for reading, if you did!~

#Pokemon #Linden Roots #Babbies

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mania-sama · 4 months ago

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if you need me, dear, i'm the same as i was

Everywhere, Everything - Noah Kahan

➼ 01 - i wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat ❧ Information (Summary, Tags, Chapters) ❧ Next Chapter ❧ Word Count: 7,742 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Iwaizumi Hajime stumbles into the shower at three-thirty in the morning, attempting to yank the vivid memory of his dream out of his brain by pulling vainly at his hair. He succeeds only in inducing a pounding headache. Perfect. This is exactly what he needs on arguably one of the most important days of his career. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, and he steps out feeling worse than when he got in.

Unable to fall back asleep, he spends the next two hours doom-scrolling on Tiktok. He mostly gets stupid clips and gym videos, but that doesn’t come without its pitfalls. Every time he sees a girl and guy lifting weights together or playing around on the machines, Iwaizumi has the urge to throw up his dinner and sling his phone across the room.

The video where two best friends created a montage of their time spent traveling South America does make him curse out loud, sending him into a ten-minute spiral that he sincerely regrets.

The second the time hits six o’clock, he clicks his phone off with more force than necessary and dresses with equal parts aggression and perturbation. His fingers tremble, and his vision blur at the edges.

He can still smell the airport, can still feel the throng of people moving around him with their suitcases rolling loudly on the ground. They all had a destination in mind: a place to be or a person to meet, setting out on a new adventure or returning home to their old comforts.

But not Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi was losing everything.

He shakes his hands vigorously as if he’s somehow shedding away his dream. His job demands the utmost attention and patience from him. He can’t risk fraying his nerves on the shit going on in his own head. His team needs him at his functional best, all prevailing circumstances considered.

He meets the Men’s National Volleyball Team in their main dining hall, determined to keep them on a proper eating schedule to help with both their diets and his own. Nobody commented on his admittedly picky eating and slightly shorter temper, for a bundle of anxiety is circulating through the players themselves. After two days’ rest from participating in competitive games, they have the most important match to play against one of the strongest teams in this year’s Olympics:

Argentina.

The Japanese National Team is good. The whole world recognizes their player powerhouses, and their ability to strategize and adapt has helped them immensely in the games they’d already played. But they aren’t going against the weaker teams anymore. This is the Olympic gold game. Everything is on the line.¹

And somehow, they hadn’t been seeded against Argentina yet.²

It’s been by pure luck and happenstance. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it likely won’t be the last. But still. It would’ve been nice to have played against them at least once before they had to fight for a shiny piece of metal. Their strategy is formed based solely on the games they’ve watched both in-person and on television instead of the lived experience of coming toe-to-toe with the unrelenting Argentinian players.

These facts are what the players are worried about, anyway.

Iwaizumi Hajime is not a player.

No one on the team has mentioned it to him yet, and he prefers to keep it that way. They likely don’t remember that he and Oikawa Tooru, #13 of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team, played on the same team in high school. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t know that they were closer than just the ace and his setter.

Except for Kageyama and Hinata, maybe. But Kageyama is still far too awkward and anti-social to say something like that, nor does Iwaizumi believe he cares enough to antagonize him. As for Hinata, he’d mentioned playing beach volleyball with Oikawa a couple of times with a few unsubtle side glances at Iwaizumi. However, Hinata had never talked to him about it, and Iwaizumi had never pushed for him to do so. Iwaizumi thinks that if the opposite hitter wants to say something, he would’ve done it by now.

If God truly loves him, his team will stay both ignorant and away from him.

When Miya Atsumu sits down next to him, propping his chin on the heel of his hand and staring at him with an unnervingly knowledgeable gaze, Iwaizumi knows that God has forsaken him.

“You ate fast. You’re going to give yourself a stomach ache,” Iwaizumi comments before Miya can say anything. Letting him take control of the conversation from the get-go is a quick way for Iwaizumi to lose his goddamn mind.

“No, you’re eating slow,” Miya points out. Iwaizumi pointedly takes a large bite from his banana, trying very hard not to bare his teeth crudely. “Got a headache?”

Iwaizumi spares him a mean side-eye. “I’m getting there. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah,” Miya says, smiling, and fuck, Iwaizumi just let him take the reins so easily, didn’t he? His attempts at politeness always seem to blow up in his face. “Any advice you can give me about Argentina’s number thirteen? Setter versus setter beef, you know. I need all the help I can get.”

Iwaizumi considers his answer carefully. “You spend enough time alone analyzing their games, plus however long the team spends reviewing together. There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

And he believes this. They probably know Oikawa Tooru better than Iwaizumi does at this point. They see him from an angle that Iwaizumi never could and never will. He doesn’t have anything to add to their observations.

“Uh-huh,” Miya muses. Iwaizumi would punch him in the jaw if he thought that was something he could get away with. “No weaknesses? Nothing? I mean, you knew the guy for what, eleven years? You’re saying there’s nothing you can add?”

