#shadow should have cargo pants

[abowlofsourcream]

💙🖤🤍Team Triple S Arrives!!!🤍🖤💙

[ellieslob]

★cheerleader x pervy!loser ellie

+warnings: stalker ellie, voyeurisim, dub-con???, a bit of degrading, smut

+ kinda inspired in she by tyler the creator and frank ocean, and bottoms, ngl

ways to help palestine!!!

REBLOG!

pervy!loser ellie staring from outside of your window, hiding between shadows and bushes, pressing her thighs together, trying to concentrate only on your moans, not on the disgusting growls your stupid junkie boyfriend was making, she was indecisive about taking a real look, or staying with only your beautiful sounds, either way, at this point, her panties were soaking wet.

god, she was pathetic, 

to say the least.

one of your moans turned into a scream, a pornographic sound that went directly to her untouched and desperate clit, shit was almost throbbing. she couldn't help it, her eyes went further into the room, the bed squeaking as he pounded you, you were riding him, the reverse cowboy position only made ellie’s view more enjoyable, she could barely see something out of that piece of shit, not his stupid face, not his repulsive body, just his dick, sliding in and out of your abussed pussy. you were facing completely towards the window, towards her, your room didn't had curtains and still, you were comfortable showing your almost naked body, only your bra on, getting railed like a fucking slut and opening your legs for her, stroking your covered tits, brushing your clit so desperate,  your littles whines of distress when not even that could bring your climax. ellie got fucking pissed, that dip fuck not only was making you do all the extra work, he wasnt even fucking you right, sure, he was doing the bare minimum, but she could see in your expressions that he wasn’t hitting the right spots at all, you were a crying mess and all for the wrong reasons.

your hand got tired and you tried to move a little, you finally opened your eyes and caught her, staring directly at you, her eyes filled with fear and horror.

fuck.

she should have stayed at her fucking house masturbating only to your instagram stories or something, shit, shit…

shit.

you weren't screaming or throwing things at her to make her go. you didn't stop moving, you didn't take your eyes out of hers.

you knew that little fucking weirdo, always stayed late at the gym and stared at every single one of your practices, but not to all the girls, no; it didnt matter how curvy, how showy or how pretty the girls were, she never looked at them, her eyes seemed to be glued to your body, the feeling of her gaze scanning when you bend over and tie your shoes, was kinda exhilarating, hearing her things fall and hit the ground when she noticed you were only wearing a thong, was definitely funny and her little coughs to try to recover from it? you had to admit they were kinda cute, soo pathetic, but kinda cute.

so when you saw that fucking pervy bitch hide by your fucking window again, like she had been doing the last couple of nights, you begged your stupid useless boyfriend to fuck you right there.

ellie saw your hands creeping to the lace bra, a smirk crossed your soft red lips, you threw the item directly to her face, she catched it in the air, and rushed to push it on her nose.

smelled fucking amazing.

“fuck!” those were the first words you had said in the last thirty minutes, you pushed your hips against the ones that were fucking you, ellie stood a little higher, eager, wanting to touch you, to actually touch you in the places you needed her. you saw her hand slip down her cargo pants, your moans got higher, damn, at this point you seemed more desperate than her. “faster.” you demanded, the dumb fuck thought you were talking to him, but ellie smiled, and she moved her own hand quickly, bitting her lip, your hips started moving like crazy and your little shy and mostly acted moans became so raspy and loud, whines that almost sounded like cries for help. 

actual tears were going down, you were almost drowlin’ as you kept fucking yourself roughly, shit, you were about to cum, for the first time in the night, ellie mouthed “your clit” and you reached it furiously, both of your hands were moving at the same pace, both of you were looking at each others lips, mouths opened lewdly, wishing you could reach them and kiss.

“fuckfuckfuck, yes baby” your eyes struggled to not get closed, you needed to look at ellie’s face, to her eyes being almost rolled out, her desperation, you wanted to keep that picture forever in your brain, but you were cumming hard, god, it was the best orgasm you have had in a long time, the brunette was a hot mess, all blushed and biting her lip to bleed, her hair was tangled and sticked at her forehead, her hand was moving briskly under her underwear and her brown eyes almost begging you to cum, so she could.

fuck, she was fucking sick

and still, you wanted her to be the one under you, so she could touch your nipples, play with them until they hurted, so she could edge you, so she could spank you and kiss you, put her tongue in yours while she pounded on you.

and you could hear her moaning in your ears.

“ellie!” you were dumbfucked, couldn't think about anything else but your climax and hers, that followed yours immediately, but at the same time your boyfriend heard you and looked instinctively at the window, catching a glimpse of the brunette´s face before she picked up her pants and started running.

“what the fuck, was that creep whatching us? are you okay? you must have been like super freaked out”

you blushed, covering your breast with your hands, trying to recover from the orgasm “yeah, it was… super fucked up”

[melluvsuu]

“ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐑 . ”

character : dazai osamu

context : you’re an agent going undercover, you encounter port mafia executive dazai. he finds you interesting. yeah..

authors note : you should listen to the diner by Billie ellish to get the vibe to it.

warning : stalker briefly mentioned, stalker!dazai, can be interpreted romantically or whatever, shout out to my bbg @riiwrites 😼☝🏽, murder and blood mentioned too, gender not mentioned, literally we rock with they/them 💋‼️.. uhm I think that’s all gays yeah..

,, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓. 𝜚

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐘 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐒, the last remnants of daylight clinging stubbornly to the horizon. It was a view [name] had come to appreciate, standing on the balcony of the modest clinic where [name] built their cover. As a doctor specialising in human behaviour, their role was simple enough—listen, observe, and blend in. Standing there in viewing the people going about their days, [name] ran their fingers along the balcony’s iron railing, feeling the coolness of the metal beneath their skin. In this quiet neighbourhood, [name] was simply known as Dr. [name]—a doctor who listened to the woes of the weary, a person who could help people understand the storms in their minds. In some ways, [name] had taken to the role more naturally than they expected. It wasn’t far from what I had trained for, after all. But beneath that calm exterior, my real purpose was far more pressing.

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the papers on my desk inside the small office. I stepped back inside, closing the door behind me as I glanced at the scattered reports and profiles I’d been reviewing. Every interaction I had here was a potential lead—every patient, every conversation was a thread that might lead me to the missing documents. I was hunting for the whispers in the crowd, the signs that something was about to crack.

I sat down and opened one of the files again. A name stared back at me—Takeda Masaru, a local journalist with a reputation for being nosey. He had been in to see me twice, under the guise of seeking help for stress and insomnia. But I knew better. Knocking me out of my train of thought, my smartwatch started vibrating. It was morse code.

‘GOOD EVENING AGENT [NAME], IT'S NICE TO YOU ALIVE AND WELL.WE HAVE NEW INTEL. THERE'S BEEN SIGHTING AT THE LOADING. THE DOCUMENTS SHOULD BE THERE. IT SHOULD BE A DARK RED CARGO BOX WITH THE NAME ‘MELLUVS ART AND WRITING SUPPLIES’ . QUICKLY GET THERE BEFORE ANYBODY INTERVENES. BEST OF LUCK TO YOU.’

I quickly changed my clothing still keeping my pants and shoes and swapping my glasses with sunglasses, my shirt with a business shirt. Taking my coat off the rack I jumped off of the railing onto the pavement. The cold air hitting my face, I felt that familiar rush of adrenaline. The peaceful exterior I’d adopted as a doctor was peeling away, revealing the true purpose behind the mask.

I arrived at the loading dock slipping past guards. While remaining on my toes, looking around, finding the maroon cargo box, picking the lock, catching it before it could fall can make noise. Opening the door and sorting through papers. I found the papers of the document, putting the papers in my doctors folder, I turned to step out just to be greeted with…

"Are you lost?" a voice rang out behind them.

“I’m sorry?” You turned towards the stranger with a simple smile.

“I said, are you lost? Dr. [name].” He repeated.

Standing in the shadow of a weathered chimney was a young man, barely older than them, with an unsettlingly casual grin. His black hair fell messily over his eyes, his posture loose and unthreatening, but I knew better than to trust appearances. There was something sharp beneath that smile.

“Ah. No I’m not..”

"Dazai Osamu," the man introduced himself, stepping closer without a care in the world. "What a coincidence, meeting you here."

"Coincidence?" [name]’s voice was flat, unamused. "I don’t believe in coincidences."

Dazai’s grin widened. "Smart. I don’t either."

This wasn’t good. My mission had suddenly become complicated—this was Dazai, a notorious figure in the Port Mafia, rumoured to be both brilliant and dangerous. Getting caught up with him was exactly what their agency warned them about. But retreating now would be even worse. They couldn't afford to show any weakness.

"You’re in my way," I stated plainly, their eyes locked onto him. Dazai’s expression flickered briefly with interest.

"Am I?" he mused, not moving an inch. Instead, his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "I wonder what someone like you is doing up here. You don’t seem like the usual riffraff the mafia deals with. You're different."

I said nothing. They were trained to maintain a poker face, but they could feel Dazai’s gaze piercing through them, searching for cracks.

After a tense silence, I decided it was better to end this encounter quickly. "I have no business with you. Walk away."

Dazai’s grin softened into something almost playful. "I could say the same. But I don’t feel like walking away just yet. You intrigue me."

Before you could respond, a shout echoed from the alley below—footsteps, too many of them. The mission wasn’t over yet. With a sharp glance at Dazai, [name] moved quickly, shoving him out the way with the documents I hand, disappearing into the shadows of the cargo port.

𓎢𓎟𓎟𓎟 . ♡ . 𓎟𓎟𓎟𓎢

The mission was complete, the documents recovered, and the city’s fragile calm preserved. Days passed, and YN pushed the encounter with Dazai to the back of their mind. They believed they had left him behind in that port, a fleeting figure from a fleeting night.

But they were wrong.

It began with small sightings—first at a diner near one of their agency’s hideouts, a quaint place where [name] often went to clear their mind. They walked in for a quiet moment, only to find Dazai, seated by the window, sipping his coffee as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes met theirs, and that familiar grin spread across his face.

The next time, it was at their ‘job’. [name] worked as a hired security operative for a private military company, and the sight of Dazai loitering near the building was more than unsettling. He didn’t approach them, but his presence was a constant reminder that he was watching.

The evening air felt heavy as [name] returned home from a long shift, exhaustion pulling at their every step. They hadn’t noticed the lingering presence outside, the demon in the shadows, waiting. The lock clicked into place behind them as they shut the door, and for a moment, they stood still, listening. No footsteps followed. The silence was almost comforting.

They kicked off their shoes, fingers absently unbuttoning their dress shirt, craving nothing more than the solace of the couch. As they sank into it, something caught their eye—an envelope, placed conspicuously on the coffee table. A surge of unease rippled through their tired mind, heart beginning to race as they reached for the envelope, fingers brushing the edge of the paper with caution. Slowly, they opened it, their eyes scanning the contents.

‘THIS IS A REALLY NICE PLACE YOU’VE GOT HERE! MIND IF I MOVE IN? I HOPE YOU’RE READING THIS SILLY NOTE! I MIGHT’VE STOLEN SOME DOCUMENTS AND IMPORTANT FILES FROM YOUR OFFICE, SORRY, AGENT [NAME]~!’

A low groan of frustration escaped their lips as they crumpled the note and tossed it into the garbage. [name] rubbed their temples, too drained to deal with the antics of a certain mafioso tonight. Just as they tried to let the tension slip away, they caught sight of something—someone—standing on the balcony.

Their heart skipped a beat, and instinctively, they reached for their gun, gripping it tightly as they cautiously approached the window. They slid it open with precision, never taking their eyes off the figure leaning against the railing. "You’re persistent," [name] said, gun ready but posture steady.

The man on the balcony didn’t seem fazed by the weapon. Dazai Osamu smiled as if this were all part of a game. "And you’re elusive," he countered, voice light and carefree. But there was something beneath that tone, something deeper, lurking behind the casual amusement in his gaze. "I like people who don’t give themselves away so easily."

[name] sighed, lowering the gun but keeping it in hand. Arms crossed, they met his eyes with thinly veiled exasperation. "What do you want, Dazai?"

He tilted his head slightly, as though considering the question, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I’ve been trying to figure that out. You’re… interesting. And I’m rarely interested in anyone."

"Flattering," [name] muttered, voice laced with sarcasm as their patience wore thin. "But I’ve got work to do."

Dazai’s expression shifted, his grin softening, but his presence growing more intense as he stepped closer. "I know," he said quietly. "That’s what makes this so fun. You, with your little secrets and dangerous missions… I can’t help but want to unravel it all."

"You can’t follow me forever," [name] warned, voice quieter now, each word a warning laced with resolve.

Dazai’s smile softened further, almost genuine. "Maybe not," he agreed, his voice low, "but I can follow you for a little while longer.”

“Get the hell out of my apartment,” [name] snapped, their voice sharp as they levelled the gun at Dazai. The cold metal clicked audibly as they cocked it, a clear threat in the air. They pointed toward the door, eyes hard and unyielding. “Do it now, or I'll shoot you.”

Dazai’s grin didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, his eyes gleaming with that same unsettling amusement, as if the threat didn’t faze him in the slightest. He raised his hands in mock surrender, but his body remained relaxed, nonchalant, as though he were in complete control of the situation.

“Shoot me?” he mused, voice light but laced with something darker. “Now, now, Agent [name] that seems a bit extreme, doesn’t it?”

“You think I’m joking?” [name] growled, finger hovering dangerously over the trigger.

Dazai took a step closer, completely unbothered by the barrel pointed at him. His voice dropped to a near whisper, his eyes locking with theirs. “No, I don’t. That’s what makes this so exciting.”

There was a tension in the room now, thick and palpable. [name] held their ground, but Dazai’s calmness, his lack of fear—it was disarming. He was playing a game they weren’t sure they could win.

“Get out.” [name] demanded, not lowering the gun but sensing this encounter was only going to spiral deeper.

Dazai’s smile softened just a touch, his tone almost genuine. “Nope~!”

“You’re testing my patience,” [name] warned, heart pounding but steady, still aiming squarely at his chest.

“Good,” Dazai murmured, stepping back toward the balcony door. “I like it when people have limits. It gives me something to push.”

With a final glance, he gave them a playful wink. “Until next time, Agent.” Then, as quickly and casually as he had appeared, Dazai slipped out, leaving the tension in the room behind him like a lingering shadow.

[name] stood still, their gun still raised, breaths coming in heavy. The sense of danger hadn’t left—it was only a matter of time before he returned.

additional author notes : ending kinda sucked ass again smh..

word count: 1k

reposts are welcome but do not steal my work!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Let Me Lean On You

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Synopsis: You have a bad habit of putting yourself in harm’s way, enraging John to no end. But can you survive a wound like this? Or will everything you hate to love about John Price never see the light of day?

Word Count: 13.3K (yes this is a novel; yes this is longer than any English paper I’ve ever written)

Warnings: blood, wounds, heavy on the gore, swearing, violence, suggestive, angst, fluff, enemies-to-lovers type of relationship but you’re both down bad

A/N: This is heavily story-motivated (I’ve found out I can’t write anything not gigantically plot-oriented; I’m so sorry). I’ve taken that into account as this probably won’t do as well as I expect due to that fact. Nonetheless to those who interact -- thank you and enjoy! P.s. as always this is barely edited.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The blood was gushing too fast, pouring out of the wound like the gaping hole was nothing more than a faucet with the double handles thrown all the way on. 

“Fuck,” You whimper, grasping pointlessly at the bullet wound in your abdomen with shaking fingers and sputtering breath. The blood slips out from under your fingers, cascading down the gear on your right thigh and splattering to the ground. Everything on that side of your body side was stained a vicious shade of red; sticky, heated, and pulsing.

All of it had gone wrong so quickly – Graves, Shadow Company, Alejandro Vargas, and Los Vaqueros. 

“I should have seen it. Graves was never to be trusted,” You gasp out as you force yourself onwards, all but dragging your body through the dense forest to try and find shelter in the nearby city, “But Shepherd? Fuck me. I worked for that man for damn near five years and turns out he’s a traitor? Well…that’s what I get for trusting a bald guy, I guess.” Moaning out a curse, you rip open the medical pouch on your vest with vibrating fingers, the white stitched cross taunting you as you get it bloody. Your other hand clenches over the hole in your side as if that alone would stop you from dying, fingers slipping as more death splatters to the ground.

The rain was the worst part. A storm at night was terrible already, but here the rain created a shield of delirium as you hobbled on, with nothing to be seen beside the trees and rocks a few feet ahead of you. Even face-planting would serve as a death sentence for you. Who knew if you would be able to get up again? 

Your black athletic shirt was sticking to you on the parts that your vest didn’t, and your cargo pants had come unstuffed from your black boots. Over your back, your modified SP-X 80 Sniper Rifle was ten times heavier than it should be, the barrel hitting the back of your numb knee at your uneven and sloppy pace. But you were far too stubborn to stop now. And pissed.

Tearing out a plastic-covered wrap of gauze and a rag from your pouch, you paused near a large bolder, panting like a dog as your lungs gasp for air. You tilt your head back as you drag the side of your shirt up, hearing the wet thump of a river of blood splashing into the flooded grass. Your skull connects with the chilled rock behind you as a wet cough in your throat bursts out into the sky. 

“Okay,” You give yourself false confidence, moving to grasp the gauze with the side of your clattering teeth and grabbing the rag with both hands; you twist it to resemble a torpedo in shape. Looking down at yourself you have to suppress the bile building in your throat, coughing once more and feeling dark phlegm fly past your quivering lips, “Okay, okay, okay…I can do this. I can do it.” 

Before you can stop yourself you twist the rag and shove it into your open wound, letting lose a wail of agony that’s thankfully covered by a slash of lightning over the black sky. Shoving it deeper, you feel it inside of your skin, moving like a parasite as your fingers splay over your skin. You grit your teeth and drop the gauze to the ground as the acidic feel of vomit rushes past your lips; with cracking knees you bend forward and release your guts into the grass, hacking until there's nothing left but regret and a vile taste on your tongue. Tears track down your cheeks as you breathe out a sobbing breath.

Through gritted teeth and blurry vision, you feel the rag peaking all the way through the entry and the exit points, and hope that the actions you’ve taken will buy you time to find Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost – if they were even still alive, that is.

“I swear,” You snatch the gauze from the ground, happy for the protective bag over the wrappings, as you sniffle with slurred words, ripping open the plastic with your teeth, “This is bullshit! If Price and Gaz are having a good time right now I’m telling Laswell to go pound sand the next time she tells me to go out in the field with these two. The Captain already gets on my nerves, but if I get to skip the part of hiking in the Mexican wilderness while I’m bleeding out– ” 

A twig snaps off into the trees. 

You immediately halt wrapping the gauze around your middle, securing the rag in place as it already begins to stain red. At your right thigh, your fingers brush the Basilisk Revolver as it lays dormant; heavy and cold to the touch as rain slides off its side. Your pulse, if possible, increases. 

The only twigs I saw back there were large ones – and any animals in the area would have run from the Shadows popping off shots back on the road, Your body’s already moving, not focusing on the pain in your side as you tie off the gauze with such a tight knot it forces a grunted profanity from deep in your chest. You decide to keep the Basilisk in its holster, for now, instead favoring the combat knife at your shoulder and blinking away the rainwater and bitter tears from your eyelashes. 

Not impressed, A deep raspy voice echoes in your brain before your grunt and force it down.

You unclip the clasp on the knife’s leather sheath before drawing the black metal, bringing it to your side; weaving behind rocks and trees as the light of the city in the distance gets larger. Behind you, you leave the noise of muffled voices with a nervous swallow. A gunshot would bring much-unwanted attention, and for all you knew you were all alone out here. You were being hunted. 

Well, good for you that you always worked better alone anyways. 

“I need to get to the city, try to radio the boys, and find a quick way out,” You grunt, wanting to itch the wound at your side as the rag pulls at the inside of your skin, making you feel unnaturally stuffed like a turkey. The skin around the fabric was undoubtedly bruising quickly, and already you could feel the pain pulsing like a bad headache leaving the skin hot and sweaty despite the cool rain and chilled winds. You just hoped you wouldn’t get an infection from this later, “If I’m lucky the radio signal will fix itself when I’m closer. If not I’ll need to slice a few necks and hope they have ear pieces I can snatch along the way.” 

You had a bad habit of talking to yourself – as Price had pointed out on multiple occasions. Dodging a downturned tree, the houses in the distance begin to take shape, their colorful paint like a beacon dragging you in. 

Captain John Price, You grumble before stifling a whimper at a spike of pain in your side, stumbling before you right yourself, or should I call him ‘ Captain Pain-in-my-Fucking-Ass?’ He acts like I can’t do my damn job – like I’m not one of the highest-ranking CIA Agents in the damn USA. Thinks he can handsomely swagger his way into a room and act like I’ll take his bullshit with a grin and a nod. 

