#sages of destruction

[thousandyearmemories]

🎨🪻 PAGE ART PREVIEW

Friends of evil, today is your day 👀

Have a look at this small preview of the devilishly good piece that @writhingbeneathyou has made for us, featuring the Sages of Destruction!

(Full piece includes mild character spoilers for anime-only watchers!)

[windienine]

realizing with excitement and concern that not only is soulsov a jrpg-inspired game where a human claims the power of a god for herself but ALSO one where someone's dad becomes her willing underling...

when, historically, two of the most deadly roles for endgame antagonists to occupy in a jrpg are "mortal-turned-god vying for power and upheaval" and "a party member's father; a sympathetic villain turned to the antagonists' side"

they're our protagonists, but they're also the exact archetypes a team of typical fantasy rpg heroes eventually has to square off against and kill.

[merloksdigitaltoes]

this is slowly becoming an oc page, IDC lmfao enjoy Talya (Lava monster on the right) belongs to @stellarwaffles

[cumulonimbuns]

Summary:

It didn’t matter that his heart was breaking. That the Zora he loved was marrying someone else. That he sat there and watched him get married. Because at the end of the day Link knew he couldn’t allow himself to break. Allow himself to feel.

He had to find Zelda.

And then everything would be fine.

Or:

Link is majorly going through it, but refuses to ask for help. After learning of Zelda’s fate, Link’s journey finally takes its toll on him, and all of Hyrule is forced to come to terms with the burden their hero endures.

Link is Hyrule’s Hero, the knight who never backs down from any challenge, but what happens when the hero they all love is in need of rescuing from himself?

Or; or:

I saw all the shit Link’s been going through on his own, and decided Hyrule wouldn’t stand for it.

This is a SidLink fic, but it’s also pretty heavy on the found family regarding Link, Zelda, the Sages + some others. If that sounds up your alley than hey! Maybe you’ll enjoy this fic.

[tsunagite]

Doodles

[mazeppafanart]

rip in piss, son T_T

[jetsteelyourheart]

Combo: Bloodlines Book 4 The Fiery Heart

& Book 5 Silver Shadows by Richelle Mead

Illustration of Book 4 Chapter 24

If I could have the cross, if I could have that connection... then surely the obstacles between us would mean nothing. Surely I could endure whatever torturous challenges they threw at me.

This is one of them, I realized. This carrot they're holding out. They wanted me to take the cross. If I gave in, If I acknowledged their accusations, I wouldn't be closer to Adrian. No matter how much I wanted the cross, accepting it would mean I was going against him, turning my back on all I'd worked so hard for. Slowly, painfully, I withdrew my hand and clenched it into a fist. I needed no physical object to remind me of his love. I already carried it in my heart, and it would be enough to get through this.

"I have nothing to confess," I said through gritted teeth.

Illustration of Book 5 Chapter 10

I managed to sit up and saw I'd been lying on a hardwood floor, which explained the ache in my back and head. Glancing around, I saw a few other partygoers in similar shape, rustling themselves up and heading for the door. Satisfied I was on my way, Ada rose from her kneeling position and went to kick out the next unwelcome overnight guest.

"Thanks for letting me stay," I called after her. "Great party."

At least, I assumed it had been, if I'd crashed on the floor. An empty bottle of vermouth lay near where I'd slept, but I didn't know if it was mine or not. I hoped not. Getting drunk on vermouth was just sad.

...

His words hurt, not just because they leveled judgement at me -- judgment I'd already been giving myself -- but because they again reminded me of Sydney. Sydney, who'd always said I was so much more. Well, I'd done a damned good job of proving her wrong. I'd failed her. Dimitri's words had driven that home, even if he didn't realize it.

I went back to my room and downed a couple shots of vodka before crashing into my bed and falling almost instantly asleep.

[brushes-of-sage]

Just bringe read through the Paranormal Liberation War Arc and I was not ready for those emotions

[visceralmoth]

god maybe i am depressed

[thousandyearmemories]

🏷️🪻 MERCH PREVIEW

Are you more a friend of the dark side? Don't worry, we still have you covered!

Of course our favorite demons are also represented in our zine and our physical merch, with this great art print by lillachan 👀✨

Available as print and/or digital wallpaper!

🛒 FRIERENZINE.BIGCARTEL.COM

[sheikfangirl]

Goddessdammit Linky, pull yourself together!! I headcanon that after the "The Dragon's Tears" and "Crisis at Hyrule Castle" quests, Link's behavior is so erratic and self-destructive that Purah and the sages strap him to chair and make an INTERVENTION!! They are WORRIED!! 😢 Poor Link misses Zelda so much💔💔💔

But! he has FRIENDS and they CARE FOR HIM ♥♥ ------

PS: Yup, it's a shameless homage to Edna Mode

[saphronethaleph]

Fascist, Thus Inefficient

“As you can see, my young apprentice, your friends have failed,” the Emperor said, triumph in his tone. “Now, witness the firepower of this fully armed and operational battle station!”

Luke looked at him in shock.