Iwaizumi’s food tastes like ash on his tongue. “Fifteen years,” he corrects despite himself. “He’s probably changed a lot since high school. I don’t know anything special about him.”

His bitterness is impossible to mask. He wants to wrap his hands around Miya’s throat and strangle the daylights out of him, but that would be unprofessional.

“Damn,” Miya says. Damn indeed, Iwaizumi thinks, stabbing his egg yolk. “Are you excited to be on the same court as him again? I know you don’t exactly keep in contact, so it’s been a while.”

“Have you been prying into my personal life?”

“I didn’t!” He exclaims, waving his hands lightly. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knew you two in high school. The rest is everything you’ve already told us, I swear!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t mention that in order to get that information, Miya had to have personally asked for it in detail. He’s far too wired to get into a debate about logistics with Miya Atsumu of all people.

“Sure,” he dismisses, stuffing the rest of his now-bland food down his throat. He gets up to put away his tray, nodding to the rest of the team as he passes with Miya trailing behind him. “I don’t feel any particular way. We haven’t talked in, like, eight years. He’s just like any other player on the Argentina team.”

“Wow,” Miya breathes, wide-eyed and very clearly holding back a laugh. Iwaizumi escapes into the throng of athletes and staff before he does something that will get him both fired and arrested.

He meets with them again in the Japanese-designated exercise room after he’s splashed water on his face and cooled down. Iwaizumi knows that Miya was riling him up because he was on edge himself. Miya thrived off of provocation, so when they were all fraying from anxiety, he automatically latched onto the first thing that he thought would make him feel better. It doesn’t make what he did right or okay, but Iwaizumi understands the reasonings behind his actions.

Luckily, Iwaizumi has fifteen years of experience in dealing dickheads like Miya.

Fifteen years he can never get back. Might as well make good use of them.

His veins pulse with excitement and unease, watching the players carefully to make sure they don’t accidentally injure themselves. Bokuto Koutarou tries his very best to kill himself on the elliptical every time he’s on it, so he keeps a special eye on him.

He spends most of his time with Sakusa Kiyoomi, though, and not the trouble-makers who give him a migraine. Sakusa knows the routine by now: careful calf stretches with resistance bands and weights, then ten minutes on the Stairmaster. They talk through the exercises, and the outside hitter, thankfully, does not mention any significant pain or weakness. Iwaizumi doesn’t question the silence; he would’ve been able to spot if his muscles started convulsing on their own or if Sakusa started to favor a leg.

At the end of their session, Sakusa wipes off his sweat with his towel and turns to Iwaizumi. “Sorry for what Miya said. He can be a bitch.”

Iwaizumi squints at him. “Don’t apologize on his behalf.”

“I know,” he shrugs, “but he’s always trying to start something, and he’s not going to apologize himself. Truth is, he’s kind of excited to see Oikawa-san. He’s admired him for pretty much his whole life, and now that they’re facing off for the first time since high school, he doesn’t know what to do with all his… feelings.”

Sakusa’s face scrunches up at that last word, and it almost makes Iwaizumi laugh. Then he remembers that he’s going through the same thing tenfold with no one to console but himself. He still talks with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but it’s not the same when they aren’t there with him. Since Iwaizumi took this job for the national team, it’s been much harder to get together for drinks or simply be in their presence. Thus, all this excitement and “feelings”, as Sakusa puts it, have been left to be deciphered by his lonesome.

And he is certainly not going to Miya about his problems. Distant admiration and a close bond are two very, very different beasts. Most days, he’s not even sure Hanamaki and Matsukawa understand the depth of his old, broken unrequited love. He’s not sure anyone can.

“I get it,” is all Iwaizumi says.

The outside hitter eyes him up and down for a moment, his gaze burning and scrutinizing. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then aborts it abruptly by turning away to join the rest of the team heading out of the gym. Iwaizumi hears them say something about reviewing matches, but he doesn’t join them. Instead, he spends his time meditating, watching an old episode of Kitchen Nightmares³, and trying — failing — not to think about airports, blocked numbers, or unsaid confessions.

Then he meets up with the team again, and the thirty-minute warm-up session is over quicker than he hoped it would be. They file into Team Japan’s entrance to the Olympic court.

Iwaizumi thinks he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. He doesn’t have a mental breakdown. His heart is beating at a normal rate. He doesn’t pace around the tight corridor. His thoughts are clearer than the jumbled, anxious mutters of the players.

A horn blows, the gates open, and a stream of light hits his fattened pupils. His world goes white and blurry as he walks behind the players with the coaches and staff. When his vision clears, all he can see is the white and dark blue jerseys of the opposing team.

He doesn't know how he manages it, but he finds Oikawa’s brown hair and stupidly long limbs and jersey number immediately. Oikawa isn’t looking his way. His head whips around to view the crowd cheering in their seats, finds the drones in the air and the volleyball net in the middle of the court, and Iwaizumi thinks that in the last eight years of radio silence, nothing has changed.

