#simon tells a story

[cappycodeart]

CONCEPT DOODLES for an AU I dabbled in with a few friends after the winter king episode but kinda forgot about after the Fionna and Cake finale... I decided to revisit it and explore a little more after coming to terms with everything LOL... So, it's another "Winter King doesn't die immediately after his crown gets nuked" AU, but THIS TIME he's just dying really slowly (like Simon in the Betty episode) and ALSO joins Fionna, Cake, and Simon on their search for magic crowns. There's no logic behind this tbh, we just wanted to put him through The Horrors. And make them all friends. But mostly The Horrors. :) (he only gets to live as a treat, because I think he's funny).

Bonus (old screenshot), because this is still funny to me:

[silkenwinger]

daimon

mdni. ancient greece AU. princess!reader x guard!ghost. heavily inspired by antigone (but it ends well :)). 7k. tw for suicide attempt, maybe slight dubcon (mention of wine drank before sex)

The room was cold as you finished fastening your black peplum. It had been a cold autumn, mountain winds bruising sore skin. It was the autumn your life ended.

Your brother. So brave. You remembered running with him among the olive trees and tripping on the roots as you trailed him. Your mother had yelled at you so much you remembered the sting of the tears on your cheek.

But you had grown. Your father, the king, dead by the plague by spring, followed by your frail mother. Your brother away east. When he’d returned along with his men, he found the city he was supposed to lead in the hands of the most powerful merchant, a man as crooked as rich. We thought he was dead, said the men of the city. Lost in the barren hell of the east, gone for too many years. And when he tried to enter the city, he was met with violence and bronze. As expected, your brother did not lie down, but fought to retake the throne. He now laid in the place he died still, eaten by vultures and dogs alike. His soul stuck between the living and the dead, forever restless.

Profane he was taking something that was not his, and profane he was not burying your brother. 

“I’ve decided, then. Take care.”

Your dearest maid, her loyalty unmatched, did not comprehend.

“Princess, you must stop this talk at once!” She cried, clutching at your vest. “You know The Shepherd is a cruel man, but you will marry his son. Going against the decree…”

You scoffed. Being kin with that monster would be worse than being dead.

“I no longer care about marrying. Honoring my brother is more important,” you brushed your hand against her thin shoulder, and moved away, but with pain. No time for lost love.

“I have been wearing the black for half a year. Did you know? The moment I heard my brother was alive, I cried real tears of joy. I would no longer be alone in the world.” You sat down on your wooden couch, looking down. “And two nights later he is dead. I never even got to see his face again.” If you strained your memories, you could make out a ghost of a smile, of a laugh, but you couldn’t be certain they were his.

“The King is unfair, that much is true,” mumbled your maid, “but you go against certain death. The law says it, anyone who buries your brother is to be stoned in the square!”

“I know,” you looked up to see her shocked face, “so I heard.”

She cried then, howling. Her grief for you moved the strings of your heart, but did not dissuade you. You died the other day: your last act would be making sure you could see your brother in Hell, along with your parents. Hooding yourself, you left your room, the only place in the palace you could still call yours, by the lesser known way, one that passed through a less surveilled zone of the palace.

He looked old. No, not old: older, his skin worn by the sun. Tall, and strong, and dead. You remembered well– he smiled like that, a lightning bolt in the fair weather. 

Hurried, you acted fast. You covered his body with a thin layer of dust. That is enough, for now, you thought, as you couldn’t bear to look at him any longer.

The path you took made sure you were hidden from the guards. You wondered how many of them saw your brother grow, train and live: and how could they bear to leave him there, alone and doomed. 

The darkness of the road calmed you. The sting of the broken law was nothing compared to the peace you felt inside. 

But the sting of the hand grabbing your arm was real. A tall shadow made it so you couldn't move.

“What are you doing here?” Asked the Ghost, one of the main palace guards. A real enigma, that one. He did not recognise you immediately, hidden as you were. But your voice would tell on you. Perhaps, at the start, you could have wanted to do what you did without being discovered, but you had changed your mind. You did not care for the Shepherd’s decision.

“I was just doing my daily offering at the temple,” you told him, and his eyes, the only visible part of his face, widened in recognition. He then started glaring at you, obvious suspicion brewing.

“At this time and alone? It is unsafe for you.” 

“Should I have left the house in the daylight so close to my brother’s death?”

He remained silent at your response. The Ghost never saw or knew your brother– you wouldn’t blame him if he had only distaste for his attack on the city. He was probably only an enemy to him, and not the boy who giggled at the comedies and puppet shows.

The Ghost had arrived in the city around four years before. Immediately, he’d attracted the attention of everyone, men and women, for the mask he wore on his face and his mysterious attitude. No one knew where he came from, or how he really was called, and would answer only to Ghost. His accent had been weird, and his behavior even more so. Whispers said he was a barbarian driven away from his country for having killed too many. His ruthlessness was legendary: he’d torn apart limbs and eyes of the few criminals that dared venturing into your palace. They even called him a demon that fed on his victims' souls. You had never spoken, but you’d seen him around, mostly guarding your father’s rooms, now occupied by the Shepherd. What was he doing outside, too, for that matter.

“Will you kindly let me go, now?” You tugged your arm away, but he did not relent.

“I ought to bring you back.” You just looked up at him then, at his unreadable eyes, and nodded, resigned.

The walk was silent, but not unpleasant. You kept thinking about what you’d done and oscillating between being proud and feeling an overwhelming distress inside of you. The Ghost kept at your back, his steps more silent than yours despite the difference in sizes.

“Good night then. Do not leave the house unaccompanied,” he made sure to reprimand as he left you at your door. You shrugged: leaving it accompanied meant worse for you.

Four nights after his death, your brother still laid in the dust. You could not be placated along with the pain in your chest. The guards, noticing the thin layer of earth on the corpse, had reported to the Shepherd that someone had attempted to bury your brother, thus breaking the law. 

It is clear, you thought. You will die either way, inside your room or stoned to death: you might as well bury your brother properly. That time, your maid didn’t even cry: she had resigned herself as well.

They grabbed you while your back was to them, crouching on the corpse. The Ghost stood tall behind the guards: you locked eyes with him and could not tell what he was thinking. Was he maybe regretting not arresting you the first time he found you outside?

Once you were brought to your feet, he made a soundless gesture, and the other guards offered you to him. He grabbed you then, alone, and started dragging you to the palace.

The Shepherd, your father’s successor, had no regard for you. Despite being betrothed to his son before your father even passed, he made no qualms about taking what was your brother’s by right, and would not hesitate sending you to your death. 

“Come, girl. It was you, I imagined.” He spoke, up in the throne where your father once sat. The sight filled you with a bright anger, which then turned into muted despair, to end in cold apathy. It was not coming back. It would never come back.

You stood silent in front of a dozen men.

“You know what the price is, do you? I made sure the heralds read the decree many times, right outside here, as well.”

You nodded. The Shepherd tilted his bald head to you, regarding your figure more like an insect than a noble woman. The men of the council, shiveling, cowardly men, murmured at your admission of guilt.

“You broke the law. What made you think you could do that?”

You inhaled then, and made yourself taller. 

“The laws of the gods came before yours. It is wicked not to bury the dead.” The murmuring ceased at your words, an oppressive miasm falling over the room.

“But he declared war on the city. I protected the inhabitants, and you as well.” The Shepherd replied, unbothered. He was well aware he was going against a non written law, but did not care.

“That does not matter to me. I would bury a murderer.”

“And murderer he was, bringing fire and weapons to this peaceful city.” He laughed at you. You felt ire overflowing your judgement.

“How dare you? My brother was the heir to the throne!” You yelled, and the Ghost shaked you hard. You glowered at him and all you got as a reply was a brown eyed glare.

“Your brother was a fool, who ignored your poor father’s requests to return several times! And this,” he clutched the scroll, “declares me as the heir to the King!” 

You shook your head. Your father had been less lucid the last years of his life, and even cussed out your brother for not returning from his childish dreams of conquering. But he'd never make the Shepherd his heir: he even confessed to you he couldn't stand the man. 

“I do not accept you as King of the city. That is the truth of it.” You tried to keep a steady voice, but you were trembling. The hold on your shoulders got tighter. Why was the Ghost clutching you so severely? He couldn’t possibly be afraid for you: maybe his loyalty to the Shepherd was such that he’d kill you yourself.

The men of the council, men who had seen you grow, looked pale in the dim light of the morning. How long had you been outside? You felt like you’d seen your brother for only a second.

“I see, then,” spoke the Shepherd, as he rose from the throne. 

“You’ve decided to declare yourself an enemy of this state, as your brother before you. The sentence for going against the edict is stoning.” First rose muttering, and then louder voices, and then shouts. The vile men protested, outraged, but the Shepherd shot them down with a steady hand.

“As the past princess of this city, and betrothed to my son, I ought to not expose you with such an execution. See how they cry for you still? Would they hold the same respect for you had you been a thief, a conman? Yet you are guilty to the same degree.”

“That is not true!” Cried a voice, close or far. “She committed a sacred act!”

“Who dares go against me!” Shouted the Shepherd, but no one showed their face. He made an hissing noise then, red in the face.

“All that break the laws must be punished. How else are we supposed to live civilly?” He then moved his gaze back to you.

“I condemn you to be walled alive, and your brother will stay unburied until his bones turn to dust. His body will feed the soil of this splendid city.” 

This is it, then. The rest of your days. The shame of disrobing did not fall on you, yet. This would be your salvation from starving. The damp cave amplified the sound of all of your actions. Biting the gentle cloth, you tore a strip of the fabric from your skirt, testing its resistance. As you calculated the distance between the ground and the wooden rod on the cave ceiling, you heard steps approaching. The door, that could only be opened from outside, revealed two tall figures, dressed in typical military garb. The Ghost, clad in his dark attire, got closer to you, sword in hand. Ah. That was it, then. 