“Fire at will, Commander!” the Emperor said.

Fourteen months previously…

“Shipment IL-214-73 arriving,” a petty officer reported.

“Thank goodness,” muttered one of the technicians. “After the delays we’ve been having, we need to get those Khyber crystals into the third main focusing array. It’s been on the critical path for a week.”

He brought up the display, frowning. “All right, I think we can make up a bit of time if we just get them straight to cutting and installation.”

“Don’t we need to run them through the testing process first?” a more junior technician asked. “That’s on the list.”

“I know it’s on the list,” the senior tech replied. “But the list was written when they didn’t expect there’d be rebel attacks hitting our supply lines.”

He waved at the screen. “The testing process means heating each individual crystal up to eighteen hundred, even though we know Khyber can all handle temperatures of up to forty-seven-fifty. The cutting process doesn’t rely on heat tolerance either. Any crystalline flaws will come out in cutting, and we can just junk them. It means cutting takes a bit longer, but by going straight to cutting we can save at several hours on the overall process. And you know how much time we’ve lost already.”

The junior tech looked worried, then shook his head.

“All right,” he replied. “I guess so.”

“You need to learn how things are done in practice,” the senior tech said. “No big deal.”

Eleven months previously...

“I’m quite sure Rothana Heavy Engineering’s XJ-15 hypermatter feed systems will meet your needs better than the alternatives,” the Rothana representative said, as Admiral Jerjerrod examined the datasheet.

He wasn’t so sure. The newer units had better specifications, certainly, but they weren’t proven, and they were also somewhat more expensive.

“I don’t think that’s necessarily the case,” he said, out loud. “While I appreciate Rothana’s position, the Sienar alternative has similar flow rates and more proven applications.”

The Rothana representative nodded, sagely.

“I understand entirely,” he said. “However, I must point out that Rothana has some important additional information to present.”

He held out a credit chip, which Jerjerrod took and inspected.

“Owing to the XJ-15’s protracted development, we are willing to provide our test units at cost,” the representative went on. “That is in addition to having a higher production rate than our competitors and a less committed production output.”

Jerjerrod hesitated, then pocketed the credit chip.

“That all seems in order,” he said. “The XJ-15 it is.”

“Marvellous,” the representative declared.

Nine months previously...

“I’ve examined the records that exist from the first Death Star,” a senior technician said. “The amount of strain that was placed on the flash suppression systems was minimal to nonexistent. Even with the full firing that destroyed Alderaan, surviving records indicate that the flash suppressors had no more than a five percent load placed on them – an amount that can be handled by untreated durasteel.”

The other men and women in the meeting looked at the data on the screen behind their colleague.

“You’re suggesting we forego the duratemp treatment on the flash protection systems?” one of the women asked, cautiously. “I can see the advantages, but the downsides seem significant. I’d even say potentially destructive.”

“It is my position that the cost of including the duratemp treatment is unacceptable,” the tech replied. “It takes time and effort, including supervisory attention which cuts into the available man-hours on the project. We only have so much experienced manpower.”

That drew winces, though none of the humans in the room drew attention to the fact that they were spending a lot of that time in interminable meetings.

“In the following presentation, I’ll discuss my proposal and how it could shave as much as one week off the final completion timetable,” the senior tech continued, flicking to the next screen of his presentation. “This model shows how the flash suppression systems are built around the main weapon…”

Six months previously…

“There simply isn’t an option,” the head of personnel replied. “Our existing system is not providing enough technicians and operators.”

“This was quite sufficient for the first Death Star,” Jerjerrod protested.

“The first Death Star was a project that took decades,” the manager replied, shrugging. “It didn’t come up at first, sir – for that I apologize – but if we are going to redress the problem, we need to act now. There is no alternative.”

Jerjerrod rubbed his temples, thinking about the problem.

The fully functional Death Star was going to need hundreds of thousands of qualified technicians and operators, familiar with the systems of the vast battle station, and so many of the men who knew much about the Death Star at the moment were busy building it.

There hadn’t been many left after the destruction of the first battle station, because most of them had been working on it at the time.

“All right,” he said. “So your proposal is…?”

“We keep the same number of trainers for now, but abbreviate the course,” the manager answered. “Two months – at most. Then we have the new graduates train the next batch for two months, and so on. Exponential growth. At twenty students per instructor and a hundred instructors to start with, we’ll end up with eight hundred thousand in six months.”

That was extremely tempting… they wouldn’t be anything like the equal of what they should be, but they could learn on the job.

“All right,” Jerjerrod said. “Approved – see to it.”

One month previously…

“Next item on the checklist?” Commander Jaskier asked.

“Step one hundred and seven,” Technician Mils replied. “Self test.”

She pressed the self-test button, and the computer system clicked and flickered as it ran through the diagnostics.

Data results and readouts went up on the screen, and Jaskier and all the others in the control station watched the results.

None of them had any comment to make about the numbers. The checklist said to run the self test, so that was what they were doing.

“Step one hundred and eight,” Mils went on. “Sign off on results.”

She did that, as well, and Jaskier nodded.

