#scottish accents are so precious

[pandalilydorlene]

Guys Dorlene movie nights In Marlene's childhood bedroom In Scotland.

Marlene can't take her eyes off of the screen, she's put on her favourite movie (Rocky horror because her and Sirius are alt queer 70s cliches together) and she's just staring with her mouth hanging slightly open and her eyes wide even though she's seen it a million times before.

Dorlene on the other hand hasn't looked at the screen in 30 minutes, her eyes are fixed on Marlene. Quietly watching the light from the little box television flicker across her face and brighten her eyes. Dorcas would stay in this moment forever, if only she could.

[callsign-songbird]

This was supposed to be a short rambling and ended up turning into a mini fic lol. I know the tense shifts, I know it's sloppy lol

Anyway, Simon has a sweetheart who gets kidnapped and gets to meet "Ghost" for the first time.

The first time you meet Ghost, it's supposed to be carefully planned and controlled. After all, Simon was so worried about opening that part of himself up to you. To you, he was Simon. Soft, introverted, sweet, desperately trying to break a cycle of generational trauma. You had never met Ghost.

But, of course, nothing in Simon's life can go according to plan, and when you have people that mean something to you, they become weaknesses. So, when you get kidnapped by a Russian military company with the intel that you were important to Task Force-141? Ghost has already burnt down the world once, you're sure as hell that he would do it again for his love. So, when you meet Ghost, it isn't carefully rehersed and planned like Simon wanted. No.

Instead, you're terrified, bound, and gagged on a cold concrete floor wearing little more than your skivvies as tears stream down your face. Then, out of the blue, gunfire and shouting rings through the halls. Stealth be damned, as soon as their cover is blown, you know that Ghost will fight like a rabbit animal. He barges into your cell, tackling a man against the wall with a knife to his throat and a gun at his head.

Those eyes that had looked at you so softly and tenderly were completely unrecognizable when they were this wide and intense, wild with bloodlust. "Where is the girl?" He spits out in fluent Russian before his eyes catch sight of you.

'BANG'

A single bullet through the soldiers' skull, splattering Ghost with even more viscera and gray matter. Ghost doesn't even seem phased as he holsters his pistol and pulls away, letting the body drop with a sickening thud. He walks brazenly up to you, but pauses as he notices the way you frantically back yourself into the corner, trying desperately to stay away from this monster who had surely come to drag you from one hell to the next.

Then, he crouches down and outstretches a gentle hand to you, letting you come to him. He called your name so sweetly, and that was a voice you recognized. You tried to muffle out his name through the rag shoved into your mouth and tied around your head. That earned a low chuckle, a dangerous one that you hadn't heard before. "Not quite, love. Ghost. Now, let's get you home, eh?"

Ghost. The name echoed in your mind, bouncing around as you tried to remember where you had heard it before. Your eyes flicked over to the corpse splayed in the doorway of your cell, making you nearly vomit in your mouth before looking away. Ghost shifted closer, using the knife still in his hand to cut through the rough ropes binding you. "Bloody hell... idiots didn't even use chains, could have escaped right easy, you could of." Ghost muttered, mostly to himself. The words were terrifying to hear.

He reached to untie your gag next, a chuckle rumbling lowly in his chest as you flinch away. He gives you half a second to compose yourself before he unceremoniously rips the gag off of you and tosses it to the side. Red marks are etched into your cheeks where the gag had dug in, and the sight makes Ghost seeth. "Oh, love..." His words are soft, but his tone is enraged, as if those marks alone could start his new crusade.

"LT!" Blue eyes and a neatly groomed Warhawk pop into the door, stepping casually over the corpse as the new face made his way over to you. "This her, LT?" A thick Scottish accent was present, along with a bit of thinly veiled appreciation. "Off limits Johnny, this is her. This is my girl."

Whenever Simon called you his, it was soft and reverent, as if astonished that he could call someone so precious his. But when Ghost said it? It was commanding, possessive, and left no room for argument. You were his. And that thought was almost scary.

Ghost wasted no more time, scooping you up into his arms and making their way quickly through the facility you had only caught glances of while Ghost and Johnny talked in some military jargon you didn't understand.

That's when you noticed it.

Even though Ghost was holding you so tight and close, even though his touches seemed so rough and careless, even though he was splattered with all sorts of blood and viscera, you had none of it on you. Ghost had been so careful with his touches, with how he held you, determined not to stain and taint your delicate skin with the fuel to his fire, the essence of his soul. And that was quite possibly when you realized that 'Simon' and 'Ghost' were merely two sides of the same coin. And they were both yours as much as you were theirs. his.

[grimm-cod]

Simon is DEFFFF a GIRL DAD.

Simon and you had identical twin girls, and THEY ARE THE LIGHT OF HIS LIFE.

Simon would do anything for his girls.

tea party with stuffed animals? done.

painting his nails? done.

when Soap asks him why his nails are bright pink when he takes his gloves off, Simon just gives him a glare in response, and Soap decides not to press further.

When he gets home after a mission, and his girls are already tucked into bed, Simon goes into their bedroom to press soft kisses against their foreheads.

If one of the twins had a rough day at school, he would always be the first one to comfort them, which is odd because he's a big, broody, war machine, but he has a heart goddamnit.

He would name his twins: Sage and Saffron.

"They keep calling me the 'other Sage', dad." Saffron would tell him one day after a rough day at school.

"You're my Saffy, sweets. dont let 'em mess with ya." Simon would reply.

if one of the twins got sick, you and him would nurse her back to health, but soon enough, the other twin had the same damn thing, so now, you both are stuck dealing with moody, sick, identical twins.

"Dont wanna take my medicine, dad." Sage would argue.

"Dont care, love. gotta take it." Simon would reply after an hour of arguing with her, getting her to try and take her medicine. Saffron on the other hand, she had taken it instantly, no matter how bad it tasted.

AND OHHH GODDD. if Soap were to ever find out that Simon had twin girls at home, and he was really a big softy behind closed doors, THE TEASING WOULD NEVER END.

Soap would tell anyone he came in contact with.

"Y'know, the Lt. has little twin girls? he treats them like princesses. he's a softy under all that mess." Soap would tell everyone.

And dont even get me started when he meets you and the twins for the first time.

Immediately takes on the role of "Uncle Johnny". Price would be "Papa Price", and Gaz would be "Uncle G", cause the twins couldnt stop calling him Gas instead of Gaz.

"They'll get the accent soon enough." Soap tried convincing Simon that the twins would get his scottish accent if he spent enough time with them, but Simon immediately shut that down.

Simon didnt want his precious girls around anything military related.

Simon had to pick the girls up from school one day, and the other parents couldnt stop staring at him because he was in full uniform, having left from base.

Simon's uniform would definently make the younger kids cry. I would cry too if i saw a 6'4", muscular, british guy in a skull mask and military uniform and tactical gear.

Simon did feel bad though.

[roseboysstuff]

Thinking about fuckbuddy ghost (this is ftm reader btw)

Ghost who is amazing in bed, his cock dragging orgasm after orgasm out of your cunt

Ghost who doesn't really give the best aftercare, cleans you up and then waves goodbye

Ghost who totally doesn't love you, you're just a convenient lay

Ghost who loves watching you ride his cock, your hair bouncing and your eyes squeezed shut. The pleasure evident on your face. "Beautiful." He thinks, distantly, as his cock explodes with pleasure, shooting the familiar hot seed into you.

Ghost who starts watching you every time he fucks you. He can't get enough of your face. You just look so handsome, all covered in sweat and your face flush with pleasure.

Ghost who still definitely doesn't love you.

Ghost who argues with you, when you tell him you're catching feelings for him. He's mad, because now he has to face his own feelings.

Ghost who watches you run away to your room, crying. His pride preventing him from following you. Despite how much he wants to gather you in his arms, and love you.

Ghost who doesn't get the chance to apologise, as he's sent on a solo mission, lasting for 4 months straight. Who doesn't know what's happening back in the base, during his absence.

Soap who sees your heartbroken expression, and can't stand it.

Soap who brings you a beer, saying "bottom's up", in his glorious scottish accent.

Soap who listens all night, as you pour your heart out to him, crying until your eyes are dry and bloodshot. Who hugs you, until the alcohol makes you drift off peacefully.

Soap who's still there the next morning, stroking your hair, and helping you through your hangover. The care and affection making you melt slightly, not knowing what you needed.

Soap who desperately wants to ask you out, but is patient. He knows you need space.

Soap who can't wait anymore, who only 2 months after Ghost has left, takes you out. Who sits with you on a grassy hill, watching the sun go down. Holding your hand, and sipping some wine.

Soap who takes you back to bed that night, and unlike the rough thrusts and near silence of Ghost, is sweet. His honeyed words like a balm to your soul, his tender touches sending hot shivers down your spine. Who's cock isn't as big as Ghost's but who treats you like a precious gem.

Soap who makes you climax as many times as you want that night, and who finally fills you with his seed, only after making sure it's what you truly want.

Soap who gives perfect aftercare, holding you, reassuring you, loving you.

Soap Johnny who is the perfect boyfriend, and who after only a few weeks, when you're suddenly pregnant with his child, doesn't abandon you.

Johnny who proposes right then and there, not wanting you to feel abandoned ever again.

Ghost who returns from his mission, ready to apologise to you, knowing now that he really does love you.

Ghost who sees the strange looks, as he asks about you.

Ghost who is told about both yours and Johnny's honourable discharges.

Ghost Simon who sits in his room in the barracks, desperately trying to find any lingering remnants of your scent on his bed

Simon who cries that night, remembering your face, wanting to see it again. Not just flush with pleasure, but bright with joy. Grinning and laughing, smiling at him with the love he now feels tortured by

Simon who receives an invite to your's and Johnny's wedding, and covers it with his tears that night.

Simon who stands there, in a black suit, watching the love of his life walk down the aisle, with the protuding baby bump under your wedding clothes. But he's not standing at the end of the aisle.

Simon Riley, who watches as you change your last name to MacTavish, desperately wishing you were changing it to Riley

Johnny MacTavish, who holds you tightly, thankful for the chance to have you. Who'll never treat you wrong.

Your husband and father of your baby, Johnny, who made you believe in love again.

[genderqueerpond]

You know, I think Clara knew about Amy.

Not at first, of course, but Clara grew up with her --- that is, grew up reading Amelia Williams books. And they were precious to her, books she's read many times over the course of her childhood -- how else does she know exactly which chapter holds what in the book she gave Artie? Perhaps she has always felt connected to her, this moderately obscure children's fantasy author, following in the footsteps of E Nesbit; this contemporary (and sometime friend (oh yes!) ) of Edward Eager's; although not nearly as widely known as either of these. Perhaps because of her choice to publish openly under a "woman's name", thus, in the time in which she lived, relegating her books to the inferior realm of "girls' books", despite the more than equal balance of male viewpoint characters.

But Amelia Williams is different from these authors too -- often fantasy, but sometimes more like early science fiction, a barely- recognized pioneer in both genres. Her views were feminist and daring. In so many ways she was ahead of her time, and the innovations she imagined! almost as if she knew what the future would hold.

And if Clara knows and loves her books so well, she can hardly fail to recognize the most frequently repeated character archetype in them. especially after she rereads a few on a subconscious hunch, during that summer after the Maitlands found a permanent nanny and she insisted that before anything else, she go off and fulfill her original travel plans from 101 Places To See. (The Doctor purported to leave her alone to forge her own way with this, but was in actuality very bad at that, and kept popping up nearly every place she went.) She's Clara, she's clever, how can she fail to look up from her book and notice that the person who's just appeared out of nowhere to stand in front of her with a plate of jammie dodgers and a goofy smile has stepped directly out of the pages?

And then of course, there are the dedications. Sure, there's normal stuff like "to my daughter", "to my loving and patient husband", and "to my parents, who are children now" which is rather weird and whimsical, but fits in with the fantasy author's signature style of dream-like imagination.

But the majority of Amelia Williams' dedication pages say things like "to You", "to My Doctor", "to My Raggedy Doctor" "to my raggedy man" (weird but clearly connected to the other variants), and, cryptically, over and over again: "to you", "to you", "to you", "to you (wherever in time and space you are)".

There's "to my imaginary friend" and "to my imaginary friend, and to all children who have an imaginary friend" and "to my imaginary friend, and every child in the universe who's ever met him, or ever will". Nerds and English teachers have occasionally debated what, if anything, she meant by all this, and now Clara thinks she knows, but she can never say....

And then there are the nights that the Doctor wakes up crying out for "Amy!" and then refuses to talk about it when Clara asks, refuses to acknowledge ever even knowing an Amy, "well everyone shouts random things when they're asleep, it doesn't mean anything" and "I don't remember." if pressed for details about his dreaming. And later he might go off somewhere and cry quietly, reading a book he never lets Clara see.

And then he regenerates, and calls out for "Amelia!", "the first face this face saw."

There's newborn twelve, with his Scottish accent, letting her name slip. It's the first - and only - time he's spoken of her while awake and not actively dying. And Clara is too busy with the immediate threat to their lives to think about it in the moment, but at this point she at the very least has a hunch about the connection between him and the Scottish-American author with the rather opaque background --- that as far as anyone can trace it (although to be fair, no one really cares enough to try very hard) she and her husband just kind of appeared out of nowhere in pre-WWII New York. It seems kind of obvious, now, that the doctor would have had a hand in that.

And now with all the books everywhere, the library gradually migrating into the console room, what else is obvious is that he owns every single one of her books. multiple copies, first editions, last editions, signed copies, mass paperbacks, everything. There's a TARDIS key hidden in a well-worn, well-loved, tear streaked copy of The Cuckoo And The Doll's House, which Clara finds when she's cataloging all the locations of TARDIS keys, just in case she should ever need that information one day.

This all is enough for Clara to know. There doesn't really need to be any more proof, but there is. What totally and fully clinches it are the pictures. Tucked in the pages of another tearstained book (The Beast Below this time), are photographs of Amelia, looking just as she does in her black and white author photos, but younger, and in 21st century clothes. Elsewhere, later, she finds photo booth polaroids of a still younger Amelia, goofing off and smiling. Some of them feature another young man Clara doesn't recognize, and some of them feature the Doctor. He's wearing a tweed jacket instead of his purple wool, and no vest, but otherwise he is exactly the same as the Doctor she first met. The three of them hang off each other like old friends, like family.

idk how to end this.

[bug-is-snug]

starved pt. 2

part one

plot: you're a zombie <3 CW: depictions of violence, depictions of obsession, gore, self-cannibalism (stay safe cutiepies!), blood, gore, eventual smut (That means Minors DO NOT INTERACT), self harm (I think? I'm not sure but I'm adding it to be safe!), military inaccuracies, dead dove do not eat kinds of stuff

A/N: let me know if I missed anything with the content warnings! Also please forgive me for the terrible accents, I am but a small humble person with the brain made of v8 juice- Also some of this was written on mobile so forgive me if there are any grammar errors ^^; banner by: @frostthecupcake (deactivated) and found by using "Find A Banner"

You felt your face grow warm as your mind went back to the sight of your Captain's wrist. Well- mainly his veins...God, he had lovely veins... You imagined grabbing his arm and sinking your teeth in, tearing away at his skin and tendons with gnashing teeth...while you daydreamt you couldn't help but wonder; How sweet would his flesh taste? Shaking your head profusely, you let out a huff and continued to head off towards the barracks while ignoring the emptiness in your stomach. God, you could feel the blood running down your throat, warming you far better than any hard alcohol... "Stop it." You hissed quietly to yourself, as if you had any control over the thoughts that ran rampant in your mind, "Don't think at all, just shut up!"