“Have you come to kill me yourself, then?” You told him. He said nothing, just got even closer, long strides and deadly silent. He grabbed you, again, and you let yourself be taken. The other guard, with piercing blue eyes, just looked at the Ghost with a doubting expression. The Ghost started dragging you out of the corridor, and that was when you pointed your feet down, tears filling your eyes.

“What is going on? I won’t be shamed now. I’ve already been condemned.” You cried, afraid. More afraid now than when you were going to hang yourself, for your hand would be merciful, but the Ghost’s wouldn’t. He stopped then, and looked in your eye. He seemed weirdly reluctant.

“Keep quiet, now. You won’t die today.” Unintelligently, you muttered your surprise. The Ghost started dragging you along again, the other guard becoming smaller and smaller in your view.

You walked, and walked, and walked through the night and the city and the fields. Exhausted, you had to stop often, even for just a moment. The Ghost looked at you with distaste then, like he regretted ever taking you away from your attempt at your life.

“You can’t even walk a mile without bending on yourself,” he spit out. For his indecency and rudeness, you struck him across the face, hand making contact with the black muslin of his mask. The slap barely moved him and he growled, and you expected him to finally retaliate and penetrate you with his sword. But he just turned on himself and started walking again.

“If you had told me where you’re taking me, I would not have struck you,” you tried to bargain. He sighed then, clearly thinking you insufferable.

“You have allies in the city. As the true King’s daughter,” you gasped at his words, tongue curling around the r’s in an odd, mesmerizing way.

“But they all voted in favor of the Shepherd taking power.”

“You know it’s because of the secrets and extortions he has on them. He’s no dearer to them than a tyrant.” You closed your mouth then, pondering. Could the city go back to having a proper king, one that respected the Gods’ laws?

“So you are my friend,” you said simply. He swallowed at that.

“I am… your protector. For the time being.”

You nodded. He, too, was now an enemy of the state, by association.

“I thank you then. Even though I would not have minded joining my family.”

He remained silent at that. A while after, he spoke again.

“We need to stop for a few hours at least. And you’ll need male clothing,” he simply said. You hid in a cave, wider and longer than the one that was supposed to hold you in your death. The Ghost lit up a small fire near the opening, and you watched him as he stroked it, pensive. Perhaps he, too, was thinking about what he left.

“Ghost,” you called, tone uncertain, “can I call you that?”

He nodded without taking his eyes off the fire.

“How… What is going on back home? Who hired you?”

“I can’t tell you that,” he replied to your second question. “As for back home, we placed a corpse in your place to give us a head start.”

“Someone else died for me,” you whispered, upset in your soul. You had been ready to kill yourself.

“He was already dead,” spoke the Ghost, weirdly demure. “One dead instead of two.”

“But…”

“Enough of that. You do not deserve to die for burying your brother. It is as simple as that.” You were stunned into silence by the determination of his words. So far, you’d thought he was only hired to do what his employer asked him. But now, you saw he agreed with your stance. For some reason, you felt pride in yourself bloom.

“Where are you taking me, then?”

“I know a place,” he said, “where you won’t be found.”

Something moved in your heart, again. He was being remarkably gentle for a butcher.

You fell asleep some time after, warmed by the fire. 

When you woke up, Ghost was nowhere to be seen. You looked deeper in the cave, but made your way back when you couldn’t see the light anymore. When you reached the entrance again, you heard someone call your name. 

“Come, then,” Ghost told you as you made your way down the cave’s entrance, back to more stable terrain and the spare tree. A small river ran to the side of the plain. Ghost was clutching a leather bag, ruffling around it crudely. His eyes could have almost betrayed embarrassment. 

“I know nothing of princesses’ dresses. Will this suffice?” He held up a man’s tunic, to which you raised an eyebrow. The Ghost was an odd fellow, and you’d be indebted to him for the rest of your life. That didn’t mean you would understand all of his actions.

“You told me yourself I had to dress like a man.”

“True. I was rude about it.” Your eyebrow raised even higher. An apology… or a statement as close to it as possible. You didn’t think the city’s terror was even capable of that.

“No, you were right. I will change.” You grabbed his offering with shaking hands. Once you’d switched your black clothes for the off white tunic behind the tree, you tried to look at your figure in the stream’s reflection. There was little difference between men and women’s clothes, besides the face that your lower legs were now exposed. You’d wear your hood to conceal your female face, but also your upper body. You tugged at the Ghost’s wrist. He looked at you then, dragging his eyes from your face to your feet. You felt an odd sensation making its way up your back.

“Shall we go then?”

“Yes.”

You walked in the market, among the people and the animals. It was weird to not open a road every time you showed in a public place: and even weirder to walk side to side with a man. You looked up at Ghost, again, and you found him inspecting the surroundings with thin eyes.

“Are you hungry?” He asked you, like a wet nurse might ask her toddler. The image of the Ghost tending to a small child was so comical, a giggle left your mouth. You were quick to shut your mouth, but he caught you anyway. His expression was baffled.

“Yes, I am. Sorry,” you apologised. You had only eaten some bread all day, and maybe the hunger was making you silly. He accosted a stand and bought pears and bread from the farmer, who took a long look at you. Probably wondering why a man would bring his slave boy to the market, you realized with shame, and looked down.

You ate the sweet pears and the bread with the cheese under a tree’s shadow while Ghost kept watch. 

“Would you like to sit?” You asked him politely.

“No.” He simply said, and kept watching the horizon. You sighed into your food. Still alone, but at least not famished. Your march began anew, the male tunic proving itself to be more comfortable. Still, you felt somewhat exposed, especially in Ghost's eyes. Every time you locked eyes, you found yourself looking away first. There was something about this man that left you exposed besides your legs. Like a plow moves the earth.

Did he even sleep? He was awake when you were, and he kept watch when you slept. Later, hidden in another, smaller cave, you voiced your concerns to him. He raised one eyebrow.

“Afraid, princess? That I will fall while I watch you? I’ve been a guard almost longer than you’ve been alive.” You rolled your eyes at his pride and the humorous tone of his voice. Many men’s fall was their excessive confidence.

“Should I not worry for my only companion in life?”

That shut him up quickly. He just regarded you then, shifting on his feet. Clearly uncomfortable with the truth. When he decided to speak again, what he said shocked you most.

“I saw your brother die.”

Hearing a strange noise, only after a second you realised you were the one making it.

“Did you kill him?” You asked, voice tight. Ghost shook his head.

“The Shepherd’s men shot arrows at his back while he was fighting. He was a great warrior.” You sniffed hearing his words. You knew, you knew your brother would fight to his death, you’d seen his ruined body bloated but dressed for war. 

“It’s not honorable. Shooting a man in the back.” He said simply, holding your gaze. His body began to warp and look odd as water filled your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me this,” you whispered, and he nodded, finally sitting next to you. If you dried your tears on his wide shoulder, no one else saw you.

Your journey lasted more days than you imagined. Everytime you asked the question to Ghost, he would only answer soon. He saw you pray at the gods’ altars: Hermes, Artemis, Athena, Zeus. He never prayed himself, or placed offerings that you didn’t tell him to place, which at the start unnerved you and then made you curious.

“Where do you come from?” Your conversations usually started with a question from you and ended with a reply from him. But you didn’t think he was a too dire debate partner, anyway.

“From far away.”

“Stop treating me as if I’m stupid.” You did hate his dismissal ways, sometimes.

“I’m not lying,” he hissed from between his teeth, “I come from so far away, I wouldn’t even know how to go back home.” That intrigued you. The twists and turns of his journey would surely make for a great story. But you hoped you could arrive at your destination.

“Then we are the same,” you decided to reply, “both without a home.”

He sighed, oddly softly. You thought that was an interesting reaction, and nestled closer to him.

When you were too far away from a market, or from farmers who would sell their fares to Ghost, he would go hunting. You’d beg and beg to let him teach you how to shoot an arrow (you’d always dreamed to be a brilliant hero of the stories), and he always categorically refused to do it. But, extraordinarily, he did teach you something. He taught you briefly how to fish, so long as you had a needle; he taught you what weeds were good to eat. Dirtying your hands felt weird at first, but you were quickly motivated by the pings of hunger in your belly.

Finally, you reached another settlement. Your surprise was evident seeing so many people prepare for a feast. You asked a busy woman what was going on: she looked at you as if you had grown another head, and simply said “the Dionysia”. What joy, then. Drinking, dancing, singing. You hadn’t heard a joyful bard or a musician since before your parents died. Smiling, you turned to your brooding companion.

“Can we stop for the festival, Ghost?” You pled him.

He looked irritated at your request. 

“What will happen if you get recognized, hmm?”

“I am a mere daughter. I’m no danger to whoever sits the city throne now.”

“You can’t rule, that much is true,” he took his big hand and grazed at your belly with the back of his fingers, making your skin goosebump, “but what of the sons of your womb? And what do you think happens in these festivals? You must have seen it too, the men with the courtesans.” You blushed at his implications.

“You… you heathen! Are you not here to protect me?” He scoffed at your protests and at the light punches you threw at his chest, but he paid the inn for the day and you beamed at him. He’d even called you his wife to the innkeeper– the action had made your blood surge, but then you pathetically remembered you could never marry anymore.

You both drank a little, but not too much, you to not get too drunk, him to both integrate and not lose his mind. It was exhilarating, taking part in a feast as a common person and not a noble. Nobody but Ghost was looking at you, and you were free to do as you pleased. Nobody in the village had cared that you were a woman, the people just happy to have two more that would pray for the wellness of the settlement. 