“Good,” he said. “And I believe we’ve finished that half an hour ahead of schedule! Good work, everyone.”

Now.

The firing commands flashed out through the Death Star’s systems, triggering a cascade of further commands, and the whole massive battle station’s main superlaser woke for the first time.

Fifty XJ-15 hypermatter flow regulators controlled the flow of energy from the power core into the power collectors, and the energy being channelled into the system surged rapidly – rising to one hundred and eighteen percent of nominal, above what would have been anticipated, and greater than the one hundred and two percent that the older, more proven Sienar systems would have generated.

Thousands of high powered beams were generated, controlled and focused through an enormous array of Khyber crystals… a small but measurable fraction of which were cheap industrially grown diamonds instead, added to the shipments by subcontractors eager to stretch out their production from the strip-mined planet of Ilum without running so late on their deliveries that financial penalties were imposed.

None of the technicians who were in a position to spot the problem at this stage were actually capable of doing so. Their necessarily abbreviated training had mostly been on what buttons to push, and nobody had the deeper knowledge of the systems to recognize that the system was in an anomalous state.

Then some of the diamonds shattered under the load, allowing the beams free to damage adjacent systems, and in moments the whole of the energy drawn from the hypermatter core was unleashed.

The flash suppression systems were wholly, and fatally, inadequate.

“Watch yourself, Wedge!” Lando called, his head on a swivel, and banked the Falcon around so his ventral turret gunner could clear off one of the TIEs attacking Red Leader. “We’ve got to-”

Then there was a sudden blinding flash, and Lando did a double-take.

The Death Star’s protective shield was instantly, and dramatically, visible – because the entire inside of it was full of plasma and flame, lighting it up as clearly as Ackbar’s briefing had done back before the operation was launched in the first place. Then something blew up on the surface of the forest moon as the plasma followed the funnel of the shield, and the explosive force was no longer contained but began to drift out into space.

“...the kriff?” Lando asked, eventually. “What just happened?”

“Ow,” Darth Vader said, indistinctly, reaching up to feel his helmet, which had been crushed in by an impact with the ceiling.

The Emperor’s throne room seemed to mostly be intact, though there was an Emperor-shaped hole in the window nearest his throne, and Luke had his hands out to either side as he stood on the wall.

“Father, are you all right?” the younger Skywalker asked.

“What happened?” Vader replied. “I remember the Emperor ordering that the Death Star should fire…”

“I don’t know, it exploded just after he said that,” Luke answered. “It turns out that overconfidence was his weakness… do you have any idea where the nearest spaceship is? Keeping the atmosphere in is tiring me out a bit.”

[ask-the-pioneer]

There is a stir amongst the locals. Market goods are gathered up and carried away as tiny droplets begin to fall from the sky.

The cycle is coming to a close, dark clouds heralding the arrival of deadly rain. Marbles panics a little - finding a shelter of her own is out of the question. There is no time to spare. She turns to the tribe elders and pleads to take refuge with them.

They do not trust her... but the guest has merely started her work on the spears, and her services are still needed. Spike and Sage exchange rushed whispers, out of Marbs' earshot. Surely they won't let her die out here in the rain?

Indeed, they turn back to her to share the good news. The brown one waves their hand, inviting her to follow. "Come with us" they say, and not a minute too soon. The ground shakes under the weight of oncoming rain with a deafening rumble. Marbles is one of the last to come inside, the heavy shelter gate is closed right behind her. For all the destructive potential at her hands, they've decided she is worth the risk.

The shelter is unlike any other she's seen before - tidy, furnished, well maintained. And big. So, so big.

Orange lanterns dot the ceiling, dimly illuminating the main entrance hall. From there, smaller corridors branch off to the storage and lodging areas. In the middle - a nice resting place for guests, with fabric mats on the ground and beautifully decorated pipes above. Marbles looks around to admire the view. From where she stands, the shelter looks like a maze.

There is a wall in the main hall that is fully covered in vulture masks. Some of them show cracks, circular holes where the spear had been skilfully lodged into a beast's head. Yet most of them are in perfect condition, good as new. Marbles wonders why they're displayed here, instead of being used for fending off other predators. Perhaps they're sold to other tribes, or the right to wear them must be earned first. One thing is certain - this merchant tribe is thriving.

The chief escorts the slugcat guest inside, and signs for her to wait in the common area. Marbles settles down on the cozy mats, waiting patiently for a sleeping cell to be assigned to her...

// Spike the tribe chief (brown scavenger) belongs to @angelofchaos001. No-name teal scavenger (here named Sage) belongs to @droppaw.

[thecupidwitch]

Elements And Their Correspondences

Earth

Direction: North

Time: Midnight

Season: Winter

Color: Green, brown

Zodiac: Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn

Ruling planets: Venus and Saturn

Tarot Cards: Pentacles, Coins

Tools: Pentacle, salt, stones, dirt, crystals, wood, flowers

Cystals: Emerald, Jet, tourmaline, quartz, onyx, azurite, amethyst, jasper, peridot, granite.