Oikawa is right in his element, with the world watching him stand in the middle of their flashing lights. He looks confident in the way he never could’ve been in Japan.

Some things have changed.

“I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner, and you’re the absolute best setter. Even if we end up on different teams, those facts will never change.”

Iwaizumi joins the rest of the staff on the sidelines, clasps his hands behind his back, and waits patiently for the national anthems to start playing.

His feelings aside, this is the Olympic gold medal game. He is happy to be here. And by God, they will come away with their necks decorated in gold. They’ve trained hard enough. He’s trained hard enough, with so many years of schooling, interning, and working tirelessly to improve his reputation and status in the world of sports medicine. He deserves this as much as the players on the court.

“But I’ll still give my all to defeat you.”

Except the one person who has given up everything — his family, his friends, his nationality — to chase his dreams. Maybe he deserves it a little more than everyone else.

Iwaizumi tears up at his country’s national anthem, swaying slightly back and forth as if he hasn’t gone through this ritual half a dozen times before in these past two weeks. He watches from his peripheral for Oikawa, who stands stock-still during both the Japanese and Argentinian songs. Not once does he catch Oikawa looking back for him.

It shouldn’t hurt after eight fucking years, but bile crawls up his throat anyway and his legs try to give out from under him.

Nobody mentions it. Miya and Sakusa give him a discerning look, but he ignores them hard enough for his silent message to get across. He will not talk about it, and he will not let it affect the game.

Oikawa serves first.

“Bring it on.”

His form is perfect, the same as when Iwaizumi has admired it time and time again from his phone, laptop, and apartment television. He’s seen Oikawa Tooru on the large projector screens during strategy debriefs, both learning from Oikawa’s strengths and breaking down his weaknesses. It was torture to see him everywhere at all times. Close enough to idolize, but never to breathe the same air, share a cup of coffee, or feel the sweat dripping off his body.

Their suns set at different times. Their days were out of alignment. Their lives moved on separate planes. They survived eight years without a single word confirming if they were dead or alive; if they were doing alright or suffering from addiction; if they were married or still searching for a place to call home; if Oikawa missed Iwaizumi as much as Iwaizumi missed him.

Now, here they are, on the same court so many years after graduating high school, and his heart still races with that old, painful adrenaline of watching Oikawa’s power rattle the morale of the opposing team.

Hinata Shouyou receives the bowl with some difficulty, and they are unable to get a spike off before the ball has to go over the net. Oikawa flicks his tongue over his lips. Iwaizumi’s heart sputters.

He shouldn’t be so satisfied to see his own team struggle to set a tempo against Oikawa.

At twenty-seven to twenty-five, Team Japan takes the first set of five.

The brief intermission between sets allows the respective teams to cool off and regroup in preparation for the second set. Iwaizumi hovers over the players as they drink from their water bottles and catch their breaths. He doesn’t need any of them dropping from exhaustion or dehydration, nor does he need impromptu cramps or asthma attacks.

Before he has a chance to ask, Sakusa tells him that he feels fine. Iwaizumi accepts the answer without argument — no muscle twitching, no favoring, and honestly, Sakusa appears less worn out than the other on-court players.

His mind warns him against it, but his head moves on its own accord. He spots Oikawa on the Argentinian bench, wiping sweat from his forehead and drinking from his bottle while talking to his teammate. He seems fine, too. Healthy. Happy. Not giving a damn about the person he knew for fifteen years across the net.

Oikawa rubs his chest, right over his heart, in a contained circular motion. Iwaizuimi twitches and the edges of his mouth involuntarily fall into a frown.

“Head in the game,” Miya says loudly, slapping him on the back with far more force than strictly necessary. Iwaizumi glares at him, and Miya returns it in kind with a cruel grin. “Got anything for us now?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” Iwaizumi says. People press their hands to their chests all the time. He knows Oikawa is fine. Iwaizumi needs to keep his eyes focused on his own team. “Feeling okay?”

“Better than ever,” the setter responds. “Let’s win this bitch.”

The team laughs and repeats similar phrases before setting out on the court for the start of the second set. Oikawa enters with a confident, fierce stride on the Argentinian side of the net. Miya rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue rather childishly.

Argentina takes the second set, twenty-five to eighteen.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi echoes, not intending to be mean but succeeding in gaining a few glares nonetheless. “How’s everyone doing?”

Kageyama, who’d subbed in for Miya halfway through the set, answers first. “Like I need the gold medal in between my teeth.”

Iwaizumi stares at him, remembering the kid he was so long ago and the vitriol Oikawa harbored for him for being born with innate talent. They have both come so far to compete on the world stage, facing each other once again in a battle of control and mind games, serves and sets.

He can’t tell what either of them are thinking. Does Kageyama feel the need to prove himself as Oikawa had for the years that Iwaizumi had known him? What does Oikawa feel, now, on his bench with people Iwaizumi has never met?