“Should I go dancing?” You asked him, raising to your feet while he kept sitting down.

Incredibly, he laughed. Your mouth hung in awe. It was a husky sound, much like all of him. Immediately, you wanted to hear more.

“Silly girl, you’re dressed as a boy! You’ll look odd, moving to the girls’ dance.” Blushing, you sat back down again. There was so much you didn’t know or you had taken for granted due to your higher position, and Ghost never sweetened the hard truth with honey. As much as the noble girl had died with the rest of your family, this common one wasn’t quite born yet. A warm hand came to hold the back of your neck, gently petting it.

“You looked beautiful dancing at the palace,” you heard his voice low in your ear, his breath warm on your cheek. His mouth, red and soft, was exposed in order for him to drink and eat. “I remember your dress, that summer. Once we arrive, I’ll buy you a similar one.” 

He must have been speaking about the day of your bethronal to the Shepherd’s son, the biggest event you had ever been the protagonist of. You danced for a whole day. What had happened to your betrothed, that older boy? You had no way of knowing, but he didn’t defend you from his father. You knew even back then that he did not like you much, and he was probably ecstatic that you died to the city. 

“Are we close to arriving?” He started petting your cheek then, even brushing his thumb against your lips.

“Yes, very close, sweet thing.” He then blinked and drew away, as if he realised what he was doing. You wished he would keep touching you.

Oh Dionysus, you crazy god. You’ve freed the coldest of men at last, the one barbarian who couldn’t be dissuaded from his duty. 

You saw many peculiar things at the feast. The dances were different from what you were used to, and the plays were even more debouched. The road from your home had been long, and wherever you were, there was no longer any overlap for the princess and the girl. Even Ghost, the one link to your previous life, was no longer a guard, an impersonal male figure that worked for your father: he was a man under your will.

When it was time to leave the party, you did so broken-hearted. The warmth of the people had been a balm to your still hurt heart. And this new side of an intoxicated Ghost intrigued you.

“Oh my,” you said, seeing the inn room had only one, big bed. The headboard was an intricate wickerwork, far more beautiful that a bed from a village inn could hope to be. 

You’d never slept with a man in your bed.

You sent a nervous look to Ghost, who was busy rattling around in his bag. Always bustling, this man.

You could ask him to sleep on the ground, but as you’d been sleeping on grass and rocks for two weeks now, it would be a profoundly impolite gesture.  

You quickly removed your outside layer of clothing, and remained in your small clothes. You approached the bed and slid on it, turning on your elbows. As you settled, you saw Ghost looking up and sending brief glances your way, like he was respectfully gauging the situation.

“Ghost, come sleep next to me.” You felt yourself say. It was very much an alien part of you saying it. Maybe the innermost one.

He swallowed as he stood in front of the bed. Now in the closed, and warm thanks to the fireplace, he removed his mask.

You found yourself looking at his full face for the first time. He did not look like most men did back home, but you perceived his appearance as pleasing nevertheless. His hair was light, spun of gold. What happened next shocked you more, as he began removing the pieces that composed his armor. Ironically, had he been wearing a more simple garb, you would not have had time to elaborate, and you would have panicked. But the necessary time for him to undress allowed to study the man that was about to sleep next to you.

His height often intimidated most: he did not even need to glower at them. Despite his size, you found out he could remove his armor quickly and efficiently, and he did not stumble about even after drinking wine. Of course, you had seen many men in different states of underdressing, as that was the condition in which sports and competitions were taken on. His body was different from the ones of most athletes, but you recognised the build of a hero in it either way. For one, he was covered in hair– fair hair, matching the ones on his head, but so different from the hairless bodies of the oiled runners.This was a body meant to fight and protect, and not to be shown at the circus. Only his jaw was shaved: in a way, he was the complete opposite of the rest of the men of your city.

You smiled at him as he remained in his loincloth, and he sat down at the very opposite edge of the bed.

You had slept by his side many times now. What embarrassed him?

“You can lay down more comfortably.”

“This is improper.”

“Does it matter?” You replied, a bit miffed. “This last month of my life has been improper. You might as well get a good night’s rest.” He turned to glare at you, and that was the first time you locked eyes with him when he was unmasked. Whatever he saw in your expression must have been convincing enough, because he laid down next to you.  

“I so missed a real bed. Haven’t you?” You said to make conversation.

“I lied to you,” he replied. Anxiety rose in you.

“What?”

“There was no employer,” he said, almost hiccupping, hand on his face, “nobody told me to take you away.”

The revelation hit your heart strong, and you turned away from him. 

“Why did you do it, then?” You hummed and he sat up on the bed.

“I couldn’t bear to see you die,” he whispered, now looking at you while you kept your gaze away. “I am no citizen. I live off employment from lords and merchants. I was hired by your father, and I was bound by contract to protect his family.”

“When he died and the Shepherd rose, I could and should have changed city. There was no reason for me to stay there when chaos would rule. But I wanted to keep an eye on you, because you are reckless and too determined.” You spluttered, offended. “Don’t lie, you know it to be true. And I did well, otherwise you would have killed yourself. And what a waste that would have been.” You turned to face him.

“Ghost…”

“There is no grand plan. I wanted to take you to a house I know to be empty, for I killed the owner in the past. And we would live there, and you would be safe.”

“Why “would”? I am coming with you,” you said, very simply. “What else am I supposed to do? Take back my place at the palace? There is nothing dear for me there, besides one or two maids, that I hope are well.” You tentatively got close and raised your arm to brush his cheek, this time. You felt his stubble sting at your fingers. 

“Ghost, from when you took me away, you’ve become my whole family. You are my dead father and mother, my dear brother, and even my future husband. No one else will take me in, orphan and poor as I am. Would you leave me now?”

“No, never,” he hurried to say, and you smiled again. For whatever reason, your loyalty to your family had been rewarded with a loyal stranger.

“Then there is no problem. Would you… would you be my husband then?” He sighed then, long suffering, and he turned to hover over you as his hands came to hold your hips. You yelped, surprised by his speed.

“What are you even saying?”

“You… you said I was your wife to the innkeeper.”

“That was a lie,” he said, pressing an index to your nose, making you laugh, “so that we would be taken in. Should I have said “this is the runaway princess of an important town, and I’m escorting her away from her death”? Hmm? Should I have? You insufferable girl,” he held you close as you laughed and your legs squirmed under him.

“I told you I’m not a princess anymore!”

He scoffed then, but kept you close still even as you wiggled. “What else could you be? Delicate and opinionated as you are. Only a princess with her burly jailer,” he remarked. 

“Jailer? I’ve been freer with you these days than the rest of my life.” You whispered in his ear as you embraced him in your arms. With less commodities, for certain, but free in nature, in the landscapes you observed, in the food you ate and in the company you kept. No man’s law that differed from the gods’ existed here. To think you would have never spoken to Ghost if those great tragedies hadn’t befallen on you.

Because Ghost would never make a move to really connect the two like you ought to be, you decided to take a stand, and brought your lips to his cheek, leaving a chaste kiss there. Spurred by his involuntary purr, you kept kissing him, making your way to his mouth. There, you left a longer kiss, one that confirmed that his lips were, indeed, soft. When you looked at his eyes, you found out they were glazed over, lands away. But you couldn’t be jealous of his memories, because he then started to kiss you in return. At first, with his mouth closed, much like yours: but then his lips started to part, and he began kissing you with his tongue. Taken by surprise, you timidly tried to mimic what he was doing, although this one act was lost in the records chambermaids giggled about. Before long, you kept feeling that weird sensation in your lower body, at the juncture of your legs, the one joked about in the comedies, and you held one shy hand against Ghost’s chest. He immediately withdrew from you, as if burned by your touch.

“What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No… No at all. I feel weird,” you said, and immediately regretted it. Could you be any more fumbling. Ghost breathed hard, his chest grazing yours, and then moved so he would not lay on you anymore.

“Do you want to stop?” He asked you, and you shook your head, your hair brushing against his face. He laughed, softly, and you again felt a sense of pride in making him do so. He began kissing you again, and what joy that was.

The sensation in the middle of your legs was answered when you felt Ghost’s hand slipping under your clothes. Even without seeing, he knew what to do to you: he began tracing your sex, concentrating on the upper side of it, which made you gasp in pleasure. His index then entered you, and you felt your mouth falling open as he muttered encouragement in your temple. Good girl, good girl, he just said, and then he picked up speed and the slick sound of his fingers entering and leaving you made you hide your face in your neck. He kept cooing at you, and everything felt so real, too real, as you felt a burst of energy released inside you, a sensation unlike any other. You panted into his shoulder, shocked. Was this what being married entailed? Suddenly, you were very glad to have asked Ghost to be your husband.

Speaking of which, he moved from your side, and you cried at the loss of warmth and him. He shifted to be on top of you again, and you looked him in the eye from under. He looked very vivid, like the most alive thing you had ever seen in your life. The shadows of the crackling fire played on his hair, and you made yourself even smaller.

“Was it true? What you said.” He asked you. You didn’t even know what he meant in particular, but you had never lied to him, past that one night he encountered you as you fled the scene. You said yes.

“There will be no walking back from this. We will be as good as a real husband and wife after this, do you understand? I won’t let you go–” he choked out the last part, reining in his desperation. You shook your head again.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you.” He made another frustrated sound then, and you saw, in the muted light of the room, his hand holding his cock, the sword man penetrates woman with. Now you know your duty begins: the pain and the blood accompanying. But weirdly, unexpectedly, as he entered you you felt only a slight burn, a stretching sensation, but not the horrible pain of hushed stories. And then he started moving, and it was a pleasant feeling, a rocking motion in the arms of the man that had saved you from death. He kept kissing you, and saying the sweetest things– who could have imagined such a brutal warrior, turned into the gentlest, Eros-touched lover? 