Taking a moment, you lean up against the wall and desperately try to gather your thoughts. Your stomach growled almost angrily, making you let out a frustrated groan. "Hungry?" A familiar voice cooed playfully, their Scottish accent giving away their identity instantly. You look up to see Soap, your heart instantly beginning to race. Your eyes scanned over his body while your nose took in his scent, which allowed you to recognize that he had just gotten back from the shooting range, the smell of his musk and the gunpowder making your head swim. "Uh-" Christ, you sounded dumb, "Maybe? I dunno, I kinda skipped lunch today...though I do hear that your body can make you hungry when you're exhausted so- uh- maybe it's that?" ...WHAT? Where did that even come from?! What kind of stupid excuse is that?! Soap raised a brow, staring at you for a moment and giving away that he was also just as bewildered as you were over the shit you just said. "...I am going over here now." You quickly walked around him, attempting to make it to your room. "Hold on now, that dinnae make a lick o' sense. What's goin' on wi' ye?" A strong, calloused hand grasped at your forearm making your heart jump to your throat, "Ye alright, lovie?" You shuddered slightly, digging your nails into your palms as thoughts of tearing your precious teammate’s ribs apart and sinking your teeth into his heart while it still beats made you feel dizzy and your stomach ache. What would it taste like? Sweet? Savory? How much would you be able to devour before someone else stumbles upon the sight? You quickly interrupted your own thoughts as you blurted out, "I think I'm sick is all." Soap hummed and reached over, pressing his hand against your forehead. "Ye dinnae feel sick, ye feel cold to be honest, lovie..." He muttered. "Sarge-" You were cut off by his hands feeling up the scruff of your neck and under your jaw. "Sorry, mate. My mum used to do this to check if me or my siblings were sick..." His voice was low, as if he trying not to spook an injured animal. "Sarge, I'm fine, honest-!" You tried to reason with him. You knew he was telling you the truth, but you also knew how he was. To clarify, while the relationship between you and Soap was rather handsy it was usually a welcome action and when it wasn't, you would tell him and he would back off. The touches the two of you would share sometimes bordered on inappropriate, but it often didn't go much further than that. It was a very intimate relationship, one that could be missed if someone didn't have a trained eye. However, it wasn't quite romantic...just intimate and sometimes intense-

Looking into his eyes, you could tell that while he was indeed just checking up on you, there was a small sense of enjoyment at the fact you were letting him casually paw at your sensitive skin. You let out a soft hiss in pain when he pressed down on a particularly tender spot, "Johnny, too hard..." "Sorry, lovie..." Soap said quietly, letting go after a moment. "It's okay..." You assured him, "What's the prognosis, Doctor MacTavish?" He chuckled at your teasing and shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest, "Yer feelin' a bit stiff is all. Probably from yer god-awful posture." "Then I am going to do what I was planning to do and go take a nap. I should probably tell Gaz...I was gonna eat lunch with him today..." You said, disappointment heavy in your voice. "I can tell 'im fer you, lovie. Dinnae ye worry yer little head ‘bout it." Soap smiled, reaching over and giving you an affectionate pat on the shoulder. A sigh left your lips as you gave him a relieved smile, "You'd really do that for me? Thank you, Johnny..." He smiled back, his hand gently squeezing your shoulder. "Yer welcome..." You playfully nudged his arm with your elbow which made him chuckle and give you a wink before he walked around you, leaving you on your own as you finally made it to your room. You remembered the last time you retreated to your room when feeling unwell while you stared at your bed, closing your door behind you. It was a few days after the attack... Your body felt like it was on fire, especially where that damn doctor had bitten you. Your heart raced and your arm felt like your veins had poison coursing through them. You had refused to let anyone know, nor let anyone take care of you going as far as to barricade the door. Stupid? Yes, but what were you supposed to do? Let the teammates whom you trust your life with every single day know you're unwell? Ask them for help because they're your found family and you would drop everything to take care of them if they were in this state because you love and cherish them as people? Cringe- You groaned in pain, curling up in your little bed while digging your nails into the fabric, tearing them effortlessly much to your surprise. "What the fuck?" You huffed out, grimacing as you stare at the ruined sheets, "I just bought those..." Was that what you should have been worried about? Absolutely not, but you have to cope somehow. The pain was unbearable, but the worst of it was the fever and the fever dreams that came along with them. Well, you called them fever dreams; they actually appeared in your mind when you were awake. And most of them were really just...urges... Visions of ripping people apart filled your mind. It felt so real...you could feel your fingers digging into some faceless person's skin, tearing apart their flesh and ripping apart their ribs while they screamed and thrashed. The more skeptical part of your mind shoved it off as just an edgy little thought that you had as a courtesy of watching so many horror movies with Gaz, just a silly little spout of aggression. No, it was the thought of eating the person that got you to worry. It was the thought of burying your face into their warm body and sinking your teeth into their heart that scared you. The worst part of it was the fact that your stomach growled every time you imagined chewing and swallowing, like a forbidden fruit... Blood spilling down your chin like you had just bit into an apple after days of neglecting your hunger became a feeling you craved desperately. "Please just be a really fucked up version of the flu..." You whispered, "I swear to everything that is good and holy if it's not-" You were interrupted by a sudden sharp pain in your stomach, making you cry out. Burying your face into your pillow, you let out a quiet sob while you clung to it. Somehow, you felt embarrassed about how much pain you felt. You've taken bullets for fuck's sake! You have broken bones, dislocated joints-! And a little stomachache is making you cry?!

"What the fuck...?" You muttered, wiping the sweat from your forehead. Upon seeing the literal puddle of it in your hand you cringed, “Mm…that’s nasty…”

Sitting up, you use the headboard of your bed to keep you steady while your head pounds and begs you to lay back down. You huff, leaning your head against your arm for a moment. This fucking sucks. There is no denying it!

Your nose is pressed against your flesh, and you catch a whiff of yourself…Oh my…

Your stomach beckons you, and in that moment, you don’t even care. How can you? You’re starving!

So…

Without a second thought…

You sink your teeth into your wrist with a sickening squelch, tearing through veins and muscle. And, God, if it didn’t taste lovely…

Back To Current Day…

You sit down on your bed, running your fingers over the stitching you had done over the once torn sheets. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough!

With a sigh, you lean against the wall, staring at the ceiling as you reach over and gently touch your forearm, your fingertips sliding across the edge of the bandage. You didn’t really want to check if the wound was still there…but you didn’t want it to get infected either.

Your eyes glance down as you kicked off your shoes, scooting into your bed while your hand slowly peeled the bandaid off. You expected infection…a festering, pulsing and pus filled one…however, there was nothing. Your wrist was completely healed, like nothing happened-! How…?

You shake your head as hard as you can, as if it would shake the thoughts away. You ball the bandaid up and go to the trashcan, tossing it before going to your sink and rinsing your hands off. This isn’t so bad, right? It’s- er- not ideal, but it’s something! Maybe you should keep a journal of your changes- No. Too risky. If anyone found it…

Your eyes closed as you lean against the counter, inhaling through your nose while your leg bounce uncomfortably, “I can’t see a doctor…I really should but-! …What if I hurt someone…?”

You found yourself doing that a lot; whispering to yourself, fighting yourself…etc…

But that’s neither here nor there, it’s time to eat.

You started to head to your mini fridge, kneeling down before it and opening it up to take a package of raw meat out. You tear it open with your finger, feeling yourself begin to shake…

Shoveling raw meat into your mouth was not a good feeling. Did it scratch that lizard part of your brain? Yes. But social norms taught you to be disgusted with such bad manners-! However…as you sunk your teeth into the raw chicken breast, you ripped and tore away at it, feeling yourself grow more and more ravenous as it you continued. It tasted pretty okay for the most part, which is what surprised you the most.

Tasted like chicken, obviously, but the raw flavor added to it somehow? It was so hard to describe! But…then those thoughts came…

You were imaging the meat belonging to Soap, your beloved teammate. You felt so dirty and perverted…

‘This isn’t normal,’ You reminded yourself, ‘This is NOT. NORMAL!’

You didn’t even realize someone else had entered your room until they cleared their throat, making you snap your attention to whomever it was.

Oh shit.

[sky-is-the-limit]

PART 1, PART 2:

P: Stalker!Gaz x F!Baker!Reader

TW: Stalking, obviously.

Notes: This is pre TF141.

It’s not stalking, Kyle tells himself. He’s just making sure you get home safe.

A city like London, with its narrow streets and shadowy corners, isn't kind to someone as lovely and precious as you.

Especially now, with the early sunsets and lurking dangers. You probably don’t even realise how tight those jeans are, how they hug your body in a way that puts the worst of sins to shame.

He wonders if you’re still listening to that 80s music through your headphones, oblivious to the men out there who would love to take advantage of you but he’s not one of them. Of course not. He’s a gentleman.

He keeps a safe distance, watching your every move, the sway of your hips with every step. He’s protecting you. You don’t need to know. His job is to observe and keep you safe, just like he would in the field. He’s your guardian angel, looking out for you, ensuring nothing bad happens.

Then you stop outside an apartment complex and suddenly, his chest tightens.

A man calls your name from across the street with a thick Scottish accent. Who the fuck is he? Why is he jogging over with a stupid mohawk and a cocky grin plastered on his face like he thinks he owns the world? Or worse, like he thinks he owns you.

Kyle feels his fists clench at his sides as he ducks, pretending to inspect the flowers growing along the pavement. He kneels down, pulls out his phone, snapping a random photo but his eyes never leave you.

You’re hugging him, arms wrapped around this stranger and his blood boils. Homicidal rage simmers beneath his skin.

Who is this bastard with his hands roaming your back, trailing lower, too low? He’s touching your waist, pulling you closer, his face buried in your neck, inhaling your perfume like he has the right.

Then, you’re laughing softly at something the man says, the sound hitting Kyle’s ears like nails on a chalkboard. How could you? How could you let someone else so close, touching you like that? His fingers twitch, the urge to intervene barely held back.

It’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong but the thought of anyone else being that close to you drives him mad. His hands want to act, want to grab the nearest object and wipe that smug smile off the stranger’s face.

Who the fuck is this guy? He doesn’t deserve you. Is he hurting you? Cheating on you? Is he some temporary fling who doesn’t even take you seriously? He’d kill him if it meant keeping you safe. He’d die for you.

The man waves you off as a taxi pulls up, holding the door open for you with a casual smirk. As you slide into the backseat, he leans in, pressing a quick, possessive peck to your lips through the open window. You watch him through the glass as the driver begins to pull away, his hand still raised in a farewell wave.

His mind is made up. He’s convinced that his intentions are completely justified.

With a determined stride, he moves closer, his eyes never leaving the moving car. He needs to make sure you’re safe, that you’re not left vulnerable to anyone who might not have your best interests at heart. This is about your protection, he tells himself.

And so, Kyle stops the next taxi. Destination? Wherever you go next.

[gofishygo]

yandere ghost headcannons please!

okok to be honest I rarely imagine ghost to be a yandere,, his past was so hard and he most likely has the same fear of repeating the same mistakes of his father !! (plus I want him 2 get the love he deserves) BUT WHEN I CAN IMAGINE HIM AS A YANDERE … chomp munch crunch very very good food 

yan!simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader hcs !!

notes: mentions of trauma (ghost), descriptions of violence, obsession, gn! reader, mostly unedited (bear with me ill actually proofread one day maybe) (684 words)

I do feel like a lot of ghost's more yandere mannerisms would be due to his childhood. He'd never had the chance to be truly innocent, from his abusive father to the cartel that had mercilessly killed the rest of his family, the countless teammates that he had lost, there was always some form of blood on his hands. Years of distrust festered into seething, buried hatred for the amount of ugliness in this world. Burying himself in the only good he could trust in; the suffocating cigarette stained air of Captain Price, the familiar tone of the rugged Scottish accent that came from Soap, Gaz's charming smile.

So when he first meets you, so much more docile and harmless and friendly, never faced with the adversities that Simon had seen in the world, he silently slips your name into his head, keeping that precious string of words in the darkest- yet safest- parts of his brain. You were the light in his eyes that he had lost at an age so young, your presence arranging the constant static and ringing in his ears into a pleasant hum.

You never judge him when he flinches at the hiss of a snake, never belittle him for constantly wearing that cloth mask that concealed half of his face. He avoids it at first, how he relaxes whenever he sees you in the room, how he smiles beneath that mask when you wave at him.

He truly wants to believe it’s just some childish crush, a form of love that could only be protected for a matter of months.. That you were some odd fantasy he had developed due to the plethoras of trauma he had faced. 

But once you have him wrapped around your finger, once you somehow manage to break down the walls that he'd been suffocating in; he'll do anything for you. Cut out his tongue just to see you smile. Tear out his voice box just to your sweet rambles. 

he’s part of the sas; a man who was trained to kill without mercy, shown the tragedies of the world since he was a child. he has no issue dealing with anyone he thinks is bad for you. hell, ghost would protect you from just about anything- he’d do anything, lose anything, to protect you from the world he lived in. the violence he saw.

He thinks he knows what's best for you. Despises those jaded and ungrateful friends you have, how they never even reciprocated any of the care and support you gave. And that boyfriend you had- his sleazy grin and grubby hands all over you- christ, he swears he'll carve out that man's organs once he gets the opportunity.

and that’s when he decides he can’t let you keep mixing with those vermin, endangering yourself without even noticing. of course he believes you deserve far better than him- an eden so much different from the bloodshed and tragedy of this world, where everything was just as wonderful and lovely as you were. But he was the best option to keep you safe, to keep you happy. And he didn’t care how far he had to go due to it- he'd risk his career, his life, everything for you.

The method didn’t matter. Whether he convinced you with smooth words and empty promises or ripped out his intestines to chain you to his side, he was going to make sure that you were safe. That you were his.

So you wake up one day, wrists and ankles bound suffocatingly with rope, the coarse hairs stinging at you skin as you struggle to free yourself from the bedpost you were tied to. You can feel your heart twist in horror as you hear that familiar rough cockney accent. 

“sorry if I tied those ropes too tight,” it smells like ivory, blood. the brown eyes the ones that you had made a home in for the past year you spent with each other stared down at you. That wasn’t simon. That wasn’t simon. That was ghost. “just needed you keep you safe, love.”

[bats4sophie]

Hey guys,,, I know Arkayne Faith (Oscar x Kayne) Isn't a super popular ship in the malevolent Fandom, but for those few Arkayne Faith enjoyers, here's a quick fanfic I made of them. It might be slightly out of character, I'm sorry, I haven't relistened to any episodes with Oscar in them recently.

TW: Mentions of blood, injuries, a little bit of angst (I can't help myself)

Arkayne Faith 💕

Oscar stumbles to get his footing. He looked around this new, strange place that he had suddenly been placed into with no explanation as to why, all he knows is that he was in the hospital, resting off his arm injury after Arthur had severed it, and now, he was in a cold, dark expanse, feeling the breeze blow about his exposing hospital gown, and the cold stone floor leaving his bare feet feeling numb. But he was far to confused, and far too angry to focus on that yet. All he could think about, and had been thinking about was how Arthur had just...left him. Of course, he knew there must have been some reason for Arthur leaving, but he still felt completely unbridle rage towards his former friend. And now, he was alone, confused, and afraid, with no idea where he is, or why he's there.