Your free hand connects with a stucco wall of a house on the outskirts of the city of Las Almas, the exterior painted a warm orange which was now stained with your crimson handprint. Sucking in a deep breath, you lick your lips and peak around the corner, conscious of the black void of the forest at your side.

Immediately your eyes land on the bodies. 

Left to lie like useless sacks they’re sprawled in the street, limbs twisted and bent in grotesque displays as if it was an old renaissance painting. As a chill travels down your spine, you can’t help but call comparison to the grim artwork of Peter Paul Rubens's The Massacre of the Innocents. You never thought that a quick trip after a mission to a Canadian art museum would prompt a callback quite like this; in fact, you had prayed you’d never see anything like that painting in real life. But here they were, people, innocent people, of all ages gunned down en masse, with some visibly clutching onto loved ones; shielding children from the relentless downpour of bullets that now take home in their flesh. The small rivers running into the storm drains ran red with blood. 

“Shadows did this?” You breathe out, voice small under the downpour as you blank at the sight ahead of you. The lightning strikes in answer, leaving a deep rumble in its wake. Or maybe that was just the enraged snarl that played off your lips, echoing into the streets like a rabid dog. A thought strikes you between fiery thoughts and clenched fists.

This just happened, Swallowing the mucus and blood in your throat, you shake your head from side to side to dispel your running thoughts, revenge later. I need to find the others. 

Taking the nearest corner you stalk your way through alleyways, breaking into houses when needed when you heard shouting nearby, and carefully maneuvered your feet around more corpses. 

“This is a fucking war crime,” You whisper, gripping your knife a little tighter and snarling as you spy two more dead bodies in the home you were now in; one was a woman in her late thirties, clutching another no older than ten, who in turn holds a blood-crusted tiger stuffed animal to her chest. Like a grim pack of Russian Dolls, one after the other, “Graves’ll hang for this. I’ll see to it myself if they make me. Shepherd too.” 

You rip your eyes away before you have the chance to cry and go back to rummaging through a kitchen cupboard, finding a few spools of fishing net and a fabric needle in a spare parts drawer. Stashing them in your medical pocket, you reason with yourself that if worse comes to worst you’ll be forced to cauterize and stitch the gaping wound in your side by yourself. But not yet. 

Find the boys.

Gripping the radio connected just above your breast, you press down on the button, sending out a signal through a blind channel. The static accompanies you for a moment as you catch your breath leaning on the kitchen wall and leaving a small sprinkling of blood behind.

Licking your tense lips, you utter, “This is Bravo 7-2 ‘Goldfinch’ reaching out over the Blind. Is anyone there? Over.” You release the button waiting impatiently as the seconds drag on. 

Again your press down, “Ghost? Soap? Do you copy?” 

Nothing. 

Clenching your jaw another wave of pain travels up your feet, you wrench down on the button with a contorted face and snarl, “I swear to fucking high heaven, boys, if you don’t answer this goddamn radio I’m going to find your corpses myself and chuck them over a cliff–”

“Christ, Goldfinch, we get the bloody picture. Now stop your yammering and tell us where you are.”

“Oh, tell you where I am,” You grumble although a relieved sigh falls from your lips at the familiar Manchester drawl that belongs to your Lieutenant Ghost. You feel yourself deflate against the wall with a grunt, “We have Mr. Bossy over here. Where’s the ‘Please?’”

“Goldfinch–”

“Well, I can say it’s a pleasure to hear that American voice of yours, Ma’am. Good to know you’ll be joining us on our late-night getaway from the Shadows.” 

There’s Sargent MacTavish, You huff out a breath in amusement.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Soap.” Pushing yourself off the wall with clenched eyelids, you take a step out into the open space of the dining room, “But the attempt was admirable—!” 

A force slams you to the ground, finger releasing the radio abruptly as you let out a strangled grunt. Bracing your head for the blow to the floor you manage to twist yourself and land on your back, taking the brunt of the tackle to your spine and not your damned side. Not that it hurt any less. It was easier said than done, as even the sensation of hands on your thigh, trying to pry your Basilisk from its holster was sending spikes of pain radiating like a burning pike through your veins. Like hands were prying apart your skin with blunt nails.

You bring your knee up and twist your shoulders as the shrouded outline of someone on top of you slams to the side with a curse. Wrenching yourself up, you grab harshly onto the Shadow’s opposite shoulder and batter the man to the ground, effectively switching positions and barring him from grabbing anything before your knife finds home in his right eye. You hear the orb pop with a spray of fluid that washes your face as you force the blade deeper, listening to the now gasped pleas from the talking corpse under you. He grasps at your arms, trying to pry off your iron grip before you send the knife all the way to the hilt with a strangled yowl. 

The man goes limp, and his arms fall from you with a thump. 

Groaning your get to your feet and yank at your blade, placing a boot over the man's face and pulling until you hear the sweet clunk of metal separating from soft, pliable, flesh. 

“God, man,” You glare down at the black-clad Shadow Company member, “did you really have to tackle me?” Grabbing at your side, you grunt at the feeling of blood through the gauze, before pulling your hand away to look at the damage, “That hurt like a bitch.” 

It was only then you heard the yelling voices over the radio, calling your name.

“Yeah, yeah,” You press the button and effectively shut the boys up, standing dumbly in the torn-apart dining room and putting more weight on your non-injured side, “I’m fine. Shadow got the jump on me. Took care of it.” 

Grimacing, you lightly flutter your eyebrows as the world spins for a second. Soap speaks first.

“Warn us next time, Lass,” He whispers, “Bout gave us a heart attack out here. Thought we lost you for a moment.” 

In typical Ghost fashion, he only grunts his concern.

“Thanks, Soap, I’ll be sure to take that into consideration. I’ll call out ‘Soccer’ next time for a heads-up.”

“Oh, you are devious, Ma’am.”

“Any injuries, Goldfinch?” 

You clean the remnants of flesh off the edge of your knife on your wet sleeve, stalking up the stairs of the house to case the place for other hidden Shadows. You didn’t bother checking the dead one – if he was desperate enough to attack you with his bare fists he lost his group and ran out of ammo a long time ago. That was probably Ghost’s fault if you had to guess.

“Pretty bad one in my lower abdomen,” You admit, pausing on a creaky step and peeling your ears to listen for any nose. When there wasn’t any, you continued up, “Stuffed a rag in it and wrapped it, so I’ll be good for at least a half-an-hour if I’m lucky. Ten minutes if not.” 

“Bloody hell, Goldfinch, just now?” The words are drawn out in solidarity.

“Nah, back near the highway. And what can I say, Ghost, I don’t make a fuss. Does hurt like you’re getting your intestines removed though – wouldn't recommend.”

“How in the hell do you know what that feels like?”

“Trade secret, now, shh!” You get to a closed door at the end of a halfway and press your ear to the woodgrain, feeling water drip down your neck and from your nose to plunk against the floor. But you can’t help but flush at Soap’s next comment.

“I can see why Price likes her so much, L.t.” 

That gives you pause, your pain momentarily forgotten in the shock. 

L-Likes?! Your mind seems to come to a screeching halt, and you feel your eyes widen, horrified, The hell does he mean the Captain likes me? Price can’t stand the sight of me! 

You briefly think back on the last mission you had gone on with the Captain and Sergeant Garrick with a tight chest – an intel Op. in the suburbs of Amsterdam. 

The goal was simple and the plan was perfect; you and Laswell would link up with Captain Price and Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick in Amsterdam where the pair was tracking an AQ cell on the docks and figure out this missile fiasco. Ideally, the private plane you and your fellow Agent had gotten on would have flown faster – at least you would think it would until the knowledge that the ETA was upwards of two hours punched you in your gut. 

You had scowled as you wiped down your rifle's inner workings with a rag, the bits and pieces you had added onto the weapon yourself taking up most of your time when cleaning. Picking up the larger scope with an annoyed hitch to your breath you had turned to Laswell as she gave orders to Price over the radio. 

“Two hours? Laswell, I could have taught myself to fly and gotten us there faster.” Your superior had sent you a glance, lips twitching up.

“Still impatient, I see.” 

“Rookie coming along?” That was the first time you had heard the Captain’s voice in a long time, and immediately you had picked up on the prodding question hidden under the first. 

Who the hell are you dragging into my operation? Or even, Do I look like I have time to babysit?

Had he forgotten you so soon?

“Quite the opposite – Goldfinch is joining us.” 

You could hear a pin drop. 

“I’m freezing my ass off in a river right now, Laswell, but if I had the time I’d try and wrap my head around what you just said. Can’t say I’d find an ending that has nobody scratching their heads.”

You bring the scope to your eye, looking through the glass to make sure it’s as clear as it can be. Satisfied, you lower it and send a glance to the phone on the tiny table with growing rage and sarcasm, “I’m flattered, Captain.”

“Don’t be, Muppet. I’m guessing you still have a habit of running off-script – creating more problems than necessary that I have to clean up? I’d expect nothing less from a woman like you…you ROG?” You feel yourself bristle, heat rising to your face at the jab. Sure you had a hard-set conscious, but only good things came out of you running off on your own when placed with others. 

Playing nice was never part of your job description, nor, in some special cases, was respect. You played by different rules than normal soldiers.

Laswell shifts in her seat but doesn’t tell you to stop when a low growl enters the cockpit. You place the cleaned scope onto the table carefully and narrow your eyes.

“Ironic, coming from a man who consistently disobeys orders like there’s no tomorrow. I can’t count how many headaches you’ve given Laswell since I’ve been by her side. And, Hell, at least I manage to get the job done without leaving a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth,” You lean closer to the phone with curled lips, “You, ROG, Captain?” 

From there it had been narrowed glances and snide remarks when you and Price finally met face-to-face on the landing strip. Eyes heated with anger. Gaz had been pleasant, at least, and it was good to see the man again, you admit, but John was…well he was something.

Something handsome to put it plainly, and that fact drove you crazy.

You couldn’t deny your attraction to the older man’s physicality – not even the time of your first meeting years prior. He had biceps that were nearly the size of your head, and shoulders that spanned doorways all tight under a form-fitting shirt. Tall, with large muscular thighs that led up to a tapered waist you felt yourself getting nasty thoughts about all under those damningly tight black cargo pants. Fuck, the things he could do to you without even speaking. The outfit didn’t leave much to the imagination as you’d quickly snapped your gaze away before you started to drool.

Shit, you had thought when you stepped off the plane and saw the familiar face, the strong jaw under Price’s brunette hair with a funny bucket hat on his head. Small blue eyes that filtered over your frame and left you only slightly taken aback by the growing heat in your body when he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his pelvis jerking, I forgot he was so goddamned attractive. Maybe I should have waited to insult him until later.

The attraction had dissipated the second he had opened his mouth, however. 

“So here’s the Goldfinch, eh?” John had muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and moving his legs to shoulder length under him, “I’ve re-read your file. I can say,” He sucks in a slow breath, lips falling into a line, “not very impressed.”

Not very impressed.

Laswell grunts under her breath at your side, sighing lightly, “Not now, John.”

“What?” He chuckles humorlessly, body tense, “Can’t blame a Captain for re-learning who he’s bloody letting tag along on a mission – particularly one who made his life hell in Serbia and nearly cost the team the mission because of her stubbornness. Not to mention an entire bloody city. Why is she here, Laswell? I don’t have time to babysit Muppets.” He snarls and glares at you all through the sentence, making your spine crawl with genuine unease. The jagged scar that sits between your ribs had burned in remembrance.

You hadn't bothered stopping in front of Price on that landing strip, you didn’t even bother replying to him. Your eyes gain a hard sheen, even as your lungs sputtered with a very real panic. You’re sure he noticed the hitch in your breathing, though, and you saw something flash in his eyes before it was gone in the next instant.

Sashaying past all you do is call over your shoulder as you go to get ready for the mission – to go listen in on a Cartel and AQ meeting in an hour. You answer the Captain before Laswell has the chance.

“At least I know where to draw the line in the sand, Price.” You caught his dagger-like eyes over your shoulder, noticing Gaz shuffle at John’s side: cautious. Poor kid, he was getting dragged into all the drama.

You had never seen John’s eyes so blatantly full of distrust before. Blue laced with a deep gray that reminds you of a raging storm over an ocean. Lightning flashed every time he blinked. Cold. Calculated. They hadn’t always looked at you like that.

You told yourself a long time ago that you were nothing but a spent bullet to the older man, not worth the effort to pick up or care about. 

You just need to wipe your hands of it. There was no changing his opinion of you…But why did you even care?

Even when you saved his life later that day at the café – putting a bullet through a Cartel member before he could blow Price’s chest out – all thwarted by a quick draw of your revolver, all the Captain had done was growl at you after the Basilisk was back at your hip. He had gripped your shoulder with a heavy hand that leaked molten heat. You hated the way your cheeks had flushed when you felt his hot breath on your forehead, the caress of his hard hip against yours.

“Stay out of my way, Finch,” he uttered before shoving past you to pick up the unconscious body of the target. Gaz had rushed forward to help and had spared you a sorry glance but nothing more. 

It was like nothing you had experienced before, but he left behind a burning need to be recognized that made your chest sputter when he dismissed you. 

Not impressed.

But that had been it. The next second you were shipped out with Ghost and Soap on account of your disapproval from the Captain and Laswell’s ability to see a dumpster fire beginning to smoke. Cutting the losses. Then you were hunting down Hassan in Mexico with adrenaline singing sweetly in your veins. You had been all too happy to be out of John’s seemingly never wavering sight. But still, you felt his eyes on the back of your neck, heavy and weighted with disgust. Everywhere you went and every bullet you fired you could hear his voice – not impressed. 

Bullshit. His words shouldn't hurt this much. So, why do they? Why can’t I just let it go?

Back in the present, you shake your head to dispel the guilt of the broken and confusing relationship. You didn’t want any more enemies, least of all ones who in the right circumstances could be unbeatable allies. John was honorable, strong, and loyal, but just as stubborn as you, and that alone left a bad feeling in your stomach that nothing would ever change.

You swore you hated him but was that even true? How can you hate someone but still want their hands on your skin? Roaming under your clothes and gripping just the right places to make you squirm? Laying gentle kisses to your lips and whispering promises? Holding you to their chest...?

You draw your ear back from the door – not hearing anything inside that would make you suspect Shadows in the interior. 

Grabbing the knob you twist and let it slowly open on its own, knife drawn and held firmly in front of you. 

The shine of the street lights from outside cascades over the floor in muted colors, the many rugs muffling your footfalls as you move in; straining your ears above the raging weather. When nothing caught your attention outright, your hand moves to the radio as you turn and stare at the empty doorway.

“I’m just going to ignore whatever the hell you just said, Soap,” You huff, bringing your other hand grasping the knife closer to your abdomen wound, brushing it with your fingers before flinching, “Where are we meeting up? No offense, boys, but I’m in a bit of a hurry over here. We need to get out of dodge before the Shadows regroup and do a final sweep.”

“Church,” Ghost’s voice wafts out just as your eyes lock on children's toys littering the floor, a large pile of stuffed animals just to your left smashed into the corner, “near the center of the city. There are directions on every street sign. How far out are you, Goldfinch?”

“Not too distant I hope, we’re running out of time,” You hear Soap grunt over the line, obviously learning the ups and downs of Guerilla Warfare firsthand.

“I’m a good way in, but I'll have to check the street signs to know for certain how far and let you know.”

“Copy. Be cautious.” 

You were about to leave when a lion stuffed animal bounced into your path, its dark eyes like voids against its tan coloring and flowing mane. A chilled breeze wafts in from under the window, bringing goosebumps up the length of your wet arms as your finger twitches. Freezing, your head filters over to the plushie corner with stilled breath. But even if you already knew what you were going to find, the pain of it didn’t hurt any less. 

A young girl was huddled under the pile, gazing out with brown eyes that matched her lion, securely hidden under a multitude of her toys. 

Someone placed her there, You think, noticing the signs of a rush in the way the rug was slightly up-turned at the corner, the closet across the room hastily half-closed in panic. 

The bodies in the living room tell you what the story was. With glossy eyes, you quickly sheathe your knife before kneeling. Your mind was made before you thought about it – you had to get the child out of here.

Almost got him killed in Serbia. 

“Erm,” Your voice makes her flinch, burrowing deeper. You suddenly wished you had taken the time to learn Spanish on the plane ride over, and perhaps known how to properly show someone you’re not a threat, “Eh…¿H-Hablas inglés?... Shit is that right?” Murmuring the last comment to yourself, your head tilts to the floor. 

“¿Jilguero?” A thin voice murmurs out. 

“I guess that's a no, huh,” You chuckle softly, swallowing down a groan when the motion tightens your chest. Your eyes flicker closed for a second before your breath comes out in deep pants. 

Tiny feet hit the hardwood, and when you open your eyes a child no older than ten is standing in front of you, clutching the lion plush in one of her hands and clothed in a blue nightgown that brushes the floor. You blink carefully, and her dark eyes blink back. 

“Jilguero,” She points with a tanned finger to your chest, and her soft face smiles. 

“I-I don’t…” You sigh, itching the back of your head with a hand before licking your lips, “I don’t understand, I’m sorry. But we have to leave, okay, we have to go.” Emphasizing with the hope she subconsciously knows what you’re saying, you place your shaking hands to your knees and stifle a whimper with a bite to your lip. Forcing your weight down, you stumble to your feet and grip your hair in a tight fist. 

When the spinning stops, you drop your bloodied fingers and force a smile onto your flushed face. 

The girl walks slowly to your side and latches into a strap on your thigh, looking up at you with a hesitant twist of her lips. Nodding, you hope whatever strength you have left that you can guide this girl to the church and get her out of this city until everything dies down. Already, a burning hatred for Graves gains fuel, sending sharp spikes of adrenaline into the backs of your eyes and the base of your skull. 

I’m gonna rip him apart with my bare hands. 

Grabbing your combat knife, you keep a hand on the back of the girl’s head to guide her forward, but keep her carefully behind your thigh. If anything were to go wrong, you would be sure your body would take the brunt of it.

“Goldfinch, any updates?”

“You bleed out yet, Ma’am?”

You descend the stairs of the home and make a beeline for the back entrance, dodging the bloody massacre in other parts of the house. The girl follows silently but sends a wide-eyed glance up at your radio as her long brown hair swishes.

“I’m here,” You breathe, “found a kid.” 

Steering the conversation away from your currently bled-through gauze the silence on the other end is strangling you. 

“Do you think that’s smart?” Ghost knows what you’re doing, he’s not stupid, and Soap catches on not a second later.

“You’re taking it with you?!”

“Did you really just call a child an ‘it’ Soap? Come on now.” You open the back door slowly, peaking your head out, and see only an empty, flooded, cobblestone street. Abandoned cars and trash litter the city, “If I leave her here she dies. I don’t know if Price told you, but I draw the line at leaving innocents behind. I’m sure he mentioned Serbia at some point.” 

“Fuckin’ hell, Goldfinch.”

You cut the line, looking down with a moment of contemplation at the girl with your lips pulled thin. But your chest beat with a surety that was deeply ingrained since childhood – what drove you into the life you lead now. 

“Alright,” You whisper, “Here we go, Kid, keep close.” 

She blinks, doe eyes wide as she tightens her hold on the plushie against her chest.

Hell, she doesn’t even know what’s going on. She doesn’t know…Fuck.

As you both step outside, your boots stomp where her bare feet slap, water splattering both of your heads as the rain still pours. The girl brings on hand to her head, trying to wipe away the racing droplets that fly down her cheeks. Stifling a laugh, you tilt your head and smirk. 

Turing into the night, your side steadily burns more with every step you take, skin ripping as the rag drips a trail of crimson that’s wiped away by the storm not a second later. 

“Jilguero,” The girl whispers, and with a tight face, you turn your gaze down. She points to your face and brings a finger to her lips, making little ‘shoosh’ noises that make your chest feel lighter.

“Yeah, Kid,” You mutter, “Jilguero.”

Playing copycat you bring the knife to your lips and shoosh before turning your attention back to the road, pulling forward into a back alleyway with iron wrought bars at the top of the walls. Light flows through the openings like a cage, making kaleidoscope images over your face. 

The darkness spreads, and all you hear is the labored breathing of your sputtering lungs; tiny feet pattering at your side. But in your mind, there’s a brand like a curse and a voice that never leaves. 

Not impressed. 

The scar on your chest burns.

–

You never make it to the church. 

Quickly picking up the girl, you duck behind an abandoned car as she yelps into your hold, dropping her stuffed animal. Shadows flooded the path ahead, leaking into the road from ransacked houses in groups. By now the rain had slowed – it was still coming down hard, of course, but it was just shy to the point of being safe to speak openly. Looking down, you place a finger to your lips, and a tanned finger mocks the action from the child at your side.

“--Found the three yet?” A shadow calls, and you tune in with a cocked eyebrow, eyes narrowed as your grip on your knife tightens.

