#sorry to take this hole in canon and use it to put you through it raph your fam'll be here to save you soon

[whattraintracks]

4. Sunset - TMNT II (1991)

Born from the realisation that Raphael was a prisoner of the Foot for at least half a day before his family showed up to rescue him. 

He is definitely being punished. Some insane higher power is looking down at him right now and having one big laugh.

This is what he gets for being such a brat his whole life. For disobeying Master Splinter so often. For forgetting who he is long enough to run around topside in the middle of the day. Unlike himself, Raph's brothers are good little ninja who follow Master Splinter's rules. They won't show up until night falls.

What's that saying? Play stupid games, win stupid prizes? Well, Raph's just won a day as the Foot Clan's class pet.

It's alright. He can make it to sunset.

They tie him to a pole right out in the open. And because he can't possibly be miserable enough in the direct sunlight, Foot Face lines up the baby Foots to use him as a training dummy. Guess he didn't take that personality comment too well.

Making fun of their terrible forms and weak hits is a hollow comfort. Under normal circumstances, humans are too squishy to do him any real damage barehanded. At least, when he's not immobilised with all of the soft, unprotected parts of his own body on display.

To his vicious satisfaction, one unlucky sucker gets close enough for him to chomp. It takes five guys and fifteen minutes for them to pry his beak open. Totally worth the sore jaw and blood in his mouth when he snarls at the next dweeb in line, and they flinch.

They gag him after that.

Just wait it out until sunset.

Oh, and that ghost he'd told Keno he thought he saw? Not a ghost. Just good old Shred-head back from the dead.

Thinking about that is its own special kind of torture. At least he doesn't have to look at Zombie Shredder, facing away from whatever shack they're running this dump out of. Except maybe that's worse.

He jumps the first time he hears that same rattle of metal from his nightmares. Gets a good laugh from the crowd watching his debut as a punching bag. From then on, every shout and clatter of metal behind him makes him squirm, and the recruits have a fun new game.

Just until sunset.

Eventually, he guesses, the novelty of beating him up when he can't fight back wears off. He's left alone save for every once in a while when someone at the edge of the clearing uses him as target practice. But, man, these guys even have terrible aim! One or two blunt shuriken bounce off his plastron, and the rest thunk sadly to the ground. Makes him feel like even more of a moron for getting caught by these guys.

So where does that leave him? Hot, sore all over, and too tired to make fun of ninjidiots. Blinking hard against the grit and sudden wetness in his eyes, he doesn't think about how much he wants his dad right now.

Keep it together, Raphael. He'll be here at sunset.

At least, he hopes he'll be here.

And he remembers his dad doesn't even know where he is. No one does except Keno. Because Raph stormed off without telling the guys where he was going. Again. Man, why's he gotta be such a hothead all the time?

It'll be fine. Keno seems like a pretty tough guy. If he's got half as much guts as he acts like he's got, he'll find them, and they'll be here.

Daylight wanes, and Raph is mercifully draped in familiar shadows. Just until sunset. Sunset. Sunset. Sunset. Hold it together until the sun sets.

He can do that.

[gladiatorcunt]

summary: king!aegon ii targaryen x afab rhaenyra’s child!reader

cw: CANON TYPICAL incest/targcest, boot worship, free use, public, voyeurism/exhibitionism (non con on the guards part 💀), hints of reader being just as much of a weirdo i’m sorry (rhaenyra can’t blame them tho), used a valyrian translator so if there’s any mistakes no there’s not <3, fucking on the iron throne as a celebratory end of work day thing, everything is 100% consensual on reader’s part, one use of “whore”, aegon’s pet names are all food related 🥴 (deadass almost had him call reader beer for the joke)

wc: 888 (🎱✨)

block & move on if uncomfortable !!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

last hotd fic for a bit bc i’m out of ideas

kinktober masterlist

“Ry paktot, ilagon ao jikagon, jorrāelagon (all right, down you go love).”

You and your uncle Aegon have the strangest end of day ritual. It always starts with you being shoved on your knees, his hands cradling your shoulders to protect you from the sharp iron throne.