He slowly lowers himself down onto the stone cold floor, and draws his knees up, hugging them against his chest, hiding his face in his knees as warm tears of fear and anger well up in his eyes. As he was letting all his emotions come through, however, he hadn't noticed a new presence in front of him, until the thing spoke up, at first in an overly cheery sounding voice, which quickly changed up.

"Sorry about that, I just had to check on how Arty was doing on my special mission, and i forgot all about bringing you here! I swear, sometimes my mem-"

Kayne pauses as his wild eyes search over Oscars scrunched up form, how he didn't even look up at him as he spoke, and instantly knew something was wrong. Kayne had not only been watching Arthur in his journey in New York to evade the Butcher, but he also kept a close eye on Arthur's new acquaintances, mainly Oscar, and he knew that this behaviour was definitely out of character. His grin did not dissapear, but fell slightly as he crouched down next to Oscar, cocking his head like a confused puppy, and slowly lifted Oscars head up.

"Hey, hey, lefty... whats wrong? Why the long face, huh? It's not about the whole "Arthur cutting off your arm and leaving you for dead" thing, is it?"

Kayne did not even give him time to answer, springing back to his feet with a cackle.

"Ah, well, who needs Arthur anyway, huh? Not us, thats for sure! Tell you what, I can be your new purpose, instead of Arthur, how 'bout that? Like my own little... sacrifical lamb. Suits you, too. You remind me of a little new born lamb, with that fluffy hair! Just precious."

Oscar slightly lifts his head, looking up at the thing in front if him, slightly confused. How did It know so much about him, and Arthur? He sniffled a little, and wiped his eyes, now frowning as he stands up, studying Kayne. He takes a step closer, and asks in his thick, Scottish accent,

"Who....are you?...And where are we?..."

Kayne cracks another grin, also stepping closer, mirroring Oscars movements and almost closing the gap between them, when he starts circling Oscar, looking him up and down like a particularly interesting bug.

"Well, I go by many, many names, lefty, mainly the crawling chaos, the God of a Thousand Forms, Nyarlathotep, blah blah blah.... But... you can call me Kayne. How does that sound, huh?"

He cackles once more, starting almost as abruptly as it finishes.

"And as for where we are...hm.."

He rubs his chin, feigning thought.

"Well, just a nice little place i fixed up for the two of us, Oscar. You and me, since Arty is out of the picture for a bit."

He stops right behind Oscar as he finishes speaking, the slapping of his bare, bloodied feet coming to a halt as he does. He leans in close, speaking lowly right next to Oscars ear, as his other hand comes up to gently hold Oscars other shoulder.

"I think you'll quite enjoy it here, with me. I won't leave you, no, not like Arthur did. You can devote yourself to a real, true god, Oscar. How does that sound to you?... Fabulous, isnt it?"

His hand creeps up the side of Oscars neck, leaving traces of dark brownish blood against his skin and clothes, till its resting in his hair, carding through the dark curls, staining them with reds and browns, but he doesnt care, chuckling to himself as he kneads through them. Oscar swallows thickly. Despite being utterly terrified, he can't recall the last time someone was quite so gentle with him, and he found himself almost...enjoying the company of this new character, however unsettling he seems.

YIPPIE YIPPIE YIPPIE I might write more for this but it is almost one o'clock in the morning rn 🏃 So uuuuuh yep. If you've read up to this point and enjoyed it please, please, please reblog. I can't stress enough, it helps other people see my stuff, and gives me a whole lot more motivation to see people enjoying my stuff so yeah. Laters 💛💛

[kaydenverse]

a/n: ohmygod the ghost blurb did numbers im happy eee! thank you so much!! here’s something else i just thought of, i tried a new format style I’m trying to get back into relearning how to use tumblr again (and get back into the swing of writing it’s been… a minute) do give me a sec to figure it out lmaO also send requests or your headcanons on task force 141 if you’d like!

-

ghost going non-verbal after really intense missions and gets a little clingy with soap during this time.

-

the first time ghost did this, soap is a tad confused but he doesn’t question it. he’s pretty quick to catch onto the things that ghosts needs or wants during this time.

ghost trusts soap the most during this vulnerable time period. not that he doesn’t trust the rest of the task force when he’s non-verbal, it’s just that soap gets it ya know?

ghost silently following soap around once the two get back on base as they strip off their tactical gear and head to debrief.

soap will ask ghost a question and when ghost doesn’t respond, soap just smiles a little, pats his friend’s (they are more than friends but don’t realize it yet) shoulder, and mutters. “tas alright, take as long as you need.”

it makes ghost just a little (a lot) giddy. he feels safe and understood.

anything ghost needs to say, soap has this talent of just knowing before ghost even attempts to write it down somewhere.

“anything to add, ghost?” price turns towards the masked man.

ghost simply looks at the scottish man sitting next to him as he drums his gloved fingers on the arm of his chair.

soap barely looks out of the corner of his eye before he snorts, his lips tugging up into a smile, and says “he said can we please wrap this bloody meeting up, he’s tired.” ghost nods in agreement and price just stares at the two, baffled while gaz barks out a laugh.

“i’d have to agree with him.” soap grins

depending on how intense the mission was, ghost can be silent for a few hours or sometimes a few days but soap still remains patient and helps ghost whenever he can.

sometimes ghost will even stay with soap on their days off after missions at soap’s house and that leads to ghost flying through soaps sticky notes until he’s verbal again.

soap spends an abnormal amount on sticky notes for this reason. he even goes out of his way to get a few nice pens for him.

ghost doesn’t know but soap keeps a lot of the sticky notes and pieces of paper that have ghost’s shitty handwriting sprawled across them. soap’s favorite one says “fuck you.” with a little heart drawn next to the words.

when ghost speaks again, soap is always caught off guard. ghost finds this incredibly amusing.

soap stands in his kitchen, humming softly to himself as he flips the grilled cheese he’s making for himself. well, he already made himself that sits on a nearby plate. this one was for ghost who had walked into the living room where soap was, reached over the back of the couch, and slapped a sticky note that read “i’m hungry” onto the shorter man’s forehead before leaving the room immediately after.

“you’re out of laundry detergent.” a deep british voice speaks and soap’s soul nearly leaves his body as he says various swears in his heavy scottish accent.

“for fuck’s sake, simon! make yourself known when you enter a room!” soap whips around to find ghost standing at the counter with his hands shoved in his sweatpants pockets.

it’s been about two days since soap had last heard the man speak. soap buries the thought of having missed his teammates voice before it has the chance to fluster him but he can’t stop his warm smile in time.

ghost shrugs and soap catches the amusement in the other man’s eyes through the mask.

“you just need to just be more aware, sergeant.”

-

MY BOYS, MY PRECIOUS BOOYYSS

[cbsxreader]

How the mercs would react to getting an anonymous Valentine's day letter pt.2 ♡ (pt.1)

Scout

Scout's too busy chasing after Ms. Pauling to notice literally anything else.

It's probably one of the mercs that bring him the envelope, because he's not gonna notice it, saying it's for him.

They have to read it to Scout though..

And, for a moment, it doesn't click in the Scout's head that it's a Valentine's letter and the merc has to bluntly say what it means.

He immediately goes red and asks who wrote it, despite no writer being mentioned.

Scout, reluctantly, goes to ask Spy for help to find out who wrote the letter. (He secretely hopes it's Pauling)

When they do find out who wrote it, he suddenly can speak one word at a time, but the writer strings them together well enough♡

Demoman

He also doesn't notice what day it is at first. Both if he is drunk and isn't drunk.

He just goes along his day, not letting anyone ar anything put him down.

After Demo wakes up from a nap he finds the pink envelope somewhere close to him.

Just like Sniper, he suspects it's Spy's doing, but gives in to curiousity and opens it and takes out the letter.

As he reads, his eye becomes more focused and, for a moment, he wonders if he's sober.

A Valentine's day letter? For him? A drunk, scottish cyclops? Who in their right mind would write him something so precious?

Demo sets out to find the writer and thanks them for such a gesture with a warm smile on his face♡

Heavy

He honestly doesn't realize it's Valentine's day until Scout starts to talk about getting Ms. Pauling a gift.

And Heavy also doesn't really care for it, he deems Mother's day and Women's day more important, since those were more celebrated back at home.

So, when he found a pink envelope lying next to Sasha, he was a bit confused to say the least.

After carefully opening the envelope, taking the letter out, he read the message in his large hands.

The big russian gets touched by the letter's words, his heartbeat becoming louder and heavier.

Heavy asks his teammates for help to find out who wrote the letter, eventually finding them.

He stutters a bit while talking to the person who wrote the letter, but flustered Heavy is best Heavy♡

Medic

He knows what day it is, but he doesn't let it bother him.

So, he goes along his day, fixing up his teammates and helping with chores around the base.

He sends off another merc away from his lab when he turns around and spots a pink envelope laying across his tools, small bloodstains on the corners.

He inspects it for a bit and opens it.

Medic then widens his eyes in surprise as a light blush appears on his cheeks.

He goes back and forth between finding and not finding out who wrote it, but if he does find out who wrote it, he'll akwardly thank them, his accent getting slightly thicker♡

Spy

He doesn't expect anyone to get him anything for Valentine's day, since he's established himself as the gentleman.

Besides, Spy's probably 'busy' on Valentine's day, so he might only notice the letter in the start of the day by his door.

He uses his knife to gently open the envelope and reads the letter.

Spy can't be easily earnt, but something about someone getting him something for Valentine's day, makes him feel..appreciated.

The choice of words and handwriting helps him figure out who wrote it and later Spy goes and visits them♡

[mania-sama]

something in the orange tells me you're never coming home

Something in the Orange - Zach Bryan

➼ information ❧ Call of Duty ❧ Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley ❧ Additional Character: John Price ❧ Tags: wwi au, christmas truce of 1914, football/soccer, ambiguous/open ending, gift giving, implied/referenced time-period homophobia, angst, hurt! soap ❧ Summary: In spite of the months they’d spent in the trenches on the Western Front, Soap still managed to give Ghost a Christmas present. ❧ Word Count: 5,325 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 25 December 2022

December 24, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium

Trench warfare was the absolute worst, Soap decided.

It had been raining nearly nonstop for weeks on end, leaving the trench floors so wet to the point that it was nearly impossible to walk anywhere without being swallowed knee-deep in mud. The winter clothing they had been issued blocked out the cold for the most part, but it had been months since he had last felt sincerely warm and dry.

The rain, mud, and cold itself weren’t the main issues by themselves. Rather, it was what they caused. At any given moment, parts of the trench would collapse under the weight of the wet dirt, burying soldiers underneath. On more than one occasion, it took precious lives. Then more soldiers would replace those that had died.

Even that was tame in comparison to what the soldiers had dubbed trench feet. Countless men had blisters and swollen feet, red and dirty and pulsing with pus. Their toes had sunken in, the bottoms of their calloused feet peeling apart to leave nasty, gushing wounds. The remaining men had long learned their lessons about keeping their feet out of the mud for as long as possible.

All in all, the trenches were terrible, and Soap wanted nothing to do with them anymore.

This was the first day it had stopped raining. It was replaced by gentle snow, creating a thin layer of white at the bottom of the trench. Soap wanted to be angry at it, because if it went on for enough time they would have to spend all of their time shoveling it out so they could traverse their grounds. But he couldn’t be mad, because it was beautiful.

For once, he couldn’t hear bombs exploding in the distance or gunshots ringing in his ears. Normally, the only time there was complete silence from the normal warfare was at set mealtimes. All of the soldiers, even the Germans, had to eat at some point. Then it would start again.

But not this time. The drifting white world cushioned any noise whatsoever, and John found himself actually wanting to devour the chocolate bar sent by Her Highness Princess Mary.

Not that he liked her very much. No true Scot liked any of the British, especially when they forced Scotland’s young men into the trenches.

There was only one exception to this rule, and Soap hated himself every day for it. How he couldn’t help but like the masked soldier to his right, a Britishman through and through. John had willingly joined the military years ago, if only because it was one of his only options. He stayed not just because he enjoyed the constant adrenaline-high of battle, nor the camaraderie of brothers in arms, but because of Ghost.

He was his life’s regret.

“The chocolate tastes much better than mud,” Ghost mused beside him, folding the finished chocolate wrapper neatly into a small square. There was no space inside the trenches for trash. “But if you’re content eating dirt, have right at it.”

Soap rolled his eyes and muttered a string of Scottish that he knew Ghost wouldn’t understand. As expected, a quick “speak English” followed.

“Anything from the throne is worth less than rubbish,” he said in a poor impression of a British accent.

“Even the winter clothes keeping your nose from frostbite?”

“Especially that.”

Ghost huffed in response. Even though he was wearing a mask, his breath still crystallized in the night air. It was a cruel reminder that even Ghost, someone who seemed so immune to death, was still human. And at any moment, even on Christmas Eve, he could meet his end.

The white silence found John once again. It was calming, in a way. He could almost forget that he was sitting in a cold trench, far from his homeland. He was simply having a cup of beer with a dear friend, participating in a merry conversation.

That was, of course, until he heard the sound of singing.

“What the fuck is that?” He exclaimed to Ghost, leaning his head forward and up to try to see anything past the wooden walls of the trench and the starry night sky. All it served to do was catch snowflakes in his eyelashes.

It took a beat for his friend to respond, eyes upcast in the same attempt as John. “The Germans have found the Christmas spirit.”

Whispers went up and down the British trench as the enemies got louder. “Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh,” they sang.

Down the line, Soap heard a soldier say, “It’s Silent Night, ‘innit?”

By God, it was. The German accent floated across No Man’s Land, worming its way into the tight space of their trench. Another soldier called to his brothers, “They’ve put up small trees on the line! They’ve got lights on them!”

Soap didn’t know what to feel. He’d always liked Christmas. Not for the sake of his own religion or for the time allotted to spend with family— his family was dead and gone, anyway— but for the spirit of the holiday. Call him childish, but he enjoyed seeing everyone in a brightened mood. He enjoyed sitting down with his brothers in arms and showing them the presents he’d scrounged together for them, relishing in the looks of surprise on their faces. He enjoyed having a bourbon and seeing entire streets decorated.

It was his favorite time of the year, which was the reason why he joined the quiet caroling of the British soldiers in response to the Germans. He was as loud as he could possibly be.

Ghost groaned. “Stop that. You sound like a howling dog.” Of course he would make that comparison. Soap hated dogs.

At least it proved that Ghost was paying attention. John leaned in and sang the lyrics to Silent Night off-key on purpose, directly into where Ghost’s ear was supposed to be. It didn’t take long for Ghost to put a gloved hand on his face and shove him away.

“C’mon! Join in, then!” He shouted, briefly cutting through the British’s now loud caroling.

“I don’t sing, Johnny.”

“Fine, then,” he said, and then cursed him out in a string of Scottish Gaelic.

“English,” Ghost said. If Soap wasn’t mistaken, he could almost pick up a bit of fondness in his tone. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking. War tended to do that to a person.

“I said, once you get your thick skull out of your arse, you can join the next song. ”

Ghost stared at him, unblinking, through his embroidered skull mask. His eyes were a pure brown, illuminated by the lanterns hanging from the walls Sometimes, his eyes were a green color, like shards of grass sparkling in morning dew. Now, they looked like the chocolate John refused to eat— sweet, but made from the most bitter bean.

His eyelashes were the most physically captivating part of him, though. They were the most pure white, whiter than the snow that laced the trenches and purer than water drawn from a clear spring. People tended to think it was a sort of make-up that Ghost wore, but the truth was that he had been born that way.