“Nah, but I’ve heard comms are going silent from all different sections of the city. They’re out here somewhere. Cornered just like animals in a trap. We’ll flush ‘em out, then we go home and get our paychecks.”

A laugh.

“Yeah!” The previous Shadow yells out into the night, and you flinch slightly lower to the ground with a grimace, “You hear that?! We're gonna find you, Fuckers!” 

“Jamie, shut the hell up!” Jovial slaps to shoulders echo, and you don’t repress the growl that builds in you, anger shimmering as you glare holes into the ground. Mistake.

“Aye, what was that?”

“Shit, you heard that too?”

Fuck. 

Grabbing once more onto the girl’s arm you’re just about to make a reckless run for it when a small tapping catches your attention. You snap your head to a small window level with the ground, no bigger than a bookshelf cubby installed in the side of a dead house. Inside you see the scared face of a middle-aged man, dark-haired and sun-kissed skin, a beard over his cheeks. 

He waves a hand wildly and cracks the window open, eyes wide and snapping from you to the street. 

“¡Dése prisa! ¡Dése prisa!” Hesitating only a moment, you and the girl dart forward. Letting her shimmy her way inside first, you frantically look behind you as you place your free hand above the window; hearing footsteps splashing closer with a pounding heart. 

“Come on, come on, come on,” You mutter, knees pressing into the ground. When the girl’s blue nightgown fully disappears, you swing your rifle over your head and shove it into the opening. Feeling hands grasp it not a moment later and yank it inside, you sheathe your knife and dive in feet first, body slamming to the ground with a grunt and a cloud of dust. Your vision gets blurry as you lay there, trying to get air into your lungs, nearly dry-heaving from the pain radiating through all of your nerves.

The window snaps shut. 

“Get up,” A gruff voice ruffles your feathers as the back dots in your vision peel back, your survival instincts forcing unconsciousness away. Shit, you really needed a Medic, this was bad, “I said, get up!”

Panting, you drag yourself half-up with an arm, the other gripping the dripping gauze at your side. Blood hit the floor and your head feels like it's floating. 

You feel your throat flex, turning your gaze to the same large middle-aged man that now holds your rifle against his shoulder, familiar gold-plated barrel now level with your pounding head. 

“You fire that, you’re as good as dead.” 

“I’ll take my chances,” The man wears a blood-stained white shirt and jeans. Around his neck a silver locket glints.

Your heart skips a beat as you grunt in answer, and you turn your head to look for the girl. Feeling your eyes widen when you find her in the hold of an older woman, who looks at you as she presses the confused girl’s head into her breast. 

There’s a group here of at least fifteen people, huddled with fearful eyes. Most are women and children, but a few men watch you with distrustful eyes. 

In the older woman’s grip, the girl pulls back and eyes the man holding your rifle. She points at you as you blink in delirium.

“¡Jilguero!” Your arm buckles, but with a wet cough you catch yourself before you hit the ground as your radio sizzles to life.

“Goldfinch, you copy? Haven’t heard from you in a while, Ma’am,” Your breath sputters in your chest as Soap’s voice filters out, but you don’t answer right away. 

The man’s grip shakes the gun, but he keeps sending glances from you back to the girl. With a clenching of his jaw, he lowers the rifle.

“The only reason,” He growls, “you are here is because of her,” He looks at the child before walking over to you. Holding out a calloused hand as a peace offering, he continues, “If she wasn’t I would have let that Hijos de puta put a bullet in your head.” 

“Goldfinch,” Ghost now weighs in, “report. Now.” 

“I suggest you get that, Jilguero,” The many people around your two shuffle nervously, and your thoughts run.

How long before more Shadows break down the basement door of his place and find these people? 

“What do I call you?” You ask the man, slapping your hand into his own and allowing him to pull you up with a choking breath. 

“Just call me Manuel. Here,” He jerks his arm forward awkwardly, holding out your gun. It didn’t take an expert to know he had no clue how to handle the thing, “This is yours, I believe.”

“Word of advice, Manuel,” You send a slow smile his way before you grab and swing the weapon over your shoulders, “If you’re serious about using it, click the safety off next time.”

“Erm…”

You press the button on the radio as you look out the window, seeing a large group of flashlights descend into the darkness down further in the street. The Shadows were leaving.

“This is Goldfinch,” You flinch, fixing the weight on your legs, “No need to worry, boys.”

“That’s our job. Be lucky you have such enthusiastic partners whispering into your ear… You could have had Price barking orders instead.”

“Soap, never bring up the Captain. I can feel his hatred over the line just at the mention of his name.”

“Hatred? Is that what you think it is?”

“Both of you,” Ghost interrupts, and you have to hide a relieved sigh, “Shut the hell up.”

“Ah, you’re no fun, L.t.”

“Never said I was, Johnny.”

With that, you released the button and sank against the wall – utterly spent for the time being. Fisting at the wrappings around your middle, you draw them back just enough to peak at the damage to your side. Sucking in a deep breath sparks needles all along your ribs, but it’s all you can do to try and process the utter havoc that’s left of your flesh. The rag had helped stop the bleeding, but it had also made your flesh rip out in a way reminiscent of lightning, slowly making the wound bigger inch by inch.

It was drowned all the way through with crimson, and so too was the gauze. The sickly thick liquid you had felt when you were hobbling along in the streets hadn’t been rainwater. You had probably lost more blood than was good for you, by the way your limbs started to go numb and your fingers shook with shock. 

“That doesn’t look good,” Manuel comments, having kept a close eye on you during your conversation. 

“Yeah, doesn’t feel good, either.” Whimpering, you move the gauze and take the ends of the rag one at a time and ring them out, listening to the splatters of blood as they make slick pools on the floor. The pink skin of your insides is visible as your prod and pry. At least you know the bullet never hit anything important – you’d be dead by now. That didn’t make your dark thoughts take a break, though.

Trying to distract yourself and catch your breath, you send a glance around the room, looking at everyone present until you land on a flushed-faced Manuel. You weakly smirk, telling yourself not to scream as your legs nearly give out from under you.

“Don’t suppose you have a doctor in this room with you, huh?”

“Unfortunately not. I-I’m sorry,” You laugh, but it sounds more like a sob. Your eyes are glossy before you take a deep breath through the weight on your chest.

“No worries. Hey,” You try and straighten up, nearly doubling before you force yourself straight, “which way to the church? I have to meet up with my boys, and I, uh,” Chuckling as you stumble back into a wall you clutch your side numbly, “I just have to meet up with my boys.”

“You have a way out of the city?” Manuel perks up, taking a few steps closer to grab you by the shoulders. You flinch, but let him, watching his eyes fill with false hope.

“No,” His expression falls, “But if I make it there, I may find one. Ghost and Soap are some of the best men I’ve worked with. When we all get our brain cells clacking together, a plan’s sure to form.”

Probably not a good one, You keep the last portion to yourself with a grimace. 

Manuel turns his head away before squeezing your shoulders and releasing you. You watch him look around the room, taking in terrified faces and tear-stained cheeks as the dark walls swallow the area. The man looks back as you struggle to keep upright, one arm behind you and hand splayed against the wall. 

“You won’t make it there with that,” Manuel points to your side and shakes his head, “No way. Not a chance.” 

“You want me to drag you all with me?” You raise an eyebrow, pushing off the wall and focusing on placing one foot in front of the other, stumbling to the basement door, “No. One was alright, but more than three is suicide. Everyone is–”

“--Safer here?” Manuel rushes after you, going to halt a few feet in front of the door with his arms out. He looked pitifully desperate, “Can you say that with certainty?” 

You growl, shoving past him and side-stepping limbs on the floor that skirt out of your way, “No, but you have more of a chance.”

“Goldfinch, change of plans,” Your eyes widen at the breathy-toned Manchester accent entering the room, “Church is compromised – Shadows have the place torn up. Make for the Market. And no need to fret over Johnny, the bastards’ with me.” 

“Shit,” You bring your hands to your head, running them over your hair and leaving streaks of blood in the strands before you grab the radio. You take a deep breath, “Copy.” 

Saying the words so calmly feels like a betrayal of your emotions. You were anything but undisturbed. Swallowing the blood and mucus in your throat, you hesitantly turn your head to Manuel, side-eyeing him.

He smiles smartly, “The Market’s one mile up the road.”

“...I want everyone up and ready to go in two minutes. Move it.” 

Hobbling to the door, you place your hand on the smooth texture as Manuel rushes to rouse the others. Taking a glance behind you, the girl stays close to the older woman who held her prior, clutching an apron that she wears. Your chest tightens as she stares at you.

Someone she knows, You think to yourself, good. They’ll look after her better than I could.

Two minutes come and go, and soon the small group is all standing holding meager belongings and family members to their chests. 

“Alright,” You mutter, nodding, “You know how to shoot?” Looking at Manuel, you grab the Basilisk on your thigh, flipping it to hold into the barrel and point the grip at the blank-faced man, “It’s a revolver, so it has one helluva kickback on it – only holds five rounds too. If you have to shoot, make it count.” 

“I-I’ve only shot a pistol before.”

“Well, then I hope you learn quickly. Safety’s off.”

Handing him the gun carefully, you swing your rifle over your shoulder and check the number of rounds you have left. Doing mental math as you shoulder the basement door open, you slowly ascend a set of stairs and end on the amount of twenty-five. 

Your jaw clenches.

Graves had turned before you could re-stock in Alejandro’s facility, leaving you with the bare minimum. 

Behind you, the group moves with muttered exhalations, whispering to each other fearfully. God, you could hear their heartbeats pounding in their chests without even looking; but it wasn’t like yours wasn’t beating just as fast. 

Almost got him killed in Serbia. 

“Shut up,” You growl to yourself, “Not now.” Leading them over the landing, your boots connecting with the hardwood floors; heading towards the front door as the world tilted. Bright colors shot across your vision like passing racecars.

“Easy there,” Manuel’s presence is heavy behind you, steady. You shuffle forward with a shake of your head. 

The Market, You do a head count behind you as you grab the front door handle, I just need to make it to the Market. 

Creaking the door open, you hold your rifle tighter as you stick your head out. 

Empty. 

“You stay on my ass, you hear me?” Throwing the inquiry over your shoulder you leave the house with your weapon scanning the streets, knowing that a Shadow could pounce from any angle. You had people to protect now; there was no bullshitting this.

“Wouldn’t miss it, Jilguero.”

“Very funny. Look, can’t you see me blushing.” Behind you, a nervous chuckle bounces off the dead houses, making an uneasy tremor wrack your spine. Keeping the conversation going, you wave the rest of the people over into an alleyway, watching them scurry to you and Manuel.

“‘Jilguero’ is Goldfinch in Spanish, I’m guessing?” 

“You would be right, take the next left, but I can’t help but tell you that’s not much of a name,” The man whispers as you hear your feet splash in a puddle, taking a corner, “What do you call yourself – besides Goldfinch of course?”

You take the next left as directed, “Nothing.” 

You make it to the market without having to fire a single bullet, though your knife has a few more stains to add to its sheen by the time everyone is staggering to a halt in the alleyway. Holding your hand up behind you to make them stop, you motion to the empty house to your left with two fingers and hear Manuel whispering in Spanish to help the civilians understand. 

When they all safely make it inside, you and Manuel wait as the pitter-patter of rain hits your heads, dripping down your cheeks and chin. Swallowing, you look out over the empty stalls and businesses and grip your rifle, but the Shadows are nowhere to be seen in the reflections of windows or heard on the wind. A red pickup truck sits near an overturned booth, and you blink at it in contemplation.

Bright white street lights illuminate the city, creating dark spots over the cobblestone. Bringing a hand to your radio, your gun sits under your armpit, parallel to your chest as Manuel shifts nervously behind you. You hear his quick breaths and frown.

“Ghost, Soap, I’m in an alleyway just outside the Market. Where are you?”

“Copy,” Soap responds first, only a moment after an unsteady silence weighs on your shoulders, “We’re nearly there.” 

“Copy,” You hesitate, “When you get here there’s a problem we need to address.”

“Anything deadly?”

“Heh,” Chuckling, your face twists in pain, “maybe.”

“We’ll get there as soon as we can, Goldfinch. Take it easy.” On the other end, the Sergeant was panting – running you realize. They must have really gotten into trouble leaving the Church, “Don’t want our favorite American kicking the bucket.”

“Favorite – I’m flattered.”

“Laswell takes a close second.”

“Less flattered.” 

Soap’s laughter cuts out when the sound of running feet from across the Market draws your attention away from the small device. Snapping your hands to your rifle, you steady your stance with half-lidded eyes, though you still feel your hands shake. 

Blood loss is one hell of a problem when you’re being hunted like an animal. 

Across the road, two men rush out into the light, large frames creating more moving shadows as their steps bounce off the buildings. 

“That’s them,” You turn to Manuel and nod your head, “Don’t shoot ‘em.”

The man lowers the Basilisk to his side. 

Bringing your fingers to your lips, you feel your lungs sputter as you let out a thin whistle, impersonating a bird call. 

Ghost’s masked face and Soaps tense one snap to you with their guns raised. Instincts still sharp as a blade despite the overwhelming circumstances they were in. Immediately the two noticed your disheveled form and shared a quick glance. 

They rush over with pounding feet. 

“Hells Bells, Goldfinch,” Soap grabs your shoulder with one hand, the other still clutching his gun with tight fingers as you stare at him blankly. He got over to you so fast you feel like you blacked out for a second, “You never told us it was this bad.”

Ghost grunts as he eyes Manuel, pointedly glaring at the revolver in his grip with untrustworthy eyes. He comments to you, “Can you keep going?”

“Always, Sir.” You respond immediately, a wavering smirk coming to your face. Letting Soap help you stand to your full height, you suck in greedy breaths, “But we have a bigger problem.”

The Scot scoffs, looking you over, “Bigger than a damn hole in your side?”

“Yes,” Nodding to the house where the group all huddle, you see their heads peaking out from under the window. The child’s little hands grip the windowsill like a kid on Christmas, trying to sneak the last cookie away, “namely a group of CIVs.” 

Manuel takes a step forward, and you feel Soap's arm on your bicep tighten. He slightly moves to put you behind him, his shoulder bumping into your field of view. He had noticed the man before – they both had – but seeing your Basilisk in his hands had made them overlook his presence for a moment. If you had given the man your revolver, you trusted him with it, and seeing if you were alright took priority.

“Easy,” You mutter, “He’s with me.”

“The group is mostly women and children,” Manuel pleads, “If the men from before come back, they’ll all be killed. I have to get them out of the city, tonight.” 

“That’s not our problem.” Ghost’s voice is cold and logical. He won’t endanger his squad’s lives, “You’re not our mission, and you’ve done fine so far.” They’ve all been put through the wringer, and dragging along others will attract attention that no one wants. It was more about saving his squad’s hide than the other way around.

But that’s a death sentence for the innocents who are watching from behind the window, eyes wide with fear. You made your decision the second you dragged them out into the street. They were your responsibility now.

“That’s nearly what she said,” The local man points to you and Ghost takes a step forward threateningly. In any other situation, the response from your boys would have been heartwarming.

“I’m not…leaving them here.” You force out from numb lips and feel more than see Soap whip his head down to you. 

“Your joking! Lass, you can barely walk by yourself!”

“We don’t need another Serbia on our hands, Goldfinch. You’re coming with us.” Laughing, you shake your head at the Manchester man.

“Next time you see Price, tell him he was right, yeah? He’ll know what I mean.”

“Goldfinch,” Ghost thumps over to you, gargantuan body making you seem even tinier, “I don’t think you’re understanding me: that’s a fucking order, soldier.”

“Would now be a bad time to tell you I only take orders from Laswell?” You chuckle, shaking off Soap's increasingly tight grip; like he could drag you away into the night without you clocking him in the jaw. Your head turns to the red pickup with intent.

“Hotwire the truck – get the hell out of the city.” 

“Bullshit. No way in hell are we leaving you here for the Shadows.” Soap spits, taking a step back from you and shaking his head so hard his wet mohawk sprays more water into your face, “I won’t stand for it. We leave here together, or not at all.”

“Graves’ll tear you to pieces if he finds you here,” Ghost stares you down with those unblinking eyes before looking to the tuck in the Market, “not to mention you’re wounded. You won’t last on your own, and with a group of CIVs to keep under check your chance of survival drops to zero.”

“Alejandro said he had a safehouse, yes?” You begin, not finding any other option for yourself to make them understand, “you know the way by road, Ghost, but he also explained a way through the mountains. It’s long, but it leads to the same place. I know the way. I can lead the people through it; get them to safety. I doubt the Shadows will follow beyond city limits – that's not their orders, and Graves is a little shit about that kind of stuff.”

A beat of silence. Soap clenches his hands and gnashes his teeth. He would be more difficult to persuade about this than Ghost. Too loyal to people; cares too much.

It’s not a bad quality to have, You say to yourself, but it clouds your judgment. Makes you…sloppy.

Something clicks in your head, but you don’t have the time to think about it before Ghost is answering you with a grave tone.

“That adds nearly half a day of hard hiking, Goldie…You sure you’re up for that?”

“You can’t seriously be considering this, L.t.!” Soap yells, voice bouncing over the rain, “She’ll die!”

“Better it means something, eh?” As his face drops, you send the Scot a small smile, “Soap…I can’t leave these people to die here. Never been able to, and I won’t start now. You can fight me on this, but you know it won’t end well for you.”

Manuel lets out a snort a few feet away but quickly shuts up when Ghost sends a glare his way.

You watch with guilt in your chest as the bear of a man’s shoulders deflate, eyes turning into that of a kicked puppy. Looking to the side, he grunts.

“...Let me look at the gunshot wound.” Soap gives in, knowing he can’t change your mind, and swings his weapon over his shoulders before ripping open his medical pouch, “No way am I letting you go without trying my best to patch you up.”

Pulling back the gauze and the remains of your shirt, you hike your vest up so he can get a better look as his fingers poke at the skin. The wound festers with sickness, puckered flesh-like lips around the sagging rag it clings to. You don’t even want to look at it, and judging by Soap's quick breath in, he doesn’t either. Ghost burns holes into the side of your face. 

The Scot’s finger prod at the rag, eliciting a snarl in turn from your mouth.

“Ask a girl out first before you go lifting her shirt up?” 

He doesn't miss a beat.

“I’ll leave Price for that – if the man ever gets his shite together that is. You both deserve each other.”

“Stubborn bastards,” Ghost agrees, leaning back to look into the Market impatiently, “Make it quick Johnny.”

You feel your face heat to an unexplainable level, disbelief pulsing in your veins. All of these comments about Price – Price this, Price that. God, what were these boys trying to do here?

Ask me out? What the fuck is this man on? How many times do I have to tell him how much Price hates me before it takes hold?

But you stay quiet, holding your tongue as the Scot gets to work.

Soap can’t do much to help without making you immediately bleed out in front of him. They have no intense medic experience, no good equipment, and no hope of making the wound disappear into thin air like a magician: though you have no doubt Soap would have tried if it meant it would make you better. 

All he does is apply an antibacterial solution and re-dress the wound, getting his gloves all bloody in the process as they drip crimson down into the street. As he packs more gauze around the rag to suck up more blood and try to stop the bleeding, you force back the nausea in your throat. 

“Not a chance you have any Advil in that pack of yours, Suds?” Soap sends a serious look up at you, now going to string a long tourniquet around your waist. He ties it tight.

“Sorry, Ma’am.”

“Damn, knew I was unlucky today, ” You pant.

Ghost steps forward, hands still gripping his gun, “Johnny,” He whispers, “We’ve got to go. Shadows on the move, I can hear ‘em coming.”

“Go,” You mutter, grabbing his hands in your own and forcing them away. Grabbing the rifle you had put aside, you take a few steps back from the boys who had just gone through hell to get back together and make it out. The only problem was they were now one member short, “I’ll get these people out of here and we’ll meet at the safe house in a day’s time max.”

“We better see you there, Goldie,” Ghost grumbles, “I never gave you permission to die on me.” He turns first, jogging his way to the pickup as shouts pick up on the other side of the city. 

“Yes, Sir,” You snort, nearly feeling your legs give you before you right yourself. Soap stands still, watching with guilt-ridden eyes. He reaches into his medical pouch and produces a single white stick. You tilt your head.

“Adrenaline shot,” He explains, walking over to you and slipping it into one of your front pouches. He swallows thickly, “I better see you there, Goldfinch.”

You smile lightly, eyes crinkling despite the hopelessness of his tone, “Get Alejandro back in the meantime, yeah? He still has to play guitar for me at some point.” 

—

Price has never felt like this before. His chest sputters, heart palpitating in his breast harshly. He knew how to respond to any situation imaginable – a gunshot, a stab wound, his comrades falling around him like flies and how to push on through it. But this…? Why did he feel like this now?

Where the hell is that damn woman, He feels his lips turn into a harsh frown as he enters the armory of the safe house, multiple racks of weapons and armored trucks passing in the corners of his eyes like phantoms.