His movements never rushed, or hurried to the point where it would hurt, but you could tell he was getting desperate. Just when you thought he would release in you, he moved away, leaving you gaping and cold. He took himself in hand then, and moaned softly as the white seed touched his hand.

“Why didn’t you…” You blushed again, not finishing your phrase. It felt wrong to you that he did not come inside you, but you didn’t quite have the courage to tell him so.

Ghost simply panted and looked at you, at you raising chest, and at your core. He then closed his eyes and released a decisive, deep breath. He fixed himself and held you again in his arms, moving you around as if you were a doll.

“I will do it when we get home.”

The remaining days on the road were a haze of happy memories. You remembered Ghost’s lingering touches, and the warmth of the sun in the middle of the day, happy villages and herds grazing the green grass. Ghost hissing at anyone who asked too many questions, Ghost hunting the hares, Ghost taking you on the woods’ ground, from behind and against the trees, free to mate as much as you wanted, always ready for you. And when you finally reached his home, that grey, desolate thing, the first thing he did was take you in the bed.

“This ought to be repaired,” you told him as you moved around the house and discovered yet another broken tool, or part, and he sighed, long suffering. But then the next day he would get to work, and fix the table, the window, and he bought you a dress that resembled the one you wore on the day of your betrothal, and it was even more special because it came from him.

“Listen here,” he told you one day as he returned from his work, and after you had hugged him to your heart’s content. His tone was guarded and serious as ever.

“I have news. From the city, I mean,” he said, and you nodded at his words. You felt a detachment towards what concerned your old life, besides the memories of your loved ones, but you were still curious.

“The Shepherd is dead.”

“Praise the gods!” You exclaimed. He nodded.

“The council killed him, they say. And the new king is a young hero who fought off invaders from the south. He is missing a wife. You see where I’m going with this?” He asks, tone even but tinged with that insecurity, that slightest fear... You did see it and hate it fiercely. You told him as much.

“I made a promise to you that night. Do you think me that fickle, that I would return to a city that wanted me dead so I could bear legitimate children to a new tyrant?”

He sighed again, lovesick, like he was the maiden taken away and not you. He kissed you and ran his hands into your hair, now long and free. You laid your head on his chest. How could he think you would leave him still? He was the only owner of your heart, your god-sent protector.

You didn’t know what your family would think about you running away with a man who, in the city, would never have had the chance to speak to you first, much less to marry you. But you knew that in your soul, you were living a life true to yourself and the gods. And that much would suffice for the rest of your days.

[mrsbridgerton]

bridgertonverse & hands

[brainmoss]

Horseshoe Overlook

By the fires

[the-real-aku]