Maybe he stared for a bit too long with too much intensity. Maybe the songs were intoxicating him, pumping a drug too-strong to be physical into his veins. Maybe, for the first time, he thought that the fighting wasn’t worth it on Christmas.

The British men had families waiting for them. The German men were just the same. Soap had Ghost, and Simon had John. They had to fight, if they wanted to make it to the end of the war. The very same war that they had been promised would end long before Christmas Eve.

The trenches were getting to him, he thought. He let himself get drowned back into the noise of the caroling soldiers once more. They had moved on from Silent Night, battlin the Germans in a contest to see who could be louder. It was a nice change of pace.

Despite his exasperation, Simon didn’t leave John’s side. Not even after flasks of fine bourbon— too fine for the warfront— was passed around to the awaiting soldiers. Not even when more could be obtained in a different sector of the trench. Soap didn’t dare to abandon Ghost, either. They stayed side by side in that cold trench, quipping back and forth and singing to spite the war they’d been trapped in.

For a moment, Soap allowed himself to dream of a life outside of the war. A life where he would be able to set aside his constant need for adrenaline and settle down somewhere in a nice city or town. To live in a nice house with good food— may God strike down whoever made the food issued to the soldiers— and even better company. He tried to ignore who he pictured as that company. It was unrealistic, even for him.

It wasn’t necessarily uncommon to hear the occasional shout back and forth from the Germans and British. Most of them were insults before or after a barrage of fire, declarations of hatred fueled by the unburied men lying dead in No Man’s Land. This was different, though. This silenced all of the soldiers’ singing, from both sides.

“English!”  A German voice cut through. Soap had half a mind to respond with “Fritz!”. “Tomorrow, if you no shoot, we no shoot!”

Quiet murmuring spread through the trench. It was an ask for peace, an armistice for just one day. The commanders would never allow it. They had been doing everything they could to keep up the fighting spirit of the British military, setting out new attacks every time their morale dipped too low. This request for truce would never stand if the higher-ups had anything to do with it.

Although, there was one person who did things differently. Soap wasn’t surprised to hear his voice, and from the shake of Ghost’s head, he wasn’t surprised either.

“Give us enough time to bury our dead?” Officer Price shouted back. Soap could see him further down the line, on the small ladder leading up into No Man’s Land. His head was barely sticking out above the sandbags on top of the walls.

It took the Germans a second to respond, no doubt going through their translators to understand what the commander had said. “If you give time to us, too!”

“When the sun rises,” Price said, “on Christmas day.”

“Frohe Weihnachten!” Cheered the enemy.

“Happy Christmas!” The British cheered back, commanders and soldiers alike. Almost in sync, all of the sector began caroling again, starting up with Hark the Herald Angels Sing.

Ghost made a noise that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. “Ol’ man is out of his mind again.”

John could hardly believe it himself. It hadn’t just been Officer Price that agreed to the Germans’ terms. It had been all of the commanders in their sector— only God knew how many other sectors of the trench had been offered an armistice as well.

“I give it an hour before someone starts shooting,” said Ghost in lieu of John’s silence.

He didn’t know how long their peace would hold, if it did at all. All he did know was that the Germans had started the singing, put up their trees, and shouted across the trenches. He knew that they weren’t to be trusted, but that they loved Christmas more than Soap could comprehend.

So, he shrugged, picking out a cigarette from his uniform’s inner pocket. “You’re an incarnate of Krampus.”

“Krampus?”

“Santa Claus’ devil brother. Stabs misbehaving children.”

“Yes,” Ghost said, “sounds just like something I’d do.”

“Sick bastard,” he muttered through his cigar, inhaling its fumes. A soft burn entered his throat, but it was something he’d gotten used to over time. It was pleasant rather than harmful, a welcome pain to contrast the biting cold.

The tobacco would give him a necessary adrenaline boost, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. He was tired— a constant state he’d been in ever since he’d set foot in the trenches. The warfare was completely different from the missions he’d run in the military. Instead of maneuvering through cities or open land, trekking across streams and roads, he had to lay stationery and wait for the fight to come to him.

Just to break the lowering spirit of the soldiers, their commanders would send men out into No Man’s Land to rush to the other side, gather what data they could, and take down a few Fritz in the process. The number of men that went across would be halved, if that. Many times, it would be just a quarter left. Machine guns were carved from Beelzebub’s hands.

Sleep was hard in the trenches. He couldn't remember the last time he’d slept more than a few hours at a time. It was impossibly uncomfortable. There was no space to properly lie down, and he had to rush to snag a good spot before anyone else could take it.

Night was no longer the designated sleeping time. It was just whenever the soldiers could manage it, usually more in the daytime. Maneuvers and attacks tended to happen more in the shelter of the stars. The darkness masked moving soldiers and dead bodies in No Man’s Land.

Soap despised trench warfare. But if the temporary armistice went well, he could find it in himself to dig up some joy.

Stamping out his cigar burning cigar, he joined back into the singing, something he knew would last well into the night. As long as the Germans sang, the British would, too. It was a different kind of fight, one that didn’t involve bloodshed or crying wives or orphaned children. Beside him, he could hear, feel Simon hum along to the chorus with the other soldiers.

He didn’t say anything about it. If he did, it would make his friend stop. There was nothing Soap wanted more than to keep the warmth that Ghost’s humming made.

The singing did die down eventually, but not until the moon was low in the sky. Before long, it would be sunrise, and they would begin burying their dead. Hopefully, anyway.

Hitting Ghost on the chest, he said, “I’m going to take a kip. If Price comes around, tell him I’ve died.”

“Cause of death?”

“Christmas joy strangled my cold heart.” He pulled himself up into the hole behind him, just barely big enough for two people to cramp together inside for warmth and shelter. It was by no means comfortable, but it was better than sleeping in the middle of the trench and being snowed on.

“I thought I was Krampus.”

“You are,” he said, closing his eyes, “I’m your evil elf.”

There it was again. That huff of amusement that was so rare, yet seemed almost common in the snow that wrapped around them. Soap bottled up that fire and let it burn into his dreams. Dreams that consisted of a home with a cat, whiskey, warm food, and a face unmasked. A face that he’d only seen twice in his lifetime.

December 25, 1914 ; Flanders, Belgium

John woke up to screaming.

“It’s Christmas, soldier! Get your ass moving or you’ll be on latrine duty!”

It was quite possible Soap had never woken up faster in his life. Officer John Price’s face stared back at him, bright with joy that he only ever got from scaring the shit out of other men. Blearily, he saw Ghost standing a pace away, arms crossed over his chest.

Noticing his staring, Simon shrugged. “I told him you were dead. He said dead men don’t drool.”

“Did you at least tell ‘im how I died?” Soap asked, a little dizzy from standing so fast after being dead asleep. Around him, men were climbing out of the trenches and into No Man’s Land. They were languid, and none carried their weapon with them. It was odd, but the glistening snow made the sight beautiful.

“MacTavish, you’re the only man I know that’s given a gift to every single person he’s met on Earth.” John wanted to be offended, but it seemed like his officer was actually trying to compliment him. “Christmas couldn’t kill you even if it tried.”

Wiping away dirt from his clothes, he cleared enough of residual sleep to really take in the waking world. He could hear German and British accents alike conversing with one another, the sound of shovels hitting the dirt, and laughter. Genuine, hearty laughter didn’t have a place in war. Yet, there it was.

“It’s time to bury our dead. Afterwards, we can see what presents Soap managed to pull together,” Price slapped them both on the backs, then joined the group of men waiting to get up the ladder.

“It hasn’t hit the first hour yet. Bet’s still on,” Ghost said, trailing after the officer with Soap.

Soap nudged through the soldiers at the base of the wooden ladder. “After, you can stab any child you see.”

“What else would there be to do?”

He didn’t think he would ever get tired of hearing that dry humor. It was a trap that Soap had long fallen into, trapped in the jaw of the skull mask. Eventually, it would end. They would part ways as they became too old to serve. John would be expected to marry a nice woman and have at least two children, and Ghost would find a girl to do the same.

At least, that was the progressive expectation. It wasn’t what he wanted, but there weren’t that many options for men like him. Every time he looked at Ghost, he was reminded of the life he wasn’t allowed to have.

The graves they dug were nowhere closer to three feet than four. Some were as shallow as two feet. There wasn’t enough time in the day to get all the way down. There were even bodies that were so decomposed that they could hardly bury them at all.

It was gruesome and tiring work, but it wasn’t the first time Soap had done it. He didn’t believe it would be his last, either.

Their sector cleared their dead bodies, storing their dog tags safely with the commanders until further notice. During the burial, soldiers had cried from both sides of the war. They were all human, and some were burying their closest friends. If John had been burying Price, Alejandro, or Rodolfo, or anyone else he was close with, he could’ve been among them. But his friends were alive, their hearts beating with his as they intermingled with the German soldiers.

Soap refused to acknowledge that Ghost could’ve been among the dead. He was too good to die so easily.

“It’s hit the fifth hour. Lost that bet a long time ago,” John said, watching as a British man got his hair trimmed by a German soldier-barber. He already had his done— it felt nice to have his mohawk back. There were talks amongst the ranks about mandatory hair shaving, but he ignored it. Nobody was going to remove his hair without his strict permission.

“Day’s not over. I might just do it myself,” Ghost replied nonchalantly. At the beginning, the Germans had been very curious over his mask. It wasn’t too soon after that they realized that he had no answers to give and that if they kept asking him about it, there would suddenly be a whole lot more bodies to bury. It wasn’t very Christmas-y of him, but Soap let it pass.

Something hit him hard on the back of his head, which was then followed by, “Hey! Up for a game of football?”

In the face of the smiling soldiers standing before him, he couldn’t bring himself to be mad about being hit. Instead, he began toying with the ball under his foot.

“Only if Ghost is playing,” he grinned. Simon groaned, but it wasn’t long before they were separated into teams.

There were Germans playing with Brits, and Brits playing against Germans. Their nationality didn’t matter— none of it mattered, other than kicking the ball in the right direction. It was a euphoric feeling. He’d never experienced anything like it, and he knew he would never get to again.

He kicked Ghost on more than one occasion when trying to get the ball away from him. They’d agreed to be on different teams; it’d be more fun that way, and they hadn’t been wrong. He let himself cut loose and be aggressive in a sport he hadn’t played in over a year, pushing and shoving without any real malice in his actions.

If anything, he enjoyed watching Simon play football. That was a sight he wouldn’t forget, for more reasons than one.

The soldiers stayed out for a while, long after the sun had set and the stars had risen. No Man’s Land, despite its barbed wires, ditches, and bodies underneath the surface, was much better than the trenches. Yet, John had made his way back inside. It was the place he wanted to be the least, but there was something important he needed to pile together before the night was over.

There were barely any soldiers about the sector, so there was nobody to question what he was doing. It was just as well, when he was putting on the last finishing touches, that he should hear somebody climb down the ladder.

“The war finally got you?” Ghost called, rubbing his hands together as he stalked towards John. “No presents this year.”

“No presents?” Soap asked, carefully blocking the gift inside a little dug out area inside the wall. “Well, if that’s what you believe, then I’ll just have to keep this for myself.”

He brought out the bag hiding behind his back, the contents inside all wrapped as carefully as he possibly could with gloved fingers. He didn’t want to risk frostbite, even though he knew that in the end, he’d risk everything— not just a few fingers— for Simon.

It took a second for Ghost to react, as though he wasn’t expecting a gift at all. Then, he slowly said: “Who’s it for?”

“The vultures now, since you don’t want it,” he said. But despite his words, he handed the bag over to his friend. He wasn’t in the mood to play anymore games. He’d waited long enough for the best part of Christmas.

Ghost took the bag with impossible gentleness, like he was cradling a baby. When he looked inside, genuine surprise overtook his features. “It’s all for me?” He asked, and then quickly amended with, “Seems you really do like me, Johnny.”

“Don’t get a big head. You’ll grow out of your mask.”

All of the gifts inside the bag were individually wrapped. It’d taken him the entire month to gather all of the makeshift paper and strings he needed to do the wrapping. The items themselves had been a longer game, something he’d been accumulating nearly the entire year. He just hadn’t known his progress would become stagnant after the war started.

The Germans had been of help, though.

Ghost picked one of the gifts out, setting the bag on the ground so he could undo the strings and paper. His expression was the sole reason Soap loved Christmas so much; seeing barely contained astonishment in normally-stoic people’s faces, or unbridled joy in those that didn’t mind showing emotion. It didn’t matter to him either way. It was the fact that he could make people’s day so much better with one gift that kept him celebrating.

“How did you…” It was hard to get the Ghost speechless, but apparently traditional Chinese sweets could do the trick. “Are all of these sweets?”

“You’ll have to open them to find out. I won’t do the dirty work for you, you jackass.”

On more than one occasion, John had the burning urge to take off Simon’s mask. The reasons varied, but this time, he just wanted to see if his friend was smiling. The skull made it impossible to tell what was lying underneath. The only thing he could see was his deep brown eyes. For now, that would have to be enough.

The next present he opened was a package of specialized Egyptian chocolate. Outside of fighting, sweets were Ghost’s one true love. It was the only present Soap could manage during wartime. He prayed that Price wouldn’t say anything about it. 

Ghost stared at that Egyptian chocolate bar for a long time. Somewhere down in the bag, there was a German cookie called lebkuchen. He’d traded it off with a German soldier for the British chocolate he hadn’t eaten. He knew it would be worth it.

“I don’t have anything to give you,” Simon said earnestly, exchanging the Egyptian chocolate for another wrapped candy. 

John flicked his hand in the air, as if waving off Ghost’s concern. “I know what you can give me,” he said. “A promise.”

Ghost stilled, leaving the gift halfway undone. “My word?”

“When we leave the military, whenever that may be,” Soap hoped that Ghost couldn’t detect the slight quaver in his voice, blaming it on the cold, “we stay friends. Become next door neighbors in the same town.” In America, maybe, where the war hadn’t reached.

There were times when Soap liked silence, such as on Christmas Eve when all of the fighting had ceased and it only snowed. There were more times that he hated it, like now, when he couldn’t read what Ghost was thinking.

“I’ll adopt a dog. Name it after you.”

Relief had never felt so good. “Cruel, even for you.”

If Ghost picked up on Soap’s nerves, he didn’t comment on it. He did, however, relish in bites of the German cookie he eventually unwrapped. Soap was happy to see a little bit of his face, even if it was just his mouth and jaw. It was better than nothing at all.

He didn’t sleep very well that night; the bursting sounds of bombs and dying men kept jerking him awake.

September 12, 1917 ; Calais, France

It was lonely in the cot. There were nurses that came to care for him, and they were nice enough. There were the other men in the infirmary, but they were busy talking to each other and flirting with the poor nurses. Soap wasn’t interested in any flirting. While chatting would’ve been nice, he found it hard to participate.

Mostly because it hurt like hell to talk. On bad days, even breathing became a difficult task. Today wasn’t so bad, though. He had gotten word of a regiment coming into town.

At first, it had scared him. He could only assume the worst because he had lived through the worst. Then, he was told that the regiment was stopping to regroup and reorganize, as well as treat the wounded. The Germans had not done to them what they had done to his own regiment.

It became a waiting game after that. He only felt true relief when a nurse gently touched his shoulder and said: “You have a visitor.”

“What’s their name?” He asked hoarsely, though he had a feeling he already knew who it was. Or maybe it was just blind hope. He had been grasping at anything he could the moment the gas had filled the trench.