It’s been two days since anyone had seen or heard from you, and in the meantime, Soap, Ghost, and Rodolfo had broken out the Mexican Special Forces from their overtaken HQ, and Price and Gaz had come in to assist. But still, there was no Goldfinch. 

The Captain could tell the tension in his shoulders had gotten worse. When he hadn’t seen you with the boys breaking into Alejandro’s HQ to free the men…

It was like his heart had stopped working properly since.

“Ghost, Soap!” John calls, voice authoritative as it echoes off the wooden walls. Many of the Vaqueros in the room turn to look, backs unconsciously straightening at the Captains intimidating presence. The named men look up from the large brainstorming table they were hunched over. Alejandro and Rodolfo stand next to them while Gaz trails behind Price swiftly, watching the older man with concern, “Anything on Goldfinch?”

Soap glances at Ghost.

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Negative,” Ghost continues, straightening his spine, “I checked about a mile down the path – there’s no sign. Nothing from the radio either.”

Alejandro speaks up, his face twisting down into a frown as Price and Gaz make it to the table, “The mountains are difficult terrain – radio antennas can’t get a signal out through it. That’s why I hesitated to tell you the way when we first met,” He clenches his hands over the table, looking down at the map set over the wood, “Taking that path…It’s not something most of my men would ever dare to do.”

“And taking it injured – nonetheless with the wound that Soap described,” Rodolfo takes a glance at John, shaking his head with a hesitant look in his brown eyes, “It’s not promising, Captain.”

“The girl’s strong,” Soap grunts, tilting his head in denial as his jaw clenches, “Goldfinch is alive. We just have to wait–”

“We don’t have the time to wait, MacTavish,” Price interjects, crossing his arms over his chest and setting his legs shoulder-width apart, looking down at the map with hidden emotions. The mission came first…right? 

Then why did John feel so fuckin’ bad about his decision?

“Graves’ll be vulnerable because of the prison break – on high alert, but that type of thinking always makes people like him sloppy. We have the advantage right now,” Price sighs, lowering his voice to no more than a grunt, as the bucket hat on his head tilts forward, “and I’d rather not lose it.”

A tense silence settles before Gaz speaks up.

“Are…you sure that’s best, Sir?” The man asks, “Goldfinch is one of us. We can’t just leave without her.”

“She made her choice, Sergeant, eh?” Price mutters, eyes snapping from one marked-out path on the paper as if he could find your body between the folds and red ‘x’s’ or if you’d magically appear from the fibers popping up with that damned happy-go-lucky smile that made him want to smash his lips against yours. 

Price stills at the thought, hands tightening over the flesh of his arms.

Anyone could see John was pushed against a wall with this. 

Graves, or you. The mission, or…you.

He’d never have brought you into this if it had been his choice – tried to shove you away from it with all his power already. But all he had done was force you right into the middle of this shitshow with all of your infuriating goodness. John wouldn’t have bothered to drag civilians into this; his mode of thinking was the needs of the many over the few, as you had pointed out to him in Serbia with such an outburst that the man was half convinced you would give yourself a heart attack. You were just so different from him.

That’s why you love her, A voice hisses in the back of his head.

I’d known she’d do something like this - put her damn life on the line like it meant nothing, Price clenched his teeth, and I sent her away anyways. I should have been here…fuckin' hell.

“We take back Alejandro’s HQ in two days,” John relents only slightly, cursing the hope in his chest singing that you would show up. You had to. Everyone at the table perks at the comment, not previously having any ideas of how to persuade the mission-focused man to relent in his choices. 

Soap has a large smile blossom over his face, and he and Rodolfo share a mischievous look; Ghost shakes his head at the pair and their insurance of getting involved in whatever Goldfinch and the Captain had going on. 

But it was incredibly confusing to everybody, to say the least. 

Even some of the Vaqueros you had been friendly with looked at each other with smiles on their faces. None had wanted you to be presumed dead.

Price continues, “But I can’t do more than—”

“Alejandro!” A yell shatters the Safehouse, and soon one of the Colonel’s men comes springing into the room. 

Everyone’s hands are on their weapons in an instant, bodies tense and ready to strike.

“Shit, is it Shadows?!” Gaz asks, but the individual rushes past and grabs Alejandro by the arm.

“¡Es Jilguero! ¡Ella está aquí! ¡Ella tiene sobrevivientes de Las Almas con ella! ¡Venga, rápido, coronel!” 

“Jilguero?” Price asks with a hard voice, partially already knowing but not wanting to be disappointed, “What does that–”

“It’s her!” The man says, rushing past the others as everyone else immediately begins sprinting out of the room, talk of Shadows and strategy thrown to the side without a second thought. 

It was you. Impossibly, it was you.

John doesn’t think as he rushes past everyone, adrenaline pumping from his heart down to his feet. He can’t seem to think about anything else besides you – your face, hair, body – and feels his stomach roll with an unidentified emotion. All that mattered was you, and he hated himself for it.

She’s back. She’s alive.

Price reaches the front door faster than anyone else, the packs on his vest weighing him down, and the gun over his shoulders jolts with every heavy step that slams to the dirt floor. He slams it open with a shoulder, feet skidding over the ground. 

—

You don’t know where the pain stops and you begin. Stumbling forward you hear the happy cries of the people who had come into your care meeting the warm afternoon air, stirring the leaves and bushes. 

“The safe house is just ahead, Jilguero,” Manuel keeps you upright with a hand around your waist, your arm over his firm shoulders. No doubt he was covered in your blood from head to toe – he’d been the sole thing keeping you on your feet for half the day.

You’d been forced to cauterize your bullet wound yesterday, and, admittingly, it was a shotty job. Your hands had been too shaky to hold your combat knife steady, leaving long sections of your side burned and blistered that weren’t even connected to the source of your problems. 

But it had stopped the bleeding for a while, at least. Manuel had to stitch you up, using the fishing line and needle you had stuffed into your medical pouch when this nightmare had begun. That too was suspect to improvement, but the man had done the best he could while panicking over your unconscious, flesh sizzling, body. All things considered for his first time stitching skin, he had done better than expected.

The sutures had ripped open on the last stretch of the hike.

“‘Bout time,” You wheeze, forcing your feet to carry your forward. The amount of sweat, blood, and dirt that was caked over your body made you want to gag, but no one else was any better. You suck in weak, gasping, breaths.

“Let me walk,” Gasping, you begin moving away from Manuel the closer the outline of trees becomes. 

“Whoa, careful there,” He says, but lets you go. Manuel stays close, watching you limp to the treeline on unsteady legs, “Stubborn.” The man mutters under his lips.

“Heard that,” You snort painfully, slowly making your way into the open with one hand over your side, trying to keep the bleeding to a minimum. 

When you enter the safe house’s clearing, your eyes squint against the light, turning your head away sharply. 

“Goldfinch!” Gaz’s voice reaches you first, making you flinch from how loud it was. Lifting your head, you blink away the dots and lock onto the multitude of people all gobsmacked on the lawn. You raise an eyebrow glancing for a moment at the various civilians being embraced by Vaqueros. 

Many were crying.

Family members? You ask yourself, watching with a small smile before looking back to the task at hand.

“Hell, you really brought out the welcoming comity, didn’t you? Miss me that much, boys?”

Soap points at you, beginning to make his way over, “You’re a damned day late, Ma’am! You should get written up for all the worry–”

Price places a heavy hand on the Scot’s shoulder, stopping him with a small skid across the earth.

Oh, fuck, You curse. 

You hadn’t even noticed the Captain, too focused on getting somewhere to rest, and finally, put the burning behind your eyes to bed. God, did your side ache something awful.

“C-captain,” You laugh breathlessly, voice cracking and eyes nervously filtering about. Manuel leaves your side to go greet a Vaquero who claps him on the shoulder lovingly, “Good to see you, Sir.”

Silence. 

He’s pissed.

Price takes a deep breath, and you see his chest inflate as he stares you down with those narrowed blue eyes that you love to hate. His body is partially vibrating with rage.

Not Impressed. 

Nearly got him killed in Serbia.

“Price…I–” You’re cut off with a sharp bark.

“You disobeyed orders!” The enraged man begins, face becoming a deep red under his beard. You watch with tense shoulders as John begins stalking over, his feet so heavy on the dirt they create puffs under his feet. Everyone halts to listen, too afraid to intervene, “Ran off without the security of your squad! Put your life in danger and yourself above the mission!” 

Your head sags, chin falling to your chest as you stare hard at the ground. Price’s shadow gets closer, his voice not falling as that authoritative tone rips into your self-confidence.

“Nearly got yourself killed! What do you think would have happened if you died? Who’s fault would that have been, Goldfinch? Oh, right, your sorry Muppet self!” 

His body heat leaked into you as you took the words he spits at you, British accent becoming even more prominent as his rage rises to new heights. You’d never seen him this angry before. Against your will, glossiness coats the sheen of your eyes, collecting in your tear ducts. You could feel John’s ragged breath on the top of your head, rustling your hair. He was breathing so heavily you would have thought he had just run a marathon.

He’s so warm, dizzy, and more exhausted than you had ever felt before, you take a deep breath. It was getting harder and harder to stand every second. But you were so done with this cat and mouse game, Price, please, hold me. I’m tired. 

You don’t know where the thought comes from, but this one you don’t try to fight. 

“Is there anything you have to say for yourself, Agent?” John growls, and you look to see his hands clenched at his side. Shaking. 

You don’t look at his face, content with watching his heart beat wildly in his chest, a small smirk growing on your lips. Maybe you’d just cracked the code for all of his attitudes, his supposed hatred.

Maybe he loved to hate you just the same as you did him.

Your head falls forward, hitting on his chest just above his heart. You feel more than see his chest still in shock as your forehead angles itself above the bulkiness of his pouches. 

“You can yell at me all you want, John,” You whisper, “but let me lean on you, first. You’re warm.” 

Price’s body jolts like you electrocuted him, but after a minute of steady breathing and feeling his eyes boring into the side of your pain-screwed face, an all-encompassing hand makes its way to your head. Finally. It presses into you, pushing your body just a little closer to the man who, up until this moment, had never understood. But, apparently, he didn’t understand you, either. 

That was probably because both of you were stubborn bastards. 

John’s breath tickles your ears as he tilts his head to the side, knocking it against yours as you feel that stupid hat hitting your scalp. You release a gentle sigh, letting the tension leak out of you as whispered conversations flow all around. But here, at this moment, all you think about is John. About the way his hand fit so perfectly at the back of your head, his thumb moving up and down in soothing motions that leave your eyes fluttering shut in safety. His other gravitated to your waist, carefully whispering over the bandages of your injury. Checking the wrappings and running calloused fingers over the bulk of the stitches.

Was this what you had been missing this entire time?

“Stay awake for me, sweetheart,” He mutters, anger turning into something else as John’s lips caress against your skin so sweetly it leaves you with tears tracking down your cheeks; muffled inhalations of sobbing breaths stuck in your throat, “You’re alright, now. I’ve got you.” 

“Don’t let go,” You sniffle, body shaking despite your best efforts. The hand on the back of your head travels to your cheek, wiping away the rouge tears as his callouses scratch your skin perfectly. 

Your eyes open slowly, locking immediately on deep ocean blue, with lighting striking every time eyelids closed delicately. You hadn’t seen those eyes so softly meeting yours since before Serbia. 

“Never,” John whispers, thumb once more rubbing over your flushed cheeks, so close you could move an inch and your lips would connect. “Never again.” 

All you do is smile, feeling the heat in the air become thicker the more you feel John's breath over your lips, his gaze flickering down before snapping back to your shimmering eyes once more.

But, unfortunately, there is a time and a place.

“Fuckin' finally!” Soap’s voice shatters the calm moment, rising above the chirping birds and jerking the two of you out of whatever was sparking, “Ghost you owe me a fifty!”

“Johnny, do me a favor and shut up, would you?”

Laughter bounces, but all you do is close your eyes once more, pulling away to nuzzle your face into John’s neck. Your arms stay limp at your sides.

“Think you can walk for me, Finch?” He asks lowly, pressing his lips to the side of your head and making your face turn into a bonfire as he leaves a kiss behind.

It was a promise – we’ll talk later. 

Your pride rears its head inside your breast for a moment. 

“Y-yeah,” You stutter, head pounding when you force your eyelids open to see the path ahead of you.

Price grunts.

“Stubborn,” Suddenly hands are gently moving you up into a hold, arms settling under your knees and over your shoulders. When he lifts you so effortlessly, you can’t help the gasp that escapes you. Your rifle sits uncomfortably along your back, but you don’t complain, because John had somehow managed to lift you without aggravating your wound further,. But of course he had – this was Captain John Price, “We’ll have to work on that, Agent.”

“No more than I’ll have to with you, Captain. You’ve got it worse than me.”

“Hm, you’re probably right.” Blinking at him, your eyes crease in confusion, but he only smirks, white teeth flashing. 

Scrunching your nose, you put your head under his chin, forcing his head up with a grunt. 

You grumble, “Tell Manuel to give my Basilisk back, would you?” 

John walks through the threshold of the safe house, nodding to the others to tell them he can handle it as Gaz sends a smirk and a tweaked eyebrow his way. Price won’t even try to decipher that. The rest give you soft glances that you miss, and Alejandro knows he’ll have to thank you personally later for everything you did for Las Almas and its people. But he knows that right now there’s something special going on. He’ll wait.

The Captain chuckles at your comment, even if he doesn’t know who the hell ‘Manuel’ is, “Well, it’s your gun, isn’t it? Why don’t you tell him, eh?”

But all he felt was the sensation of your sleeping body slotted under his head, lips touching his Adam’s Apple and making him shiver as soft breaths fall. John pulled you impossibly closer.

Making his way to the corner, he carefully rested your body on an empty cot and waved over a Vaqueros with medical supplies and ample training. 

As the Medic worked on you – lifting up your shirt to see the mangled remains of your side and the botched sutures – Price sucked in a quiet breath and watched with his arms folded over his chest. 

In his head, he was telling himself to not reach out to you, let the Medic work, but when your unconscious face twisted in pain he didn’t hesitate. He snatched your hand with your own and watched the wrinkles in your forehead soften as his thumb rubbed the length of the back of your hand.

Pride blossomed in his chest. He could fix this mess he made; you both made.

He smiled.

“You impressed me, Goldfinch. Always have.”

—

Serbia: August 15th, 1700 Hrs. – 

You swore if you lived, you would love John Price for the rest of your life. 

“What in the bloody hell were you thinking, Muppet!?” The Captain screamed at you as he hand a tight compression to your chest, blood leaking from his fingertips and pooling on the ground, leaving your combat vest in tatters. 

If you hadn’t been prioritizing those damned civilians this never would have happened. A knife to the chest is never a good thing, and John was sure that you were going to die under him as he screamed at you in anger and fear; eyes glossy.

An imposter in the crowd, a liar, and the second you had checked to see if the man was alright, he had struck. 

John had seen you go down and immediately put a bullet through the man’s skull with an enraged yell. He watched you hit the ground like you meant nothing.

“I told you to run! Goldfinch, I fucking told you to run!” Blood shot from your mouth, splashing Price’s face in a spray of gore. Your eyes were fluttering.

No, no, no. Not like this.

“You never listen! Fuck!” Damn you for making him fall in love with you. Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Always running into danger, going where he can’t follow, you gave him a heart attack every time you were away from his side.

“Keep your bloody eyes open, Goldfinch! Keep them on me…! Fuckin' hell…where's the damn Medic!?”

John Price swore to himself that, if you lived through this, he would hate you for the rest of his life. 

[izvmimi]

You can feel his eyes on you by the time you’re finishing up with the elementary schoolers, and before you turn to address Jotaro, you make sure to remind the young boy who’d just been staring wide-eyed at the echinoderms you handled gently in your hands while lecturing to walk, not run, out of the exhibit. He nods emphatically, and his first step, more of a skip, slows to a stiff walk immediately, which makes you giggle. 

Jotaro takes this as an opportunity to move closer finally, polite and careful around you as always. His hands are shoved in his pockets as you suspected, and he forces an expression of feigned indifference on his features as he approaches, but there’s no reason for him to be tailing you so closely as you handle the visiting school children on Marine Science day, and yet he does. It’s only because the most interesting thing in this entire aquarium has always ever been you.

If only he had the courage to say it out loud.

“Are you diving with me next week?” he asks as you dry your hands on the side of your cargo pants and give him your full attention. He’s dressed in the same uniform as you are, although still insisting on wearing his lab coat around the place - something about the long sleeves and long length part of his personal style - and you wonder, as your eyes pass over the width of the cling of the fabric of the cotton polo shirt to his chest how easily you could swim in that coat yourself. 

Rather than dwelling in the thought, you raise your eyebrows at him. 

“Am I not on the list?” you ask. Jotaro blinks, realizing his question, only meant to segue naturally into a conversation with you, only managed to confuse you.

“No, I mean, yes. You are.”

So why are you asking? should be your natural reply, but you allow him enough mercy but addressing the subject tangentially. “Is it your first one?” 

“No.”

“Mm. That’s good.”

As you continue to engage him in chatter, you’re looking around, making sure the kids did not leave any papers or knock anything over. There’s not too much to sweep, but Jotaro follows you, like some kind of pensive shadow, as you search in a hidden door along the walls of the decorated open plan room for the utility closet. He holds the door open for you wider as you search for a broom, watching you carefully, reaching for the accompanying dustpan before you can.

“Is it yours?” he asks. You give him a nod in the affirmative as you sweep, and you can tell that he already probably knew that. He pauses for a moment, and the environment remains still around you, aside from the run of the constantly running water in the tanks, sea creatures moving too close to the surface of the water, and the sound of the broom’s bristles brushing against the soft carpeted floors. 

These quiet moments with Jotaro are often like this, where you can tell what he’s saying in his heart is far more than anything he’s willing to say aloud. Sometimes you wonder if that ghost he swears follows him, the one that won’t let him come to any harm, the one that he insists is fond of you as well and won’t let you come to any harm, be it land or sea, knows the depth of his heart.

You’d like to know a little about it too, but for now you settle with letting him learn to speak his mind.

“I only asked because I didn’t want you to be worried,” he finally admits. “Because it’s your first time and because you looked a bit concerned back at our meeting.”

You stop sweeping for a moment, and look up towards him. He’s not the type to blush or frown, but even if he’s looking in your direction, the dustpan appearing small and silly in his hand, he makes sure his eyes don’t look directly in yours, but at a fixed point behind you.

“Will your ghost protect me?” you tease.

His eyes focus back on you, a crack of a smile on his face.

“You don’t think I could?”

Your face warms, and you regret not having as good of a poker face as he does. Perhaps because you don’t have a ghost to confide all your feelings to, them instead being written all over your face.

“I trust you,” you offer.

This widens his smile, as he steps closer to you, bending down to receive the pile of dust you’ve collected before you. 

Always ready to make your life easier in any way he can.

“Good.”

[attollogame]

hi! i went to look for physical descriptions of the ROs but the link isn’t working. is there an alternative link?

No but I can help you here!

Pariah

Pariah is 5’5” with an athletic build to their body, mostly honed from all of the physical exertion their night job requires. Most often they wear riding gear (leather jacket, cargo pants, biker boots; basically attire appropriate for someone who rides high-speeds on a motorcycle) with a black motorcycle helmet that has red lights within it. The helmet is modified to allow Pariah to discern things at night, and also to withstand Pariah’s own powered abilities. Pariah also carries two sickles strapped at their waist. Their powered ability is shadow manipulation.

Without the helmet, they have short cut curly brown hair, tanned skin, brown eyes, and a scar on their chin. Here’s an excellent visual of them drawn by the talented @phanosis !

Vasilisa

Vasilisa stands at about 5’11” with another athletic build to her body, again honed by her career as a detective for the C.A.P.D. She usually wears a white dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves, black jeans, timberland boots (closest I can describe them) and on occasion will have a black blazer on. Very often seen with a coffee in hand because her sleep schedule is as atrocious as anyone’s in Attollo. Her powered ability is emotion manipulation. 

Vasilisa has blonde hair she keeps tied back, pale skin, and blue eyes. She has a beauty spot under her one eye. Here’s an excellent visual of her drawn by the talented @exotic-inquiry !

Suha

Suha stands at 5’8” with a softer build. Her employment as a judge for the Crowes Court and her role in her own fashion business often keeps her quite preoccupied and on the go. Suha is a Muslim, and therefore wears a hijab. Her role in fashion means she dresses incredibly well, often preferring higher-brand clothes lines that are both comfortable and befitting of her personality. She prefers lighter colored clothes, as it contrasts the gloom of Attollo, even though her personality itself is quite serious. Suha’s powered ability is botakinesis, or plant manipulation. 

Suha wears cat-eyed glasses and has dark skin and brown eyes. Here’s a stunning drawing of her done by the talented @artsyaprilmr !