Note: Posting because i kinda like it atm and while I'm not happy with it I'm trying-

~~~

"We deserve a good story before we get too fuckin' pissed to walk straight," Johnny whined.

"Couldn't walk straight even if we held your 'and while sober, MacTavish. I got one, but mnot gonna repeat it after this. Got it?" Ghost stared at Gaz and Soap who gave him a mock salute before leaning on closer to their lieutenant.

"Couple years into the start of 141, was just me n' Price, you and Gaz hadn’t even been born yet-  We got sent to some base in Colorado...Colorado or somewhere around there.  It doesn't matter.  We were doing some glorified hide and seek for a training exercise. Easy enough, good at hidin'." Ghost paused, taking another sip of his glass of whiskey. 

"People forget to look up.  Holed myself up in some sturdy tree, held my weight, and kept me out of sight.  Probably too well.  Had groups of hunting parties pass me looking for others.

"Still,  no one ever looked up.  Got a few good hours of peace and fucking quiet up there.  Even had a book with me.  Dime novel or some shit I picked outta the trash.  It was nice for a shit training exercise.  Until the sun started setting, that's when more of the nocturnal beasts came out.

 "So color me surprised when a half-decent buck bursts out of the bush and slams head-first into my tree. Horns don't stick, doesn't care, it backs up and does the same thing. Over and over. I've seen heads splatter, I've done the splattering. I don't understand what it was trying to do because it kept going until brain matter splattered against the tree and an eyeball popped under the pressure.

"Then it stopped.  Not stopped 'cause it died, not just stopped and stood there before sniffing the ground. I had been holding my breath the whole time. Don't know why, everything told me this was wrong and that I needed to shut up and stay still.  But eventually, it stopped sniffin' and twisted its damn fucking broken neck to look up.  It was quiet but clear, not like anything else was moving anymore not even the wind, and whispered "I know you're there", then ran off.  

“I stayed in that tree the whole night. Pissed myself too.  Didn't care. I wasn't coming down or moving unless someone or thing dragged me down.  They found me there in the morning.  Thought I froze to death.

"They had to get Price to get me to come down from my spot.  Wouldn't say a word to them, which didn't help my situation.  They thought I was 'avin an 'episode', went crazy during the training event, and killed something or maybe even someone from the mess they found around my tree. Who was going to believe that I watched the deer do it to itself?  So I kept quiet as Price and the others escorted me back to base.  Never found it.  But no one ever said anything about it seeing as how I was clean of blood."  

Gaz and Soap turned to their Captain, eyes weary and expectant.  Price huffed, shaking his head. "Yeah, I remember. We had searched for this twat almost all night before some private found'em. He thought it was weird, the tree, and looked up to investigate and came face to face with Ghost's blank stare under his hard plate skull mask. We had two sets of pissed pants after that. When Ghost wouldn't talk about why his hiding place was a fucking mess of bone and meat he had mandatory psych evals for the next month."

[spoomkeearts]

Look at him 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

[reds-skull]

Bringer of Demise - Chapter 2

[FIRST PART] [AO3]

I'll be honest, I wasn't that confident with the first chapter (probably because it's been a while since I sat down to write something) but I like this one much more. The angst is definitely helping lol

Here's chapter 2: Like a House Fire

“Simon-” Soap jumps as the door slams behind him. Ghost grunts, walking further into his room to sit at the desk, reports now laying forgotten. Not that they need them anymore, with Novikov’s arrival.

Soap takes a sit in front of him, the bed creaking when he leans forward to look in Ghost’s dark eyes. “Talk to me, mo chridhe.”

Ghost slides the mask off his face, and throws it on the desk with so much force some papers fly and land behind it. Soap waits as he stares at the wall for a minute or two, lost in whatever dreadful memory the Doctor brought forward.

“Novikov was the one that tested me. When they brought me back from Mexico.” he starts, voice carefully monotone. “Went through regular shit at first. How long I can use Limbo before I have to stop. What happens if someone shoots at it from the outside. See if sound travels, if comms work.”

Soap holds his tongue, ignores the questions that float to his mind about the process. It’s more important for him to listen to Simon.

“Didn’t really have a problem with those. Expected them, really.” Simon shakes his head, bitterness bleeding into his voice, “it started going wrong when Shepherd came into the picture.”

At the mention of that name, Soap’s jaw clenches. General fucking Shepherd, the man behind Graves’ leash. Ran like a coward after his dog died, still off grid even after Laswell got the go-ahead from CIA to start a search for him. Soap remembers the few meetings he was in, how Shepherd would address Ghost. Spoke to him as if Limbo wasn’t tearing itself apart because of his orders.

Ghost never told him much about the bawbag, Soap never asking. Felt wrong, with how little he willingly gives Ghost about his own past.

“What did he do?” he asks, a little hesitant to hear the answer.

“Novikov wasn’t pushing me hard enough, according to him. Because he was afraid of what my powers would do to me or to others, or for a different reason, I didn’t bother finding out. Don’t know if the Doc tried to resist. It doesn’t matter.” Simon lets out a mirthless laugh, “you know the rest.”

Soap nods. “Ye think… he will do it again? Push ye to…”

“I’m not worried about me, Johnny.” He leans closer to Soap, and it dawns on him that Simon’s not as angry as he is terrified, “there’s nothing new Novikov can tell me to use Limbo on that would break it like last time. But you… they never found your limits, have they?”

“... You know they didn’t need to.”

“I don’t think that ever satisfied Novikov, or the higher-ups.” Soap frowns, Simon’s voice lowering to an almost whisper, “I think they were just as tied up in red tape as you.”

He doesn’t respond to that. He doesn’t think he needs to, they both know Simon is right.

Soap’s memories of that time period are… muddy at best. And it wasn’t because of the shot he received to the head, the day he died.

In the weeks following it, Soap felt like everyone that knew what happened there was walking on eggshells around him. Not many knew, they tried to sweep it under the rug immediately to avoid an international incident, but those that did…

When Soap refused to use his powers on field, his Captain was irritated. Said he’d go to the higher-ups, get him written for insubordination.

The very next day, the Captain took him to the side and asked him to tell him. Fuck the higher-ups when it comes to his own personal curiosity, eh?

Soap refused, obviously. The Captain let it go, eventually, but Soap always wondered if he was trying to send him into impossible situations to see just how much destruction he can survive.

“I’m not going to let him do anything to you, love.” Simon’s voice makes him refocus on the present, “Novikov tells you to jump, you ask me how high.”

Soap scoffs fondly, the anger that has bubbled up in his chest subsiding, “they’re gonna write ye up, LT.”

“Don’t care. They won’t boot me out anyway.” he answers smugly, scarred lips quirking up in a way that makes Soap want to explode the rest of the world, if only to keep him safe.

He returns the smile, “sound awfully certain of yerself. Should I ask Price if the power went to yer head?”

Simon huffs, “just the facts, Johnny. Not only I’m legally dead, they wouldn’t want someone like me strolling around civvies in case I go off and send a couple hundred to Limbo.”

“Sometimes I forget just how much off yer heid you are, Simon Riley.”

“Takes one to know one, and all that.” Simon moves to get up, when something pulls at his leg.

A few dark hands started petting at their boots, so gently they didn’t notice. Soap smiles, leaning down to return the favor with his left hand.

“Look, we made yer friends worried.” the hands wrap around his fingers, chasing the little white flames.

Simon shakes his boot, loosening the residents of the void’s hands, “you know that’s not how that works.”

“Well, they react to our emotions, you never know!” he turns back to the hands, “don’t listen to him, he’s just grouchy ‘cause I’m not holdin’ his hand.”

He’s happy to continue playing with Simon’s “friends” until a shrill sound cuts through the air. Soap watches Simon grab his phone from his pocket.

“It’s Rudy.” he taps his phone and sits down next to Soap, “Rodolfo?”

“Fantasma. Is Soap with you?” Rudy greets, voice hurried.

Soap takes Simon’s wrist and brings the phone closer, “aye, what’s wrong?”

“All of our revenants were woken up by our Reapers, I… I assume it happened to yours as well.”

Christ, must be later than midnight in Mexico right now. Getting dragged into your Reaper’s realm in the middle of sleeping… can’t be fun.

“Affirm.” Ghost says, “I assume yours asked about Fate and Lumity?”

“Yes.” there’s someone talking in the background, and Soap realizes it’s Alejandro, giving out orders, “some of our revenants chose Fate. We’re in the process of reprimanding them, but… It’s more important that I tell you what we gathered.”

Simon and Soap share a look. Anything would be helpful at this point.

Rudy continues, “the ones that chose Fate didn’t give us much. Apparently their Reaper just left, only saying they chose right. It is mine that explained the most.”

“You did say your Reaper was chatty…” Simon mutters.

“It is.” Rudy sighs, “my Reaper didn’t get mad when I chose you. It said it was expecting it.”

Rudy’s Reaper… Reaper of Matter… is on Lumity’s side?

“The Reapers are… in a state of disorder.” he pauses, mulling over the words. “... My Reaper said this hasn’t happened since before the age of revenants.”

“Did it say what’s Fate’s goal in all this?” Simon asks.

“No. I don’t think it knows.” Rudy begins talking in Spanish to someone on the other side, far too fast for Soap to understand. “-Jabón y Fantasma?”

They can hear some rustling before Alejandro’s voice comes through, “Hermanos! You landed us in a real shitshow this time around, eh?”

Soap smiles sheepishly, “good teh hear ye, Ale. Sorry about the mess.”

“All good. Well- for now.” Alejandro hums, “I have a feeling that is due to change at any point.”

“Ye said it…”

Rudy turns the phone back to him, as he says, “whatever it is, you can call us. We’ll continue to update you.”

“Appreciated, hermano,” Ghost answers, “same goes for us.”

“Don’t be strangers. We’ll talk later.” Ghost and Soap say their goodbyes as Rudy hangs up.

So the Reapers themselves don’t quite know what Fate is planning… he didn’t think it was possible, but Soap is even more unsettled. Reapers are volatile as it is, though before they could’ve trusted them to not meddle in their “boring human affairs”.

A Reaper even Reapers can’t foresee… how can they prepare against something like that?

Soap eventually returned to his own barrack, long after daylight faded. Sleep evaded him for most of the night, burning moths fluttering around his cot as he tosses and turns, flames occasionally charring his blanket.

When morning finally comes, he finds himself in the revenant training grounds along with Ghost. Anxiousness drips down his spine as they wait for the Doctor and his assistants.

Ghost knocks their boots together, and Soap calms. He’s not going through this alone, unlike any other revenant.

He begins to hope Novikov has simply forgotten about them when the man is late. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. Almost 20 minutes after the tests were supposed to start, the man comes hurrying down the training grounds, the papers in his hands miraculously not flying away in the gentle breeze.

“Sergeant! Lieutenant! I apologize for the delay.” Novikov calls when he gets close enough, somewhat out of breath, “yesterday’s incident had us sifting through reports all night, as you can imagine.”

The Doctor pauses to take another deep breath, and flips through the folder he brought, “as I’m sure you understand, this will not be a standard revenant test. I will not be redoing your basic tests, Lieutenant. As for you, Sergeant…”

Novikov turns his bespectacled grey eyes to him, and gives him a small smile, “I understand that I will not be able to test your limits here, but the records of the Verdansk incident are enough.”