“It’s me, Johnny.”

There was only one person that was allowed to call him Johnny. For the first time since they had gotten separated in 1916, he smiled. “Took you long enough.”

Ghost was quiet. The indescribable and faint voices of the other men in the infirmary gave the illusion that his friend wasn’t really there at all. It sent a stabbing pain through his chest.

“I’ve eaten all the sweets,” Simon finally said. It sounded strangled, like it hurt to say.

“They don’t give me any here, so there’s none left for you. Won’t even let me have a smoke,” he grumbled. Between the gas corroding his lungs and the intense craving for a cigar, his throat was constantly hurting. At the very least, the nurses had given him chewing tobacco. It eased the cravings, but only by a little.

Ghost was so quiet, like he was just an apparition as his nickname suggested.

It was uncharacteristic of there to be such tension between them. It wasn’t anger. It was something so much worse, and it practically emanated off of his friend.

Simon said: “The war’s going to be over soon.”

They said it would be over before the end of 1914. It’d been four years since the beginning, and all of his officers had said that same godforsaken phrase every day for every month and every year. The war had reached America, as well as just about every part of the damned world they lived on. There were no safe places.

It didn’t really feel like the war would ever be over. Not when he was still lying in a cot, still unable to see and still unable to breathe. He had walked out of that trench with cloth wrapped around his eyes and hands on the shoulders of the man in front of him. It was the only way to make it out of that trench without dying.

“The mask,” he said. His throat hurt much worse than it had before. “Take it off.”

Two times, he had seen Ghost without his mask on. One had been in a group setting, a sign of camaraderie and trust amongst the men gathered. The second had been alone in a state of vulnerability. That was when they had forged the bond that could never be broken.

Soap had asked him to take it off again several times, and he’d always be met with a dead end. Complaint after complaint about John’s nagging would get him to stop for a few months, and then he’d begin it again. This time, there were no complaints. Not a single word was uttered as John strained to pick up on the pulling of fabric.

He didn’t have to be told when it was all the way off. “Come close,” he said, motioning towards himself.

Rustling of a chair against the floor as Ghost moved closer to Soap’s cot. “This good, Johnny?”

Slowly, John reached an arm out to find his friend’s face. It took a moment, but eventually the back of his hand found his cheek. Now knowing where he was, he took his precious time to cup Ghost’s face with his palms.

He let it rest there before he let his hands examine the rest of Simon’s face. His fingers traced over the curve of his eyebrows, the wrinkles on his forehead, and the new, raised scar across his hairline. The tenderness of his lips and the hair on chin. He was gentle with the eyes, though he admittedly saved that for last. He ran his thumb over his eyelashes, wishing he could see the alluring whiteness once again.

Recording it with his hands would have to do. Sight wasn’t an option anymore.

He never wanted to take his hands away from Ghost’s face. For him, it was the equivalent of letting him go entirely. He didn’t want him to go back onto the front lines, not while Soap couldn’t join him.

He let his arms go limp at his side and leaned back against his cot. This would have to do. He didn’t have much of a choice.

A hand tugged at his blindfold, pulling ever so gently that if it weren’t for his heightened senses, he might’ve not noticed it. Then, two hands covered his eyes, feeling them in the same way he had felt Ghost’s.

“After the war,” Ghost said softly, “we’ll live wherever you want. I promise.”

Soap wanted nothing more than to believe his word.

[soaps-hoe-141]

Drowning In The Depths

Part 2

Pairing: Price x Male!Reader

WC: 9.4k

Synopsis: Feed on the pining my lovely and supportive readers

Warnings: A sprinkle of NSFW with a two side orders of gore and violence please

He'd been hoping he'd get to at least make it to his office before he was assaulted by the two Sergeants who were much too interested in his personal life for their own good. It was Soap who looked over the back of the couch first when the door shut behind him. Blue met blue as Price halted in the doorway and looked up at the TV show they were watching. It was the quickest decision he'd ever made when he turned to disappear down the hall to his office though the Scottish native was bounding over the back of the couch and blocking his way.

The beaming smile was casting up at him, more like a promise of frustration than a smile to him at this point in the day. Without missing a beat he turned to take a different route but Gaz was already standing there behind him blocking his second exit route. Annoyance welled in him, his hands shoved in his pockets and his fingers wrapped around the note you'd left him on the door as if it would lead him to you. Like if he ever lost it he'd lose a tether on life that he never even knew he needed.

Soap's eyebrows jumped before he asked, "So Price, how'd it go last night?" His own brunette brows lowered so far his blue hues were barely visible now, "You get that lad's attention? We saw you finally leaving the bar with him. Couldnae do much better than that," the Scottish accent was thick enough he could barely understand him at this point. The suggestive tone slipping into his words was so grating on his nerves he swore he could have decked that face then and there.

The Captain felt his hands tense around the note. Couldn't get much better than that? Was this wanker serious? His chin lifted, fixing his dark look on the Sergeant before answering, "Get out of the way Soap. I've got paperwork to do. I don't have time for this right now," his voice was deeper, nearly threatening but both of the Sergeants were too busy trying to pull details out of him to realize. They didn't see the building frustration and how close he was getting to unloading his lack of sleep and his quietly working jaw that had his beard and mustache twitching along with it. The two certainly didn't see his fingers running over your note shoved in his pocket and already beginning to fray the edges.

The Sergeant behind him was next to the line, and even without turning around he could hear the smile in his words, "Come on Cap, tell us how it went. You've been staring at the guy for three months now, even Ghost could see it and he's nearly blind without a scope."

There was a weight settling on his shoulders, accompanied by a dark look that was about to ignite into an explosion. "Leave it alone Sergeants, I've got-"

They didn't even let him finish before Soap was teasing him again, "Captain you aren't getting out of this. Was it good at least? Ah shite was it bad? There's no way it was bad."

"Bloody hell I hope not," Gaz mumbled in response to the invasive questions currently pouring out of the Scot. Did they ever shut the hell up? No, no they didn't.

Funny enough it was Ghost who saved him from the two, standing with his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. The quiet stare had Soap clamming up and when the other stopped talking Gaz went quiet as well. "Come on, we have a new set of recruits coming in today." Both of the men slipped off behind the Lieutenant leaving Price alone finally. Bloody hell the quiet was invigorating, he took a deep breath using a few precious seconds to calm himself back down after the two men had poked and prodded the bear. Then he was heading off down the hall to his office, trying to get the sound of your precious little moans and whines out of his ears.

It wasn't until he'd sat behind his desk that he pulled his hands from his pockets. He tossed your note onto the desk, elbows resting on the hardwood as he leaned his face into his palms. Your face flashed behind his eyelids and he let out a sigh, hands running behind his head to lace his fingers together. Soap's questions about you rattled around in his mind, turning his subconscious into a minefield of memories that had his blood pressure skyrocketing. Had you been bad? No absolutely fucking not and that was more than half of the problem. He wished you had been bad, wished you had made him feel like shit so he could regret bringing you home in a way that wasn't like this.

No you just had to be stuck in his head, with your red face and pleading voice filling his mind so completely he didn't even hear the door open. Not until a feminine voice said, "Captain?" His eyes shot up, hands sliding to the back of his neck as he looked up to find Laswell's eyes. She stepped inside, her eyes narrowing at him as her arms crossed, "Why do you look so tired, John?"

He groaned and sat back in his chair, hands falling to his lap while a look of defeat took over his face, "Bloody hell not you too Kate."

A sigh left his chest even as she smirked at him and asked, "Late night then, John?" She looked so smug, so annoying with that stupid little smirk on her face that made his blood boil.

Blue eyes closed, his head shaking before he muttered out, "Very late night Laswell. So please, just let it go."

The woman was still smirking when he opened his eyes, hell she hadn't even moved save for one hand which was now open like she was counting something. When her fourth finger unfurled she found his gaze again, "So future Mrs. Price number…four? Yeah number four."

His head cocked to the side at that and he scoffed before shooting back with a scathing tone, "I've only been married twice before Kate. And I wasn't with a woman last night so no missus anything," he reached under the desk, turning his computer on before she took another step forward to sit halfway up on the desk.

Kate turned the monitor off before the screen lit up, keeping his attention forcefully and she held his very frustrated gaze, "So a future Mr. Price then?" When he didn't answer her mouth turned up in a smile, "Oh yeah, definitely a future Mr. Price. You've always been too emotional when it comes to these things John."

"No, there isn't going to be a future mister or missus Price, Kate. Never gonna see him again so just let it go, ok?" He pressed the power button on the monitor, the screen lighting up in front of him as he tried again to get to the paperwork that awaited him. He didn't look up at her but he did see her hand shifting towards the note that laid ominously on the desk and before she could reach for it he snatched it up, hiding it in his pocket again. "Leave it alone, Laswell," his voice had dropped nearly an octave, returning to that threatening tone he usually saved for the worst of humanity.

The blonde woman sighed and relented, "Ok, ok, I'll leave it alone. Come on though, we have a mission brief. There's a new bomb guy on the circuit making the rounds in eastern Afghanistan and Pakistan." Price was quick to his feet then, eager for a distraction from the man he couldn't quit thinking about. He nodded as he shut the computer back down and followed her through the halls to the mission briefing.

-------

"Bloody hell, Marine," his hips bucked up from the bed, burying himself into the slick heat of his hand. You stood at the foot of his bed with his shirt on while he had yours in his free hand, fingers curled tight into the black fabric as he held it to his face. He'd found the shirt a couple weeks after he'd come home from a mission in eastern Afghanistan. It was on the floor of his garage and he'd thought it was his until he picked it up and smelt you all over it, he'd never forget that smell.

Your sweaty musk had overtaken his thoughts for far too long. He'd gotten drunk on that scent after he'd fucked your drooling mouth and when he'd buried himself deep inside of your tight walls. Fuck you'd felt so good, made him feel like a King while he was driving into you, sending him to near madness with your mouth as you moaned around his cock. Sucking him down your tight throat like his dick was an all you could eat buffet and you were a man near starved.

Another deep breath in and your smell coated his senses, he was moaning into the fabric to muffle himself and sounding like he was the one choking on your length. Christ he had been choking on it at one point. Making you feel so fucking good, too good he'd realized after a few tries to push his thick fingers inside of you. He'd had you so overstimulated you couldn't relax a single muscle. Not until you'd turned over, obeying him without a thought. So obedient, he could have said anything then and you would have done it. He'd massaged the tension out of each and every muscle. Taking his sweet fucking time with you before his tongue had slipped inside you and you’d clenched so hard at the intrusion.

Shite, his fingers tightened around his length, working steadily over the hardon he’d had for what felt like hours now just thinking about you. Every thought was you, the way you’d looked when he impaled you, the taste of your mouth, your perfect fucking body that fit so snugly against his. He twisted his wrist at the tip like you had, squeezing just a little bit harder at the base just trying to draw this feeling out like he'd been able to with you

Christ you had been an expert in him in a matter of minutes, if only you were really still here. The things you could have done to him with two months of research time, the things he could have done to you. His muscles tightened at the thought, abs flexing hard and his breath catching. His eyes flicked back down to the end of the bed where the image of you in his shirt still danced tantalizingly out of reach. "Oh fuck," his head fell back against the bed, his entire body tensing as he painted his hand and stomach.

Fingers released the hold on your shirt, letting it fall across his face as he fought to catch his breath. He laid like that for a few minutes, before he finally grabbed the dark shirt again and threw it to the side of the bed. Blue eyes looked down at his body, glaring hard at the mess he’d made all over himself. Just once in the two months since he’d last seen you driving off in a cab he wanted to jerk himself off and not imagine it was your hand he was feeling. Just one damn time.

---------

Fifteen minutes, he had fifteen minutes to himself and he was already down five just trying to get back to his room and undo his pants. Fingers slid along his shaft, too rough, too many calluses and just not enough of the right person’s warmth. Your hands had a lighter touch than his. Calluses that didn’t catch like his did on every inch of skin even though he remembered with certainty that your hands did have them. 

It’d been five months and he still remembered every way you’d made him feel. Though he’d lost your shirt, well not really lost it the thing was still shoved into the bottom of his duffel bag, but after all this time your scent had long since dissipated. All he had now was the memory of you, and that would never go away. “ ‘M, so good Marine, so good,” he was fucking his own hand so fast he knew he’d regret it later but he couldn’t find the will to care right now.

His climax was coming on so fast, too fast that he knew he wouldn’t be satisfied really when it did but he didn’t care. There was no time to care. Besides he was so close in a matter of a couple minutes with his heart pounding and his vision starting to go white. He could see you on your knees, aching for him, waiting for him and he was about to deliver. Mouth open, eyes staring up at him, pleading with him to paint your face like a mosaic.

“Cap we’ve got a- OH SHIT!” The door to his room slammed shut as Price scrambled to cover himself with the blanket. He hadn’t even heard the bloody thing opening. His member ached at the loss of his own hand, needing the touch, needing to find his peak or he was sure he was going to explode.

Anger licked at his mind as he clenched his fists and shot a glare at the door. The Captain yelled out with a sour tone, “Bloody hell Gaz! Knock next time you fuckin muppet!”

There were a few moments that no sound came back through the door in answer. A couple quiet and tense seconds before Gaz finally answered with a strained and high-pitched voice, “I’m sorry Cap. We’ve got a, um, a lead.”

Price ran a hand over the brunette facial hair as his head shook, trying to keep the immense anger at being interrupted out of his tone. “I’ll be there in a few minutes Gaz.” The Sergeant didn’t say anything else as he presumably ran away to go tell the rest of the team what he’d just walked in on. He stood up with a growl, tucking himself back into his pants and redoing the buttons. Fifteen minutes, that was all he wanted. Was that really too much to ask? This was gonna be a long day. Christ it had already been a long five months.

---------

It had been eight months since they’d been trailing this new bomb maker that Laswell had found working up a following somewhere deep in the heart of Afghanistan. Eight long months of being on the road with the rest of 1-4-1 and Soap’s disgusting socks and underwear policy that could make even a veteran ER nurse vomit. That kid needed some serious talks about hygiene from somebody, not him though, the last thing he needed was to lecture one of them only to hear them bring up how he’d gone and scarred Gaz for life. 

They team had started in eastern Afghanistan, tracking down the lower rungs of the organization and getting stumped at nearly every turn. Every time they got on the trail of someone they would go so deep underground it was like they were turning into a real life mole. Then without warning they’d pop back up in some random village dead or very close to it. At one point they’d merely been chasing dead bodies down a rabbit hole.

Until suddenly the men they had been chasing stopped dying and instead their families were taking the hit for them. Wives and children showed up to hospitals they had no business being in with wounds that would make a grown man break. Sometimes they didn’t make it to a hospital room, some of them just went straight to the morgue.

Price had been drowning himself in the work, ever since Kyle had walked in on him a few months ago. There was no way he was about to let that happen again. Not a chance in the world anyone else on this team was gonna see him jerking off to the memory of a man who had left him high and dry. Instead he was completely and one hundred percent focused on the mission. Annoyingly so according to the two Sergeants who apparently enjoyed things like free time.

Kate had been doing everything she could to figure out who it was that seemed to be so far ahead of them but there was nothing. Whoever it was, was in the wind. It wasn’t until the chatter about the head man’s family getting taken began to circulate that they had any fresh leads. Talk began to circulate of a planned attack on the person who had been killing terrorists and their families indiscriminately.