Instinctively, he glances over at Oikawa, trying to gauge his reactions like he hadn’t been keeping one eye on him the entire match. His hand is gliding from the middle of his chest to his collarbone, then back again. He’s halfway draped onto the teammate closest to him, #6.

He doesn’t seem perturbed, but Iwaizumi reads Oikawa like they were still kids. Oikawa never settles for anything less than perfection. Iwaizumi sees it in the way his jaw tightens when he shakes the receive or his serve doesn’t land the pinpoint he wants it to. He sees it in the subtle side-eyes and glances at Japan’s #9 and #1 when he thinks no one is paying much attention.

And he knows that in fifteen years of being by his side, and in observing several years’ worth of recorded San Juan matches, Oikawa Tooru does not have a nervous habit of rubbing his chest. It’s always been below the hips where he slides his fingers back-and-forth, back-and-forth, creating a sandpaper-like sound that is honestly louder than it should be. It had annoyed Iwaizumi to death in their classes, since he usually sat behind Oikawa and therefore heard everything better than his peers. He had gained a habit of pinching Oikawa’s fingers together when he was physically able.

#13 of the Argentinian National Team sets down his water bottle and drops his hand to the side. The pads of his fingers start sliding, and Iwaizumi barely restrains himself from walking under the net and pinching him.

His other hand keeps working on his chest and collarbone, and one of his legs starts idly moving side-to-side.

“Hinata,” he calls, forcing himself to turn around and talk to his actual team. Oikawa Tooru should not, is not, his priority. That much is clear, for Iwaizumi has a wonderful career, players he cares about, and a match he really wants to win. “Let me see your arm.”

As his reply, Hinata coughs haggardly. He hasn’t been subbed once in the entire game yet. Iwaizumi figures he needs a little more time than the rest to catch his breath. Sticking his forearms out, Iwaizumi examines the spot where Hinata had received a strong spike at a backward angle; it elicited a pained reaction out of him, and Iwaizumi has to be sure it was nothing serious.

He pats Hinata’s elbow in approval. “You’re fine. Try receiving the ball like a normal person next time.”

The short man flashes him a grin and a thumbs-up before eagerly trodding off to consume what has to be a gallon of water. An objectively terrible idea to follow through with, but Iwaizumi fears he is far too late to correct that behavior.

Finding their #15 player, Iwaziumi gives Sakusa a hard once-over. Outwardly, he appears perfectly fine. They’d worked through all of the precautionary measures to prevent pain or injuries, but his cramps could strike at any moment regardless of how much effort was put in to stop them.

Sakusa catches his gaze and nods to him reassuringly. Iwaizumi warns the head coach, Hibarida Fuki, that Sakusa needs to be subbed out the moment Iwaizumi asks for him. The coach looks like he wants to argue, but Iwaizumi was born with a face that makes people listen to him if he glares at them hard enough. Hibarida acquiesces his demand without further complaint.

Sakusa works hard in the first few points of the match set, as if he knows, deep down, that this is the last he’ll play of the game. When Oikawa jumps for a set, his body piked in the air and muscles taut, Iwaizumi feels his gut twist with simple, innate intuition.

It catches the team off-guard when the setter dumps it instead of setting it off to either the outside or opposite hitter that had lined up to spike. Sakusa dives for the ball, missing it by the smallest centimeter from his pointer finger, and Iwaizumi calls for him to come in with only the smallest twinge of guilt.

The dump was amazing. The way Sakusa’s leg twitched on the ground for the smallest fraction of a second was decidedly not amazing, and neither was the way Oikawa stumbled when his feet hit the floor.

Sakusa sits close to Iwaizumi on the bench, his face contorted into something remarkable like a pout. “I feel fine,” he grumbles.

“You come from a family of doctors. I’ve worked with you for months. You know to trust me on this,” Iwaizumi says. “When your leg cramps, it’s better it happens here than sacrifice a play out there.”

The outside hitter rolls his eyes but says nothing. Iwaizumi is well aware of how frustrating it is for him to be forced from a game like this. He’d had his own bad days in high school volleyball, and he has no shortage of memories of dealing with Oikawa’s rages and breakdowns over his old knee injury.

Surgery does wonders, he reminisces. Due to the careful and precise timing that they had agonized over for quite some time, Oikawa didn’t even have to miss any of his high school matches from recovery and rehabilitation.

“I’m not playing collegiate. I can’t. I want to study sports medicine.”

“Why? Why is that so important to you when… If I promise to stay, will you play?”

“Nothing you do will get me to play again.”

He shakes his head and trains his eyes on the volleyball leaving Kageyama’s fingertips, only for it to be slammed to the ground by Bokuto. Impressively, the spike is received low by Argentina’s libero, and the game continues.

Iwaizumi is checking on Oikawa more often than he isn’t, he realizes about halfway through the set. Oikawa isn’t in the game at the moment, having been subbed out by another setter who is doing remarkably well. He doesn’t sit near his athletic trainer, so he obviously wasn’t pulled for a health concern.