All others are sent away from the room, save for a few guards that had been eyeing your body far too much for his liking. You were yet to be married but numerous whispers of your sexual exploits ran through the castle like wildfire. Aegon II Targaryen, was a king that one could not even sneeze in front of for fear of setting him off. So he is careful to keep those shrews' musings away from you, it was a feat of strength to coerce you into being as bold as you are now.

“Come now, elilla (honey). Clean my shoes so i can give your cunt the fucking it deserves.” He orders you, and you are all too eager, especially with the eyes of the uncomfortable guards on you.

You pray to the Gods that Aegon does not catch them looking with their peripheral vision, pausing your fun to murder more of the staff would really rain on your parade.

The shoes of your king are cleaned before you put your tongue to them, something that you’re almost disappointed by at this point. You are tempted to ask him to turn away the shoe shiner for next time.

His crown has the same red haze surrounding it that lives deep within Aegon, and it commands your attention all the same. You let your eyes softly fall shut as you run your wet tongue along the edge of his boot. The metallic tang has become an old friend, as well as any paltry specs of blood you find. You fear that you could possibly develop a craving for it.

You prostrate yourself before your betrothed as if you were a humming bird that had come face to face with Balerion himself. A house kitten mewling for the attention of a tiger. It is not unlike performing a blow job. Your lashes become the sheer curtains you look out of and your mouth fulfills its purpose.

You flatten your tongue and begin to dip into the crevices, getting every inch of his shoes slick with your spit. Aegon has his weeping cock in the firm hold of both of his hands, and he times his strokes to every flick of your tongue.

Your “services” last for what feels like an eternity. Your uncle’s eyes wander to keep the forcibly voyeuristic guards in check. You can hear their feet shuffling on the ground as they squirm behind you, and Aegon is so pleased by this that he returns his attention to his beloved pet.

“Prūbres (apple), that is quite enough. Come back up, darling.” He says while gingerly rubbing the heel of his boot into your cheek.

“Yes, qȳbor (uncle).”

You clamor into his lap, taking the initiative by lifting your previously stretched hole over his cock. One of his hands claws into the flesh of your hip to steady you, and the other positions his cock upright. Once you get past the pink tip, your walls are snugly wrapped around his entire length in seconds. You both groan as he bottoms out. Aegon wastes no time and digs his nails into your other hip, lifting you off of his cock until the tip catches against your entrance and swiftly dropping you back down.

“My whore, a jewel worth more than any found in my crown.” The word comes out between gritted teeth, but the thumb drawing loose circles on your pearl is kinder. “Not one of those filthy dogs will ever know the pleasure of a cunny as sweet as the one made for me.”

“They will not.” You whined, relishing in the red marks his nails were no doubt leaving on your jiggling ass as you bounced on his girthy cock. “Only you, qȳbor (uncle), only my king. They could hang for all I care.”

You have an awful habit for letting words flow from your mouth with no thought of their consequences. It’s not your fault though, you muse as Aegon scratches at your moving globes of flesh, your cunt takes priority more often than not. You ignore the spark that ignites in his soul at the foolish declaration.

His thumb stops teasing your clit and rubs it harshly up and down until your rapid bouncing ceases in favor of chasing that high. He only has to spank you a single time for you to shatter around his cock with an angelic and blissfully soft moan. You let your torso fall to his and you bury your face in his neck as his other hand travels to grope your other ass cheek.

Aegon spills into you with an embarrassingly long and loud groan, licking at the pulse point of your neck as he fucks himself into overstimulation. This is the only time he will allow the guards to drink your sex in, so they can gawk at the pure amount of spend that leaks out of your ravaged cunny. He pretends not to notice or enjoy the stares, spreading your fat cheeks to give them a better view.

“Leave us be.”

[blindmagdalena]

I know you've done vampire Homelander before, but after looking (totally not obsessively) at various Antony Starr/Homelander gifs, how do you see canon normal Homelander reacting to his so/us/reader pointing out his sharp teeth and how vampiric they are? Perhaps pointing it out around Halloween👀. I can see a bunch of scenarios but I'd love your input.