It was tempting to let them do it too. The injuries he’d seen on some of those innocent people made even him stop and cringe. Still though, a part of him remembered when he’d nearly had Gaz kill an innocent child and wife as well, “We get dirty so the world stays clean.” Whoever it was, whatever reason they were doing it for, he knew he’d do the same if it came down to making sure no more people were hurt by the bombs this organization was making. And he had to admit, so far the person had been fairly effective at keeping the attention on themselves rather than on potential targets.

They had come all the way across Afghanistan and now here he was, roaming a market crowded with people who looked nothing like him. The team had congregated on the entrance with the most traffic, everyone taking up a position and watching for any kind of suspicious activity. This was the most likely area for a bomb to have been placed, with so many people milling about it was the perfect spot to cause the maximum damage.

Ghost was keeping to the shadows and the alleys, he would draw too much attention with the mask on if he got too close. Plus he could keep a better eye on the guards movements if he wasn’t having to worry about getting watched himself. Soap had made his way to a stand selling various cured meats, currently trying to get himself some sausages as he haggled with the vendor. That boy would haggle just for the fun of it, Price was convinced.

Gaz was sticking around the middle of the aisles, he could blend in better here and that was a tactical advantage the Captain had every intention of using. Price was watching from the opposite side as Soap, leaning back against a wall. Ocean hues were flicking about the many faces, some covered and some not, searching for any sign of the man they knew they were after, and whoever his potential target was.

The market was crowded today, and they needed to find this bombmaker and his target before innocent people got killed. The last thing they needed was a bomb going off in the middle of this crowd. It was Ghost who spoke first, “Man entering the market now, moving towards you Soap. He has a dog with him, looks local but the dog not so much.” They all resisted the urge to look, Price pushing off the wall and moving to a cheese stand to peruse the vendor’s wares.

Everything stayed quiet for a couple seconds before Soap finally came over the comms, “Good copy Lt. He’s moving deeper into the market. Stopping at a stand a couple down from me.” A few seconds went by before the Sergeant continued, “He’s not speaking English, I don’t know what he’s saying but it looks like the lady knows him.”

Silence came over the comms for a heartbeat before Price muttered, “Keep an eye on him Ghost. Everyone else stay focused on the market entrance.”

“Good copy, Price,” the deep voice answered back. He handed a couple dollars off, taking a few slices of cheese from the young man to sate his hunger. The Lieutenant spoke again with his mouth poised on a bite of the cheese he’d just bought, “Market guards are watching him too Price, I don’t think they know or like him. He just ran into an old man, about twenty yards to your…left.”

The Captain stayed quiet for a moment before he slowly turned his gaze, catching sight of the man and dog in question. The man could have blended in perfectly fine, but it was the dog that just seemed off, it was screaming military to him. The animal just didn’t fit into the local look that the man he was walking with did. Something certainly wasn’t right with the two of them.

It was when the man turned from helping the old man though, that he felt like a knife had been plunged into his stomach. There was no way he was seeing that, no way that was who he thought it was. His eyes were tricking him, deceiving him because it’d been so long and he’d wanted this moment for so long now. He was walking towards the man before he even realized his feet were moving. Soap was the only one to catch sight of it though, “Price!? What are ye doin? We cannae engage him-” An explosion shook the air throwing him backwards and away from the man he knew in his very soul to be you.

--------- (Speck POV)

This was purgatory. An existence so devoid of meaning it was like standing on the sides of a treadmill and letting the belt run underneath you. Even Cerberus was starting to whine through the night as you tossed and turned beneath the weight of regret that filled you. You'd left the UK behind over eight months ago, and yet still you couldn't get those blue eyes out of your fucking head. Your thoughts were so consumed by him that even your handler was beginning to question whether you were up to the task of what you'd been assigned to do. You'd been sent to Zabol, one of the larger cities in Iran, to do some deeds even the devil would have grimaced about. To put it plainly you were the bad guy this time, and the worst part is that you knew it too.

Cerberus was stretched out along your side, your fingers running over the thick fur as you tried to lull yourself into some version of sleep. Slowly your eyes drifted shut, but the second they did a flash of memory hit you like a truck. This time it was when he'd tucked you in against his chest, arms wrapped so securely around you that you never considered being in the midst of danger again. You'd been so warm, so sated and satisfied that it made you feel like a caged animal now. It had been too long since you'd had him, had anybody, and you were so far past pent up you couldn't even trust yourself to take a hot shower. You knew, without a shadow of doubt, your hand would be slipping lower and lower until you had no more control over it. Until that fire was coursing through you and all you wanted to do was feel him touching the deepest parts of you that no one else had ever even been close to.

John. He had taken over nearly every thought since you'd left him lying in that bed with only a note to remember you by. The thought made your stomach hurt, turned it into a string of knots, it was a decision you knew you would regret until the day you died. He was probably fit snugly behind another man or woman right now, sleeping soundly through the night as if you'd never even existed. He'd probably forgotten you before you'd even made it out of the country. That was okay though, it was better this way, that he forgot you ever existed. Technically you'd stopped existing a long time ago. The second you'd gotten a divorce and joined this private contracting company your identity had become so muddled you doubted that customs would even let you back into your country at this point. Not without the help of some deep cover aliases or something of the like anyway. This was better though, John should forget you, like you never even existed. At least then only one of you would be suffering the loss of his expert fingers running over your skin like a wild forest fire.

A deep breath filled your lungs before you let it out in a heavy sigh rolling to the side of the bed. Nope, you needed to get up. You couldn't keep doing this, fuck sleep it was time you got the fuck out of here. There was a clink of metal as Cerberus followed you, both of your dogtags clinking together. He sat beside you to lick a couple times at your face until you gave him a scratch behind the ears and stood up. At least you still had your dog, no one could ever take him from you, he went everywhere you did, especially in the field, like a piece of velcro stuck to your thigh. He was everything you'd poured your focus into when you'd left the SEALs. Picked him up from a breeder in the States and raised him from a puppy in the middle of war zones. Training him just like the Navy had taught you to do, and he'd taken the place of your family, he was your family.

About to stand and get ready for a run, the phone on the dresser buzzed, the little SOS vibrating tone that signaled it was your job or your handler. You answered it quickly, putting the phone to your ear and lapsing into Farsi, you never knew who could be listening, "Hello?"

"Are you alone?" Came the immediate question from the distorted voice on the other end of the line. You gave an affirmative hum before the man continued, "Traditional market, fifteen minutes, don't be late Speck." The call ended, well you weren't being moved it seemed, that sucked seeing as you and Cerberus were both being sweated out of this fucking country.

With a quiet groan you pushed off the bed stretching muscles that were well past used and sore. Pulling some clothes on you looked at yourself in the small mirror, you were blending in with the local population of the city as you had been doing since you got here. It wouldn't be long before you got your next target package now, just had to get to the market. There would be no team this time you'd been given the heads up on that a day or so ago. Just you and Cerberus against whoever the next imminent threat was, that's how it always was and that's how it would always be.

At least your fluency in Farsi was coming in handy lately, you'd been worried you might be getting rusty after living it up in the UK for so long. You'd even been getting some work in with Pasto since you were right on the border of Afghanistan and Pakistan. You could blend in literally anywhere you went, a chameleon that could change accents and skins unmatched by any other. It was so far past just being your job it was woven into the very fiber of your being.

"Fuss Cerberus," his ears perked up at the German command and he fell into step beside you as you left the little room you'd been calling home for far too long now. A pistol was stuck inside the waistband of your pants, shirt hanging loose over it to conceal the weapon. The two of you slipped through the crowd of the market, stopping at a stand to grab a quick snack for you both before continuing on. A lead kept the two of you bound to one another but the dog beside you would never have left your side with or without it. Even as two men eyed you from the end of an alleyway, stepping into the street and following a short distance behind you but they were irrelevant right now. “Achtung,” you said quietly to the animal, catching the slight tilt of his head as his eyes roamed, searching for the danger you were apparently alerted to.

An older man stepped in front of you, his things falling to the ground as he apologized for holding you up. You gave him a quick smile answering in Farsi, "It's no problem sir. May I help you with your bags?" He gave an exuberant nod back, his fingers, knotted with arthritis like an old tree root, and he slipped a piece of paper into your palm as you handed him something else. 

There it was, your next target, it almost surprised you to get it from such an unlikely person but not quite. It was rare that anything surprised you anymore, especially not these idiots. These pieces of paper were always delivered by someone new and always done in the most clandestine way the upper management could imagine as if this were a goddamn spy movie or some shit. Who did they think you were, James Bond? Son of a bitch they really were all idiots up there. They’d planned this shit in front of, currently, ten armed guards who were watching the interaction with such scrutiny you were sure there was no way they missed the handoff. And yet they did, blind to the chance that this frail old man could potentially be working with a private American contractor.

You helped the old man to his feet, lifting his bags for him as he moved to one of the stalls you'd thought was empty but was instead just waiting for its seller. While the seller who owned the stall was apparently waiting for you. When you set them down he gave you a few quick thank yous and you returned it with a nod and half smile. Turning you left him to his own devices, Cerberus hot on your heels, his tongue lolling while he panted heavily, it was too fucking hot here. It almost, almost, made you miss the sweltering Georgia heat and humidity…almost. 

The both of you continued on to the next stall, hiding the paper in a pocket as you bought a couple pomegranates. A gap in the stalls called to you, a worm in your brain telling you something was off but knowing turning around would only make things worse. You hated the feeling of eyes on your back but it didn’t matter, ‘Do not turn around’ you told yourself. Instead you moved into the gap, enjoying the free space as you leaned against the wall. Forcing yourself to remain calm at the sight of a growing number of guards near the alley. Reminding yourself this was fine, they weren't on to you, this was in fact normal. It was normal for guards to be hanging around, they were just in the middle of their normal rotations.

A pack of cigarettes felt heavy in your pocket before you slipped it out, sliding one of them between your lips. As you lit the cigarette, inhaling the smoke deeply before exhaling in bored puffs, the watchful eyes of the guards became less interested. Seeming to find their attention on something else as you took yourself a smoke break.

With the absence of something to keep your mind busy, there was no contact to be on the lookout for and now there were no guards to give you anxiety, it slipped back to him. The way he'd devoured you totally in mind, body, and soul. The man had gotten you drunk on his very touch, even the slightest graze of his fingers had made you burn so hot you thought you'd evaporate.

Thoughts were muddled in your mind now, so consumed by his memory that you missed Cerberus as he laid down slowly beside you. It was a signal, just how you had trained him, he was doing his job but when he looked up at you, your head was in the clouds just continuing to puff away. By the time you looked down when you noticed that the weight of the seventy five pound Dutch Shepherd was no longer leaning against your leg like he always was it was too late. The explosion rocked the marketplace, you felt even yourself being thrown away from the sight of the little old man who'd given you your target being blown apart with heat you were sure could rival the sun.

Dust blocked your lines of sight, a hard cough exiting your lungs as they tried to take in fresh air where there was none to be had. "Son of a bitch," you said the words but you couldn't hear them over the ringing in your ears, the sounds of terrified people rising in volume around you though even that didn’t break through the ringing. You rolled to your back slowly, eyes affixing to the debris scattered around you. The explosion had been several stalls down but the shockwave had cut through you with enough force your entire body was wracked with pain.

"Cerberus," you mumbled into the air, still deaf to your own voice. Eyes shut tight as you righted your mind against the intense vertigo. A warm tongue slid across your face in answer, worried whines breaking through the ringing in your ears finally. The cigarette was long gone, but at least Cerberus was ok, you don’t know what you would do without this damn dog. He was currently doing everything he could to keep you focused right now, urging you up which you complied with immediately. "Fu-Fuss," you finally got out, pushing yourself up to your feet. Eyes casted about the destruction, mouth open at the pain that had been wrought here today. People lay dead and injured near the epicenter, your throat bobbing as you swallowed hard.

A warm nose pressed against your hand, Cerberus’ warm body leaning into your leg. “Good lord,” you glanced around, head shaking in disbelief at the carnage. It wasn’t until you saw trained operatives with guns sprinting your way that you backed into the alley, eyes wide and pressing yourself against the wall so they didn’t spot you. They ran past to the site of the explosion, one stopping a few yards in front of you, before he was looking around like he was searching for something. You weren’t about to stand around waiting to see what it was though, you were already turning deeper into the alley with Cerberus right beside you despite the lead having been severed in the explosion somehow.

The both of you beat a hasty retreat from the market until you had to stop to catch your breath, the pain of the explosion finally catching up to you. You took the time to check over the dog that had stayed faithfully by your side through the whole thing, hands running over the dirt and debris caught in his thick brindled coat. A patch of blood on his side made your hands still, the sticky liquid making your heart stop the second your fingers felt it. Dropping to a knee you poked, prodded, and probed but he just kept panting nervously beside you, no whines or other signs of discomfort from him. "Not yours?" You questioned him as you continued to catalog all of his body parts, ensuring he wasn't about to completely fall apart on you. Not his, you let out a breath you hadn't even realized you were holding in until then. It was when the cold wet nose butted against your leg that you felt the source of your own pain finally.

Blood now covered his black nose and you cursed quietly into the air, flinching away from him as you stared down at the source. "I'll be damned," you growled as your fingers shifted the foreign object. A piece of sheet metal from one of the stalls had lodged itself into your thigh. It was through and through on the outside part of your leg, skewering it like it was a fuckin kabob. At least it wasn’t the inside of your thigh though, no major bleed outs today, not yet anyway. Curses still fell from your lips, Cerberus sensing your anxiety and beginning to pace in front of you as you tried to think of what the hell to do in the middle of a city without even so much as a bandaid on you. 

Sirens wailed from the way you'd come, from the sight of the explosion and the death that had been wrought there. You pushed yourself back up to your feet, ignoring the pain for the moment at least. It wasn't life threatening, not right now anyway and you could certainly live long enough to get away from this fuckin mess. You needed to get your ass out of here before they came looking for you and you missed your window to get whatever was on this piece of paper done.

As you turned down the alley again you froze, a young man with a gun staring back at you. The barrel was aimed at you and the second Cerberus saw the threat he was growling. Your hand reached slowly for the dog’s collar, looking up at the man with wide eyes and holding your other hand high in the air. Voice almost unnervingly calm you said in Farsi, “Listen friend, I am just trying to go home. Please I have a family, okay?” The barrel of the gun didn’t waver, aimed at you from twenty yards away. It was unlikely he would miss at this distance and your pistol, you were just now realizing, was no longer concealed at the small of your back. “Pfui,” you whispered to the growling dog as he finally stopped pulling against your hand on his collar.

The man watching you took a slow step forward and the dog barked, he didn’t move, he was following his direction, but even still he could strike fear in even you with that thunderous sound. The young man pulled the trigger, a couple shots flew from the automatic weapon smacking into your arm and then the miraculous happened. It fucking jammed. “Fass,” you released his collar at the command watching the animal shoot off like a rocket as the man tried his best to unjam the gun before Cerberus launched at him. His full body weight slammed into the man, teeth sinking into a bare arm before the giant head began to shake. A scream ripped through the empty alleyway that you knew now would not remain empty for much longer.

Adrenaline, that was the best drug on the market right there, even with the shots buried into your arm and the piece of fucking metal lodged into your thigh you barely even felt it. Though that could have also been your body’s shock response. This was life or death right now though, kill this man and get the fuck out of here. Survival was the only option. You pulled a knife out of your pocket as you neared the man currently doing everything he could to throw Cerberus off him to no avail. 