Perhaps their trainer isn’t concerned, but Iwaizumi is done lying to himself. He is concerned, and it’s going to drive him to insanity before the game is over. There are all these little habits that Oikawa has never presented before. They couldn’t have developed overnight from his last match to this one. And then there is his breathing. The Argentina setter’s breathing is off-set — weirdly irregular in the rises and falls of his chest. Unless he’s having a panic attack, which Iwaizumi is quite certain he isn’t because Oikawa is showing none of his other overstimulated symptoms aside from his sliding fingers, then there is something physically wrong with Oikawa.

Or maybe Iwaizumi’s mind is simply looking for something to worry over. He’s never grown out of it. Of the twenty-seven years of his lived life, he has spent twenty-four of them concerned for Oikawa. He didn’t stop when they were deep in arguments about the future. He didn’t stop when they were thousands of miles apart, separated by an ocean and a twelve-hour time difference (and for two years, a four-hour difference and one long car ride away if need be). He certainly isn’t stopping now when Team Japan needs his watchful eye more than ever.

Besides, he thinks a little desperately. I’m too far away to see him clearly. It’s all a trick of the eye.

Argentina takes the third set at twenty-six to twenty-four. Oikawa set and served the last point, and Iwaizumi was well aware he had stared long enough for people to notice.

“Omi-kun,” Miya calls, making his way over to the benched player. “Here, water.”

Sakusa stands to meet him halfway, only to promptly collapse into Miya’s arms in an honestly skilled save. His fingers scrap at Miya’s elbows, and the panicked setter drags him back to the bench. Immediately, Iwaizumi gets to work stretching out Sakusa’s leg and rolling his calf muscles.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .” Sakusa gasps intermittently. With Miya at his side and the crowd falling into a hushed silence at the display, the whole scene kind of looks like he’s giving birth, and Iwaizumi is the poor midwife. “I didn’t— I didn’t even feel it coming. Shit. ”

Iwaizumi glances up at Miya. God, he even looks like the worried father who’s wondering what more he can do to support his laboring wife.

Sakusa shrugs Miya’s hand off his shoulder, hissing: “Quit touching me.”

The rest of the team piles onto Sakusa to give him their strength and condolences. Sakusa, for his part, seethes from their pity and the overstimulation they’re causing. Iwaizumi barks for them to leave. Someone must have flashed an okay sign to the audience because soon the dome is overtaken by a sudden, thundering applause.

From the other side of the court, the Argentinian team gets up from their kneeling position and claps politely. Sakusa gives them little acknowledgment, so Iwaizumi half-bows for him.

Oikawa pointedly stares at the floor, one hand pressing against his chest while the other rests limply at his side after he finishes clapping. His back is now turned, away from Iwaizumi, and he can see the hunched shoulders and the uneven pacing of his breathing. It’s not exhaustion. He knows exhaustion like the back of his eyelids and can compare his players’ fatigued panting to Oikawa’s struggle for air.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same.

If Oikawa has a problem, Iwaizumi reminds himself, he has his own athletic trainer to attend to him. He hasn’t needed Iwaziumi’s support for eight years; he certainly isn’t going to randomly start now.

Sakusa is the one who needs him, because Sakusa is his player, and his player is gripping the bench with white knuckles and an expression of pain and frustration. This is something Iwaizumi can help with. This is the job he has spent his entire adult life training for.

As with all things in life, sometimes what someone needs isn’t physical. Sometimes what they need is a distraction.

“Help me with something,” Iwaizumi says, succeeding in capturing Sakusa’s attention. “Akaashi’s in the stands somewhere. We need to find him before Bokuto loses his head.”

Even though some of the team members have never met Akaashi Keiji in person (which Iwaizumi has, since they attended the same university and remained friends after), they all know what he looks like based on the astonishing amount of pictures of him Bokuto shows them every week. Iwaizumi has been watching the players closely, as per his job description, and has taken note of the wild swiveling of Bokuto’s head whenever there is even the slightest attention break from the game. While seated, his near-erratic behavior worsens tenfold. Instead of supporting his team from the sidelines, his wide eyes roam the crowd fervently.

If he doesn’t spot Akaashi soon, Iwaizumi is one hundred percent sure they are going to have a very dramatic meltdown. Which would be both embarrassing for their home country and an extreme hindrance to the team’s functionality.

Sakusa grimaces, looking rather oddly at him before turning his head to the audience.

“You’re attentive,” he says after a brief hesitation. “I hate it.”

“You hate a lot of things,” Iwaizumi responds neutrally.

The distraction does work, though. The outside hitter settles down into his normal state of being: slightly disgusted and irritated with everyone around him, as opposed to being extremely disgusted and irritated with everyone around him. While they are going through a round of dynamic stretches in the middle of the fourth set, Sakusa stops dead in his tracks and stares intently at one spot in the stands. “Found him.”

Iwaizumi sighs in relief. “Finally.” From where he is on the sideline, Bokuto looks about five minutes away from a predicted, total meltdown. “When we’re done with this, tell him the good news. I need to get Komori off the court before he passes out.”