Soap’s back straightens, and he can’t help but growl, “ye know about it?!”

He can count on two hands the amount of living people that know the whole truth behind his Reaping, and about half of them are in the 141.

“Laswell has allowed me access to the files. I’ve known about the incident beforehand, of course, theorized Konchar had-”

“Don’t ye dare say that fuckin’ name.” he snarls, flames flickering within his clenched fists. It doesn’t stop the stream of blurry memories, of melting skin beneath his fingertips-

Soap forcibly exhales, coercing his flames to die down.

Novikov doesn’t seem offended by the interruption. On the contrary, he looks… intrigued.

“I’d like to test the difference between your hands, to start. I have only been made aware of the changes in flame color, and the markings, of course.”

Soap glances at Ghost, who gives him a nod.

“What do ye need me to do, Doctor?”

“This is most intriguing… the flesh of your left hand is cooler than your right, but the flames are considerably warmer…”

Soap feels the ground between his fingers crumble to ash. So far, The tests are quite… boring, if he’s honest.

He’s had his own morbid fascination with his own powers, for a while. Wondering how it compares to other explosive compounds, trying to run the numbers to find the closest approximate. He thought, if he could find an equation, he could control his powers better.

Soap gave up on it soon after. Didn’t have enough data to work with, and generating more meant using his powers, and well…

Novikov lifts his pen, “very good, Sergeant.” steamin’ Jesus, he’s not 5, is he gonna give him a sticker next? “Now, Lieutenant, remove any clothing on your right arm, if you will.”

Ghost, who up until now stood motionless in his best imitation of a statue, stares at Novikov for a long moment, before slowly removing his glove and tucking it into his belt. He steps closer to Soap, rolling his sleeve to reveal pale, scarred skin.

“Now, with your left arm of course, I want you to attempt to explode the Lieutenant’s arm.”

Soap notices the assistant with the heat-sensitive camera aim it at Ghost, “it’s not gonna do anything to him, Doc.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any problem demonstrating it.” Novikov doesn’t look up from his papers. Bawbag.

Ghost offers him his arm silently. Soap knows it won’t do anything to him, they bear marks to prove it.

Soap takes the arm. White flames wrap harmlessly around it. He focuses his powers to his left hand, the air around them distorting.

It feels fundamentally wrong to try and hurt Simon. His breathing picks up, fingers twitching as the flames climb higher and higher.

“-it’s as if they’re trying to reach equilibrium. The flesh cools the flames, the flames heat it in return-”

Ghost doesn’t react, not that Soap can see with his vision tunneling on their joined limbs. The fire burns, searing, scorching, mutilating-

“-You may stop now, Sergeant-”

He can’t hurt him, how could he ever dare hurt him? Why isn’t anyone stopping this?

Like a bystander watching a house fire, Soap is helpless in front of the flames. He can almost smell the bubbling flesh from here, the melting of everything in the face of unending ruin-

“-ohnny. Enough.”

Soap jumps, the world rushing back to his senses. He turns his head shakily, to see Novikov’s gaze boring into him.

“Ah’m not- I can’t-” he mumbles, words barely forming on his lips, “Ghost-”

“You’re alright, Johnny.” Ghost’s smooth voice is steady as ever, but his eyes betray him, “it’s over.”

Novikov affirms, “We got all we needed, Sergeant.”

Ghost lifts his hand towards him, and Soap barely suppresses a flinch as it trails down his bicep. “You’re alright.” he repeats.

Soap nods, feeling like a bampot all at once. Of course Ghost is fine. They already knew this, he told Novikov as much not 10 minutes ago.

Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. Soap grits his teeth, “what’s next, Doctor?”

Novikov takes a while to answer, and Soap avoids Ghost’s perceptive gaze as they wait, “I have received approval for Limbo, Lieutenant. I’d like to see the changes it went through first-hand.”

“... Understood. We will need to put some distance between us.” Ghost grunts.

The Doctor waves his hand, “naturally. You’re familiar with your limits, I’ll leave it to your judgement.”

Soap feels Ghost urge him to move, and they begin walking.

“Johnny-”

“Aye.” Soap huffs, “sorry, LT.”

“What for?” Ghost hums, “you did nothing wrong.”

He doesn’t answer to that. If Ghost didn’t see his fuck-up, he’d rather not bring it up.

“If you need to stop at any point-”

Maybe he’s easier to read than he thought, “Ah’m solid, Simon.”

“You froze there. Don’t think you can hide it.” or maybe Ghost knows him too well by now.

They come to a stop, facing one another. Soap bites the inside of his cheek, “I’m- I’ll be fine as long as Ah don’t have to repeat that.”

“You won’t.” Ghost assures him, “ready for Limbo?”

If there’s a place to find peace of mind, it’s the void, “aye. Been a while since we paid our friends a visit, hm?”

Ghost chuckles, “only you’d call them that.” He raises his voice, shouting to Novikov, “Limbo out in five!”

The Doctor gives them a thumbs-up, so Ghost closes his eyes.

Entering Limbo never got less jarring. Soap gets used to it faster if he expects it, but the shift from the colorful, lively world to the still void is an odd one.

Still, once he gets accustomed to it, he can’t help but smile. As weird as it is to say, he missed this place.

Limbo’s victims are docile, chasing after bright moths with no sense of urgency. Like shooting stars, they paint the dark skies of Limbo with radiant yellows and oranges.

This might be the only good thing Soap’s powers have ever done.

He catches Ghost staring at him, his eyes a glowing white, “what?” he asks with a small grin.

“Better?”

“Aye.”

“Sergeant!” Novikov shouts, though it sounds muffled as it enters Limbo from the other side, “try to explode something!”

Soap frowns, “is he talkin’ about yer friends?”

Ghost mutters, clearly unhappy with the disturbance, “don’t know.”

“What do you want ‘im to test it on?!” Ghost shouts back.

“Any material will do! I assume you’re standing on something, correct?”

Soap looks down, at the solid black ground. “What is this made of, anyway?”

The way Ghost hums back tells him ‘fuck if I know’. He crouches down, placing both hands on it. The texture is almost like a glass pane, except his fingers can’t get a grip on it no matter how much he tries.

Before he can hesitate, Soap flexes his fingers.

Nothing happens.

“Huh.” he tilts his head, “suppose it makes sense.”

“How so?” Ghost kneels beside him, sliding a finger over the undamaged surface.

“My powers have to come into contact with a material to explode.” Soap shrugs, getting back on his feet, “void’s made of nothing, no?”

“Hm.” Ghost casts another look around Limbo, and blinks.

Soap catches himself before his knees buckle from the rush of color and noise back into the world. Ghost hooks an arm under his shoulder as a precaution, but he assures him he’s stable.

“Absolutely outstanding! This is the first time you couldn’t explode something, is that correct, Sergeant?” Novikov half-jogs to them.

“Uh… Aye?”

The Doctor’s eyes gleam with wonder, “Incredible! If only there were more Revenants of Destruction in this base, I would be able to test if this is a result of a relation between your Reapers, or a consequence of your powers mixing… Alas, this is not the purpose of my visit.” 

Novikov’s assistants are absorbed with the testing equipment they brought, some looking like set pieces of a low budget sci-fi movie to Soap. He’d love to nick one to take apart, but the shite’s probably so delicate even his fingertips would burn and destroy them.

“Now, for the next test, I’d like you to-” a shrill noise cuts Novikov off, and Ghost pulls out his phone.

Soap pouts when Ghost answers. Why does no one ever call him?

“Affirm. We’ll be there in fifteen.” Ghost ends the call, “we need to go to a meeting with Laswell.”

Novikov’s eyes dim, “ah, I see… I suppose we can continue this afterwards.”

“You’re invited too, Doctor.” Ghost grunts, making both Soap and Novikov swing around in surprise.

When Laswell finally shows up on screen, she seems different from what Soap remembered.

Dark eye bags, pale, hair more grey in some places. He almost didn’t recognize her, and looking around the room tells him the rest of the team thinks the same.

The rest, except Price, “how are you, Kate?”

Laswell sighs, more hair falling off her tight bun. “Let’s get to work, John.”

As she brings up several images on screen, Price reports in their mind, “someone attacked Laswell and her wife in their home two months ago. She got off with minor injuries, but her wife… her concussion was severe enough that she barely talks most days.”

“Did they catch the fucker that did it?” Soap thinks back. If they didn’t, he’d gladly volunteer to put the bastard six feet under. He owes Laswell that much.

Price stops him from continuing to plan a revenge, “Kate killed him, son. She’s trained for field work, an everyday burglar doesn’t stand a chance against her. Now focus up.”

Soap huffs, “yes sir.”

“-we found signs of Shepherd’s work around Urzikstan. Supposedly, he’s working with one of the resistance groups there.” blurry satellite images pop up on screen, convoys and remote buildings hidden between green hills.

Gaz frowns, “either he suddenly grew a moral compass, or there’s a catch.”

Laswell nods, “it’s possible it’s a false lead, but with recent clashes between Urzik forces and the Russians, I’d like you to personally investigate it.”

“We’ll get it done, Laswell.” Price says, his authoritative voice on full blast.

“No one I trust more than you.” Laswell smiles, in a way Soap has never seen. “Now, obviously as you all are grounded, I wouldn’t just send you on what could potentially lead to nothing…”

She begins talking to Novikov, “we’re working on tracking the missing revenants Graves and Shepherd trafficked.”

The Doctor nods, adjusting the frankly huge glasses on his nose bridge, “many of them belong to rarer kinds of Reapers. If they were to fall into the wrong hands…”

“We can’t allow that to happen.” Ghost finishes sternly.

“Commander Karim has been working to find them, but there’s so much she can do while also fending off Russians.” the screen switches to a compilation of names and passport photos, each listing both a date of birth and Reaping. “This is your official reason to be sent to Urzikstan, boys. Whatever intel Graves has left behind him regarding the revenants’ location, we need it.”

“When are we up?” Price asks.

“1600.”

Gaz whistles, “brass’ knickers are all twisted up, huh.”

“Miss Laswell, if I may.” Novikov pipes up, “I have yet to finish the renewed revenant test of Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost. I will not be able to give you an accurate recommendation before that.”

The fuck’s he talking about?

“I understand, Doctor, but it’s out of my control.” Laswell exhales, “this is why I invited you to this meeting. Based on what you do know, what is your verdict?”

The entire room swivels to stare at the Doctor. Novikov scrambles to flip through the papers in his hands, before speaking with an air of defeat.

“Considering my current understanding of Lumity, and the state of Sergeant MacTavish and Lieutenant Ghost… I recommend that until further testing, they should be separated as much as possible on field, if their powers are to be used.”

… What?

[kluiyu]

[sec0nd-breakfast]

okay, so do the Simon Thorn books actually exist??? Because I have searched every piece of media, every platform for the fandom, but it's just?? not there??

Animox, are you just a fever dream or do you actually just hide from me?

[callsignfoxy]

*sighs* *cracks knuckles* Fine. I'm ready to keep writing Blue Collar!Simon x Server.

[thewandererh]

goor mornin char

have some fresh outthe oven cccclinic doodles. im currently taking a break from this story for a lil so i can clear my head and get some new ideas. huzzah. magma is a great doodling program but flipaclip is real good too. oh! and third flan emoji mention 🍮

yes those scars are canon, no the reason why isn’t. simon does have asthma and suffers for it 😔 tho beeswax candles and his mask help a lot! sweetiepie babyboy. oh and lee! there is a lee (whole’s “ex”) in this story. they get back together healthily :]

uuhhhh do i have more….

have an imagedump for now. we’re all homies. we all chill. we all share memes at the costume party. none (except some clouds) are mine!!

1. wendigoon silly i was delighted by

2. screamer tornado siren <3

3. berndaut smilde, the dutch guy who can make clouds (article)