"You could be a vampire," you say, swiping lazily through the costume listings on Vought Prime on your phone.

You've made a dozen suggestions already, but he's shot down every single one of them. You're beginning to lose hope that Homelander will be dressed as anything other than "The Homelander" for your first Halloween together.

"You already wear a cape, a high collar, slicked back hair. All we need is a palette swap."

Sitting on the couch next to you, your legs draped over his lap, he gives your thigh a pensive rolling tap with his fingers.

"I thought the vampire fad was over."

"No, vampires are timeless. Plus, you even have the fangs."

"I do not have fangs."

Like Dracula rising from his coffin, you sit straight up, staring him dead in the eye.

"Yes, you do."

His eyes narrow a touch. You can see him running his tongue along his teeth behind his lips.

"See?" you prompt. "You could definitely pierce my carotid with those bad boys."

"You sound like you've thought about it," he says, amusement steadily replacing his initial offense.

"Maybe I've fantasized a little," you say, the words more a tease than a simple admission. "Like I said, you've got the look down pat. You have super strength, you fly, you hate the smell of garlic. You're just a very... patriotic vampire."

He laughs, giving you a perfect flash of those very sharp canines you do so adore. He grabs your legs and slides you over his lap like you weigh nothing at all, bringing you properly into it.

"Tell me about this fantasy."

You slip one arm around his neck while you gesture with the other, setting the scene.

"Alright, so, picture this: it's nighttime—obviously, because vampire"—

"Obviously," he echoes very seriously.

—"and I'm on a rooftop alone."

"Why are you on a rooftop at night?"

"I'm sorry, are you already poking plot holes in my hyper specific 'vampire you' fantasy that you asked to hear?"

He puts up a gloved hand like a white flag of surrender. "Continue."

"Thank you. So, rooftop at night. It's cold, I look very demure and vulnerable—stop laughing—and perfect for a midnight snack. That's when I hear you, first the billow of your cape in the crisp wind, followed by your deep, velvety voice as you lure me in with, 'Chillin' all by your lonesome, beautiful?'"

Homelander bursts into laughter at that. You grin, his laugh causing something warm to blossom in your chest.

"That's fucking lame," he says, teeth as sharp as ever in that wolfish smile of his. "Why did you make vampire me so lame?"

"I mean, my love. If the boot fits," you say slyly, cupping either side of his face.

"See, I don't think I would say anything at all," he tells you, taking hold of your wrists. He pulls your hands in so that he can wrangle them both into the grip of one hand, and then turns you away from him, putting your back to his chest.

To this day, the ease with which he manhandles you still leaves you breathless. The strength lurking in him is unlike anything you've ever known.

"I would just... creep up behind you. Silent," he says, quieter now, his hot breath tickling your neck. "You wouldn't even know I was there until..."

You suck in a sharp breath of your own as you feel his teeth graze your throat, goosebumps erupting over every inch of skin.

"The bite."

He sinks his teeth in, the sharp sting of it jolting a gasp out of you that fades unexpectedly into a moan.

Holy fuck.

He didn't break skin, but you're sure he came close. He drags his tongue over the fading indents left in his wake, the heat of it sending a shiver up your spine.

"One bite is all it takes, and then I'm hooked. Instead of suckin' you dry, I keep you. My own sweet, demure little juice box."

"Eugh, you had me going until juice box," you say, but your trembling voice fails to convey the disinterest you intend.

You feel the shape of his grin against your neck as it widens.

"Your pulse disagrees. It's gone south."

"You're one to talk. Your cup feels awfully stiff," you say, grinding back against him for good measure. It satisfies you to hear him suck in a sharp little breath.

"Bedroom?" he murmurs, the word nearly lost in the kisses he's peppering along your still-stinging neck.

"Bedroom," you agree, giving a little yelp at how quickly he propels himself up into the air, flying more than he's walking.