The libero in question runs a hand through his hair, no doubt coming away with an exorbitant amount of grime and sweat. “Too attentive,” Sakusa says again, this time with more forced agitation to mask the layer of distress in his tone.

Iwaizumi is pretty sure he knows what that’s about, too, but doesn’t say anything to spare Sakusa the embarrassment and probable heart attack. They don’t really need a player dropping like that, even if said player is already sidelined.

He manages to get Komori off the court without incident, and the ruckus Bokuto makes after Sakusa points out Akaashi to him is far better than the other outcome should they have failed in their mission to locate Bokuto’s favorite human being.

His gaze slides back onto the court, finding Oikawa’s body immediately. He hates his heart. It twists in his chest with longing and unsubstantiated concern. The near-decade they’ve spent apart means nothing to his pulsing organ, as though it thinks he’s a child again and walking to Oikawa’s house to beat his ass at Mortal Kombat.

Although, the clogging in his throat reminds him more of when he rode the subway back from the hospital after his best friend’s knee gave out, or when he started prodding Oikawa to eat every day because teenage athletes are the most prone to eating disorders and Iwaizumi hadn’t seen him eat lunch once in the past week.

Twenty-five to twenty-three. Japan wins the fourth set.

The fifth set will determine it all, and it won’t be easy. His players look ready to drop. They’ve pushed themselves harder than they have this entire Olympic tournament. However, their morale and adrenaline are through the roof. If they can keep their spirits up through the next fifteen required points, they can win.

The last set starts, and despite everything — the trepidation making it hard to breathe, his whirling thoughts, the desperation to convince himself that he is hallucinating symptoms — Oikawa Tooru is still the best goddamn setter he’s ever seen.

Now that Sakusa has nothing better to do with the anxiety and pressure of the last set that will determine the winner, he speaks to Iwaizumi. “What is it?”

“What is what?” Iwaizumi asks somewhat absently, intently focused on the game in front of him. He never stopped loving volleyball despite the change in the profession. A part of him still wants to run out and hit the ball with every last bit of his strength.

Argentina calls a time-out to stifle the flow of the game. Oikawa sways, but they don’t take him off the court. They need him.

Sakusa grunts. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at Oikawa-san this entire game. What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi has half a mind to bite back with “ Why do you care?”, but doesn’t because that would be unprofessional. He knows Sakusa is restless, agitated, and worst of all, starting to perceive Iwaizumi as a threat to his personal security. According to him, Iwaizumi is too attentive, which means that he can reveal the secrets Sakusa wants to keep buried.

He isn’t that type of person. He hasn’t gone out of his way to find out anything about his players that doesn’t specifically pertain to their medical records, and even if he does find out the things Sakusa doesn’t want him to know, Iwaizumi wouldn’t spill it to the world. It isn’t his story to tell.

So, he answers with a little honesty no matter the insensitivity of the question, because that is the only way to make Sakusa cool down — to make him think that he’s gotten Iwaizumi to crack. “I keep thinking there’s something wrong with him. Medically, I mean. I’m sure it’s nothing. His trainer would’ve spoken to him by now if there was a problem.”

I’m sure it’s the eight years where I never got to check up on him coming back to haunt me, he doesn’t say. That’s a little more honesty than Sakusa deserves.

The game continues. Fourteen to fourteen. They are down to the last wire.

“Bullshit,” Sakusa says, surprising Iwaizumi. “How long did you say you knew him?”

He’s certain that Miya has already told him, but he responds anyway.⁴ “Fifteen years.”

“Iwaizumi-sensei⁵, you’ve been with this team for a couple of months and you already know each of us like the back of your hand. I’ve never met someone as hypervigilant as you. You know I’m going to cramp before I know I’m going to cramp,” he says. “You’re really doubting yourself about someone you’ve spent half your life with?”

Iwaizumi looks at the player, who’s giving him an open expression that conveys, plainly, you’re being an idiot.

Fifteen to fourteen.

Sakusa rolls his eyes at Iwaizumi’s dumbfounded face. “Trust your instincts, because from what I’ve seen, they’ve never led you astray. Hell, I’d let you perform open heart surgery on me, and you’re not even a surgeon.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the nicest thing Sakusa has said in his life. Ever.

Iwaizumi swivels back to Oikawa. He’s jumping in the air to set the ball for a spike, or a dump, or something that will bring his team to victory. Looking down, Iwaizumi finds his ankles swollen beyond normal.

Open heart surgery.

“Holy shit,” Iwaizumi whispers, all of the air leaving his lungs.

Sixteen to fourteen. Team Argentina wins Olympic gold.

He’s on the court before Sakusa is. He’s across the net before Argentina can celebrate their victory. He’s grabbing Oikawa’s shoulders tightly before anybody else can get to him. Iwaizumi stares into his estranged best friend’s glassy, confused, uncomprehending eyes.

He’s shaking Tooru’s shoulders, desperate as he yells: “You are having a heart attack!”