Operator

Operator stands at 5’7” and has a very lean build coming from his amazing ability to forget to eat half the time. He’s rarely seen without his black face mask and blue tech glasses, which enable him to see the ongoing of the city even when mobile. He usually wears a black turtleneck and black jeans, as well as sneakers that should really be changed in at some point. He does wear gloves as well when outside of his dwelling in the Under City. Operator’s powered ability is tech manipulation… among other things.

He has auburn curly hair and blue eyes beneath the glasses, as well as pale skin. @exotic-inquiry also did some lovely art of him (he is a little guy) !

Sysba

Because Sysba is gender selectable, their appearance does tend to change depending on which you select, although not by much. Overall, though, Sysba is a very flamboyant being that dresses in a way they feel expresses themself best. They stand at 6’ all forms, with a toned form they somehow managed to retain despite their disastrous eating habits. They prefer colours like red, black, or white for what they wear, and they prefer fabrics like satin, velvet, or silk. Sysba often wears heels for the benefit of standing an extra few inches above everyone else. They also indulge with a lot of jewellery, including necklaces, earrings, nose rings, etc. Because they are an entity, their powers extend far beyond what most do; shape shifting, manipulation, and power absorption are a few of their abilities. If they could get out of Attollo, they would be travelling quite swiftly too. 

In all forms, their hair is black, their eyes are black, and their skin is a very sickly pale color. In male form, Sysba has short cut hair, in female form it comes in the form of a bob cut, and in the non binary form it’s short cut as well. The very talented @retconomics has art of them here, @phanosis was generous enough to draw them in their more ‘natural’ form, and @redjack even kindly made a 3d model!

DW

Standing at 6’4” with a more built tone, one could say, due to his line of work (you don’t run a criminal organization without some intimidation on the side). Dreamwalker dresses very business-like in all aspects of his arrival, including in the dreams (although he did play dress up for those because it was fun for him). He prefers dark dress shirts, dress pants, and well-polished dress shoes. He wears a signet ring on his right hand. His powered ability includes dream manipulation and an ability to directly harm a sleeping individual through their dream, as seen with MC. He usually warps his features in dreams to make him indiscernible. On occasion, he wears a red scarf when not wearing a high collared shirt. 

Dreamwalker has dark brown, almost black hair with a slight curl to it. His eyes are a glowing gold with no discernible pupil unless you’re very close, in which case you will see it as a darker yellow color. He has a notable scar on his neck from a knife wound, and dark skin. The talented @bleruh drew art of him here (check out their operator as well!), as did @retconomics here and @/kill-a13 here among many others :)

[skyliv]

Inarticulation

(feeling weird again! did this instead of doing something that’d make me feel so much worse, so i’m pretty proud of that! i also love the Rio Romeo song so theres a fake little title)

There’s a faint beep from outside Olivia’s office. A shadow of a person looms at the frosted glass door, their open hand hovering over the sensor that denied access. The doctor squints, her sharp gaze scrutinizing how the figure’s hair was so unkempt it seemed like a halo around them, before she shrugs and clicks a security pop-up on her computer. The day had been a drag, why not humor this visitor.

The doors slide open with a sharp hiss, causing the young woman on the other side to jump with her surprise. It’s Lucielle, in almost comically large cargo pants, a small tank top, and a speckled fur coat hanging off her shoulders. Olivia reacted with similar shock, freezing up on her yoga ball before both women smile. Lucielle’s is sweeter, more practiced, as she waves when walking in. Olivia’s, however, is awkward; she looks exhausted, her brows furrowing as she lets out a breathless chuckle.

“Heyyy..” The mutant at the doorway greeted kindly, allowing the doors to close automatically and adjusting the messenger bag on her shoulder.

“Lucy?!” Olivia stands swiftly, the ball getting kicked back and rolling under her desk. She nearly trips when she rushes forward, her lab coat billowing to her knees and falling loosely at the rolled up sleeves. They meet in the middle, slipping on the shiny tile floors into a flourish of a hug. Olivia feels quite desperate, her long arms squeezing tight as her hands practically claw for the mutant to come closer, to drown in her. Lucielle gives a small laugh, squeezing the hug herself, her eyes clenched tight.

Olivia doesn’t let go, and her words spill out without a second thought. “You thought of me! You thought of me enough to come over, are you serious?!” She practically cackles, “What about your work though? Your degree work? The bookstore?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, that’s for sure,” Lucielle answers simply, barely breaking away from the hug to look up at the exhausted smile on Olivia’s face. Even with seemingly more on her plate, her worry was directed to Olivia. “I should be asking you that! You’ve barely slept, I’m scared you haven’t been eating, is there anything I can do?”

As the mutant spoke Olivia faltered, she loosens the hug and let her gaze fall to the floor. Her face went slack with a hint of a frown. “Ah, well, no it’s been fine.. You have no need to worry!” And just like that, her professional mask slips back on: a still weak smile and a stronger stance as she attempts to hide her exhaustion. “I’m more surprised you took the time to come here than anything.”

Olivia steps back, her brows knitting together and her eyes flitting up and down her little friend. She does glance to her computer and steps back to put a nimble hand on the corner of her desk, but she keeps a polite smile on her face. Lucielle slings her bag down, the buttons on its flap quietly clinking together. She drops it and lets it droop, more interested in taking a small step forward.

A few seconds of awkward silence passes between them, barely broken up by the fans of Olivia’s computer. Until the selkie asks, “Are you available for a break? Or should I schedule an appointment?”

Lucielle rolls forward on a wheeled stool, stopping a collision by propping her leg at the base of one of the many counters surrounding the office walls. Olivia sits in a similar seat, her elbow resting on the white countertop as she gently puts her glass of water back down. Her posture is practically ruined, but Lucielle isn’t one to judge.

“I couldn’t be luckier,” Olivia continues.. She had finally gotten a time to just let loose, she may have been on the clock but rambling to this young woman was a release she didn’t know she needed. She ranted to her employees, almost berated many of her team, but knowing that this person actually listened was nice. Her emotion led to lashing out, she usually took it out on Spider-Man but it could weigh her down if she didn’t have an outlet.. And it built up quite quickly. “If I told anyone else they’d write me off as crazy- Again!”

Impressively, she wasn’t complaining about what she saw as incompetence of her workers, nor the mistreatment from her boss. Rather, it was about how she knows she’s lost herself. How she wants so much, how she’s so close to achieving it all, how she’ll keep going, but mainly how tired she’s become. Lucielle nodded along, chiming in now and then, but never wanting to overstay her welcome. She added on her understanding, sympathizing with her own stories to try and lighten the mood. It was like two old friends reconnecting, a duo you’d see at a cafe or a park, drunk or eating, spilling their hearts out.

Lucielle had ditched her sealskin coat, it laid draped over her bag on the counter next to Olivia’s lab coat. She moved to stretch, pulling her hands over her head in a much more relaxed manner than earlier. “Mmh, no, I’m lucky,” She says with a small catlike yawn, showing off sharp canines- That make Olivia remember the first time she saw them, that feeling of wanting to get close to her and just learn, just learn everything she could about this woman. “I know you, and you trust me. That must mean something.”

When Olivia was surprised, she looked like an owl: wide hazel eyes boring through you and tightly pressed lips. She was impressed to say the least, the mutant reciprocated her care and she didn’t want to recall the last time she felt that. She’s about to respond, but-

“And I trust you.”

Olivia feels like she might pass out, almost lightheaded in her shock. She rests her forehead on her hand, and sighs weakly. Lucielle rolls a bit forward on her chair, clasping her hands in her lap as she leans forward and tilts her head to the side. “Oh, shit, did I say something wrong?” Lucielle mutters. She was prone to overthinking, fearful that anything could be her fault and that she could’ve done better.

The doctor begins to laugh again, quietly, but genuinely. She shakes a bit with it, unable to contain herself before sitting up. She’s smiling again, and looks more put together than when she was venting, but as she runs a hand through her hair Lucielle can still feel how tense she is. The selkie frowns some, but can’t properly bring herself to say something.

“I- I really can’t see how! I’ve told you so many times that you know what I’ve done, what I do for a living.. And you’re still here! I don’t want to drag you down with me, the last thing I need is you getting hurt because I told you too much or-“

The villain’s voice began to shake, but she’s cut off by the boldest action she’s ever experienced. A short peck of a kiss from the other woman, silencing her in a split second. No one had ever done something so out there, almost outrageous, but she’d be lying if she didn’t like it. It doesn’t last long, and Lucielle pulls back with one hand on the counter beside them. And she just smiles again, her freckle peppered cheeks rising and her gaze lighting up when she sees the doctor’s shock. She was almost smug, like she found the only proper way to shut the head scientist up, even if her breath trembled with the boldness of the act.

Olivia was always so put together, stoic and cold to anyone in her way. She even tried to be that with Lucielle, although a bit more charismatic, she hated showing weakness for too long. Now, she couldn’t stop it. A few blinks and a few quick breaths later, she can still barely think.

Lucielle was about to sit back when Olivia’s hand on the counter reaches up to her’s before she can. That hand holds fast when it gets to her forearm, and she tugs the mutant forward on the wheeled chair, right into another warm hug. Olivia almost falls back herself, as the movement pulls Lucielle right out of her chair. She wants to say something more, some form of thanks, but she realizes the words were kissed out of her when she buries her face in the crook of the other woman’s neck.

[hyper-lynx]

Blue Moon Ball: Outfitting

“So what the hell, a ball? A formal ball?” Hemi looked over at Liam, ears ascanse. Liam’s long, clouded tail swished playfully behind him. 

“Yep~! That’s what the letter said. The Blue Moon Ball. Two weeks from now on the Wizard Island, planar registry WIS-α-1.”

The lynx groaned and stretched as he stood from his well-cushioned seat. His upper body was wholly unclothed -- indeed, only a pair of trusty cargo shorts girded his tan fur. The tufted tips of his ears tingled a little as the energy current beside this reality shifted slightly. He approached and snatched the letter from Liam’s grasp.

“To Queer Wizard Council MEMBER and Hyper-Lynx, Hemi. Hello Magical Friend~☆…” And the invitation continued. An open bar, festivities, and a formal dress code, all described in impeccable hand-written cursive.

“I see…” Hemi muttered. He regarded Liam, his closest friend -- adorned in his typical flowing skirt and well-fitted vest, tail meandering through the cool air behind him, and wondered for just a moment if he should ask the clouded leopard to take his place. Then, the pride flag mounted on the cavern wall caught his eye, and he remembered his obligations.

“What’s the matter?” Liam asked, ears lowering just slightly. “This should be a lot of fun!”

“I’ve never… been to a big formal party like this, so I… don’t really know how any of it works. I’ve also only been to Wizard Island Island for business before, it’s not really… like, I don’t know my way around there at all.”

Liam chuckled. “You’re not one to turn down an adventure, so I don’t buy that that’s the problem.”

“...There’s also the matter of the dress code.”

“Hm! I figured that was the issue. “ Liam began to pace through the workshop. Pieces of unfinished arcane devices littered the counters, glass containers housed samples from distant realities, and a few piles of boxes were still, after months, residing at the sides of the closed cavern chamber. He stopped in front of the makeshift wardrobe -- just a wooden frame around a bar with various shorts hanging, completely in the shadow of a large mechanical air purifier. “I know your outfit choices are usually pretty… spartan, but this is a big event! Dozens or more wizards will be there, and everyone will have put a lot of effort into their outfit. I don’t think just finding your least dirty pair of pants will help you here.”

“I-- hesitate to ask this, but, what alternative do you have in mind? I’m not likely to fit any of your clothes either…” It was true-- Liam was almost a full head taller than Hemi, so sharing clothes was out of the question.

“Well, then we’ll just have to go clothes shopping for you!”

“...Can’t I just, find a good cheesy wizard hat or something? Cut some ear holes, call it a day?”

Liam’s face darkened. “Well, you could do that. For a ball of wizards, you might not even stand out. But, aren’t you a member of the Queer Wizard Council? Specifically one of the ambassadors of the gay identity?”

“Oh, you’re not about to--”

“I am! Friend, there are Expectations on you, justified or not. I won’t condone you showing up with absolutely no effort in your outfit. It doesn’t have to be like what I wear, I just want you to make a good impression! These wizards are powerful allies -- don’t you want to get to know them?”

Hemi sighed and flopped back down onto the chair he was still next to. “...Fine. We’ll go clothes shopping. But you’re doing the astrogation.”

“Ehe, I knew you’d see things my way! You won’t regret this!” With that, he practically pounced over to the divining orb and began running the numbers.

Hemi had almost fallen asleep by the time that Liam returned to him with a piece of discarded scroll paper. 

“Here! A full charted course.”

Hemi sat up and looked it over. It was a pretty straight shot through the phantasmal plane to reach… “Terastra… Is this just an excuse to visit your homeworld, Liam?”

“I mean… no! It’s not. It’s almost spring on my continent of origin, so the blooming festivals will be kicking off soon. They’re tied to the new moon, so I figure the motifs should line up. Plus, if we get lucky with the time alignment, the plaza might already be pretty well decorated.”

Hemi hesitated for a moment, but then stood up again. “Alright. Let’s do this. Better to leap then stay in place, right?”

Liam’s grin widened. “That’s the spirit!”

They both stepped onto the pedestal that formed the center of the entire chamber -- the place set aside for traversal work. The tips of Hemi’s ears sparked and shone with indigo and lavender, bringing a strange vertigo over both of them for just a moment. Hemi traced his claw along the lines of the pattern from the paper, then huffed and crouched.

“Three seconds!” He called out. Liam crouched down too.

Hemi bobbed his head a few times, running the final calculations in his head, and then leapt into the air and sliced outward with extended claws. The air tore open, and from the wound a prismatic light burst onto the chamber. Hemi’s momentum carried him through, and a second later Liam lowered his eyes and leapt into the rift as well.

The void between worlds was beautiful, but in a fleeting way-- when one leaves it, the structure is lost as the story of a dream upon waking. So it was that Liam had almost no memory of the traversal itself when he came to his senses on the surface of his home planet. The air was crisp and cool, but the first tinge of spring’s humidity had already snuck into it. The grass around him was damp with morning dew. He found Hemi’s paw reaching down towards him and took it with a groan as he stood unsteadily.

“Feeling alright?” Hemi asked.

“Yes, sorry.”

“Not at all! It was my bad, I took us close to a turbulent zone. That being said… where are we?”

Liam blinked a few times and found that the two of them were, in fact, not in the plaza of any city, but were in the midst of a great pine forest. The untamed ground sloped upwards towards the gathering light of morning.

“Um-- hopefully, we’re just… next to the city?”

“...What precision did you use in the astrogation?”

“Five places?”

Hemi groaned. “We could be miles away…” He started trudging through the short grass towards the local peak. “Come on, maybe there’s a view over this bluff.”

It was a deceptively long distance to the bluff -- by the time they arrived, the sky was already very nearly blue. But, when they finally reached the top, both were wordlessly taken aback.

The cliff they had arrived at was, in fact, the edge of a great ridge that nearly surrounded the landed side of the vibrant city below.  The shadow of the opposing cliffs still cast darkness over the white buildings, but the miniscule impressions of hundreds of people were already milling about in the city center, were the colors of spring had been lavished upon the streets in minuscule strands. Liam’s tail and ears recovered their former, perky status immediately.

“Hmh! Not bad for five decimal places.” Hemi remarked. “I might come back here on purpose some time.”

“I’m still sorry for the trouble. It might take all morning to hike down there.”

“We’ve got two weeks, right? There’s no rush. If you mess up your skirt we’ll be in a good place to get a new one, too.”

“--Right! Okay…”

They sat for a moment to watch the sunrise finish, and then continued on their way. Thankfully, a reasonable series of switchbacks existed to allow the downward voyage to be done without any significant climbing.

“They won’t like-- recognize you here, right?” Hemi asked as they approached the base of the hills. “I know you’ve done some pretty heroic stuff…”

“No, we should be fine on that front. It was a while ago, and I looked different at the time.”

“Damn. Was hoping for some ‘divine messenger’ discounts.”

“Ha!” Liam shook his head. “We should hope they don’t have any ‘divine messenger’ flaming arrows for us. But, again, it should be fine.”

When they finally breached the city walls, both cats were somewhat exhausted, so before they reached the plaza proper, they found a tea-serving restaurant of some kind to relax at. As promised, none of the residents seemed to think the two of them were at all unusual -- the residents and tourists occupied a wide array of distinct species. Mostly canids, it seemed, but felines and the odd cervid could be sighted in the streets.

As Hemi sipped on his (quite good!) cup of green tea, Liam tilted his head, caught by a passing idea. “So, Hemi, there’s one big choice we have to make before finding you clothes.”

“And what’s that?” As Hemi asked, he already had some idea of what this ‘choice’ would be, judging from the mirthful display across Liam’s face.

“Suits or skirts?”

Hemi sighed, but had no immediate response. To tell the truth, he’d been mulling that over the entire hike so far. Suits were, of course, more traditional for masculine-appearing beings, but he was there as a representative of the Queer Wizard Council, so everything would be open to him, but if he looked bad in something, it would be worse than having shown up in just shorts and a hat, and suits and ties all seemed very restrictive compared to what he was used to… it continued spinning around from there. 

“I haven’t chosen.” He answered bluntly.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m sure you’d cut a dashing look in either. Since you don’t have a strong preference, we’ll have to try out some of both.”

Hemi squirmed a little in his seat, then tilted his head and let his ears fall back as he noticed Liam’s general expression. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you--?”

“It’s not every day I get to see you, of all people, flustered~”

“I’m not flustered!”

“Yes you are. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart.”

“Don’t-- call me that… Damn it. Fine, it’s just not a comfortable thing, okay? Is that such a crime? I probably’ll look stupid no matter what I choose anyway so--”

“What? Don’t say that! I wasn’t joking earlier, I really do think you can pull it off!”

Hemi’s ears were low, and his little nub of a tail was moving back and forth through the cutout of the chair. His posture made him appear to be barely half of Liam’s size, and his voice became quiet but firm. “This is an important event, Liam. I’ve never even seen this many other wizards at once before, let alone-- partied with them. What if I end up making a bad impression? All of this is alien to me, literally more so than actual, like, alien life… I’ve literally been more comfortable climbing a volcano or spelunking a thousand miles under the surface of some rock no one has laid eyes upon since creation began.”

“Those things are physically perilous. That’s completely different then this-- social peril-- you’re feeling. I’m sorry for pressuring you… I, uh, think I got a little too excited.“ 

Liam was quiet for a moment. “If, you want to go home, this was still a nice day out. You can even discard the invitation if you want, I’m sure they’ve got plenty of attendees.”

“...No.” Hemi’s back straightened, and he took a deep breath in. “No, I need to do this. I can’t just live underground with you alone forever-- no offense. I need to get out there, get out of my own head and be seen by… anyone else. Anything else, then just me and the one writing all this down.”

“Huh?”

Hemi finished his tea and stood up. “I’m ready.”

Liam’s eyes went wild and he quickly finished the last small amount of his own tea as well. “Then, let’s do this--!”

The plaza burst and flowed with vibrant colors and moving bodies of all descriptions. A sea of horns and ears jostled about open-air stalls with perfumes, floral headdresses, fresh-grilled fish, and, finally, a veritable feast of clothes. Gowns, cocktail dresses, suits, ties… a hundred outfits for a thousand eyes. Above it all, streams of paper-made flowers that jostled in the gentle breeze, like candle fire against the immense blue sky.

Hemi tried on a suit first. As predicted, the feeling of his long body fur being constrained by the fabric was hard to stomach, and this particular suit made his head seem disproportionately too large. He tried another -- similar results, but it was a bit looser. Most of the outfits had some sort of floral design, but a few commemorated the moon as well -- unfortunately, each suit that had appropriate theming seemed to have some issue of comfort or price that disqualified it from consideration. Minutes passed, then tens of minutes. Almost an hour. Over an hour. Even Liam had begun to wear down, and that resolve the lynx had kindled within himself could only maintain itself for so long. The crowds kept throbbing and coursing down the cobblestones all the while.

In the distance, Hemi noticed something different as the attendant (a rather friendly coyote) and Liam were helping button together the latest too-tight suit. It was a cocktail dress (of the over-one-shoulder variety), formed from a deep blue-purple that matched the night sky above his home world on a clear night. Across its chest, it displayed a beautiful full moon, and it had a few frills down the sides that would match his face’s lynx-like cheek fur. It stood against a boutique stand that seemed to have little traction.

“How does it fit?” Liam asked of the suit he was already wearing, though he was able to guess given how much Hemi had squirmed while it was being fastened, when he caught Hemi’s gaze and followed it. “Oh~! Did you find something..?”

An invisible barrier formed around Hemi’s words as he was stricken again with doubt. It would be a bold statement -- one his generally not-that-attractive physique would butcher for sure. Liam took the coyote aside and whispered something in their ears. The coyote looked across the crowd, then back to Hemi, and put their paw under their chin for a moment before nodding. Liam’s smile became a gentle smirk.