“Aus,” immediately the teeth dislodged and you watched as Cerberus’ tail wagged, “Yeah buddy good job.” Your knee slammed into the man’s chest, keeping him from scrambling up and for the gun. Not a second of hesitation in your movements as your knife punched into his neck, watching the light drain from his eyes and the blood from his body. Your eyes roamed the alleyway, being sure that no one else was there before you said, “Hier, Cerberus, let’s go the fuck home.”

He stuck to you like glue, leaning into your leg as if he was trying to steady you. Your hotel wasn't far from the marketplace but your thigh was burning underneath the thin pants you were wearing. Blood was trickling down your leg, a warm reminder that you were very nearly killed because you'd lost your focus for just a few seconds. 'Idiot, damnit, keep your head on straight.' Cerberus whined at your side, your eyes shooting down to where he was beginning to get nervous. You were on the opposite side of the street, nearly at the end where you'd entered the market at, when a second bomb went off. This one didn't throw you, you were much too far, but it did make your ears ring again. Your hands shot up to cover them but it didn't really matter the worst of it was already done.

Cerberus was slipping, just about to dart away and you could sense it. Even the best of dogs had their limits. His body tensed but your hand shot down, fingers digging into his scruff and said quickly, "Nein." His ears fell back as the chocolate brown eyes turned up to you, "Pass auf, Cerberus." The dog stared up at you as you kept going, your hand moving up to his collar as you distanced yourself from the two bombs that had gone off within the past ten minutes.

You nearly missed it, that feeling that made your skin crawl and your shoulders tense. The prickle went up your spine, only stopping when it reached the base of your skull. Normally you would have been able to ignore it, to stop the instinct to turn around, but you were injured and exhausted and for just a moment your own control slipped. You glanced over your shoulder, eyes sliding over the street behind you. 

Part of you wished that you had seen one of the guards from the market, wished that was what had caused that sensation of being watched. Instead you were met with an empty street and damn if that didn't make your hair stand up even more. You turned back around, never stopping as the two of you made your way back “home”. Your blood was dripping down your shoulder now and the pain in your arm and thigh was searing you like a branding iron. You should know you'd been stupid enough to play with one when you were a kid, those damn things hurt.

Just make it to your room, grab your shit, and get the hell outta dodge. That's all you had to do, that's it. It ran through your skull like a mantra, a line to keep you sane and focused as you bled from three open wounds with your heart continuing to hammer in your rib cage. Your mind began to relax as you entered the first floor of your building before you reminded yourself that this wasn't over. You finally let Cerberus' collar go though, the dog bounding up the stairs ahead of you and waiting by the door. A momentary pause, a glance behind as the feeling on your neck continued, still though there was nothing. Not a single explanation for this unnerving feeling that was coursing through you. Your teeth sunk into your lip, hands fumbling with the key for a moment as you stifled a groan at the wound in your shoulder.

When you finally shoved inside your room your phone, still laying on the dresser like it always was, was playing a rhythm of morse code at you. You grabbed it with your still working hand sliding it between your ear and your shoulder as you packed what little you owned. You spoke in Farsi, like you had been for so many months now, "Hello?"

The distorted voice answered you, "What the hell happened? We're getting reports of two bombs going off?"

You let out a cynical laugh at that before you answered in a low growl, "Maybe because there was, sir. I'm bleeding like a stuck hog and I need an evac, now. I'm done here," you didn't outwardly state it but you knew you were burned. Someone had been trying to kill you, they're timing had just been absolute shit. Karma catches up with everyone though, you'd get yours for the things you'd done soon enough, of that you were sure.

They spoke again, their words sending pulses of rage through you, "We can't risk an evac. You'll have to find a way out on your own, Speck."

Your eyes went wide and you dropped the gun case you'd been about to open as you spun on a heel, your anger unbridaled by southern politeness now. "The hell do you mean you can't risk an evac? Last time I checked sir it wasn't your ass out here about to get filled so full of damn holes you're gonna look like Swiss fuckin cheese, sir." The gun case you'd dropped a moment ago called your name once more as you picked it up and threw it on the bed with one hand. "Get me out of here, now." It was very clear you weren't making a request, this was an ‘If you don't get me out of here you'll regret it,’ kind of situation now.

The voice stayed quiet on the other end for a few tense moments as you opened the case, pulling out another pistol and the full clip beside it. It was when you were checking the magazine for the Fennec that they finally answered, "We can't help you Speck. Work the problem."

"Work the problem!? I'll become your problem you little shithead-" You yelled into the line but they had already hung up. The magazine dropped back into the case and you used the same hand to pull the phone off your ear, staring down at the blank screen of the phone. "Did he just- Oh the fuck he just did, I know he didn't just hang up on me." Rage boiled in you, turning your face red as you hit the button to call them back. The call went straight to voice-mail and you felt your hands shaking as you held the phone in a death grip. You were barely controlling your breathing, chest heaving with the effort before the phone hit the wall, smashing into pieces as it fell to the ground. "Fuck!"

You paced the small space beside the bed, the pain running through you only serving to make things ten times worse. Blood had soaked through your clothes all along your right side, dripping from your arm down to your leg which had its own source of the red liquid. No evac, certainly no medevac, figure it out. Your eyes glanced around the room before you dove into your equipment, searching for anything you could use to stop the bleeding and get this metal spear tip out of your leg. Duct tape, that could work, never leave home without that stuff, that was quick fix 101. Digging through your clothes you found some that were already dirty, ripping the cloth into pieces with your good hand and your teeth.

Wrapping the cloth around the bullet hole in your bicep you went over it with the duct tape, sealing the wound off to the outside world. You did the same with the wound in your forearm, growling at the pain that flared there, it'd hit bone that you knew for sure. A whine came out of Cerberus while he watched, "It's ok buddy, I'm fine," you cast a smile at the dog. You don't even remember when you switched to English, probably at some point talking to the idiot on the other side of the world. That piece of crap was gonna pay, the second you got the chance you were putting a bullet in his head. Thinks that a distorted voice meant you didn't know who he was? You'd known who he was before you signed the contract, you just never thought he'd have the balls to leave you stuck in a warzone to die. Oh boy were you gonna have fun making him regret every decision he had ever made.

The leg was a harder thing to fix, the metal had loosened on your walk back but it was far from about to slide out without issue. You pulled at the projectile, your entire body tensing and blood pouring out of the wound when your heart pounded into your ribs. "Oh good lord," your hand dropped from the metal and you shook your head. "No, nope, not happening," you stared at the projectile as if it was just going to fall out on its own. Needless to say, it didn't. Your gaze shifted to Cerberus, the dog laying with his head on his paws, watching with big, chocolate brown eyes. He was completely dependent on you, your health and your decisions and your focus. You'd nearly gotten the both of you killed, never again. Fingers wrapped around the slick end of the metal as you mentally hyped yourself up before you pulled at the shard.

It slid against the muscle it had ripped open, your teeth clenching together hard enough to crack them. Muscles on your neck flexing so hard you thought your trachea would collapse under the weight. Finally the piece pulled free, fingers dropping it and ears listening to the clatter as you calmed your breathing. Fresh blood coated your leg, head feeling dizzy as you tried to stay focused. Your mind raced trying to think of something to close it while your fingers held the tissue together. A groan left you as you dug through your kit, the things you'd been given over the last eight months. Cold metal hit your hand and you jerked it up, staring at the staple gun you'd been given to do…less than cordial things to people who hadn’t deserved it in the slightest. The cool metal felt like ice over the throbbing, hot wound. At least until you pulled the trigger and a staple shot into your skin.

"Holy good God," you growled out, another four staples quickly following the first until it had closed. Blood still seeped out but it was closed, thank God it was closed. Ripping a few more pieces of cloth from the shirt and covering the wound while you wrapped it up in duct tape as well.

Clothes crammed into your duffel bag, staple gun following close behind it as you zipped it up. You were just finishing checking the last magazine of your Fennec when Cerberus' growl caught your ears. Eyes shot to him, he however was staring hard at the door, hackles raised and standing up now. "Nein," you whispered and immediately his growl stopped and he glanced at you. "Hier," he slipped across the floor, belly low and eyes still staring at the door. Checking the gun you turned your attention to the door, listening hard at the quietness that settled like a blanket over your small room.

When the lock blew off the door and it cracked open you saw the flashbang before it went off as it smacked against the far wall. Grabbing the collar you pulled Cerberus behind you into the bathroom and slammed the door shut right as it went off. Footsteps pounded into the room and you had only a few seconds to make a decision. To seal your fate of life or death. Whatever happened you knew you weren't about to go down without a fight, finger flipping the safety off on the gun and glancing down at the dog. Your fingers slid against the cool metal of the door knob, the both of you strangely calm among the chaos. 

Your next command was accompanied by you pulling the door open, "Voraus!" The big Shepherd shot out the door and you followed behind him yelling, "Fass," just before he launched at the nearest man. Using your one good arm you aimed at the man with his gun swinging down to Cerberus, two bullets running straight through his skull. The other man went down under the dog's teeth and you ended his life next, walking over the dead man, eyes never leaving the door as you said, "Aus."

Cerberus dropped his arm as you continued, "Fuss," and he was attached to your hip once more. You were ignoring the pain in your leg, your arm wasn't so easy but you were managing well with the sub machine gun, you didn’t need both hands thankfully. You used your foot to open the door, glancing down the hallway before whispering, “Voran.” Cerberus shot through the open door with you following behind him as he cleared the hallway between you and the flight of stairs. He sat at the end, staring down the stairs until you caught up with him and you issued the command again, still following as close behind him as you could manage with your injured leg. 

When he sat again on the landing between the flights of stairs you heard a low growl from him and raised the gun up a bit higher as a man swung around the corner at the bottom of the stairs. Before he could even get around to pulling the trigger he was falling backwards into the open hallway. “Voran,” you whispered again and the seventy five pound missile took off down the hall, glancing at every door he passed before he kept going, only sitting down when he reached the fire exit and sat waiting for you.

You were halfway down the hall when he laid down, your stomach dropping while your pace picked up. Explosives, why were there always more explosives? You didn’t stop just muttering, “Fuss,” as you came up beside the dog’s side only coming to a halt as you neared the door. Glancing down at Cerberus, “Such.” His eyes looked up at you before he laid down again, “Shit,” you growled into the air before turning back. There was another door at the other end of the hall, back where you had killed the guy at the bottom of the stairs. “Fuss,” you growled out as you turned, the pain in your leg was starting to catch up to you now and you needed to get out of sight and out of the way of whatever train was currently trying to run you down.

It took you too long to get to the other end of the hallway, it was taking you too long to get out of this building. Too long to get back under the radar. It was all just too fucking long. Your head was beginning to swim with the pain, you’d been running off pure adrenaline for the past forty-five minutes and it was taking a toll on you now. Blood soaked your whole leg and arm, your head and heart were both pounding, and not to mention the feeling of bile in your stomach whenever you tried to think of a way you might get out of this one alive and came up with nothing. As you passed the stairwell again voices traveled down to you, strangely familiar in accent though you didn’t truly recognize the person. “He’s not in the room Price, trail leads downstairs.”

A decidedly Scottish accent answered him back, “Yeah and so do the bodies and the dog bites, Ghost.” There was a low grumble from somewhere above you and your good arm tensed, holding an angle on the stairwell above before the Scot asked, “You sure we cannae just kill him and figure out the rest later?”

“Shut up Johnny,” a heavily British accent shot before anyone else could answer. It went quiet above until a white mask peeked around the corner just barely into view. The two of you stared for less than a second at one another before you fired a shot and he fell back around the corner. His deep voice yelled out, “HVT making a break for it! Still on the first floor!”

Adrenaline levels spiked back up again as you put your head down and ran for the door. Your shoulder slammed into the solid object, Cerberus still attached to you at the hip. You were out in the main entryway, eyes shooting back and forth before you ran for the front door. Pushing out into the street you turned, and your entire body froze when hard, cold metal pressed against the back of your head. Time didn’t exist as the voice behind you growled out, “Tell the dog to stay put or there’ll be a bullet in him right after I put a bullet in you, Marine.”

[carveredlunds]

"But you will leave the family all alone": A Meta on the Stooky Family

So, I just did a quick Google search and discovered that Stooky Sue was not a real doll (unlike Stooky Bill, who really existed). So, Stooky Sue and the Stooky Babbies were inventions for the show. Why do that, unless RTD wanted to make a point? I think the point was that Stooky Sue and the Stooky Babbies were once humans, now transformed into puppets by the Toymaker.

The first clue is what the Toymaker says in the first scene, when Charles Banerjee says he just wants to buy Stooky Bill, and leave the other puppets behind. To this, the Toymaker responds:

"But you will leave the family all alone. Poor Stooky Sue and the poor Stooky Babbies. You would leave them without Papa? The widow und the orphans will be ge-crying."

Obviously, this is exactly what happens later. Now, this could be the Toymaker just messing around - he brought these puppets to life, and this is him foreshadowing that he's going to play this out later, when Stooky Bill is burnt and "the widow und the orphans" are left crying. This could be just another game to him, but why would he bother to make that up? Why build a family of five puppets, when history only demanded one? He went to 1925 to tamper with the real Stooky Bill broadcast. Why bother making four spare puppets - a mother and her children?

The second clue comes in the form of the puppets themselves. Look at Stooky Sue's hair and dress. This looks to me like a typical 1920's style dress, and the simple hair could definitely fit into that era. Her outfit also matches that of the babies - perhaps these were once the matching outfits of a mother and her three children? Stooky Bill also has a surprisingly elaborate and period-accurate outfit.

Speaking of the children - two of them have blue eyes and blonde hair, and one has brown eyes and brown hair. These seem like very particular traits for the Toymaker to have bothered giving a set of puppets. They're more likely to be the hereditary traits of real children than the invented traits of toys. Stooky Sue has blue eyes, like two of the babies, but the third baby has brown eyes, like Stooky Bill. Perhaps they inherited their eye colours from their parents?

And if you listen to what Stooky Sue says again, this doesn't sound like a game by the Toymaker. Yes, he could be forcing the puppet to rhyme in her creepy way, but there's something so flat and depressed about the voice, like a woman honestly recounting what happened to her. The emotion feels more real than the Toymaker's usual playful voice, with his exaggerated accents:

"I'm poor wee Stooky Sue. I don't know what to do. I lost my precious hubby. They threw me in the cubby. They took my Bill away. I mourn him every day. He won't come home to me. 'Cause they burnt him on TV. Now the Stooky Babbies weep. The Stooky Babbies cannae sleep. They miss their dear papa. They seek him near and far. They miss their kiss goodnight. They greet in endless night."

This story suggests that the family were together, even as puppets, but when Stooky Bill was taken and burnt on television, now the family is torn apart. Something else to note about Stooky Sue? She's got a Scottish accent. That's an accent we don't hear the Toymaker put on. Might this have been Stooky Sue's real accent, now being spoken out through the wooden mouth of her puppet body?

On the subject of puppet bodies - the Toymaker says that Stooky Bill's hair is made out of the hair of a real woman. Could the same be said for Stooky Sue, and the Babbies? Might their bodies all be made out of the hair and pieces of their original human forms? I doubt the Toymaker needs to use the parts of each person in their corresponding puppet bodies (so, perhaps Stooky Bill got Stooky, Sue's hair, she got his, and so on.) This also isn't the only time we see him combine human and puppet body parts together in one form, as he does with Banerjee later.