Tooru’s voice is strangled and hoarse between his gasping breaths in mangled Spanish Iwaizumi doesn’t understand. Not a second later his dilated pupils, distorted from his eye contacts, roll back to expose solid white sclera and red veins. He keels over, limp, and Iwaizumi starts screaming for a stretcher and an ambulance. Laying him on the ground, he puts his palms over Tooru’s chest to start compressions.

And suddenly, Hajime is fifteen again, hovering over Tooru as he sobs on the boards of the gym they use to practice volleyball during the off-season. “It hurts,” he’s crying, clutching his knee. “It hurts!” Hajime doesn’t know what to do aside from calling one-one-nine. He tells the operator their location and the details of their situation while he lets Tooru claw his forearm into welts, knowing that whatever pain Iwaizumi feels is being felt a thousandfold by his best friend.

And Hajime is fifteen and three-quarters, learning emergency CPR for his new part-time job as a lifeguard. He thinks that it could come in useful. He thinks that saving people isn’t a job he would mind.

And Hajime is sixteen, watching Tooru recover from his surgery, and he realizes he will never play professional volleyball. He wants to help people like Tooru forever — people who want to dedicate their whole life to a sport but have a body that strives to prevent their goal every step of the way. He can’t do that as a player on the court.

And Hajime is seventeen, trying to convince Tooru to eat a sandwich even though he is adamantly insisting he isn’t hungry. He discovers sports medicine isn’t just about the physical ills and pains. To be a good athletic trainer, he has to see every aspect of a player’s well-being, and that includes their mental health.

And Hajime is eighteen, standing alone in the airport and experiencing loss for the first time. In order for Oikawa to grow as an athlete, he has to cut away the weed strangling his roots. Hajime lets him without complaint. This is part of his new career, after all; if he helps athletes succeed, they would all, one day, leave his medical care.

And Hajime is twenty-seven, losing his best friend for a second time at the end of the first set of chest compressions. At least three ribs have cracked under his pace and pressure. He pinches Tooru’s nose, pries his jaw open, and breathes air into his lungs twice. His ring and pinky finger automatically find his pulse point.

Nothing.

Seeing that no medical equipment has arrived, he starts the second set of chest compressions. Oikawa’s bones creak and give way under his desperation. He knows CPR like the back of his hand; if the ribs are breaking, that means it’s working. It doesn’t get rid of the panic and pain at the thought of how much damage he’s doing to Oikawa’s body.

The paramedics are a second too late with their LUCAS device at the end of the last compression. He dives down for another round of mouth-to-mouth, recognizing, faintly yet viscerally at the same time, that Oikawa’s soft skin is pale and rapidly cooling.

At the junction between his neck and jaw, Iwaizumi searches for a heartbeat.

Breathe. Nothing.

Then, the faint brush of life against Iwaizumi’s fingertips.

He helps the paramedics load Oikawa onto the stretcher. They roll him away from the court, leaving behind Iwaizumi in a daze. That wasn’t how he wanted to meet Oikawa again. That wasn’t how he wanted to talk to him, feel him, or see him; wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Oikawa’s lips on his like he’d dreamt about so many times in his teenage years and again, occasionally, in his adult life when he’s had too much to drink.

The head coach of the Argentina team, Jose Blanco, Oikawa’s long-term idol, steps in front of him. “English?” He asks in said language, and Iwaizumi nods automatically. Blanco etches a small smile onto his face. “Thank you for your help. You saved his life.”

Iwaizumi stares at Blanco, all of the English he’s ever learned and spoken suddenly fleeing from his memory. How does he say that they aren’t out of the woods yet, that Oikawa’s heart could still fail at any moment and refuse to start beating again? How does he say that this may be the problem that finally kills the life Oikawa has sacrificed everything for? How does he say that he honestly fears the day that Oikawa can’t play volleyball anymore because he’s an absolute fucking maniac and would rather take his own life than let the universe sweep the rug out from under him?

How does he say that he’s currently living in a reality that is dancing too close to his worst nightmare?

“It was no problem,” he settles for.

“You are Iwa-chan, yes?”

Iwaizumi freezes. He hasn’t heard that nickname in nearly a decade. His high school friends never called him that unless they were teasing him, which faded a week or so after Oikawa left because while he was never the first to bring Oikawa up, he was always the first to cut the topic short. Takeru grew out of it in a couple of months. Nobody else in the right, sane mind would ever call the stoic, mean-looking, and too-attentive Iwaziumi Hajime Iwa-chan.

Except, of course, Oikawa Tooru, who always had a deep and utter hatred for giving his peers a modicum of respect.

It’s somewhat funny hearing the name come from a large Argentinian who lacks both the lightness in which Oikawa would say it and a Japanese accent to make the honorific sound natural. He almost laughs. He thinks that it must make Oikawa laugh, too.