Animals: gopher, bear, wolf, ant, horse, stag, deer, dog, cow, bull, bison, snake, worms, moles, voles, grubs

Herbs: Oak, cedar, cypress, honeysuckle, ivy, primrose, sage, grains, patchouli, nuts, magnolia, comfrey, vetivert, moss, lilac, lichen, roots, barley, alfalfa, corn, rice.

Rules: Grounding, strength, healing, success, stability, sturdiness, steadfastness, foundations, empathy, fertility, death, rebirth, wisdom, nature, animals, plants, money, prosperity.

Water

Direction: West

Time: Dusk

Season: Fall

Color: Blue, Indigo, Sliver

Zodiac: Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces

Ruling planets: Moon, Neptune, Pluto

Tarot Cards: Cups

Tools: Ocean, sea glass, cup, bowl, seaweed, hag stones, cauldron

Cystals: Moonstone, pearl, silver, aquamarine, amethyst, blue tourmaline, lapis lazuli, fluorite, coral, blue topaz, beryl, opal, coral

Animals: fish, snake, frog, crab, lobster, eel, shark, dragonfly, seahorse, dolphin, sea otter, seal, whale, alligator, crocodile, beaver, octopus, penguin, salamander, turtle, starfish, koi, coral, barnacle, manta ray, manatee, jellyfish, nautilus, heron, duck, geese, crane, swan, water birds, ammonite, dragons, serpents

Herbs: seaweed, aloe, fern, water lily, lotus, moss, willow, gardenia, apple, catnip, chamomile, cattail, lettuce, kelp, birch, cabbage, coconut, cucumber, comfrey, eucalyptus, gourd, geranium, grape, licorice, lilac, pear, strawberry, tomato

Rules: emotion, intuition, psychic abilities, love, unconscious mind, fertility, self-healing, reflection, lunar energy, deep feelings, curses, death

Fire

Direction: South

Time: Noon

Season: Summer

Color: Red, Orange

Zodiac: Aries, Leo, Sagittarius

Ruling planets: Sun, Mars

Tarot Cards: Wands or Swords (depends on belief system)

Tools: Athame, candles, swords, wands, dagger, lamp, flame

Cystals: Carnelian, red jasper, bloodstone, garnet, ruby, agate, rhodochrosite, gold, pyrite, brass, fire opal, lavastone, tiger's eye

Animals: Lion, snake, coyote, fox, ladybug, bee, shark, scorpion, horse, mantis, tiger

Herbs: Cinnamon, cloves, ginger, allspice, basil, cacti, marigold, chilis, garlic, mustard, nettle, onion, heliotrope, hibiscus, juniper, lime, orange, red pepper, poppies, thistle, coffee, jalapenos, lemon, cumin, saffron, coriander

Rules: Energy, will, destruction, strength, courage, power, passion, lust, sexuality, anger, war, new beginnings, protection, loyalty, transformation, action, movement, achievement, creativity, desire, willpower

Air

Direction: East

Time: Down

Season: Spring

Color: Yellow, gold, white, light blue, pastels

Zodiac: Gemini, Libra, Aquarius

Ruling planets: Mercury, Jupiter, Uranus

Tarot Cards: Wands

Tools: Feather, wand, staff, incense, broom, bell, sword, pen

Cystals: Amber, topaz, citrine, jasper, agate, pumice, alexandrite, amethyst, fluorite, mica, clear quartz

Animals: Birds, flying insects, spiders, bats

Herbs: Bergamot, lavender, marjoram, peppermint, sage, dandelion, bluebell, clover, frankincense, primrose, lemongrass, pine, aspen, yarrow, violets, vervain, myrrh, dill, anise, aspen

Rules: Intelligence, wisdom, knowledge, logic, thought, communication, truth, inspiration, intuition, memory, creativity

Tip jar

[rockingbytheseaside]

✦ I still love you, even though I miss you.

(sfw, angst, slight yandere - Pierro x gn reader, hinted to be connected with the abyss)

Pierro is a patient man.

Just as the immovable, snowy mountains of Snezhnaya, so is Pierro’s patience unbudging and certain. One would say The Jester’s gaze is even colder than those icy peaks on the horizon. It is no wonder a man of his caliber is the founder of the Fatui. His calculating attitude always lets him be five steps ahead of everyone, and it is precisely why you are here now.

You were in bed. Your chamber within the Snezhnayan Palace is pristine, and practically untouched even by you. The windows showcased a snowy landscape, and if that sight didn’t bring chills to anyone, then the ominous walls of the Palace certainly did. This luxurious room did not emit warmth, even if a small fireplace was lit.

No; This room was your confinement after your battle with the Fatui Harbingers. Now you were recovering, your body and mind unconscious

The Jester sat on the nearby chair, silently observing your sleeping form. There was barely a sound or motion within this secured chamber, save for his own troubled sigh. You have been slumbering in oblivion for days now, the impact of your previous battle forced you to exhaust the last drop of your mightiness, leaving even his top Harbingers wounded. In fact, The Zapolyarny Palace was still recovering from the destruction you brought into Snezhnaya. But now you are here, and after 500 years, the back of Pierro’s gloved hand caresses your skin in trembling worship.