Once Halloween rolls around, some remark that putting a little fake blood in the corners of Homelander's mouth doesn't constitute a costume, but you don't care.

You're plenty satisfied with your vampire boyfriend.

[kurokawaia]

❛ His Oral Fixation ❜

tw/cw; oral fixation, oral -> female receiving - cunnilingus and tit sucking, slight possessiveness, implied over stimulation, implied hair tugging kink. *ahem* MDNI 🗣

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝒮𝒴𝒩𝒪𝒫𝒮𝐼𝒮 :: headcanons with 2 drabbles attached, Kaji sucking on your plump boobs and giving your drenched cunt head, but not for your pleasure, no, no, this is for his own (kaji is making me go insane im so sorry guys 😵‍💫)

Guys I don't think you understand how much I head canon Kaji to have an oral fixation. I know he sucks on those lolly pops to keep himself shut up but don't you think he's gotten used to having something in his mouth.

It doesn't matter what it is in his mouth it just has to be something. Every time he takes the suckers from his mouth he has that urge to put it back in because not only does it shut him up, he loves to suck around the hardened sugar, that feeling of wrapping his tongue around it.

Not only when he takes the candy from his mouth, he doesn't think about putting the sucker back in his mouth specifically, he thinks of you. The way his tongue would swirl around your perky nubs or the way your puffy clit and cunt would throb in his mouth. The two of them being much more of a treat, and a much more affective way of shutting up.

𝒹𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 :: 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓈

You were there on the couch, minding your own business until Kaji came back from wherever he was and he made his intent clear. And that intent? was your boobs, it was one of the two choices that he loved.

His tongue was playing with your perky buds, purposely not toying with the other just so he can get you all needy. Kaji's saliva was all over your chest, you wouldn't be surprised that if you looked down, there would be purple and red hickies stained all over your skin.

Your arms enveloping his shoulders while occasional whimpers left your throat. But the main sounds coming from your mouth were the deep sighs, moans occasionally slipping out when he found your soft spot on your tits.

Kaji won't be done with you, not until he's had his fill of swirling your puffy nubs with his tongue. He'll be at it for hours if he had to choose, not wanting to be anywhere else but here, in your arms and sucking on your tits.

This is one of the only moments that Kaji makes you seem relatively in control because in this position, what power does he have over you? His hands are toying with your nipples (occasionally...) and his mouth is too preoccupied to tell you to stop moving around! So you have some freedom of movement!

(i have lied)

You move one inch and his teeth will pinch on your sensitive nubs, causing you to be into much distress. This is why you can't move, you can't move away from Kaji because he won't let you :(

But it's a win win right, Kaji sucks on your perky nubs and you get hickies everywhere.

𝒹𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑜 :: 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝓁𝒾𝓉

Kaji cranes his neck forward, pressing kisses to your soaked clit through your underwear, making you want to clench your thighs around his head. His head was in the way of you doing so, Kaji's hands gripped onto your thighs, reminding you of your place.

Your thighs were over his broad shoulders, keeping you in place on the bed. Kaji was doing this for his own pleasure, not yours, if he needs to suck on your clit and dive his tongue into your drenched hole, then you'll let him.

A moan slips from your mouth while your hands entangle themselves into his platinum locks. Your back wanted to arch away from the tingling sensation, to squirm out of his hold, but your immobilised, utterly weak under his touch.

"Quit moving," he huffs with a slight annoyance and you comply, trying your hardest not to jerk at the kisses he peppered your click through your soaked panties.

Kaji moves the material to the side, revealing your slick folds and he doesn't waste a second. He had to wait all day for this and he was going to enjoy every second of sucking on your puffy clit, bending you into overstimulation. Kaji won't be done with you when you ask him to stop, oh no, your done when he says he's done.

The grip on your thighs strengthened as you felt his nose bumping against you sensitive clit, your fingers tightened on the hold you had on his hair. A mewl slips past your plump lips and a groan of satisfaction ripples through him into your folds.