Having rehearsed it in the mirror a thousand times and put it to real use a dozen more, his English introduction rolls off his tongue easily. “Iwaizumi Hajime, athletic trainer for the Japan National Team.” He sticks out his hand, which the head coach uses to bring him into a tight hug. And he doesn’t want to ask when they pull apart, because Blanco is chuckling lightly and he no doubt wants to celebrate his victory, but the words are tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “He… calls me that?”

“Oh, kid—” Iwaizumi is twenty-seven years old “—he never stops talking about you. Last night was horrible. He went on and on. I thought you were, uh, a woman. Guess not.”

Oh. Oh, God.

He doesn’t have time to process… everything since Blanco starts waving over his team. Iwaizumi tries to escape, but they all grab onto his hands or his shoulders or pat him on the back. He’s hearing a lot of Spanish and English, with the occasional horrifically pronounced Japanese word passing through their mouths. He gets the jist of it, though, as the captain of the team presses an object into his right palm.

Tómas Gallo pulls him in and presses a kiss into both of his cheeks. “Thank you, Iwa-chan. He would be honored if you took the gold medal in his place.”

Overwhelmed, he pushes away and returns to his team, who are huddled on the other side of the net. The world starts coming back to him in fractured pieces. He eyes the audience, who seem to all have their gazes trained on him.

It doesn’t really occur to him that he’s just saved the world’s best setter (not just by Iwaizumi’s standards. Not anymore. The whole world recognizes now what he’s sensed since they were seven years old on the city’s little league team). In the heat of the moment, and even still, with the lingering feeling of Oikawa’s bones creaking and snapping under his palms, of his still heartbeat and rolled-back eyes repeating in his after-vision, it’d only been him saving his best friend, just like he always has.

He looks down at his hand, finally registering that he’s holding something. Slowly unraveling his fingers, he stares down at the small keychain. It’s a miniature Japanese flag with Iwaizumi’s faded signature scribbled over it in black Sharpie ink. He’d slipped it unknowingly into Oikawa’s backpack just before he’d disappeared to the security checkpoint, leaving his entire childhood behind.

After several attempts to message him a day later asking about the flight, he had found out his phone number was blocked. He couldn’t view any of Oikawa’s social accounts when he had checked. When he had gone to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, they had shrugged and said they didn’t know anything, either.

Iwaizumi lets himself drop the keychain into his pocket. Setting his shoulders and calming his expression, he rejoins the team with an apologetic wave.

He thinks that he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. His heart isn’t failing. He doesn’t pace around the large gymnasium. His face is emotionless when everyone else seems to be looking at him with worry. His knees are pressing against the court boards. His fingernails are digging into his skin. Someone is wrapping their arms around his shoulders.

He breaks down on live television.

—

Tómas Gallo hands him Oikawa Tooru’s gold medal in a quiet hallway after the adornment ceremony.

On a count of three, Iwaizumi bites the gold medal with the captain of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team. His tongue accidentally scrapes the edge of the medallion. The cold metal tastes indistinguishable from blood.

It checks out, really. Iwaizumi has always believed that Oikawa's veins pulse with ichor.

Gallo’s hand comes to squeeze Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He says: “Tooru says he could not have made it without you. We thank you for letting us have him.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t tell him that before he became Iwaizumi Hajime, twenty-seven years old and well-known among the most important people in the world of sports medicine, he was first and foremost Iwaizumi Hajime, three years old and playing in the sandbox when a boy wearing an alien-themed shirt dumped squirming worms all over him. He doesn’t remember it, exactly, since he was three and hadn’t developed that part of his brain yet, but his mother told him that he had tried his best to beat Oikawa to death with a plastic shovel.

He doesn’t tell Gallo that he could never have made it, either, if it hadn’t been for that little asshole and his handful of dirt-covered earthworms. Oikawa had stolen a piece of soul and shaped his future that day with his grubby hands, insufferable personality, and heart of pure gold.

Gallo doesn’t say anything more when the athletic trainer chokes down a sob.

—

“Oikawa-san is recovering from emergency surgery, Iwaizumi-sensei. He’s in good hands,” someone tells him. Their voice disintegrates like sand falling between his fingertips.

Iwaizumi breathes.

¹ In the real 2020 Tokyo Olympics, Argentina won bronze and Japan came in seventh. However, the real Argentina did not have THE Oikawa Tooru, and the real Japan didn’t have… everyone. Clearly, this is not the real Olympics. I will take my creative liberties where I can get them.

² Here, you can start to see my complete and utter lack of knowledge about volleyball. And the Olympics.

³ His roommate at UC-Irvine put him on Kitchen Nightmares and he hasn’t been the same since.

⁴ They will never admit it, partly because they think they are subtle, but everyone knows that Atsumu and Sakusa gossip with each other like the main characters of Mean Girls.

⁵ —Sensei, because that seemed like the most accurate honorific to use in relation to his job as a medical professional but not a medical doctor. If you believe this to be horrifically inaccurate, let me know and I’ll change it. I am obviously not Japanese. Usually I don’t even use honorifics in fics, but I decided to this time so I could empasize Iwa-chan.

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