4. + 5. some gorgeous layered clouds the day i got my shot

6. yesterday’s lovely cirrus uncinus and glory(?)

7. recent jacksepticeye news

i am off to feed my meowing cat. goodbye char 🍮

[mokeonn]

I think that the 2010's media landscape of Buzzfeed articles about plotholes in disney movies, Cinemasins critiques, and Watchmojo Top Ten scenes in movies that make no sense has truely ruined a lot of media. People are afraid that their work will be torn down if they dare leave a single thing up in the air, if they dare ask their audience to suspend their disbelief.

All too often nowadays I see stories (especially fantasy), take the time to explain how every small aspect of the world works and how it all logically makes sense. The constant time stopped to explain why an event happened, how this object works, or why this is important to the characters. It's just really not needed and it honestly makes a lot of stories worse.

I am of the opinion that the best stories truly just drop you into their world and explain nothing. They just take you through the story of this world and you just have to accept it and continue on. "When he became king, the land became barren." I don't want the story to stop and explain why this is, or how it happened, I want us to move on so we can just assume that the king has such rancid vibes that everything died.

[toxicroyjamie]

I'm bet Georgie felt bad that she couldn't get Jamie braces sooner.

I'm sure :( Mom guilt is killer

But I think Georgie probably has a lot of memories of Jamie's childhood where she feels like she wasn't enough and wishes she could've given him more where Jamie feels the complete opposite and would never even think to blame her, and I think that's probably one of them

[gutsfics]

Simon's parents have a really strong relationship. they were together for five years before getting married, and Simon was born a little over a year after. theres a lot of love and trust between them and theyre really good at communicating with each other. and like their son, neither of them are quick to temper. thats not to say theyve never fought before- a 23 year relationship is prone to see a little friction occasionally- but never anything.... relationship shaking.

Simon's mom is the principal of Berry High. she is, at least some degree, aware of things that get put up around the school, especially things that get put up in public areas. she's not fully In Charge of things going up on like, say, bulletin boards, but typically to put something up on one you have to get faculty permission to make sure its school appropriate, and as faculty sometimes students go to her to put things up.

including the New Start posters.

she wants to say no, they feel like a mean spirited smear campaign borderlining on bullying. but the Council seat is chosen by the students. Simon was elected because his classmates thought he was the best choice, so if some of his classmates are unhappy, its only fair to let their voices be heard. even if their way of going about it seems a bit excessive. if she denies these posters than the students who are calling for Simon to be removed from the Council will just have more ammunition to use against him: his mother's special treatment.

she doesnt like it, but she allows the posters to be put up.

Simon's dad also works at Berry High; he's the librarian.

the day is winding down when he sees a student putting up some new posters on the bulletin board right outside the library. he startles them when he approaches and calmly- eerily calm- asks who signed off on these posters. the student tells him, then scurries off with the rest of the posters they were supposed to put in the library itself.

he isnt gentle taking the poster down, and it crumples in his grip as he makes his way to his wife's office and slams it onto her desk.

he doesn't say anything.

he doesn't have to.

[reds-skull]

Revenant Side Stories

Story III: Gaz

[Konchar] [Graves] [AO3]

I worked on both this and that Ghost painting I posted earlier in the time I was away from this blog, and I apparently had enough motivation to finish both today haha

If you remember the conversation Gaz and Soap had on the helo in chapter 14 of Not Alive, Nor Dead (the one where they were talking about the worst time they've used their powers), then the events in this story might be familiar...

I enjoyed writing this so much, I absolutely love Gaz (and more specifically rev AU's version of him <3)

Alright enough yapping time for pain

Kyle should be used to the feeling of free-falling. To the air rushing past his ears, to the sting in his eyes as the ground approaches him rapidly. The pull that catches him not a moment too soon, invisible ribbons wrapping him in their safe embrace.

It was perhaps a little naive of him to think gravity will never betray him again.

The whistling wind is what wakes him first, that familiar tune Gaz made his own in the past year. Familiar, but out of place - wasn’t he just running after the HVT…?

Kyle opens his eyes.

The sky warps around him, skyscrapers higher than the heavens towering over him like giants, silhouettes in the night. His body twists uncontrollably, and his view shifts to the ground, people nothing but ants, growing larger and larger-

The sinking feeling in his gut screams one thing, and one thing only.

You’re going to die again.

Several hours earlier

“Sergeant Garrick!” someone calls from behind him. Gaz turns, expecting to have to search for the source in the pre-mission rush of soldiers. He instead instantly zeroed in on a frankly giant man. To his credit, he wasn’t expecting a soldier clad in all black tactical gear, and a stark white skull mask.

Well, only one guy in the SAS that fits this description, “Lieutenant Ghost, sir.” Gaz’s head tilts up to look at the eyes behind the mask.

He’s heard a lot about the legendary revenant, and while most are probably the works of the rumor mill working overtime, just the presence of Ghost emanates a sort of unrivalled power that raises the hairs at Kyle’s nape.

It’s unlikely any of them will see the Lieutenant in action today; he’s here to fill in for Captain Price in overwatch, but he can’t help but have a sort of morbid curiosity, a craving to know if the revenant lives up to the myth.

Ghost motions with his head for him to follow, and begins walking towards the tents that have been set up as their temporary base of operations, “Captain told me you can fly.” he begins.

Gaz smiles nervously, “uh, not exactly. I got gravity manipulation.” they enter the tent, the flurry of activity as disorienting as it is outside, with squad leaders confirming last-minute details about the mission. “Can use it on others as well, but I have to be in direct skin contact.”

“Won’t need it in this op either way,” Ghost rumbles, a somewhat bitter note in his words. A few men do a double take at the two of them, and Gaz suppresses an eye roll.

Being a revenant turned out… different than he thought it would be. Sure, he knew they had superpowers and the ability to converse with extradimensional beings, but he wasn’t ready for the staring.

He knows he’s not human anymore, that he lost a fundamental part of himself the moment he left that helo crash alive, but he doesn’t need to be reminded at any turn.

Perhaps Ghost is onto something with the mask. At least he can roll his eyes all he wants.

Ghost addresses the soldiers in the tent, everyone snapping into attention, “Sergeant Garrick will lead the infil team. Target is at the suite of the Amandi Hotel, possibly guarded and armed.” the Lieutenant scrutinizes them, “I’ll be on overwatch on the comms tower north of the hotel. Helo circles the sky in case we need to extract from the roof.”

He crosses his arms, the perfect image of authority, “any questions?”

“No, sir!” the soldiers in the tent echo.

“Good. Garrick’s team is up in 5.” Ghost’s attention turns to him, “you’ll treat the Sergeant like any other soldier - his powers are irrelevant here.”

Gaz’s eyes widen as the rest of his squad gives Ghost the affirmative. The Lieutenant leaves the tent, ordering the others, and he shakes away from his stupor. A surprisingly warm feeling spreads through his chest.

No time to wonder about Ghost’s intentions, they have a man to catch.

It takes only ten minutes for the mission to go completely off rails.

Ghost wasn’t lying when he said his powers are irrelevant here. With the narrow hallways of the hotel, and lack of loose, heavy objects around ready to be thrown, Gaz is as good as any of his human squad mates.

He grits his teeth, popping out of cover to shoot yet another henchman down. The HVT must be bloody loaded to afford this much manpower.

“Be advised Bravo 6-1, enemy reinforcements approaching your position. I don’t have a clear shot on them.” Ghost’s low voice sounds from his comms.

Gaz returns to cover when a bullet grazes his cheek, and he answers between a hiss of pain, “copy, attempting to advance to the suite now.”

“Stevenson, Ellis, take the left hallway, the rest with me!” Kyle orders the corporals. He’s betting on the fact the henchmen will be too preoccupied with their assault to notice the two soldiers flanking them.

Gaz and his team goes on the offensive, unnerved by the bullets ricocheting around them. A few fast heartbeats later, the hostiles go down with gasps of surprise. He allows himself a moment of celebration, before pushing onwards.

This is another thing he had to learn in his new second life. Turns out, the brass promotes revenants faster than other soldiers, and soon after his Reaping he was promoted to Sergeant. He will probably never forget the nasty looks he got from his old mates after that, people he thought were his friends. Sometimes Kyle wanted to scream that he didn’t ask for this, he didn’t ask to be the only one left alive.

Usually following that thought is a reminder that he very much did. He asked to live. 

Gaz knew what he was wishing for.

Stevenson and Ellis join them, and he makes sure to order most of the squad to watch their six, Ghost’s warning still fresh in his mind.

“Lieutenant, got sights on the HVT?” Gaz radios in.

The comms crackle before he gets an answer, “negative, he went to the back two minutes ago, likely holing up in the bathroom.” he can hear the faint sound of wind through his mic, “stay sharp, this might be a trap.”

“Understood, sir.” 

Gaz holds a fist up to signal the squad to stop, and attempts to listen for any movements inside the suite. Price’s mind reading abilities would’ve been nice to have around right about now…

He lets out a shaky breath. Going in blind never gets less nerve wracking, “Smith, Farage, keep watch on the hallways, Ellis, Stevenson and Wright, prepare for breach in three…”

The soldiers move to their positions, and the moment his count reaches zero, Gaz kicks the door down and begins clearing the room. Every dark corner becomes a potential hiding spot for hostiles, every flickering shadow catches his attention.

The main area of the suite is an open floor plan room, floor-to-ceiling windows making up the whole front part. The city lights twinkle through the clear glass, unaware of the danger that dwells above them.

“Main room clear, moving to the bathroom.” Gaz relays to Ghost and the rest. He lowers his rifle and reaches for the handle. The door creaks ominously when he shoves it open, revealing a dark and completely empty space. He clears it in a few seconds, all the while his confusion grows.

“Ghost” he clicks his comms on, “the HVT isn’t here.”

The Lieutenant is silent for a brief moment, “He didn’t leave the suite, Garrick. Keep searching the other rooms.” Gaz opens his mouth to give the affirmative, when he hears Wright and Stevenson give the clear for the two bedrooms. A twisting feeling in his gut grows.

“Sir, I think we’re missing something-”

Loud bangs echo from the main bedroom, Gaz instantly exiting the bathroom to watch Stevenson go down, “fuck!”

Hostiles stream out of the room in an endless swarm, the rest of his squad taking cover around the suite. “Garrick! What the fuck is going on there?!”

“Stevenson missed a bloody secret room, sir!” Gaz grunts, shooting two men down. From the corner of his eye, he sees Wright push forward, so he joins him.

A shattering sound alerts him to Ghost’s shots, “do you have eyes on the target?!” the Lieutenant’s voice echoes through comms. Another shot rings out, and a body drops to his right.

“Negative!” he answers. Smith and Farage are fighting further out, enemies forcing them back to the hallway, Stevenson motionless on the ground. Wright snarls beside him, his left arm bleeding from a graze. Ellis…

“Sergeant! Behind you!” Ghost shouts. Gaz whips around, to watch the HVT drag himself to the broken windows.