To even reach this moment took many years, he thought to himself.

A long time ago, when The Doctor first became the 2nd of The Harbingers, Pierro assigned him a prolonged task. Use knowledge to locate that which can traverse the Abyss. Not a benign task, one may say; but one that required Il Dottore to use his expertise from his Akademiya days. One thing led to another, and The Doctor found that same thing that would be sent to the Abyss - A puppet.

A long time ago, when The Balladeer first became the 6th of The Harbingers, Pierro also assigned him a prolonged task. Search the Abyss for as much as he can. A straightforward assignment; alas it lacked much directive on what he was supposed to search there. Nonetheless, Scaramouche’s rank never allowed him to inquire further about the Jester, so he relied on any intel he could find. And find he did, in the murky insanity that lay hidden within the Abyss, some valuable information - The sky is a lie, there are those whose fate is not governed by the stars.

A long time ago, when The Captain first became the 1st of The Harbingers, Pierro assigned him a prolonged task. Prepare yourself to face the strongest opponent in the Abyss, for when the time comes you will be on the front line against the one The Jester seeks. Il Capitano was humbly keen, and as always accepted with a solemn nod. The strongest man in Teyvat would face the strongest being of the Abyss, and the Harbinger could not wait to meet the elusive entity.

Pierro was a patient man. He didn’t doubt that his army of harbingers would confirm that which he already suspected. Always several steps ahead of them. But now his plans were proceeding – getting a lead on the Abyss.

Not because the Abyss is an enemy of Teyvat and the Fatui, no. But because Pierro has suspected for centuries that an entity was harboring in the depth of darkness, hidden away from all mortal eyes. You, who was so brutally ripped from him after the Cataclysm, were alive and taking root in the realm of the Abyss.

Pierro still recalls the days of his youth, puerile and hardworking, when the kingdom of Khaenri’ah was still in its prime. You were so proud of him when he first got appointed as a royal court sage. No stars could compare your delight whenever you supported him with love and affection, the lingering memories of your small kisses still haunting the Director to this day. So naive and foolish. He was on the verge of starting a life with you, daydreaming of calling you his cherished spouse and building a home where the two of you would live out your peaceful days.

Those peaceful days never ensued, and he never managed to give you the ring he bought. The Cataclysm ushered the land with a veil of sin, with you forcing him to flee into Teyvat, while you vanished without a trace.

He almost thought you had perished, and mourned you every day until he built his Fatui organization from the ashes of sorrow.

Every action he took, every Harbinger he recruited, every order he gave, every plan he perfected – all for the intricate strategy of seeking you out from the Abyss, and bringing you back to his arms. Even if he had to sacrifice his best men and burn the Irminsul into cinders, he had no reservations.

Now he is back in the present, where you lay unconscious in bed, secured like a hidden gem within the Palace and pacified after a ferocious battle. Every day, The Jester checked on your well-being, secured your health, and waited patiently by your bedside. He never thought this day would come, and you would probably detest him for doing all this. It would be a bittersweet reunion once you wake up.

But Pierro was always a patient man. If it took 500 years to reach you, he wouldn’t mind another 500 years only to taste the sweetness of your kisses and envelop you in his embrace where you belong.

[notquitecanon]

Familiarity & Whiskey // Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Reader

Summary: Simon and Johnny get in a fight, which is how Simon crosses your path. Thinking your an easy mark for quick comfort and a quick fuck, he's not aware you're in the UK to meet your estranged father. Your circles running tighter with his than he thinks...

(Unedited)

Poor Simon can't catch a fucking break. Let this man nut and smoke a cigarette.

CW: feminine descriptions and pronouns used, alcohol consumption, making out, heavy petting, allusions to oral (male receiving), Simon's lowkey highkey manipulative, absent father!John Price, don't think too hard about age gaps i gave up

Request by: @i-live-in-spite

NSFW 18+ MDNI

"Go to hell, Riley. ‘S where ye fuckin’ belong." 

That had been Johnny’s direct words.

 Which was the first and only time Johnny had addressed by just his last name. Usually it was some irritating nickname, his callsign, or his rank delivered with the Scotsman’s usual bright eyes and mirth that somehow made it less annoying to Simon. And when it was his real name, in serious times, it was his first name, with a sincere look and genuine inflection. Never just ‘Riley’. 

But Johnny had spit his last name like it was a curse. Something that tasted bitter in his mouth, something poisonous. 

Hell, maybe it fucking was. And it had him craving something volatile- destructive. Alcohol, sex, a pack of cigarettes… and if he couldn’t get one of those to self-medicate this poisonous streak, he’d settle for bloodying his fists before the end of the night. 

A shit mission with a shit conclusion. A shit day. Fuck, a shit year.  Culminating in a clash between Lieutenant and Sergeant, Simon’s icy seething clashing Johnny’s explosive rage about a bad call made worse by Simon’s version of coping- cold indifference and colder jokes.  Actions had consequences, isn’t that what Simon always told his sergeant? Maybe that’s why Simon was stewing in the shitty pub close to base crawling with recruits after Gaz and Price had forcibly split up the confrontation right as it was about to get physical. 