“Well, what are you waiting for? You won’t know anything until you try it on.”

The lynx looked to Liam with a frightened expression, so Liam put a hand on his still-padded shoulder. “They’re wizards, Liam. Half of them will be wearing bones or slime or something.”

Hemi swallowed and, after another second nodded. “I want to try on that dress.” The words, alien as they might have been to his tongue, brought an electric feeling to the back of his mind. The coyote dutifully helped him remove the suit, and he and Liam entered the other stall.

The dress, once donned, hung loosely around Hemi’s frame. Somehow, his exposed shoulder felt almost salacious, compared to not wearing any shirt at all, but the feeling was a good one. The fabric was smooth and breathable, so it was not unbearable on his fur. Most importantly, the inner structure of the dress emphasized his physique without being explicit-- it was just a little more sensual than normal. He turned around and around in the mirror, while Liam watched on from the side.

“So… what do you think?”

Hemi looked down at himself, then back up at the mirror. “I think I actually like it--! What do you think?”

“I think it’s gorgeous. It fits you really well! The moon might make it hard to use at other events, but that’s the only downside.”

“I’m alright with that. I’m sure if I end up wearing it often I can find some illusion to cast over the moon -- it’s basically a big white disk, right? Perfect backdrop for an insignia.”

“Right! Well-- do you want to try any of the other dresses? Since we’re on this side of the aisle…?”

“...Um. No, no I think-- I like this one. Aha--” Hemi put a hand against the back of his head and gave a soft, genuine smile. Liam quickly moved to find the cashier -- who ended up being some kind of dog with very curly white fur.

“My friend would like to buy that dress, please!” 

The cashier nodded. “And why not! Oh, but the moon is out of season, isn’t it?”

“It’s fine, it’s for a different event. Actually, the moon was what drew us over here in the first place.”

“Oho!” The cashier dropped her voice. ”And, your friend is happy in… that kind of clothing? We have a suit with the same design in the back--”

Hemi approached. His large ears made it trivial to overhear the conversation from afar. He’d removed the dress and put it onto its hanger, but was still carrying it. He laid the fabric onto the purchase area. “Yes, I’d like to buy the dress. What’s your price?”

The cashier tapped her claw onto a rune engraved in her desk, and a circle of symbols appeared briefly in the air between her and the lynx. “You are a magician, yes? I will ask for a simple service -- production of some lumen oil for my silkworms to feed on. A cup should suffice as payment.”

“Lumen oil… very well. Do you have a cloche?”

The cashier directed Hemi to her alchemy room, and left him to provide his payment while she packaged the dress gently into a clear garment bag. A few minutes later, Hemi emerged with a small container of glowing golden liquid, formed from pure arcane energy. He wiped the sweat from his head -- he’d have to do a more complete grooming in a moment.

“Pleasure doing business with you.” He set the vial onto the payment section. The cashier tapped a rune, and the sign for equivalence appeared in the air. “Then the outfit is yours. I do hope you enjoy wearing it…!” The cashier announced. 

Liam took the dress into his hands. “Thank you!” Hemi nodded in thanks as well, and the two left into the plaza. As midday drew closer, the crows had settled into lines near the food vendors, and it was clearly time to take their leave. Hemi knew the way home by heart, so it was a quick matter to tear open the air again and lead the duo back to their place in another reality.

“You did good today, Hemi.” Liam literally patted the lynx on the back as he groomed.

“It’s strange… I never imagined I’d choose an outfit like that, but-- it really did look alright on me?”

“My friend, I could not have envisioned a dress that would fit you and the occasion better. I know I’m biased, but it’s really nice that you’re taking these kinds of risks now. It was a nice day! When we both get a while off of work, we should go out again -- and not just because I got to watch you try on suits for over an hour this time.”

“Hmph--! I’ll bet that was a real treat…”

“Oh, it was~” Liam said in a tone that made it truly impossible to discern if he was being sincere or just trying to get a rise out of him. Hemi just chuckled and looked back over at the garment bag, now hanging in his wardrobe.

“You should come with me. To the ball.”

“Um-- I’m not a wizard, though?”

“Any good ball allows plus ones. Besides, I know you’ve got some ridiculous giant gown or other in your storage somewhere.”

“I… may, but, I don’t think I’d look-- hey, you don’t get to turn the situation around on me like that!”

Hemi’s chuckle turned into a full laugh. “Revenge really is sweet~ But, seriously, you should come.”

“I’ll think about it. Home’s been pretty busy lately. Tsunamis, droughts-- the people need a nature prophet more than ever. But-- if I’m not actively mitigating some huge catastrophe-- I’ll put on a ‘ridiculous, giant gown’ and come with you to the ball. It’s the least I could do, after today.”

“Thank you.”

“Of-- course.”

The matter decided, each cat went on to enjoy the rest of the afternoon in their own ways.

[yoditorian]

Lacuna - The Rewrite - Part 1

din/reader

if you're wondering why this seems familiar - it is :)

original part 1 // series masterlist // main masterlist

word count: 3.5k

warnings: swearing, non-explicit sex, 18+ only pls.

You’re almost blind with rage.

The sweat cooling on your brow is the only proof of the dogfight you should never have found yourselves in. Too little warning, too little time, too little information. It’s only a matter of time before someone doesn’t come back after a job - and you know exactly where everyone else will lay blame if that happens.

You’re not thinking, not really, as you discard your gloves in the cockpit of the modified shuttle, the soft leather makes a satisfying slap when they hit the control panel. But it doesn’t dispel the itch of the anger running through your blood like ants. The others grumble when you push past them in the cargo hold but nobody makes any effort to stop you, eyes locked on target as he descends the boarding ramp.

You shove Ran between the shoulder blades, once - hard - and he stumbles down the last few feet of the ramp, skidding across the hangar floor on his ass. It’s almost comical, the cartoonish way he trips on his own feet. A few years ago, you might have laughed. But even a few years ago, you wouldn’t have had the courage to be quite so expressive about his leadership choices. If that’s what he’s calling them.

“What the fuck was that?”

He’s got the gall to look surprised by your outburst, from his crumpled heap on the floor, but his eyes harden in the same instant. Ran gets to his feet slowly, the dust on his pants the only evidence he’d been on the ground in the first place. He holds your gaze steadily, a challenge.

“About time you started pulling your weight around here anyway, sweetheart.”

Bold words from a man whose bad information ends in blaster fire more often than not, and your blood boils - it’s enough to have you drawing your blaster. Only it's not in the holster you keep strapped to your thigh. There’s only one person who’d have the forethought, the sleight of hand, the fucking gumption to pick your pocket in this moment.

Your eyes are cold as you turn to look up the ramp, where Mando stands above you in the mouth of the small freighter with your blaster dangling from his index finger. He’s apparently unaffected by your outrage, even though Ran’s actions could have ended very differently for all four of you. Xi’an cackles from somewhere inside the cargo hold. She’s lucky you’re suddenly, unexpectedly, unarmed.

“If I hadn’t gotten us out of it, we would have died.” You’re right, and everyone knows you’re right. But Mando just shrugs, the barest roll of his shoulders, like it’s nothing. Water off a fucking duck’s back.

“But we didn’t die, did we?” He says simply, as he descends the ramp towards you. The fingertips of his gloves brush your thigh as he drops the blaster back into its rightful place in your holster, and you can only watch him stalk off into the shadows of the hangar. Xi’an skips out of the belly of the ship, hot on his heels as always, fluttering her eyelashes at you and faux-pouting as she passes. 

The only reason any of you made it back to the station at all is because of you. You were quick enough on your feet to anticipate the attack, you were on the guns, you made the lightspeed calculations quicker than the nav computer to get the fuck out of there. Something everyone else seems to have conveniently not noticed, as usual. You heave an annoyed sigh, the fading adrenaline of your fury has leached all the energy from your bones, and you scuff your boots on the corrugated metal as you pick your way down the rest of the ramp. Ran catches you when you pass him, his grip on your arm just a little too tight to be friendly. 

“Empire’s always looking for pilots, I can just as easily put you back where I found you.” He says lowly, and you know it’s not an empty threat. You have to tug yourself out of his grasp and you’re sure there’ll be bruises in the shape of his fingertips by morning, you can feel them already. He knows there’s nothing left for you on Corellia save for an arrest warrant and swift execution. So you’re stuck here, because - well, what else do you have? Qin hands you a pouch of credits for a job well done as you shuffle past him, which makes that particular pill a little easier to choke down. 

You settle for spending the rest of the evening sulking in your room. Like the grown up you are. 

The little room on Ran’s space station isn’t much, but you’ve done what you can. A small bed and a desk, the matching chair had gone missing long before you moved in, a shelving unit, and a viewport. You’d shoved the bed up against the cold metal of the wall right underneath the little pane of glass, scarcely bigger than the datapad that lies forgotten on your pillow but you pay the boss dearly for the view. For the stars to be the first thing you see when you wake, and the last thing you see before you sleep? It’s the kind of thing you dreamed about as a child before everything went to hell. An old blanket is the only reminder of who you used to be, loosely crocheted and full of holes - it was used to swaddle you as a baby once upon a time, before the sweat and the ash and the bloodstains. It’s the only thing you’d brought with you when you had to run all those years ago, wrapped around your shoulders to shield you from the night’s chill at the last minute. You hadn’t even had time to put your shoes on.

The blanket lies crumpled atop the bedsheets, surrounded by scribbled notes and reminders and blueprints. You have a habit of taking work to bed with you sometimes, but it keeps the loneliness at bay. Most of the time. So, you gather the documents in a haphazard pile, already knowing you’ll be annoyed that you’ll have to sort them out in the morning, but you’re too tired to care. They get dumped unceremoniously on the desk, between half-dismantled sections of the latest scrap freighter’s control board. You’re pretty sure that future-you can handle a few sheets of paper. It’s not a problem for right now, anyway.

You have to pee. 

In all honesty, you don’t remember falling asleep. But your back is stiff from the position you’ve found yourself in, curled up on top of the blankets of your bed, and your clothes from the job lay wrinkled on the floor. You’re thankful, at least, that even in your exhausted state you had the forethought to change into the ratty t-shirt and soft trousers you keep as pyjamas. You’ve slept in that jacket more often than you’d care to admit, but it’s definitely not something you like to do.

Your door slides open, once you’ve gathered the willpower to rise from your nest, to reveal lowered lights and a rare moment of quiet in the corridor. Sleep hours, then. It’s hard to keep track of time when it’s always night outside, although you don’t mind living off-planet so much. It’s not that bad once you get used to it. Rest here usually comes when you can get it, though most of the job crew tend to catch a nap here and there at the same time. The scrappers rotate, the hangar always busy with someone chopping something to pieces. But the hallway lights lower regularly, for a few hours at a time, to at least remind people that they should be sleeping. It’s nothing like those fancy artificial sunrise to sunset lighting cycles you’ve heard about on inner rim stations. It doesn’t sound like anyone’s awake to judge you for shuffling to the bathroom in your socks anyway. 

The light is too bright in comparison to the dim hall, and you almost jump back from your reflection in the small mirror. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled shirt, you really should have done something with your hair before you passed out. You’re sure you’ve never looked more exhausted. Sleep hasn’t come easy in the few years you’ve spent on the station, dreams plagued by flashes of the reason you came here in the first place. Running, choking on the smoke in your lungs, an old friend’s blood splattering across your cheek. The only rest you really get is when you work yourself down to the bone, until you can’t keep your eyes open anymore, but you know you’re not the only one.

The door across from yours is open when you go back to your room, Mando standing in the frame, backlit by a lamp like he’s the hero from one of those propaganda movies you snuck into as a kid. You pause in your own doorway, it’s probably a bad idea to call him out on it. It’d probably only start an argument and then you’d have to deal with the only person you could count on to watch your back being mad at you.

“You should have backed me up earlier.” Your mouth takes the decision away from you. He waits for a moment, silently, like he’s expecting you to say more. But you leave it there.

“I did. You would have regretted killing him.”

“I wasn’t going to kill him.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you can almost hear his eyes roll under the helmet in his response.

“Do you think I don’t know what you look like when you’re about to blow someone’s head off?”

Well, he’s fucking got you there, hasn’t he?

Because he’s absolutely right - with your flash in the pan anger at the plan so close to going wrong, you probably would have killed Ran. Maybe not intentionally, but it would have been the most likely outcome. And then where would you all be, because de facto leadership in his sudden absence wouldn’t have fallen to you. Not if you’d been the one to kill him anyway, who would trust you to lead them after that?

But the idea that he knows you well enough, has studied you closely enough, to know when you’re about to do something as terrible as take a life. It’s intimate. Romantic, almost. 

It doesn’t make you as uncomfortable as you might have thought it would.

The mismatched floor panels creak under your weight as you stand there for a long moment, just watching each other. Any animosity from the day’s earlier events has dissipated but you can’t quite bring yourself to thank him for stopping you from making a stupid decision. At least he was quick off the mark with this one. Usually, he’s too late, and he comes in swinging only to have to help you mop up whatever mess you’ve gotten yourself into. He’s good like that. It’s only as he shifts slightly under your quiet observation that you notice the bag slung over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” You ask, barely a whisper so as not to disturb the moment of peace. However short it might be.  

Mando’s spine goes rigid, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask at all. But you don’t have time to take back the words before he’s walking right towards you, backing you into the darkness of your room. You’ve never been this close to him before, chest to chest, alone. The warmth you can feel even from under the armour threatens to make your head spin. 

“Home,” His voice is low, “Don’t you ever think about going home?” 

You didn’t even know he had a home to go back to. There’s a lot you don’t know about the man in front of you, but he’s loyal to the bone. That much is plain to see. He wants to know you’ll be okay, you think, without him as a buffer between you and the rest of the crew.

“My home is here.” Your answer is final, although you can feel the raised eyebrow through his helmet. You’re no more attached to the space station than you are any of the planets you’ve yet to visit. It’s not home, nowhere is. But you’ve been here since you were sixteen, years before the rest of your team, it’s as close as you’ll get to belonging somewhere. Mando doesn’t respond, doesn’t ask any questions, only stands with you for a long moment. Breathing. He’s good like that. You’ve never felt the pressure to fill any silence with him, he seems to exist so comfortably in it. It’s easier that way, probably for you both. You don’t know much about Mandalorians, the only stories you’ve heard are the ones Qin told you drunk in a seedy cantina when Mando first joined. Horror stories. If his past is anything similar to yours, he’s grateful for the absence of questions too.

“So it’s goodbye, then?” You’re yet to break his stare. 

“Yes.”

Is he closer, somehow?

“Would you have said goodbye if I wasn’t already awake?” 

He’s definitely closer.

Mando reaches behind him to tap the control panel on the wall, sliding the door shut and leaving you in the darkness. He lets his bag slip off his shoulder, lowering it to the floor suspiciously silently for one you know is crammed with weaponry, and walks you further into the room. You can’t really see much at all, only the steady blinking of the little red lights in the ceiling panels.

“You trust me?” It’s so quiet, you wonder if you imagined the words. He’s never given you a reason not to.

“Keep your eyes closed?”

“I promise.”

It takes a moment before he lifts the lip of the helmet high enough, and another long few seconds of just being without barriers - breathing in the same space for the first time - for him to kiss you. And kiss you he does.

The breath you get in before your lips touch is all him, turning your insides to liquid gold. Everywhere he touches you sets a fire. For a man so rough, he is so careful, he handles you as though you’ll break at the slightest breeze. As though he is wholly undeserving of such sweetness. Part of you thinks he’s convinced he is. It’s a first and a last kiss, a hello and a goodbye kiss, the way he tries to suffocate himself in you is evidence enough that you won’t be here again. You won’t get to have him like this again. He stays close when you finally break apart, taking his helmet off completely and placing it down on your desk with a decisive thunk.

“Mando-”

He pulls away from your mouth suddenly, but doesn’t stray far. His forehead leans heavily yours, as though he might fall without you there, still close enough that your lips would touch if either of you spoke. He’s fighting with something, you’re sure of it.

“Din. My name is Din.” He shouldn’t tell you. He shouldn’t have taken his helmet off, he shouldn’t have even thought about it. Although his fear of losing everything he has is almost overwhelming, it’s nothing compared to this. The fear that you would never know him as he is, as he has always been. The relief that brings tears to his eyes when you don’t shy away, when you lean into him. Like you want him too. You shouldn’t hold his creed in your hands but he gives it willingly. Of course he does. He’s never really been able to deny you anything.

“Din.”

The smile is so clear in your voice as you whisper it back to him in the darkness. The way you say his name sounds like a song. A prayer. Hushed and reverent like it’s something sacred, something holy. He knows his name, his creed, his life, is safe on your tongue. Din lays you back on the bed, gently, wool of the ratty blanket soft against your skin.

Din. He’s nothing but gentle with you. Warm hands barely there as they pull layers of clothing from the both of you, stripping himself of his armour, of The Mandalorian. Until there’s just him. Just a man, no more and no less than anybody else. A man who wishes he hadn’t been so stubborn and dismissive of his own desires; wishes he’d given in to this, to you, sooner. His mouth doesn’t leave your skin for a second, like he could digest you one kiss at a time if he tried hard enough. Part of him doesn’t want to leave you, he wants to stay in this bed in the dark and just exist. Your body in his hands and your moans in his mouth and absolutely nothing else. Because outside of this bed, this room, he can pretend nothing else exists. He can pretend he doesn’t have a duty, he doesn’t have to answer to anyone but you. He needs you in between his teeth, on his tongue. He’s sure now that he’s never needed anything else quite so badly.

The emotion of it isn’t lost on you, it’s the first and last time you’ll ever be with him. He’ll go after this, wherever it is that he’s going, wherever home is for him. You don’t pretend otherwise.

You won’t get to have him, in any way you want to, after this. So you lose yourself in him, in everything he gives and takes on those threadbare blankets in your room. The taste of him gets committed to memory and you swear you’ll never eat again if it means his sweat stays on your tongue. You dig your nails hard into his shoulders, you hope he’ll look at them before they fade. Hope he’ll see the marks you gave him and know that he is wanted. He is so desperately wanted and he had no idea. You kiss him with reckless abandon, cards on the table in all but words. So he can know, so he can come back. If that’s what he wants.

You stay tangled with him for a long time. Spit cooled and sweat dried. You don’t want to move. You want to drench yourself in everything he is until you never feel without him again. You want everything to stay exactly as it is for as long as he’ll let it. 

“Take the Razor Crest. She’s old but virtually untraceable, and faster than anything else in that hangar. I think you can handle her.” You laugh lightly, tracing a finger over the ridge of his wrist where his arm is curled tight around your chest. Din wishes he could drown in the sound.

The Razor Crest. You’ll be a little sad to see it go, but at least you know it’ll be in good hands. You know that you’ve examined every inch, tightened every bolt, wired every connection. It’s the most you can guarantee him, that he’ll be safe in the ship you built with your own two hands. You can keep him safe even at a distance. 

He takes your advice, once you’re asleep. Once he’s convinced himself to pull away from your warmth and go back to the life he knows. The one without you. The Razor Crest looms over him in the empty hangar, but something about its presence is comforting when he knows you were the one to put her together. Din fires up the ship, and doesn’t look back.

“He took the fucking Crest!”

The shout from the corridor jolts you awake, significantly warmer than you should be, and you find your old shirt and sweatpants pulled back on your body. Din. The thought of him so carefully redressing you, his touch gentle enough not to wake you, makes your heart swell. It shouldn’t, but you can’t help it. With a heavy sigh, you flick the lights on from the panel by your bed and pull yourself to your feet. The door slides open with a wave of your hand by the door panel and you’re met with a very angry, very red-faced, Ran.

“You wouldn’t know anything about this would you, sweetheart?” He growls, and you know you look guilty. You’ve been freshly fucked and you know you look like it.  Even if you hadn’t been thoroughly rammed into your mattress the night before, it’s far too early for anyone to be shouting up a storm. The rest of the crew come filtering out, rubbing eyes and calling out accusations at each other. It’s enough to give you a headache.

Home is a funny concept. It could mean anywhere, really, it can change and morph into something else entirely. Something you might have thought of as being the place you belong can become unrecognisable in an instant. Something can change about it, and you might find it’s not as welcoming as it might have been, once upon a time.

Maybe a space station in the middle of nowhere isn’t a forever home after all.

You don’t want to stay here, chopping up ships on the payroll of a man you’re not sure you were ever meant to meet. There’s something bigger out there for you, somewhere out in the galaxy there’s lightning with your name on it.