Of course, this could all just be creepy set-dressing by the Toymaker. He might have built a family for Stooky Bill because he was bored, and he can create things out of thin air. He could have used the hair of another one of his victims, who had no connection to Stooky Bill. It's a coincidence the babies have their "parent's" eyes. But all of these little details just seem too minute to be a coincidence. It's entirely in keeping with the Toymaker's personality to have played a game with an entire family, and then turned them into wooden puppets when they lost.

[ineffectualdemon]

When I first moved to England I was calling all around the various countries surrounding for a temp job but I hadn't gotten used to the various accents yet. Not for lack of trying but I had grown up on Hollywood accents and hadn't encountered real ones yet.

I also didn't know I had audio processing issues at the time which didn't help

Exposure has helped and it's much easier for me to follow pretty much all regional accents nearby now

But this was the reactions I would get by region when I had to ask them to repeat themselves because I was having trouble understanding while at the job

The English: lightly offended but also not surprised because I am American and that equalled idiot. Would repeat themselves but be clearly disappointed in me

The Welsh: treated me like a particularly clever dog that had somehow learned to speak and gotten a job. They didn't mind at all repeating themselves as many times as necessary! It's just so cute and impressive I could even use the phone! - unironically my favourites because they were very nice and the condescending was done in a way that made me feel precious

The Irish: would repeat themselves but also would mercilessly take the piss but in a friendly way

The Scottish: would not repeat themselves and made me feel like asking them to "please repeat that? I'm really sorry but I didn't quite catch that" equalled shitting on their father's grave. Genuinely terrified of them at the time because I was convinced that one day they would learn how to punch me through the phone . Which was distressing because I liked Scotland a lot (still do. It's a very cool country) and was trying very hard to get used to real accents Vs Hollywood ones. Definitely by far the most offended and least helpful

Bonus:

The one guy from Spain: I literally don't know how he took it because he was THAT incomprehensible to me. I would just immediately pass him off to someone else in the office

[jheseltheunswerving]

Rayla: How Selflessness Becomes Selfish

I had every intention of writing this before season 4 came out. Unfortunately, school and life got in the way, and I just didn’t have the time. However, I am writing this without having seen season 4, so please keep all spoilers out of the comments and reblogs.

Rayla is one of many people’s favorite characters. She’s cool, she’s beautiful, and she has a Scottish accent. But I wanted to get deeper into her character. 

Morals and Responsibility 

Throughout the show, Rayla is shown to be a protector, a fact that contradicts her training as an assassin. Even still, her being a protector is greatly influenced by her Moonshadow Elf ideals. 

The Moonshadow elves and their ideals are introduced early on in the show where we see a group of them making essentially a bloodpact to avenge the death of the dragon king and his son. The planned assassinations of Harrow and Ezran are not only believed to be deserved but also believed to be vital to achieving justice. As Runaan eloquently puts it, “Life is precious. We take it, but we do not take it lightly.”

This is a moral that Rayla displays. She will only take a life if she feels it is necessary or deserved. Hence why she spares Marcos’ life in the very start of the show. It isn’t until she meets Callum, and he points out the revenge cycle, that these morals begin to be… altered. 

As soon as the egg of the dragon prince is discovered, Rayla commits herself to defending Callum and Ezran. She smiles at Ez and offers to go back into the tower with Callum to stop her people from killing his and Ez’s father. 

Rayla assumes the actions of her peers are her responsibility. When she first tells Callum and Ezran about her parents, she says she’s so ashamed, and feels her journey to return the egg to the dragon queen as one of redemption. In other words, Rayla feels she needs to redeem herself because of her parents' alleged betrayal. 

She assumes this kind of second-hand responsibility from the other assassins as well. Throughout season 1 and well into season 2, Rayla is incapable of telling the boys what happened to their father. Even when Rayla asserts, “I didn’t kill anyone!” Corvus’ words illustrate exactly what she believes:

“Your leader did! What’s the difference?”

The difference is Rayla tried to stop him. She tried to get Runaan to call off the mission, and he wouldn’t listen. Now King Harrow is dead, and Rayla cannot bring herself to tell her new friends. 

And this actually becomes a problem later. More specifically, Rayla’s morals become a problem. Although she can’t find the strength to tell Callum and Ezran the truth, she still needs them to trust her. She offers to carry the egg, but when she realizes giving it to her would be a gesture of trust, she can’t let herself take it. She refuses to accept the boys’ trust until she’s told the truth. Even Callum tells her, “You don’t need to do this right now, Rayla.”

“Yes, I do,” she asserts. 

No, you don’t. Wait until you’re in a safer place.

But she can’t. She has to do what “the right thing” in her mind is before she can, and it nearly costs them everything. 

This comes back to haunt her at the end of the first season. The guilt of dropping the egg is weighing on Rayla and she will not let herself believe it was anyone’s fault but her own, even though Callum was also arguing with her. 

“I let you both down. I let the world down.”

Rayla has a lot of internalized guilt that she does not let herself let go. It might have been taught by her Moonshadow elf culture or it may have been something she learned on her own, but either way, it has shaped how she thinks of herself and how she handles situations. 

Emotional Vulnerability 

Like all characters, Rayla has moments of weakness. How she handles those moments is what differs her from other characters. The first true glimpse of this we get is after Callum told his aunt that Rayla is a bloodthirsty monster. Rayla says to Callum, “I can’t believe you’re such a jerk.” Her hood’s on, her back is turned, slouching away from the boys with her arms wrapped around her knees. 

This kind of standoffish behavior is displayed in her again the very next episode where Rayla admits to being afraid of water. “I guess I was afraid of being afraid.” This is another example of how the Moonshadow elf ideology can be harmful. Rayla comes from a culture where weakness and vulnerability are things for which to be ashamed. A culture that ghosts their own people if there is even the slightest notion of that person having betrayed them — without any chance of explanation. Although she doesn’t know it, that is exactly what happened to her parents.

When she opens up about this, Callum tries to comfort her by putting a hand on her shoulder, but she pulls away. Rayla does not like to be touched when she feels vulnerable. This is a very interesting detail about her, especially as her and Callum’s relationship develops. 

One of Rayla's main conflicts in season 1 and 2 is hesitation and struggling to do the right thing. She knows what she’s supposed to be and what she’s supposed to do, but it hasn’t felt right to her. And that causes her to doubt herself. 

This becomes a problem during their trek up the Cursed Caldera. Rayla doubts her ability to carry out Callum’s plan. Even when she is successful in carrying it out, she’s already in a state of panic, so when thousands of tiny slugs start crawling up her body, she’s understandably shaken. In a moment of weakness and desperation, Rayla calls out for help. Callum uses Aspiro to blow away the tiny slug monsters, and she gives him a subtle angry look.

Rayla becomes defensive when she’s vulnerable. Her body language becomes closed off and she doesn’t speak as much. This is shown again after Rayla sees the illusion of the mummy turning to dust. She tells everyone, “There was no one there.” This may have been more to protect the kids than herself, as she admits to Callum in confidence what she saw. Interestingly, Callum doesn’t put a hand on her shoulder here, or try to reach out to her at all. He simply asks, “Are you okay?” and lets her open up. And she does. A little. 

That’s the thing about Rayla. She doesn’t like being caught off her guard. If she’s going to open up, it’s gonna be on her terms. And this includes being touched. 

Right before the Wonderstorm when Rayla is blaming herself for the egg’s fading, Ezran reaches out to her. “You tried, Rayla. You’re so good. And brave.” Here Rayla accepts Ezran’s hug. Though, there was a bit of warning in his approach, and he was also tearing up. This is another notable detail about her character. Although Rayla does not like being touched when she feels vulnerable, she does reach out to people she cares about when they’re the ones who are upset. She does it here with Ezran, and later after Callum finally finds out about Harrow, Rayla hugs him. Rayla is not devoid of empathy. She is capable of being there for people for support or as a shoulder to lean on. But she lacks foresight in how her own actions could affect her loved ones emotionally. 

Still, Rayla does get better with being vulnerable in increments, particularly when it means helping Callum. At the end of season 2, she clings to him while he’s in his coma. She even goes as far as to nearly admit her feelings, only pulling away at the last second when he wakes up. But that isn’t the last time she’s vulnerable for him. She opens up again to Sol Regem, offering her hand to Callum and admitting she cannot finish their mission without him. However, what both of these scenes have in common is that Rayla is in control. Rayla is opening up on her own terms, no one is pressuring her to do it. It is not that Rayla is incapable of being vulnerable or opening up, it’s that she has to do it by her own choice.

And this is where hers and Callum’s love languages clash. Rayla hates being touched when she’s vulnerable, but it’s Callum’s instinct to reach out to her when she’s upset. The day after visiting the Silvergrove and finding out she’s been ghosted, Callum approaches her about how she must be feeling. But once again, Rayla keeps her back to him and says as little as possible — even denying that the previous day was difficult for her. When Callum pries and approaches her on the ambler, she snaps at him and insists that she’s fine. Finally, when he hears her crying in the oasis he reaches out to her again, only for her to smack him in the face with a pillow and run away.

And even when she tells him to leave her alone, that “she doesn’t want him to see her like this,” he still puts a hand on her shoulder. Of course, she immediately pulls away, once again shadowing that she does not like to be touched when she’s upset. To her, it’s like someone breaking through her armor.

Callum reaches out to her again, and again, she steps away. Neither of them are in the wrong here. Rayla does not like being touched when she’s upset, but it’s Callum’s instinct to comfort her the same way he’s been comforted in the past — with hugs and reassurance that he’s not alone. 

Their love languages conflict because their upbringings do. Callum comes from a family that respects each others’ feelings and encourages free expression with games such as “big feelings time”. Rayla comes from a culture that denies fear and weakness and praises hardened hearts. And all those pent up feelings, at least in Rayla, manifest as anger and defensiveness. She closes herself off, she snaps at Callum. She acts like she is alone — like she has to deal with her feelings, alone.  

By not letting the people who love her help her, she’s not only pushing them away, but she’s hurting them. When all they want to do is be there for her. It’s only when Callum snaps back and tells her to shut up that she allows him to talk. Callum has to talk her out of her hurt feelings before she finally lets him take her hands. 

Of course, Rayla isn’t required to open up if she doesn’t want to. Callum simply isn’t used to that kind of behavior. Because of his family, he’s used to people being open and honest about their feelings. And he does slowly learn not to touch Rayla when she’s upset, but to let her come to him in her own time. 

Where Selflessness Becomes Selfish

Rayla often puts herself in danger to save the lives of others. She runs out of the oasis into the Midnight Desert to save one of the mounts. She saves Nyx from the soulfangs, and she sacrifices herself to save Zym at the end of season 3. 

But wait. Aren’t these all selfless acts? Well, yes they are, but they’re also selfish to the people who care about her. However, these may be excusably selfish. Obviously, saving the mount and Nyx were noble acts, and saving Zym was necessary. But there are times where Rayla is self-sacrificing for no reason. 

Initially, Callum and Rayla planned for the group to leave the Storm Spire with Zym before Viren’s army arrived. Then Rayla said she was going to stay at the Spire to fight a hopeless battle by herself and die. And all she says to Callum after this reveal is “Goodbye”. 

This is a scene that actually makes me angry. Rayla accuses Callum of “not knowing her at all”. Which is an extremely unfair thing for her today just days after he described her to Nyx as “selfless, strong and caring. She does what’s right even if it puts her own life in danger.” Callum loves Rayla, even if at this point he hadn’t said it yet. For her to suggest that he doesn’t know her is honestly a pretty selfish thing for her to do. And then — she runs away again. Just like she always does when her “armor” is breached, as if he touched her. And this is where that behavior is a problem, because she’s avoiding a conversation about a decision that affects Callum just as well as her. 

That isn’t to say Callum was right in how he handled their argument, but understand where he is coming from. The girl he loves is willingly and pointlessly sacrificing herself for a hopeless battle and expecting him to be alright with that. And the last thing she was ever going to say to him was “Goodbye”. Her death would not have even served a purpose. She was going to throw her life away by herself for — as both her and Callum put it — “redemption”. A redemption that she didn’t need to earn, and even if she did, wouldn’t it be better to earn it through helping to protect Zym? 

Rayla values certain ethics more than she values herself, and that turns into selfishness when it hurts people who care about her and she acts like it shouldn’t. 

Again, though, these acts of self sacrifice are sometimes necessary. Rayla becoming the last dragon guard concludes her “honor” arc satisfyingly. She doesn’t do it out of cowardice. She isn’t trying to stay out of the heat of battle. She believes the enemy will make it up to the Spire and that she will have to defend Zym. And she’s right. 

Sacrificing herself to save Zym was not unnecessary or selfish. It was a genuine act of self sacrifice for the greater good, and it is a testament to Rayla’s courage and heart. I do not believe she was thinking of herself or anyone else when she did it. Only of keeping Zym safe. 

Unfortunately, that is not the end of the story. It continues in the canon graphic novel taking place between season 3 and 4. Rayla’s understandably upset about losing Runaan and her parents without fully knowing what happened to them. Callum reached out to her at first, before pulling his hand back. Once again, his instinct is to reach out to her, but he knows Rayla doesn’t work that way. If she’s going to open up about her feelings, it will be by her own volition.

So instead of reaching out to her or trying to convince her that her feelings are misplaced, he apologizes, saying he doesn’t like seeing her upset. And that little bit of space he gives works. She goes to him and leans on his shoulder, hugs him, and even agrees to try going on vacation. 

Unfortunately, the supposed vacation does not work, and only further reminds Rayla of what is bothering her. She runs off from the group, still distressed about not knowing. Not knowing what happened to Viren, Runaan or her parents. The uncertainty is what’s troubling her. 

She removes herself from the group and Callum follows her. Though to his credit, he does almost immediately offer to leave, and she’s the one who tells him to stay.

During their time alone, Rayla does open up a little about losing the people she loves. Then Callum makes the mistake of putting a hand on her arm while saying he knows how she feels. 

I may be biased here, but Callum was once again valid in his argument. When Rayla snaps that he at least knows what happened to the people he’s lost, he says, “Yes, I know what happened to them! One of the people you’re so worried about killed my stepfather!”

His stance in the next panel tells me he’s been holding on to that one for a long time, but he didn’t want to say it because he knows Runaan is important to Rayla. It isn’t until she insinuates that she has it worse that he lets it out. 

I’m not saying either one of them is in the wrong. Both of their feelings are valid. Rayla has every right to want to know what happened to her loved ones. But she shouldn't be taking that out on Callum. And it especially irks me that at the end of the argument, she accuses him of not having “moved on” from the tensions between humans and elves that are still very much a recent thing. A thing that has affected him personally, but he’s still able to look past that tension because he loves her. He loves Rayla, but she has a bad habit of forgetting that.

At the end of the graphic novel, Rayla leaves Callum to search for Viren — even after she promised him they would go together. This is the choice that inspired this analysis. She did it because she loves Callum and she did not want to risk losing him, but as we know from the clips for season 4, she’d be gone for two years. 

This is where selflessness becomes selfish. For the entire book, Rayla’s been upset because of the not knowing. Then she did the same thing to Callum, without any forethought that it would make him feel exactly how she feels about losing her loved ones. 

This is another example of how she forgets Callum loves her. Rayla does not understand her own worth. This results in selfless acts of self-sacrifice, but it also results in selfish acts of self-sacrifice. There comes a point where her actions are not only unnecessary, but harmful to the people who love her. It is a great example of character writing — using her greatest strength as her greatest flaw. But from an in-story perspective, Rayla needs to better put herself in the minds of others and gauge how her actions would affect them. Not thinking helped when it came to saving the dragon prince, but it was ultimately selfish when abandoning Callum.