His tongue drags up from your soaked hole to you clit and moans slip from your lips. You wanted desperate to be keep quiet, but you know that Kaji doesn't like it, when you hide your voice. When Kaji doesn't have his headphones on, he wants your pretty voice to, one, speaking to him or two, moaning and whimpering as loud as he wants you to be.

Your head is thrown back against the fluffy pillows beneath you, back trying to arch into his tongue which is sucking lewdly on your swollen clit. Thighs clench around his head through his restricting hold and a moan reverberates into your clit causing you to grind down into his face. Chant of his name spill from your mouth, and he loved every second of it.

Why have headphones and a sucker when you have a soaked cunt and your girlfriends moans spilling from her mouth?

Your orgasm was getting closer when two fingers pushed past your folds, into your gummy walls and they immediately found their place. Fingers pressed up against that soft spot inside your walls everything he curled his fingers while he inserted them in at a fast pass.

"So good," Kaji moans against you, hips rutting into the mattress. A moan arouses from you and your hips grind themselves onto his face. He let you for once have some sort of control over the situation, and he decided that if you came quicker he'll let you do it more often. "That's it," he praised.

You chant his name through broken letters, his movements becoming faster, more needy and the single hold he had on your thigh tightened. The coil in your stomach tightened and your fingers secured around his locks, rendering him from moving but causing him to moan more into your folds.

As the moans spill from his lips the only thing it did was tip me over the edge and the moment he pressed his tongue hard against my clit, was once a soft scream left your mouth. The coil in your stomach releasing, drenching his face entirely.

Kaji sits up with a satisfied smirk on his face and the bulge prominent in his baggy jeans. He removed his jacket and hoodie before removing your underwear from your legs. It was in the way of his personal sucker after all.

"I'm not done with you," Kaji said before his tongue played with your clit once more, overstimulating you.

And he'll continue to do this until you come over and over again, only stopping once he's had his fill of your sweetness. Only once he's done sucking and rolling his tongue against your already swollen bud, not going to stop until your squirt all over his face <3

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

m.list | wind breaker m.list

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 58

part 1 | part 57 | ao3

@steddie-island said i wasn't allowed to cut this lol. cw: angst, canon typical horror, mentions of minor character death

“Lucas called me a ghost today.”

Steve almost laughs, bitter and sharp. Sure. Why not? What’s one more ghost in his passenger seat?

He doesn't really want to talk to her right now, if he's honest. It's been fifteen minutes and she still hasn't apologized for trying to rob him, or explained where they're going, or what spooked her, or why this car ride was so urgent that he had to risk his job for it — a job he actually needs, considering his, well, everything. She's hardly said anything beyond the occasional "turn here" or "next left" while sulking with her forehead pressed against the window.

But he can tell she has something she needs to get off her chest, so he swallows his annoyance and offers, "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she says back. Doesn't elaborate.

He gives her another minute to gather her words, watches her open and close her mouth a few times in his periphery, but nothing comes out. She scoffs at herself and abruptly changes the subject. “Eddie was being extra… well, extra today.”

“Was he?” Steve asks, his bones itching under his skin. He doesn't want to talk about Eddie. Doesn't want to think his name.

“Yeah, he, uh- he was kinda manic? He was, like, running all over the cafeteria and starting shit with Jason Carver...” And he's only half-listening, anger simmering as she goes on and on, because she promised that Dustin didn't put her up to this. Said that this wasn't some bullshit excuse to get him to talk about Eddie or hang out with Eddie or think about Eddie or kiss and make up with fucking Eddie, and now she's just talking about him, and it-

And it hurts; god, it still just hurts—

"....Then he started rambling about how he can’t wait to get the hell out of here when he graduates.”

Searing-stabbing-burning-sharp. Steve clutches at the flare of pain in his chest, the crushed soda-can feeling where his heart's supposed to be. His head pounds. He follows her next direction onto a winding, tree-lined road, the canopy suffocating overhead, and his skin feels too dry — too tight, too small, shrink-wrapping him inside of it, because he knows where they are now. Knows the tilt of the rusted lamp shade, the shape of the weather brick paths. He's tasted the metal tang of this stop sign in his nightmares.