I don't actually have access to my old taglist form anymore, so if you want on it just lmk and I'll make a list <;3

[dualdeixis]

[Image description: A ten-page digital comic featuring Ventus and Vanitas. There are full descriptions of all of the pages under the cut. End image description.]

persecutor

[Image description: First page. The palette is mostly limited to very dark blue and wine-purple; the golden speech bubbles are styled after canon, complete with mini Kingdom Keys hanging from the ends of certain bubbles. Additionally, Vanitas’s speech is aligned to the left, while Ventus’s is aligned to the right. The two of them are sitting on one of the Land of Departure’s cliffs, looking out into the starry night sky. Vanitas wears a sleeveless, shortened yukata which has tassels at the ends and is ripped on the right side. It is fastened by a black obi with a charm shaped like the Unversed symbol as the obidome. He also wears a black, high-collared undershirt with attached fingerless gloves; bandages wrapped around his legs; and black knee-high combat boots. Ventus wears his usual armor with a cropped jacket that has only the right sleeve; a gi fastened by the crossed straps and Land of Departure emblem over his chest; the same black undershirt but with only the left sleeve; his checkered wristband; and cargo pants. He says, “…Why could you feel what I felt, and not the other way around? Was it because something was stopping me? The light? Sora? My training?” Vanitas: “Oh, please, it’s not that complicated. Of course a shadow knows everything about the person that cast it. I’m always right behind you—what else can I look at? You just never turned around to notice me.” Ventus: “Well... I have now. I’m looking at you, too. …I’m sorry that it took so long.” Vanitas: “Pff. Don’t apologize, idiot. You should be glad that it did.” Ventus: “…No, I should be apologizing for a lot of things.”

Second page. Ventus turns to look at Vanitas with a hard expression and says, “I mean, I killed you. Do you not want me to be sorry for that?” Vanitas doesn’t meet Ventus’s gaze, continuing to stare blankly ahead. His thoughts are stylized as a blue dialogue choice box with three options: “You’d better be. Traitor. / I wish it had stuck. / All you did was kill yourself.” Instead of choosing any of them, he turns his face away from Ventus and says, “…Quit it. What’s the point? It’s been years, and you failed. I’m still alive. You wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t tried to kill you first, anyways. So shouldn’t I be the sorry one?”

Third page. Ventus looks down, keeping his hard expression; instead of a panel border, he is surrounded by the silhouette of No Name. He says, “That’s because you were—” Vanitas interrupts, “But I’m not sorry.” No Name’s Gazing Eye takes the place of the circular lamp beside Vanitas, who turns back towards Ventus with a face darkened completely by shadow; his eyes glow starkly yellow. Casually leaning back on his hands and crossing one leg over the other, he continues: “And neither are you.”

Fourth page. The χ-blade appears in the same bright yellow, and Ventus and Vanitas are drawn over it in their battle gear, positioned as if they’re being impaled by it. Vanitas says, “How could we be? We both have our roles as Keyblade wielders—and we’ll never let anyone stop us from playing them. No matter the cost.” Ventus stares silently at Vanitas with a slightly unsettled expression, turns away as his horror grows, and brings his hands up to his sweating face. He is contrasted with panels that show shards of glass floating in a void. He says, “I want to be sorry... I want to, I swear I do... Why is this so hard...?”

Fifth page. Vanitas smiles and says, “Because you’re an idiot.” Ventus hunches over and says tensely, “Don’t call me that.” Vanitas: “Idiot.” Ventus: “Stop.” Vanitas: “Idiot.” Ventus presses his fists into his temples and snaps, “SHUT UP! Why are you doing this?! I was trying to apologize to you and now you’re—!” Vanitas laughs, “Ha, it’s only natural, isn’t it? We were created to fight each other, not be friends! After all… the only reason we could forge the χ-blade was because you hated me just as much as I hated you. So don’t get all self-righteous with me, guardian of light.” Ventus glares silently and intensely at him.

Sixth page. Ventus says bitterly, “Yeah, I hated you.” Drawn in a full-page closeup, he pulls his hands away from his head with a less intense but still conflicted expression. He is framed by a bright yellow panel.

Seventh page. The page is divided by two borders which cross in an X-shape. Vanitas is drawn from the shoulder up in the top-center of the composition, his helmet reflecting a hazy silhouette of Ventus. The top segment of the X has the background as Destiny Islands, while the left and right segments show the Keyblade Graveyard. The bottom segment shows Vanitas and Ventus in the midst of their final battle: Vanitas wields the χ-blade, Ventus wields Lost Memory, and the shattered pieces of their shared Station of Awakening float around them. Ventus says, “Even when I found out who you were—that you were really me… I still hated you so much. I get what you mean, actually. It felt natural to hate you. Because it was just another way to hate myself.” The next dialogue bubbles are arranged in an incomplete circle: “Being beaten into the ground, beating myself into the ground, it felt like something clicked into place: ‘This is exactly what I deserve.’”

Eighth page. Ventus and Vanitas are drawn in separate panels, facing away from each other with their expressions cut off. Ventus says, “So in the middle of the hatred, I was… happy, I guess. Relieved. Because it was right. You felt that too, didn’t you?” Then, over an image of the softly glowing shards of glass as they try to reform into a Station, Ventus says, “…But I don’t… want to hate you anymore.”

Ninth page. Two panels show Xehanort’s gloved hands reaching out with tendrils of darkness surrounding them. Another panel shows Terra possessed by Xehanort, and the last shows Vanitas as he is currently, with a darkened face but an affected expression. Ventus says, “It doesn’t mean that what you did to us never happened. But I know you only did it because of him. If you’re my brother, then I’m hating my brother because he got tricked by a horrible, evil man. I couldn’t do that back then. I can’t do it now. And if you’re me, then I’m hating myself. I don’t want to do that anymore. I’m so tired of us blaming ourselves and each other. It’s not fair. When we fight, we’re just doing what he wanted us to do.” He bursts out, “It wasn’t our fault! We didn’t deserve any of it!”

Tenth page. The panels are drawn unevenly, with borders that don’t quite interlock properly. With a trembling voice, Ventus says, “It’s not fair… It’s not fair to hate each other instead of him… So even if I can’t give a real apology, even if you can’t accept it from me… Let’s just stop it, please…” He puts his face in his hands. Vanitas stares at him with an aghast expression, sweating, and then exclaims, “O-okay, okay, I’ll stop! D...” He reaches out a hand as Ventus wipes at his face, but pulls away before they can actually touch. Now wiping at his own face, Vanitas says in a similarly trembling voice, “Don’t cry...” End image description.]

[lostgirlfandom]

Just a Security Guard Part III

Pairing: Eventual Frank Castle x GN!Reader x Matt Murdock

Warnings: Mentions of readers past and few curse words

Words: 1k

Frank Castle decided to show up at your work instead of your apartment a couple of days after Devil showed up. Your boss had decided after the incident at the warehouse to move you to a barge dock.  

Which was fine, it was nice and quiet out there. And the only thing you had to do was keep track of the barges and ships that came in out of the dock along with inspectors that came through the gates. It was a farther drive but you were fine with it.  

It was a night shift and usually pretty slow.  

You had just got done searching a vehicle and had waited for the vehicle to go through the gate before closing the gate behind the person. You had turned around with your hands in your pocket before you saw movement out of the corner of your eye as you moved to walk back into the guard shack.

Pausing, you smirked. “Hi, Frank.” You greeted casually.  

There was silence for a minute before he stepped from back around the corner. He had a black hoodie on with the hood up and black cargo pants along with black tactical boots. Trying to be stealthy but you learned your lesson. Nothing was gonna sneak up on you now.  

“You were easy to find.” His gruff and gravelly voice spoke out into the night, his breath showing with the drop in temperature since it was getting close to the winter season.  

You scoffed softly with a grin. “I wasn’t exactly hiding especially since I’m living the life of a civilian now.” You looked around more and faced away from the security camera so it didn’t record you speaking.  

He tilted his head and gave a grin, knowing you couldn’t see it cause of the shadows and the dark of night. “Life of a civilian, huh?”  

You shrugged and turned down your lips. “I’m retired now.”

Frank shook his head and licked his lips. “Retired from what exactly?”  

Smirking, you rocked on the heels of your feet. “You know... you should have came with Devil so I didn’t have to explain myself twice.” You teased.  

You watched out of the corner of your eye as he tensed. “Red visited you?” He sounded pissed.  

Nodding, you shrugged. “Couple of days ago.”  

He gave a soft curse as he sighed through his nose.  

You also sighed. “Look, I’ll tell you what I told him. I’m assuming you found that I didn’t have any records before 2014?” You asked and he nodded. “Well, I was experimented on by Hydra since before I was born. They kidnapped my mother while she was pregnant with me and injected her with chemicals similar to the Super Soldier Serum that was used on Captain America. It was mostly successful, with the addition of having some sort of sixth sense, super strength that rivals Captain America and the Winter Soldier. Along with the fact that I was trained since the time I could walk in hand-to-hand combat and became a weapons expert. The only thing they couldn’t do was control me.” You took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The moment I found an opportunity to leave, I took it. I was rehabilitated by some of the Avengers, mostly Cap and Dr. Banner. I became part of the Avengers until a couple of months ago when the Accords came up. I was either forced to retire or I would be controlled by the Government basically.” You shrugged and looked around. “As you can see, I chose to retire.”

There was a moment of silence.  

“It’s not all bad... I finally have a name.” You licked your lips and looked at him. “I can be normal... whatever that is. Annnnd,” You elongated your word with a grin. “I get a monthly allowance from the government till the day I die.”  

He gave a scoff and shook his head. “Why do I get the impression that that isn’t the whole story?”

“Cause it isn’t the whole story...” You were sarcastic as you said the next part. “Gotta keep up some sort of mystery.”

Frank felt a pinch in his chest, feeling sympathetic and almost angry on your behalf. “You don’t deserve that shit... nobody does but especially you.”

You gave a scoffing laugh and shook your head before looking down at your feet. “I know... after escaping I wanted to just live my life... but Mr. Rogers said I should be doing some good to make sure that the Government knew that I wasn’t some evil Nazi. But I’m happy where I am now.”  

You looked up at him from under your eyelashes. His breath hitched for a brief moment. “And like I told Devil... you owe me one.”  

He gave a half grin and looked down before looking back up at you. “Alright, [Alias]. I gotchu.” He waved you over and you walked over. “C’mere. I’ll give you the number to my burner so you can call me if you need me.”  

Internally, you both grinning giddily.  

Handing him your phone, you teased him. “You know, if you wanted my number, all you had to do was ask.”  

He gave another half grin that you were finally able to see up close. It softened his face and you were admiring his face as he put in his number on your phone. “Either way... You have mine now. Let me know if you have any trouble with Red and I’ll take care of it” He handed your phone back.  

As you put your phone away, you smiled and shook your head. He admired your face, taking in the fact the smile brightened up your face. “I can handle Red. You just be careful next time and I won’t have to save your ass.”  

He gave a deep chuckle which made your body relax at the warmth that came with hearing his chuckle. “Alright then, Rocky. I’ll be seeing ya then.”  

Frank took a small step back as you nodded. “Alright, Frank.”  

He turned to walk away, back the way he came from. Neither one of you noticing that a big smile took over your faces.  

Shaking your head, you finally went back into the guard shack to absorb the heat. “Fucking A” you muttered to yourself as you sat down to watch the cameras.  

[booksandchainmail]

Pale 11.1

“More than you’d think.  But it’s like… secrets in a small town type stuff.  Blood in the streets, a struggling defense against invaders.  Killings, gunmen, cannibalism, underage drinking…” “What shows are you watching?” “…But the cannibal types are on the side of the good guys, I think.  When they aren’t too hungry.” “Is this from a game?” “There’s not much game about it.  It’s deathly serious.  But it’s the kind of serious where you have to joke about it and play it off as non-serious to your mom, while she’s all confused, you know?” “I’m definitely confused.  I do like your imagination though.  I wish I could keep up with it.”

Verona really does just tell her parents what's going on, secure in the knowledge that they won't follow up about it. I mean sure, I don't blame Verona's mom for not realizing everything Verona said has happened, but I think saying "There's something dangerous and serious in a way where I have to joke like it's a game to you." should raise some questions

Verona said, deciding it was best not to push things too far, fun as it was. As important as it was to leave a trail of breadcrumbs in case something bad happened.

oh. Well that's grim, but probably a good idea. Though if the girls die suddenly and violently, I think having had a trail of clues indicating that this was an ongoing problem parents didn't notice might make it worse.

“Mom.  Did you pay him?  Or threaten him?  It matters if I’m eventually going back there.  I want to know what’s going on.”

incredibly depressing to be able to put an exact financial value on how much your presence is worth to your father

“No.  No, not bad.  I hope not, anyway.  It seemed easy and streamlined, me leaving you with your dad while I got set up, and then with how bitter you were, and distance?  It felt easier to not force things.”

Verona also often takes an easy route in daily life, but not about things that matter to her. Which means either she's unlike her mother in that, or it implies some bad things about how important Verona is to her mother.

“High school daughters,” Lucy countered.

congratulations!

“Feels shitty.  It’s like, I’ve got this impulse to, I dunno, do stuff.  Like, picking up a broom and sweeping and doing laundry and helping out and-”

I get this when I visit people, and that's under normal circumstance

She drew the symbols necessary and then arranged the papers around the room.  She pressed two against the big window at one side of Lucy’s room. It would obscure any vision of spying eyes and confuse any listening ears. “We good?” Lucy asked. She gave Lucy a nod.

huh, was the disagreement a smokescreen? IIRC they've don that before

She set the pieces of her mask aside, sorted out books, put pens and markers into her left pants pocket, ground up glamour from the flower Guilherme had given her in her right pants pocket with three folded up bits of paper with feathers sticking up out of them, ready to quickly deploy transformations.  Back right pants pocket held a stack of spell cards.

petition to get Verona some cargo pants

Avery wore running shorts and an athletic tee with a pocket, which seemed like an oxymoron when it came to the shirt’s purpose.

does anyone ever use breast pockets on shirts?

Shadows deepened, then the light shone through, as if a cloud had passed over the moon and then let it shine brighter immediately after.  What looked like dense trees and a patch of nature at the corner of this area was opened up like an optical illusion had revealed itself, showing the narrow one-lane street that extended into the trees, and the tall, not-especially-taken-care-of house tucked into the trees.  The skeleton of a for-sale sign was set into the lawn, the top portion with the realtor’s face worn by weather, the lower half that hung from the horizontal part of the post had fallen off and was mostly covered in weeds and tall grass. “City magic is so badass,” Avery said.

Agreed

Possible Demesne for Verona?

“They’re definitely more active, and more sloppy,” Lucy said.  “Edith especially.  But it doesn’t feel scared.”

and getting the cube back wasn't brought up in Edith and Maricica's conversation

Lucy shook her head.  “Which takes us back full circle to the big fat question of why they aren’t freaking out.  And I have this sick little feeling in my stomach that makes no sense, but… what if we have it wrong?”

goddammit. My theories!

“But none of them know for absolute sure who did it, I don’t think,” Lucy replied.  “And this sick feeling in my gut is… what if it’s our soldier friend?  What if we have it wrong and he would get both coup and claim?” “Hasn’t he said he doesn’t want it?” Verona asked.  “But he’ll take it anyway?” “Could be he doesn’t want it but he needs it?” Lucy asked.  “What if our soldier friend isn’t a friend but a major culprit, we screwed up when interviewing him or jumped to conclusions, and the furs are… I dunno.  Secondary?”

huh. I don't think so. I hope not! I don't John was involved with making the Choir out of Yalda, he seemed surprised to find out about that. I suppose he could have been recruited later? But that seems shaky. Maybe becoming the Carmine Judge would let him help Yalda, but I don't see how.

“E was making clothes, right?” Avery asked.

I missed that, can you check the measurements?

“This isn’t going to be one of those situations where we get to gather the information and do a big badass whodunnit moment, huh?” Verona asked.

:(

“When I went to check in with the Judges, I asked if they could give us any kind of protection,” Avery said.  “They kind of said no.  Uhh, as I remember it, the protection we get for taking care of Kennet is what we get, karmically speaking.  We make our own karma.” “I’m finding myself struggling to realize what the point of them is,” Lucy said.

lol. But also yes. Maybe their role is more as arbiters than as criminal judges? Settling property disputes, overseeing contracts, offering a neutral enforcing party for negotiations

“I think they handle the stuff that’s really broken,” Verona said.  “There wasn’t anything super relevant in the books, but there were figures that seemed judge-like who would set quests and point the right people in the right ways to handle anything that was really bad.  In other places you get Lords and committees deciding what needs handling.  The Others who are threatening the seal of Solomon, monsters too big for any one person to defeat, breaches between worlds, stuff.”

or that! Scary to think this doesn't rise to their attention

“That’s the exact kind of moment you should be super cool and confident.  Unflappable, badass Avery,” Verona told her, grinning.

I would like to think that being very flappable and earnest can also work.

“Three times we were wronged,” Verona mused aloud, “That deserves righting.  We can ask for the judges to hand us the ability to right the wrong.  If they can control how karma happens, then let that karma be protection during and immediately after the arrest.  Access to any power that might be held back from us as we try to put it into effect. We need answers from her so we’re not asking for her to be forsworn.”

So like I was saying, arbiters of fairness not of criminal cases

“She was hurting, she was alone, she tried to reach out, and I was busy feeling sorry for myself.  Hurt, Booker gone, having to leave out information for my mom, mostly staying in my room, trying to think of a good way through this whole situation, you know?”

Oof yeah, and Avery gets hurt more by feeling left out, while Lucy reacts strongly to feeling like she has to manage things for other people

“Yeah,” Lucy said, one side of her mouth pulling back hard, disappointed, upset.  “I was scared.” That disappointment and upset gave way to something else, fleeting, deeper, vulnerable.  Lucy looked away a moment later.

and she almost died! And didn't have anyone on hand to talk about it with, and I'm guessing she didn't want to admit to Avery how scared she was

“Really, really close.  And then I was scared too, of what if being in close contact with a ghoul infected me.  Close calls with death, right?”

gods that sounds terrifying.

“I wanted to ask someone for clarification on that but didn’t know who to trust, and didn’t really trust anyone, for a little bit there, and I didn’t even want to go outside.”

And to extend Lucy's fox symbolism, this reminds me of the thing that some wild animals do when injured/sick, of holing up alone and just waiting to see if they die. (Note: I do not know if this applies specifically to foxes). This is mostly not a useful behavior for humans, but man if the urge to just cut down on contact and be terrified and emotional in private isn't relatable (thinking back to Lucy not wanting her mother to see her cry)

“Talk to me?  Send me a frigging mail?  You say you didn’t know who to reach out and talk to?  Me!  Me me me me or Avery or your mom or me!  I can frigging take it, Luce!”

yeah!

“We are cosmically frigging bound together, you jerk!"

I like this line. More frustrated expressions of endless affection please

Worst of both worlds when I can tell something’s wrong and you won’t let me help!

yeah :(

“Avery needs something like this too,” Lucy said.  “The big intense hug.  It’s harder to figure out.”

I'm not sure if the pre-hug scuffling would work on Avery or not

“Okay.  Why don’t we call Avery’s parents and see about her coming over?  Be ready for them to say it’s too late.”

sleepover!

Verona pointed toward the window.  Avery turned, looking, and Verona lunged, rising up out of the bed, and hauled her down, backwards, onto the bed.  Avery lay there, barely on the edge of the bed, Verona holding her from behind, feet still on the ground.  After about ten seconds she tried to get her feet up onto the bed, failed twice, and succeeded on the third try.  They shuffled over so Avery wasn’t constantly on the verge of falling off the bed.

:)

[direwombat]

Its that time of the week! Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton (thank you~)

Tagging: @adelaidedrubman, @strangefable, @inafieldofdaisies, @detectivelokis, @baldurrs, @purplehairsecretlair , @confidentandgood , @kittiofdoom, @fourlittleseedlings, @poetikat, @gaeadene, @aceghosts anyone else who has something they want to share today! (But no pressure, as always)

been wrestling with ch 1 of kneeling at the crossroads so here's the rewritten intro~

In the dark cold of the Stranger's bunker, Deputy Sybille La Roux can finally breathe. Her teeth still chatter from the bone-deep chill she feels after spending who knows how long in her wet uniform, but it’s nowhere near as violent now that she’s in dry clothes. The old purple flannel is soft and well worn; the cargo pants are so loose and baggy that they’re nearly falling off her hips. But beggars can’t be choosers, and after everything that’s happened, she’s just grateful the man didn’t hand her over to the cult like he said he should.

The faucet drips at a steady tempo and the fluorescent lights buzz at a similar frequency to the ringing in her ears. She claws at the sink basin, leaning heavily over it and sucking in heaving breaths as she resists the urge to vomit into it. Lifting her head, the world spins just enough to get her stomach to lurch. There’s no way in Hell she isn’t concussed, but without a doctor, there’s not much she can do about that at the moment. 

She stares at her reflection in the cracked and grimy mirror. Not like she’s in much of a better state, herself. A deep gash, freshly stitched cuts across her forehead just beneath her hairline; less deep lacerations are scattered all over her face, including one slashing vertically over her lips; and throbbing in time with her pulse are the freshly bandaged second-degree burns that spread across her shoulder.