Price had all but shoved him off base while Gaz took Soap somewhere to cool off- probably the gym or some equally shitty pub on opposite ends of the city. So there he was, sulking in a corner, nursing the only bourbon this bar offered, stewing over whether or not he needed to apologize.  

The thought of apologizing burned worse than the bottom shelf bourbon he was sipping. He was Ghost. The Ghost. He didn’t apologize. This was one of those times he would’ve actually appreciated Price’s usually unwarranted ’sage’ advice- but he was tied up, still on base and pissed off because he was trying to wrap up mission reports and now was cleaning up Simon’s mess. 

—

"Excuse me? Would it be ok if I sat here? I’m waiting for someone but the guys at the bar won’t leave me alone." You were biting your lip a little, trying your best not to look too awkward as you asked the tall, dark, and you assumed handsome but you couldn’t tell around the mask he was wearing. You felt nervous, but not to be talking to you, you were nervous for a laundry list of other reasons. Including and limited to meeting your father for the first time since you were barely three years old. 

When the pub had been suggested to you, you’d thought the closeness to his base was an advantage- casual, easy, public, nearby- what you hadn’t accounted for was the herds of young soldiers that would also be there.  Trying to buy yourself a drink to calm your nerves while you waited had resulted in four heinous pick up lines, three cocktail napkins with phone numbers scrawled on them, two vulgar gestures, and one marriage proposal. Like the 12 days of Christmas song, but from hell. The only place that wasn’t buzzing with sloshed young soldiers was a dark corner with an absolute behemoth of a masked man, two empties and a half drank tumbler of whiskey.  Despite (or perhaps because of) the nerves, jet lag, and shot of tequila you’d just took because of said nerves, you considered yourself something of a strategist. 

After you asked, narrowed amber eyes flicked up to you appraisingly, pinning you to your spot. Even slightly slouched over his drink, he was huge. Not just tall, but built like a brick house. He wasn’t wearing an actual military uniform, but everything about him just read military. He stared at you for a second, then a minutes, stretching into two. To your credit, you kept your chin high and your eyes level on his. Right as you started to say, "Never mind, sorry to bother-" 

" ’s fine." His voice was deep and kind of gravelly, low enough that his quiet tone was almost lost to the barroom chatter. His accent wasn’t one you’d heard before, a bit sharper and choppier than the accent John had on the phone. He scooted further into the booth, dragging his drink with him. As you turned back and slid into the corner booth, he scrutinized you again, like you were supposed to be familiar to him, "I know you?" 

"Doubt it." You smiled, a tight lipped but warm thing. You knew you didn’t know him considering this was the first time you’d set foot in this country. Not to mention you’d undoubtedly remember a character like this. So instead, you offered him your name and an outstretched hand. He nodded, neither returning the exchange or shaking your hand, just grunting to show he heard you. 

Still, he scanned you again. Simon was sure he’d never met you, but there was something about you that was eerily familiar. It was the feeling of someone’s name being on the tip of his tongue but slipping between thoughts before he could place it, or a song that as soon as he tried to think about it the melody slipped away. It wasn’t your physical features, as pretty of a bird as you were. That little smile, the way you carried yourself, the saunter in your walk, how your shoulder were held, the set of your jaw, you were young in the face but seemed older, the casual confidence so rare for someone your age… These were all things so familiar to him, but he couldn’t connect it to it’s match. Maybe it was the bourbon. 

"Y’not from ‘round here." He stated, and it wasn’t a question. Simon knew it as a fact. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why someone not from here would patronize a piss-poor pub like this, especially a bird like you- pretty and warm and put together. He rose an eyebrow that shifted the brow of his mask, "What brings you?" 

Blunt and to the point. Definitely military.  You leaned back against the booth, your finger tracing the glass rim of the wine glass you’d set down in front of you. White wine from a shit hole like this was one of the many clues that you didn’t belong here. 

"Meeting someone important." You answered vaguely with another one of those warm but tight smiles. Seriously, where did he know that from? "He’s late." 

"A date?" He pressed further with eyes that were somehow intense and disinterested at the same time. You couldn’t decide if his bluntness was a military quirk or social dysfunction, or possibly both. Of course he couldn’t know that this was the furthest thing from a date you could be doing tonight, which made you laugh, loudly and suddenly. The noise took Simon off guard, but not for it’s spontaneity or for how bright and beautiful it was , but because it tugged at that feeling a familiarity, bordering on nostalgia. 

"Oh, god no." You rushed, shaking your head and forming an X over your chest for good measure, still laughing a bit as you took a sip of wine. Still, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to describe John. "Not a date. I’m just meeting…. someone important." 