Fuck. Fuck.

"Cool," he grits out as he drives through the cemetery gates. Past stone and wrought iron, past the empty central fountain. He hasn't been here since July. “Good for him.”

“Steve-"

“Why are you telling me this?" he snaps. He throws the car in park under an old oak and turns to glare at her, barking a frustrated, "Huh?"

Immediately, he feels bad for raising his voice. Feels even worse for the way she flinches away. The naked fear on her face, her hand reaching for the door. He takes a long, deep breath and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sorry. Sorry. Just-" There's a leak inside him somewhere; some infected, gaping hole, and his stupid heart keeps pumping all his blood into the wound. "Why are you-?”

“Look,” she says sharply, "I know it sucks. To talk about him." She's staring at the rows of headstones up ahead, her face gone steely with determination, her shoulders squared, her big eyes wide and a little wet when she turns to meet his gaze. “But whatever you were— whatever happened, it just… it really messed him up.”

Good. "You sound like Dustin."

"Maybe Dustin had a point."

"Since when?"

She throws her hands up, nostrils flaring. "I'm trying to tell you that I think he still cares!"

“Yeah? He’s got a seriously fucked up way of showing it if so!”

“Yeah, well some of us don’t know how to show it!”

And oh.

Oh.

Silence blankets them like dust. Eyes locked; harsh breaths. This has nothing to do with him and Eddie, does it?

Lucas called me a ghost.

Steve sighs and slumps forward, his forearms on the wheel, his chin resting on his wrist. The late afternoon sun is warm through the glass, and his head gives another nasty throb as he looks out over the hill, at the polished stones glinting in the golden hour rays.

His dad is buried here.

A lot of people are.

“Hey,” he murmurs, rolling his neck to look at her. The skin under her eyes is red. "Sorry for yelling."

She sniffs quietly. "Me, too."

He reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze, keeping his voice low and gentle. "You know you can just talk to me, right? Max, talk to me. Please.”

Her bottom lip quivers. “It’s nothing, okay?” She sinks down in her seat, crossing her arms to shield herself. “Shit’s just been… it’s just been weird all week. Like- like bad weird, and I don't know if I'm just going crazy, or— I mean, maybe Ms. Kelley's right, maybe's it's just— but it feels like…”

"Like what?"

She holds a hand out flat in front of her; flips her wrist over slowly so her palm faces the sky.

Steve's blood runs cold. He thinks of his own nightmares: the weird visions, the headaches, the persistent haunted feeling.

"I don't know anything for sure," she insists, rushing to reassure him before he can fully start to panic. "Seriously, don't freak out; I haven't, like, seen any gates or anything, it's just— bad dreams. Nose bleeds. I don't know." She hoists her backpack onto her shoulder. "I thought coming here might help."

He catches her by the arm, raking his eyes over her face, looking for any signs of danger. "Is there anything I can do?"

She shakes her head no and tugs free of his grip, and then she's slipping out of the car, letting the door fall shut behind her, and Steve watches her crest the hill while sirens wail inside his head.

—

part 59

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[for-those-who-wait]

Hey I think I asked you about your Detroit become human au before a bit ago but I love the idea so much! I know you’re super busy but if you can I would love to see more about it!

Sorry for asking about it again I’m just really interested in it. 😭🙏

No please don't be sorry I love to talk about it whenever I'm not creatively bankrupt!! I'm just sorry it took so long for me to actually think of new stuff to add

I had some of these doodles already prepared but never really finished them up until I came up with a cute little idea

I didn't think of where to put in Flapjack until I remembered that android animals existed, and then I had a brain blast moment where I realized that Hunter can still talk to Flapjack! They are little android buddies, they can interface and talk and be friends!! I think it would also help to make him feel a bit more comfortable with his identity as an android to be able to have his little buddy to have fun private conversations with. Camila introduces them (maybe he had gotten hurt by a previous owner and she found him and let Gus fix him up) and Hunter is a bit tentative about it at first, but Flapjack is adorable and sweet and quickly wins him over