Heat. Fire. The smell of cooking flesh and agonizing pain of having to flay oneself to escape the burning chassis.

She winces and grits her teeth. Her head throbs at the memory -- or at least she thinks it’s a memory. It’s too vivid not to be. How and why she ended up ripping off a patch of her shoulder in a burning machine she can’t quite recall, and as she tries to dig deeper for context, all she draws is a blank. She remembers slogging through the mud. 

She remembers the haunting chorus of Amazing Grace echoing out into the night. 

She remembers Earl opening the doors to Joseph Seed’s church. 

And then nothing. Everything after that is just…gone. She tries to dig deeper, but the harder she does, the more it feels like she’s grasping at smoke; reaching out to grab the shadow lurking in the fog only to come back empty handed.

A dull pain settles in her temples and she takes that as her sign to give up. For now. Things will come back to her. She just needs to give it some time. Besides, all things considered, it could be worse. None of her injuries are debilitating. Sure, some are more painful than others, but all should heal in due time. Her maman always said to count her blessings where she could.

But she still looks like Hell.

“…and Hell followed with him.”

Pain stabs just behind her eyes and she physically recoils from the image of Joseph Seed pointing at her. Her heart pounds in her chest, panic forcing a shot of adrenaline through her veins. She needs to move. She needs to run. Her grip on the sink tightens. Every muscle in her body tenses, but she has nowhere to go.

Bile rises in her throat and she chokes it out into the basin. Her gums burn. Her eyes are bloodshot and watering. The thick, yellow, wad of spit and acid is tinged red with blood.

She hastily twists the knob, cupping her hands under the stream of lukewarm water and drinking deeply. It sloshes uncomfortably in her empty, cramping stomach, but it’s worth the soothing balm it provides. 

Everything hurts, but she endures nonetheless. 

She drinks her fill and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand when she’s done. The water stopper squeaks as she closes it, and the roar of rushing water returns to the rhythmic plip plip plip of the faucet’s steady leak. 

She can’t say she feels much better. But she also can’t say she feels any worse. She’s functional, and she’ll take equilibrium over deterioration any day of the week. 

Combing her hair with her fingers, she makes a feeble attempt to tame the mess of her short, dark, locks. Then, after drying her hands on her jeans, she ambles out into the rest of the bunker, looking for the man who pulled her from the river.

[coffee-n-bagels-comic-universe]

Neutralised (1994): S01 E01 [1/5]

(Meant to be read like a TV show, or the description of a TV show)

Warnings: Shitty writing (I'm rusty on television writing), death & dead bodies, 90s fashion decisions (can you tell I don't know what to mention), misunderstandings & perceived abuse, cheesy nicknames, violence & Swearing.

2000 ish words. Please tell me if you want to be tagged.

~~💀💀~~

The scene opens on a graveyard at dawn, a figure holds a shovel and attempts to dig, but the ground is too cold and hard. Next to him is a completely black golf-cart type vehicle.

A small subtitle appears at the bottom of the screen, it reads 'January 1st 1994, Chicago, Illinois'.

As the camera gets closer to the figure we can see them in more detail, blonde hair and glasses wearing a denim shirt and jeans under a dark brown winter coat, along with black boots, the faint hint of stubble colours his jawline in a tint of gold. This is Caleb 'Cal' willow, head grave-digger, 32 years old, British-American, six-foot tall and good-looking even though he doesn't wish to be anyone's eye-candy.

The figure (Cal) stops, leaving the shovel standing straight up in the frozen ground as he leans on it and looks towards something off-camera.

The camera shifts to behind the man in denim and we see truck, a beat-up, old, purple, 1989 Ford F-150.

The shot gets closer and the couple in the car are suddenly clearer.

The man in the driver's seat is hefty and has a smug smirk on his face, his leather jacket covers a stained off-white tank-top, a baseball cap covers most of his curly brown hair, except for the week-old beard and puts his blue eyes in shadow. This is Lance Carter, an electrician, 30 years old, originally from Mississippi, six-foot-two and a former college athlete.

"You gotta stop trippin' over yer feet, Mona." He grumbles as he leans over to kiss the woman.

The woman, 'Mona' is paler than her lover, light blonde hair, styled into bangs and a ponytail, and bright blue eyes contrast with her black painted lips and dark crimson eyeshadow, her red V-neck sweater vest and black long-sleeve shirt show a hint of cleavage and a black heart necklace. Her bangs barely hide a poorly covered bruise from that earlier morning. This is Monday 'Mona' Duke, the youngest grave-digger, 26 years old, born and raised in Eloia, five-foot-one and deceptively lean.

"I'll try not to, my Lancelot. I'ma go hand Cal his coffee, I love you and I'll see you later." Mona whispers, kissing his cheek and pulling away to get out of the truck.

Mona takes a set of three paper cups and a black satchel bag with her, the camera shifts to show her walking, with a slight but noticeable limp on her right side, towards Cal, his figure standing in the graveyard, and we see she's wearing black cargo pants and black heavy boots with inch-thick platforms on the bottom.

"Bram not here yet?" She calls as she walks over.

"Not yet, Mona, waiting for the call to say he's got religious reasons." Cal breathes out a cloud as he sighs, happily taking a cup from his female co-worker.

"We should have taken today off, but then again, you don't care about New Year's Day, and I don't want to be in the same apartment as my dumbass boyfriend."

"Go send Prince Charming away then, Princess." Cal chuckles softly.

Mona jogs back to the car, which isn't easy with her limp being made worse by the freezing weather.

"Lance, I'm at work now, you can leave."

Lance leans out of the window to kiss Mona, when they pull away a man can be seen between them, about six feet from the car.

The man is tall, broad shoulders with a black trench-coat draped over them, his pale blue jumper clashes slightly with the dark green colour of his trousers, and the maroon brown shade of his boots. His curly black hair comes to rest just above his dark brown eyes and aquiline nose, his scowling lips are framed by a neatly trimmed goatee. This is Abraham 'Bram' Machado, the tallest grave-digger, 30 years old, born and raised in Idaho, six-foot-three and easily angered.

He glares at Lance as the man drives away, his rage vanishes as he looks at Mona.

"Morning, Mona, sorry I'm late Cal… car troubles." The tallest member of the trio nervously explains, gesturing to his car parked neatly in its place, the only hint of damage is a cracked passenger window.

"Lateness I expect from Mona, not from you, Bram." Cal huffs as he once again tries to dig the frozen dirt.

Mona limps a couple paces before sitting in the black golf-cart.

"Are you doing okay, Mona?" Bram raises an eyebrow in concern, taking a swig from the final cup of coffee to hide the scowl on his lips.

She nods, taking a sip from her coffee before she turns to scan across the graveyard, her eyes widen when she spots something.

Cal gestures for Bram to put his drink down and focus on the work. Bram nods but stares at Mona as he continues working.

"Excuse me, sir," Mona starts walking towards a slumped figure, "you can't sleep out here, you'll catch your demise, mister?" She pokes the figure with her foot, dropping down to check their pulse.

Cal and Bram stop and silently watch as Mona slowly stands and starts carefully walking backwards towards them.

"Monday, are you alright?" Cal's voice waivers slightly as he starts to realise what the lady grave-digger has seen.

"Monday, come here, you shouldn't look at that. Mona, Mona come here." Bram pulls Mona towards him, making her squeak as her smaller frame collides with his chest, he shields her body with his.

Cal grabs his phone from his back pocket and dials a number, the scene starts to fade out as Cal says, "Hey, Boss…"

The next scene fades in, an office, cramped and claustrophobic.

An older gentleman, his black hair balding, short of both stature and temper, wearing an all black suit more at home in the 70s, along with black leather gloves on his hands. He sits at an old wooden desk and shakes his head as he grabs a small pile of paperwork.

"These are your witness reports," He looks at the trio, annoyed at them, "I'm not letting you three get off of work just because you found a body. Miss Duke, shift's over, I'll see you later. Out." The older man, Mr Mortimer according to the name plaque on his desk, grumbles in an Italian accent, waving the three grave-diggers out of his tiny office.

They step out into a larger room, past a young black man sitting with his feet on his desk reading 'Funeral Monthly', and through another door into what almost looks like a gothic hotel lobby. At the desk sits a larger, blond gentleman, downing an energy drink with an obvious 'I don't want to be here' attitude.

Cal strikes up a conversation with him with a casual, "Hey, King." Then the conversation fades into background noise.

"Hey, Monday… Are, are you sure you're okay, Mona?" Bram whispers as he sits down with her on one of the benches in the lobby.

"Yeah I'm fine, Bram, it's nothing I haven't seen before," She shrugs, "Lance should be here soon to take me to the café anyway." Mona's voice is a mile a minute, it's clear that this is just how she talks, fast-paced with little time to relax, as is her lifestyle.

But at the mention of Lance, Bram's soft, caring smile drops, replaced with a scowl full of hate as he hunkers down, placing his forearms against his thighs, he glares at the entrance and his jaw clenches tight, hands already balled into fists.

He's shaken from the mist of blind anger by Mona gently patting his shoulder as a gesture of thanks.

Mona heads outside, lighting up a cigarette as Bram stands, stopping himself from following her, he waits for Cal to leave first.

Bram glares at Lance as Mona kisses her boyfriend and leaves with him, Bram continues glaring until he can't see the truck anymore.

"Drop the glare, we have work to do. You can fight him when Mona isn't around him," Cal nudges Bram's arm, "c'mon Romeo."

The two men climb into the golf-cart and head back to the grave they were digging.

Meanwhile, Mona and Lance share an awkward moment of silence before Lance huffs a hefty sigh.

"Are we gonna talk about it?" He grumbles.

"What? The dead frozen guy?" Mona raises an eyebrow at the gruff tone of her boyfriend's voice.

"No, Mona. Are we gonna talk about him, the tall guy you work with?"

"Bram? What about him?" She shrugs, not understanding the question.

"He glares at me, every time I drop you off or pick you up. Hell, Mona, he glares at me when I visit you at work."

"He's just protective, it's not every day that someone shows up with bruises and a limp."

Mona checks her hairline in a compact mirror, showing the bruises, which can't be older than a week or less, she attempts to cover them with makeup and fixes her bangs to hide them again.

"I know that, but it's every time, not just today." Lance slams hard on the horn and silently mouths a couple curse words at another driver.

Mona jumps at the noise of the horn, Lance notices and takes her hand to press a reassuring kiss to the back of her palm.

"I didn't realise that, Lancelot, but pay him no attention. I'm your girl, not his." Mona whispers as Lance parks the truck.

As soon as Mona steps out of the truck, the back door of the café swings open and a young man, in white clothes and an apron, with jet black hair comes rushing out, stopping when he sees Mona and rushing over to hug her.

"Fry, down baby brother, down." Mona chuckles softly.

Fry puts his hands up and takes a step back, "Estelle's here. She's mad at Angelo."

"Why's she mad at Angelo for?"

As Mona steps through the door the camera follows her and when it swings back the screen goes black.

The scene fades back and the camera raises diagonally out of the grave Cal and Bram have been digging. Cal and Bram have both ditched their jackets by this point, Cal's denim shirt has sweat stains in the armpits. Bram is in the process of taking his jumper off, revealing a long-sleeved beige undershirt and suspenders.

"So, what's the deal with you and Mona?" Cal asks, watching as Bram's shoulders drop as he sighs.

"The deal with me and Monday," Bram murmurs as he places his jumper in the cart, "From the day she got hired, I thought me and her would be friends, or maybe more, but she doesn't see me in that way. If she truly wants Lance, then the lord better fix him fast." Bram grumbles as he avoids looking Cal in the eyes.

Cal goes to speak, falling silent as both men look towards the sound of tires screeching to a halt.

Lance's truck pulls up beside the row of headstones, the driver's side door swings open and he steps out, scowling as he looks at Cal and Bram.

The passenger door swings open and a young, golden haired man in a dark blue security uniform steps out and rushes over to Lance's side. The name tag on his chest reads 'Kane Carter'. This is Kane 'K.C' Carter, the day-shift security guard, 27 years old, the younger brother of Lance, five-foot-nine and a man who is usually late due to being a heavy sleeper.

"Piss off, Kane." Lance growls, taking off his jacket and throwing it onto the seat before slamming the car door.

"Lance, don't. Think about what Monday would want." K.C tries to push his brother towards the car as Lance storms towards the grave-diggers.

"Don't you dare." Cal whispers as he pries Bram's hand off the shovel, chucking both potential weapons in the back of the cart.

Bram stands his ground, glaring daggers at Lance as the, slightly shorter, tall man advances.

[tony-the-tigers-juicy-armpit]

A Middle Age

The very first feeling, if one could remember their own birth, would be the sliding of wet flesh over their brand new skin to the tune of their mother's screaming. An upsetting thought, prevented by the squishiness of the mortal newborn's brain. Cataclysm is a newborn like anyone once was, but he is born a man. His total non-existence followed immediately by fully formed musculature and mastery of language, coming to being like ice forming in cold water. In free air, he falls hands and knees to the concrete floor. His first feeling is the fear that his kneecaps will break, and his first words are: "Where am I?"

Cataclysm's senses are brought to life. There's an odd beeping pervading the air, a ferrous scent like blood and a taste to match, and a dim but irritating light barely illuminating what his thoughts tessellated for him to be a laboratory.

A hand touched his back, and gently caressed his cold, wet skin. Cataclysm was vexed, but not panicked.

"You are made of something beautiful and new." said the voice attached to the hand. "You are my happiest triumph."

The hand touched a cord attached to Cataclysm's back and tugged it off of him. It fell to the ground with a metallic clank. His lungs cleared, and he heaved as something spilled from his mouth onto the floor. The hands pat his head and helped Cataclysm stand, his new legs not ever having done so.

Upright, he found that he was much taller than the person who helped him, a distinguished, intelligent-looking man, somewhere in his 40s. No hair. A horizontal scar on his forehead. Electric blue eyes.

"Can you understand my words?" he asked.

"Yes." replied Cataclysm.

"Good. My name is Doctor Ryle. I'm not an accredited doctor, I should say. My first name is Doctor."

"Hm."

"How do you feel?" asked Doctor.

"Thirsty and cold, and...primed to know things."

"Impressive faculty. Immediate sense of want and need...what is your name?"

"Cataclysm." he said plainly, only vaguely aware of what that word means aside from being his name.

"Troubling! We'll get to that later."

---

Doctor gave Cataclysm a bathrobe and a pair of sandals, like he'd just come from a spa. He was led through winding stone hallways, the floor pocked with sharp pebbles. They came to a room, which Cataclysm recognized as a "Break Room". There was a woman of navy blue skin sat down, eyes closed, wires from the wall plugged into her.

"Tempest?" Doctor called. He leaned toward Cataclysm- "a previous project of mine. A friend, more importantly."

Tempest opened her eyes and gave Doctor an irritated look, but it softened when she beheld Cataclysm. She popped the wires out from herself and stood up to stretch. Tempest had curly shoulder-length hair of black and silver, silver that matched her foggy eyes. She wore cargo pants and leather boots, but was bare-chested. Cataclysm looked away nervously. Tempest chuckled.

"From when did you load his sense of Forms?" she asked.

"Long ago." replied Doctor.

"Relax, new man. We live in an enlightened age."

"Very well." said Cataclysm, clearing his throat. He continued, "Are you blind?", regarding her eyes.

"Not really. I can see shadow, but very little color. You're pink." Tempest noted. Cataclysm looked at his hands. Certainly redder than Doctor, whose skin was a light gray. Tempest looked at Doctor again.

"So the project is still on?"

"Yes. Which is why I regretfully interrupted your Fyyd Time - I was wondering if you would take our new friend outside."

Cataclysm's eyes lit up at the idea of going outside. He desired fresh air.

"So soon?" Tempest asked.

"Might as well rip the band-aid off." Doctor reasoned.

"Is there something wrong with outside?" Cataclysm asked. Tempest and Doctor laughed together.

---

Cataclysm and Tempest wore heavy protective suits that looked from the outside like they were made of tinfoil, the hood enclosing a powerful gas mask.

"The air is toxic?" asked Cataclysm.

"Yes and no." said Tempest.

She slammed a red button, the door to the compound closed, and the door outside opened.

Lush green grass, wildflowers, butterflies and chirping birds, leaves swaying in the breeze. The pair stepped outside.

"It's beautiful out." Cataclysm said. "Where are we, geographically?"

"A tiny island a quarter-mile off the coast of Crete."

"Why are we wearing these protective suits?"

"My eyes are closed right now. If I open them, the world will change." Tempest explained.

"Go on." Cataclysm encouraged. Tempest nodded, and opened her eyes. Within the cone of her sight, the world was dark and bioluminescent, more like a jungle than a Mediterranean isle. Outside her sight, the world remained as Cataclysm saw it.

"Expectations are layered. I opened my eyes second, so my sight was laid on top of yours. That's why you can see my world." Tempest said.

"What does the world look like when nobody can see it?" Cataclysm asked.

"Dead. Completely. Gray dust and stagnant air. We can see it through security cameras."

"This still doesn't explain the suits."

From nowhere, the landscape changed again, the world turning to glowing sludge and enormous buzzing wasps.

"Ahh!" yelped Cataclysm, startled. "Whose vision is this?"

"Someone on the beach is looking at the island."

Again, a change. Everything became a sunny desertscape, a tall cactus' silhouette overbearing Cataclysm's view.

"Close your eyes for five seconds and reopen them. That will assert your view over the others."

1...2...3...4...5

Cataclysm sighed in relief as his peaceful world returned. He turned to Tempest.

"What happens if two people open their eyes at the same time?"

"The dead world asserts itself."

Cataclysm grunted in confusion and frustration.

"Is this the way the world is supposed to be?" Cataclysm asked.

"No. Long story short, in trying to regenerate the land, this was created by accident."

"What happened to the land in the first place?"

"Too much was taken from it."

Cataclysm took a deep breath, trying to wrap his head around it.

"Why did we come out here?"

"To meet the reason we live on this island. You're going to talk to the Root."

[silverysnake]

Tagged by @pumpking64 thank you so much!!

Share your wallpaper: It‘s THIS art by @neverland-in-space (not gonna put it here bc I don‘t wanna repost)

The last song you listened to: I have a playlist with my favourite songs from this years eurovision that‘s just on repeat the whole time so I‘m gonna put the six songs that are in it here: Cha Cha Cha by Käärijä (Finland), Queen of Kings by Alessandra (Norway), Promise by Voyager (Australia), Blood & Glitter by Lord Of The Lost (Germany), Who the Hell Is Edgar? by TEYA and SALENA (Austria), Carpe Diem by Joker Out (Slovenia). Cha Cha Cha and Queen of Kings are definitely the two I‘ve listened to the most tbh bc I keep putting them on repeat until I remember that I could listen to some of the other songs too.

Currently reading: Started rereading Good Omens for idk the sixth or seventh time now and spatort fics of course

Last Movie: Stereo. Please don‘t ask me what it was about it was some weird german movie I found in the depths of netflix, the only thing I know for sure is that there was a ghost that was played by Moritz Bleibtreu. The last movie I‘ve seen in the cinema was the new Guardians of the Galaxy which made me cry my eyes out.

Craving: Some coffee and for my schürk/ross wg fic to finish itself bc I can‘t find my motivation

What are you wearing right now: cargo-pants and a batman-shirt

How tall are you: 173 so pretty average haha

Piercings: Had earrings since I was six

Tattoos: None, but I wanna get one soon

Glasses? Contacts?: Nope

Last drink: Water. Stay hydrated guys!

Last show: ‚last‘ ist good, I‘m watching seven shows rn (and yes I‘m gonna elaborate on that): 1) Spatort, 2) Soko Leipzig, 3) Polizeiruf Swiecko (the sad gay german cop shows, no one should be surprised by this), 4) Magicians with some friends (how does this show have so much plot I still don‘t understand?!), 5) Dark (every time when I say „hey this would be a funny thing to reveal but actually please don‘t i don‘t want the situation to get worse“ that exact thing is revealed like in the next one to three episodes and by now I‘m just horrified by everything), 6) Mord mit Aussicht (my bestie pressured me for weeks until I gave in and honestly it‘s pretty entertaining and another german cop show), 7) Supernatural bc for some reason I thought that is a good idea

Last thing you ate: some bread for breakfast

Favourite colour: Purple and green :)

Current obsession: The already mentioned sad gay german cop shows

Unrelated obsession: Norse Mythology

Any pets: Nope, but my parents have two cats and I‘ve missed them every day since I moved out

Do you have a crush on anyone: Nope

Favourite fictional character: It‘s been Loki for years so I guess he deserves to be on here (not just the Marvel version but in general) and I guess currently it‘s Adam Schürk haha

The last place you traveled: Spent a week in a village near Burg (bei Magdeburg) last month :)

Tagging: @shadow-of-a-cloud @homoromoacecase @neverland-in-space @lyxchen @anotherobsessedfangirl @schuerk-wie-schurke @ancient-namess and anyone else who wants to do this :)