Himself, and the unconscious body of Ellis. Gaz charges forward before the HVT locks eyes with him, a manic sort of fury burning within them.

The bastard smiles at him, blood staining his bright white teeth. He heaves Ellis, dragging him right to the edge.

“You take one more step, and I drop your friend.” the target drawls. 

Kyle stops, raising his arms in surrender, mind rapidly trying to pinpoint the location of each hostile and soldier left in the room. If he could be sure his squad will be able to apprehend the HVT by themselves, he could be free to follow Ellis, and catch him before they both hit the ground.

“Alright.” Gaz swallows thickly, keeping his voice as calm as he can, “we’ll give you what you want, just let him go.”

The target’s smile widens, “tell your soldiers to drop their weapons” he shakes Ellis, Gaz’s heart jumping to his throat. He nods, slowly lowering a hand to his radio.

“All stations, hold fire, we’ve got a hostage.”

The commotion behind him stops abruptly, his soldiers murmuring in confusion but listening to him all the same. Gaz scans the HVT for weapons - a pistol at his right hip, a knife strapped to the other. As long as he doesn’t use those on Ellis, he still has a chance to save him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game here.” Ghost warns, “I don’t have a clear shot, don’t doom the entire squad to save one man.”

His jaw tightens in response. He’s not going to allow any more of them to die today.

“Good” the target’s voice drips with satisfaction, “at least one of you soldier boys has more than half a brain. Now… I have other matters to attend to, so if you will leave the premises peacefully, that would be helpful.”

“Not without him.” Gaz motions to Ellis.

The HVT tsks, “do I look stupid? I know you’ll shoot my men down the moment I let him go.” his head tilts mockingly, “no, he’s coming with me.”

“Garrick…” Ghost growls. “Ellis’ chances are low. Get the HVT secure and get out.” This is taking too long.

“I prefer to have… insurance.” the target continues.

Gaz’s lips pull back in disgust, “for a cornered man, you’re asking for a lot, mate.”

“Am I cornered, though?”

The telltale click of a trigger shoots adrenaline down Kyle’s limbs, and he moves out of the bullet’s way a second before it reaches him. He grunts as he grasps at the attacker’s rifle over his shoulder, twisting it around his torso to disarm the man.

Lieutenant Ghost’s voice booms through comms, “Bravo, get your guns up! More hostiles are entering your floor!!!”

Gaz barely avoids a fist coming from his left, ducking and dodging a knee to his guts. Gunshots echo behind him, grunts and growls and screams of pain almost deafening.

Two hostiles manage to get a hold of him, and over their massive shoulders Kyle watches in horror as the target pulls Ellis up over the window’s edge, and lets go.

“Corporal Ellis is falling, I repeat, the Corporal is falling!” Ghost yells. Gaz’s heart hammers away at his chest, his breaths becoming shorter and heavier.

Through the cacophony of combat, anger and agony, one voice stands out from the rest.

The HVT’s mirthful laugh, high and grating as he watches Ellis fall down, down, down-

Gaz screams, grabbing the arms around him, and reverting gravity on all three of them. He lowers his head, avoiding the ceiling. His attackers, however, are taken by surprise, and hit their head against the concrete with a sickening thunk.

The laughter ceases, but he pays it no mind. If Gaz jumps off now, he could strengthen the effect of gravity on himself, and fall faster, reach Ellis before the ground does-

A sniper shot splices the air beside him, the bullet hitting the floor, Ghost’s voice loud when he calls out, “Gaz-!”, Kyle turning around to find the stock of a rifle approaching his face, his foot slips, and-

His vision goes dark.

He’s going to die. The wind beats at his body, howling and shrieking and stealing the air from his lungs. He’s going to die. The city lights smear and create blinding trails at his periphery.

He’s going to die.

Kyle locks onto a dark shape, several feet below him, and the fog of panic clears for long enough for him to remember why he’s falling.

Ellis. He fell before him. He’s going to die.

But Gaz won’t. His powers rush forth, otherworldly ribbons wrapping around his fingertips at his command. Instead of hanging from the sky, he orders them down.

They’re about 100 feet from the harsh asphalt roads when he starts descending at an inhuman speed, eyes watering and muscles trembling from the lack of oxygen, but it doesn’t matter, not until he touches Ellis, not until he pulls him back from certain death.

50 feet. 40. 30. 20. 10-

Kyle barely manages to brush a finger on Ellis’ tacvest before he pulls back, his face mere inches from the ground. His eyes are closed, his mouth gaping as he takes in air for the first time in minutes.

He heard the crunch. He knows his ribbons didn’t wrap around Ellis. Yet, there’s a little naive voice in his mind, holding onto hope that the Corporal has been saved.

The screams of the ground team tell him otherwise.

Kyle releases his powers, his body dropping. Voices echo around him, words unintelligible through the rushing blood in his ears.

Ellis is dead. He doesn’t want to open his eyes. You failed again, he screams at himself in the recesses of his mind.

Kyle chokes on a sob, only then registering the tears flowing down his cheeks. He curls further into himself. Selfishly, he doesn’t want the others to see his pathetic crying. Not only did he fail, he’s also weak.

Someone touches his shoulder, and he freezes. His eyes are glued to the dark grey of the road below him, its rough texture digging into his trembling palms. The voices stray closer, words still incomprehensible but concern clear, and yet he refuses to lift his head.

He doesn’t want to see Ellis. He knows what gravity does to a person, how it tugs at their limbs until they break, how bones stab at soft flesh, how muscles are ripped apart like a rag doll’s stitches. He knows, saw five different bodies, all twisted beyond recognition, by the very power he controls. The memory makes bile rise to his mouth, acrid taste spreading on his tongue. The sight of mangled soldiers, the smell of burning fuel, the whistle of an RPG.

If only he was strong enough to truly control it.

The hands tug at him more forcibly now, attempting to roll him over, but Kyle resists. His mouth tries to form words, but only whines and muted sobs stream from his clenched teeth.

‘Leave me alone’, he wants to whisper. ‘I already know I failed’.

A deeper voice rumbles above him, and the hands stop and leave. Kyle hears the rustling of fabric before the voice begins calling his name.

“-arrick. Sergeant. We need to know if you’re broken.”

He shakes his head, shoulders shuddering along his sobs.

“You’re not injured? Good.” the voice answers calmly, as if they’re not sitting beside a dead body, blood pooling, bones sticking out of place-

“Stay with me, soldier. Focus on me.” the voice orders, and Kyle knows, somewhere in his fractured mind, that he needs to listen.

He risks lifting his gaze a little towards the voice, a knee clad in dark pants coming into view, “you’re safe, Gaz. Take all the time you need to collect yourself. The others won’t bother you now.”

He nods minutely, wanting to show his gratitude to the voice, but refusing to lift his head any higher.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Kyle tries to keep his focus on the person in front of him, but his brain continues to pull at his thoughts, get them to drift to Ellis, his cooling body dead not 3 feet from them-

“You know why blind people don’t like going skydiving?”

Kyle blinks down at his hands. What…?

“‘Cause it scares the shit outta their dogs.”

…That’s the dumbest joke he’s ever heard. What’s dumber, that it’s actually making him huff in amusement.

“That deserves at least a little laugh.” the voice sulks, the deadpan quality of it making their words funnier to Kyle.

He clears his throat before saying, “all that deserves is a groan of disappointment, Lieutenant.”

His head lifts to look at Ghost’s dark eyes behind his skull mask, “you wound my poor feeble heart, Garrick.”

A wobbly smile spreads on his lips, before he slowly looks away from the Lieutenant at the scene around them.

They must’ve already moved the body, leaving dark red blood seeping into the cracks in the road as the only sign anything went wrong. Some combat medics have stayed behind, but from the look on their face Kyle can tell they’re too afraid of Ghost to get any closer.

He casts a questioning look at the Lieutenant, who sighs, “they shouldn’t toss you around while you’re in shock.”

Kyle frowns, “they didn’t ‘toss me around’, but… thanks.”

Ghost simply hums.

It takes him a few more seconds to gather the courage to ask, “the mission… did it fail?”

Did I make us fail?

Ghost regards him with narrowed eyes, “HVT has been secured and is in transport awaiting questioning.”

He lets out a small sigh of relief, nodding.

The Lieutenant stares at him, “you did everything you could, Gaz.” he opens his mouth to disagree, but Ghost lifts a hand, “no. Ellis was dead the moment he was captured. If I was in your position, I wouldn’t have risked the mission, the team, myself to try and save him against the odds.”

Kyle sputters, “but- I didn’t save him.”

“But you tried.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s dead!”

Ghost’s tone lowers dangerously, “it may not matter to Ellis, but to the rest of your squad? His teammates? They know you tried, and they will remember in the future that Sergeant Garrick will endanger his own life for his subordinates.”

Kyle’s eyes widen, Ghost’s voice gaining a somber tone, “you haven’t had a lot of experience in leading.” he half-states, half-asks, so Kyle shakes his head.

“The trust your men have in you is fragile, and invaluable. Today, you’ve gained something many others can’t. You have respect, the kind that is hard-earned in battle.” His eyes look away, lost in memories Kyle will probably never be privy to, “that’s why it matters.”

He thinks back to the way everyone approaches Ghost, fear and awe in their eyes, “are you talking from experience?”

Ghost’s eyes refocus on him, “my soldiers respect me because I’m powerful. They respect me out of terror, not trust.”

“Respect is respect, no?”

“None of them would risk their lives to save mine, if it came to it.” Ghost rises to his feet, “respect born of fear is weak compared to respect born from admiration.”

A gloved hand, adorned with skeletal markings, is offered to him. Kyle takes it, allowing Ghost to pull him up to his own shaky legs.

Gaz takes a good look at the grotesque mask, at the appearance that signals danger and unmatched strength. 

And at the hand in his, grip powerful enough that he doesn’t have any doubt it will catch him if he falls.

“I trust you, Lieutenant.”

Ghost freezes, before he begins walking towards the parked vehicles, “your mistake, Sergeant.”

Gaz follows, believing wholeheartedly in his words.

“I’m planning on building a task force.” Price begins the moment Gaz settles into the office chair in front of him, “a revenant-only task force.”

“And you’re inviting me?” he exclaims in disbelief.

“Don’t sound so surprised, Kyle, we both know your powers are extremely rare.”

Still, to be chosen by the Captain Price out of everyone…

“You’re giving me too much credit, son.” Price’s moustache twitches up with a hidden smirk, “I’ll take it as a yes?”

Gaz nods resolutely, “yes, sir!”

“That’s what I want to hear. Any questions?”

The words “no, sir” are ready on his tongue, but he retracts them to instead ask, “are there any other members yet?”

Price scans him for a moment, before he pulls out a folder, “you remember Ghost, I presume?”

He can see how Price clocks in the excitement in his mind, “of course.”

A warm smile crinkles Price’s blue eyes. He rises, offering Gaz a hand to shake. Gaz takes it.

“Welcome to Taskforce 141, Kyle.”

[boypussydilf]

i really like the scarab but im kind of let down that His Character was never. like. relevant. like his Personality And Motivations had no role in the story. i was expecting the potential parallels that could b drawn between him and the main cast to be Utilized As Some Kind Of Narrative Device, or… anything. but it feels like in the end the only way he contributed to the story was giving the gang a threat to run away from, which in theory is perfectly fine, twas a necessary plot device, but why spend so much time on his character then. you could have replaced him with a lamp that has no personality or motivations and just shoots deadly lasers at simon and it wouldn’t have like. changed the story at all i think