Simon doesn't know why this pleased him. Something about you being available and talking to him as opposed to the damnably flashy and obnoxious grunts wearing their dress uniforms to the pub on a fuckin’ Tuesday… Simon’s mouth quirked into a subtle smirk as he lifted his mask enough to take a sip of his bourbon, not missing how your too-familiar eyes followed the movement, intrigued and keen, “Who then?" 

"Nope, I’ve already answered, like, three questions. Your turn?" There was that casual confidence again as you turned the question on him with that little grin, legs cross under the table as your nails clicked against the sticky wood table, "What brings you here?" 

Simon’s expression under the mask soured again, eyes fixing on the lipstick stain on your wine glass. Pretty color… He wondered how it’d look smeared along his mouth. Or his cock. He shook that thought out of his head, bringing his eyes back to yours. Maybe it was the bourbon that loosened his tongue, or maybe those eyes of yours, “Got in a fight with a mate o’ mine. It was… suggested that we give each other some space.” 

‘Suggested' was nice was of saying Price manhandled him all the way to the guard station at the gate. Like a scolded dog being put outside. 

“So you’ve put yourself in the corner? Are you in timeout?” You quirked an eyebrow in another frustratingly familiar gesture, something that made him chuckle instead of bristle as you gestured to the dark corner he’d been lurking in. 

“Something like that.” He nodded, swirling the whiskey in his glass. 

“What was the fight about?” You asked casually, taking another sip of your wine. Normally so private, Simon would’ve bitten a stranger’s head off for such a personal question. But coming from you, between his desire to keep your attention on him and the ever present nagging sense of familiarity, he just sighed. 

“Hard week pushed some buttons. We’ve both got tempers. Mine’s worse.” He explanation was simple, both from characteristic standoffishness and the fact the mission that had provoked this fight had taken place in a country the British Military was not supposed to be. Another deep sigh like the confession took something wrenching from him, “He puts up with me usually, but I… said somethings’ I shouldn’t’ve.”

You nodded sagely, taking in the rather vague information with eyes settled on the far wall as if you were doing mental math, quiet deductions. He recognized this look from somewhere, this was the look of someone looking for answers and solutions. Your fingers tapped against the table again before your eyes slid back to him, “So you were both assholes to each other, but you were worse?” 

“Yeah. That’s the gist of it.” Simon scoffed as you boiled down his already barebones explanation even further. You nodded again, looking at him quizzically. 

“Have you thought about just apologizing?” You rose an eyebrow at him, your head cocking a little to the side. The most obvious answer in the world that for some reason he couldn’t wrap his hand around. He opened his mouth to protest, but you were quicker, voice chiding in way he’d heard before- but from where?, “No, let me guess, it’s not that simple, you can’t just apologize.” 

For a moment you dropped your voice a little lower and attmepted a half imitation of his Mancunian accent which would’ve been offensive if it wasn’t exactly what he was about to say. You huffed a quiet lap before returning to your normal tone with a roll of your eyes, “Believe me, yes, it is that simple, and, yes, you can just apologize. And if you truly think it’s not something an apology would fix, let him get one good hit in and get it out of your systems. Problem solved.” 

“Get it out of our systems?” Simon asked a little incredulously, despite the sampling of a sharp wit and the occasional hard glint to your eyes, he hadn’t expected someone as soft looking as you to jump to punching as a serious form of conflict resolution. Hell, you sounded more like his Captain Price than some random pretty thing in a pub, “that’s terrible advice.” 

“You telling me you would’ve seriously taken my apologize and talk it out advice?” Your eyebrows raised again as you leaned forward on your elbows onto the table- another frustratingly familiar look that would’ve distracted him if your now exposed cleavage didn’t distract him further. He swallowed as he stared, feeling the growing need to get something out of his system, and his fight with Johnny was becoming less and less forefront in his mind. 

“Not a chance.” He shook his head, sniper eyes locking in on the drop of wine that escaped your glass and slid between your breasts, quickly disappearing between skin and under your shirt. He could find it with his tongue, bet your skin made the wine sweeter… 

“Yeah,” You laughed again, setting down the empty glass, finding this intriguing masked character to be a wonderful distraction from the anxiety of this upcoming meeting. And if John was running late, you’d take advantage of the distraction, “Figured as much.” 

___

An hour and another glass of wine later, you’d continued to scoot closer to the masked man in the booth with you. He was first to initiate contact, throwing an arm over your shoulders in the pretense of keeping you close enough to hear over the rowdy group cheering on a rugby game, it was you who had leaned into his side. His hand had found your thigh first, but your nails were tracing little shapes and words against his forearm. 

“Who was it you were meetin' 'ere, sweetheart?” Simon asked again, his mask still rolled over his nose again as he took another sip of his bourbon, lips grazing your earring as his breath fanned over your neck. He wondered how you would react if his teeth tugged one of the pretty little earrings you’d picked out. You were distracted noticing how his accent minced certain letters in syllables in a delectable way, “Only a fool’d keep you waitin’ this long.” 

Two glasses of wine and jet lag had done away with your need for vague answers as you leaned into him, shivering as the smell of bourbon, cigarettes, and gunpowder started to overpower your perfume. You swallowed, eyes meeting his with a bit of nervousness he hadn’t been able to pick up on you until just now, “I’m meeting my father. We’ve been estranged most of my life. And he’s an hour and forty five late now.” 

“Shit.” Simon muttered under his breath, not thinking you could’ve said anything that could really surprise him. Meeting your estranged father and yet you’d spent the last two hours coaching and comforting him through a fight with his friend. That level of self sacrifice should’ve clued him into your parentage almost immediately, but he was busy staring at how your wide eyes were staring up at him through your lashes, teeth toying with the seam of your lips that your tongue kept darting out to wet. 

“I’m a little nervous.” You admitted, the nail that was tracing shapes on his forearm dropped down to his massive thigh to brace yourself. If you leaned any closer, you’d be all but in his lap- which wouldn’t be the worse thing, both of you mentally decided. You took a deep breath, sipping some of the water you’d ordered midway through your third glass of wine,  "A lot nervous, actually.” 

One thing about Simon, was that as a sniper, he was opportunistic. When he saw a shot, he took it. And you just lined him up to test his theory on how long it’d take to convince you to slip into the pub bathrooms with him. 

His arm around your shoulder adjusted so he could gently brush some hair behind your ear, thumb purposely grazing your cheekbone before he tilted your face up to meet his, “Well, you know the best way to get over your nerves?” 

The sudden closeness stunned any witty retort to silence as you hummed for him to continue, swallowing thickly in a way that brought those keenly sharp eyes to watch the bob of your throat. He chuckled lowly to himself, so sweet and perfect, he was about to absolutely ruin you. But he wasn’t evil, he’d put you back together again… 

“Gotta… work... it outta your system. Just like you said, sweetheart.”  His other hand was kneading into your thigh through the pretty satin of your skirt, such a good girl, with a skirt below your knees, and he looked forward to shredding those tights underneath with nothing but his teeth and bare hands. But… he wondered if he could make you cum through them before he ruined them, and with the way you tensed and then melted at his touch, he was betting the answer was a firm yes. “Gonna let me help you like you’ve been helping me?”

You thought he sure had a funny way of equating this heavy petting to the teasing and mild comfort you’d offered about his fight with this ‘Soap’ guy, but you nodded anyway. All the pent-up anxiety made it an eager motion as he chuckled, leaning forward and catching your mouth, so possessive and borderline aggressive at your compliance. He was a bit of a bully, using his bulk and his weight so you would bend underneath him like he was testing how hard he had to press for you to break, and when you whined at the feeling of him biting your lip, he only swallowed your sounds and laughed into your mouth. 

Lips smearing your pretty makeup, one hand tangling your hair into his finger and the other fisting your skirt so it started hiking up your legs, and one of his boots nudging your ankles out of their polite cross so he could start prying your thighs apart.  God, you were making out (bordering on hooking up) with a nameless, masked man with anger issues while you waited to meet your estranged father for basically the first time… What had your life come to? 

Actually, the absent father bit explained the masked stranger bit if you thought about it for more than three seconds. 

“Fuckin’ hell, you’ve gotta be taking the absolute piss, Simon.” A sudden and angry voice, familiar to both of you sounded from the front of your secluded little booth. You jumped back away from your paramour. Simon, apparently was his name, while he only turned in frustrated confusion at his captain interrupted him blowing off steam, just as he’d been instructed when Price all but kicked him off base for the night. 

Your eyes went wide in absolute mortification, like you’d melt under the table and just die there. Standing there, watching you sloppily make out with someone he apparently knew, was your father. John Price. Who hadn’t seen you since you were three years old and compulsively carried around a Kermit the frog stuffie everywhere you went… He looked older compared to your hazy memories of him and the singular picture your mother hadn’t burned, and the interesting facial hair only made him look older. You suspected he was capable of looking warm and kind, your mother always said you got his soft eyes and smile, but right now he looked pissed.

“Price?” Simon questioned, yanking his mask back over his mouth to hide the smears of his lipstick, wondering if this temper had something to do with the mission or with his fight with the sergeant and if so, why it was urgent enough to interrupt him right now. He’d noted how you went rigid underneath him, batting his hand out of the balmy soft canyon between your spread thighs before they clamped shut again. Shit, that door was rapidly closing...

You spoke at the same time as Simon, your voice somewhere between hesitant questioning and caught teenager, “Dad?” 

“Dad?” Simon immediately parroted, his respect for his Captain superseding the whiskey and lust as he peeled himself off of you quickly doing mental math Olympics to figure out genetics and age gaps, “Bloody Hell, John-“ 

You shrieked, as Simon didn’t get a chance to justify himself or even ask, how was I supposed to know the bird I was trying to fuck was your kid you’ve never told anyone about? Because your father’s face went red instantly, jumping across the booth and landing a scarily hard punch across Simon’s face, spilling wine and whiskey all over you in the process. 

So it was going to be a bloody knuckles kind of night, after all. 

____

Sorry I kinda changed up your request a little bit, I started writing and it kinda got away from me. I'm a slave to the little worm in my brain.