I just now had the idea that Gus, since he's super into android stuff, would probably be a big resource for software and hardware difficulties. Oh, you fell and your arm is working kinda wonky? Call up Gus, he'll crack you open and take a look. The dude doesn't mind in the least, he freaking LOVES going down mechanical and coding rabbit holes to better understand how androids work. I like to think that if Hunter ever got hurt and chose not to accept help because of body/species dysphoria, Gus would be a really good resource for him to try and feel as normal as possible while he's getting fixed. Gus is his brother and he loves him and they're just good to each other okay? Gus would probably crack some jokes or something to get Hunter's mind off it, or infodump about android organs or something (and Hunter would be begrudgingly interested because they are nerds, and Hunter is interested in androids too underneath all the problems he has with deviancy. Like dude they're robots, what's not to love?)

Also some Gus being so over Hunter's "androids can't feel love" phase featuring Vee and Masha being very adorable and very obviously in love :) Hunter is a very silly stupid man. He will find any way to make literally everyone exempt from the terrible rules Philip fed him, except for himself

I'm trying to think of a potential situation that would parallel Hunter's possession, and I think it would probably be basically the same thing that happens in Connor's deviant path (when he deviates and joins the revolution as an ally) where Amanda (a separate AI in his programming that's basically how CyberLife keeps him in check) takes over Connor's programming last minute to try and put a stop to the revolution.

So my current thought is that Philip is basically using Hunter as a trojan horse. His main programming is to act and believe like he's a normal human but similar to Connor, he's basically a sleeper agent without knowing. I imagine that once Hunter gains access to his software (thanks to Vee and Gus), he starts finding programs and files that are labeled as pretty scary things. He shouldn't have to know the most efficient way to shut an android down or incapacitate a human.

If and when Philip finally goes looking for Hunter and sees the first android he's seen in Gravesfield besides Hunter (aka Vee), he's not going to take that well.

I haven't drawn anything for it but so far I'm thinking that he takes control of Hunter's programming, maybe through some taking advantage of his interfacing system, and locks him in his own head a la Connor and Amanda to sic him after Vee and Flapjack (assuming that Philip's main goal, similar to both canons, is to eradicate deviants). It's likely that his friends will try to apprehend him, Vee or Gus will try (and maybe fail a couple times) to delete the programming while Camila deals with Philip. The guy is old and decrepit and Camila would absolutely whoop his ass with the ease of swatting a fly.

Things will be fine; Vee is all good and they manage to delete whatever programming screwed with Hunter's control, but that kid is going to be HELLA anxious about interfacing again from then on since he's afraid of 1) losing his own control and 2) potentially passing the virus onto someone else. It could go two ways at that point: Hunter could either kill Flapjack since Flapjack is technically a deviant android and therefore a target, or we can be nice and let Flapjack live to help him heal from this brand-new trauma.

So yeah hopefully that sates some curiosity! I'm glad you're interested in it because I honestly really love to think of new stuff whenever my brain decides to work hahaha

[queenie-avenue]

Sent from Below, Fell from Above. [pt.1]

—> an angel meets the demon who killed her all those years ago.

⤻ reader is a female, reader is a bunny-type angel(?), canon-typical cursing, very bad use of 1920s slang, reader takes part in the 'welcome to heaven' song, i even wrote an extra verse, heavily inspired by @jazjelspen 's angel baby fic, death, betrayal, angst, spoilers for all of hazbin hotel season one, alastor went up with vaggie and charlie to heaven in this fic, will be a series

The pearly gates of hell shone brightly as you stood there, waiting to welcome in any winners that may have unfortunately just died. Saint Peter had been out for hours by now and looked like he might just have collapsed from how exhausted he was. Like the angel that you were, you let him go take a break while you manned the podium. After all, you had done so multiple times already in the hundred years you've been in heaven!

Just then, you watched as a portal opened up, seemingly out of nowhere. You put on your best smile and waited to greet them.

"Look at this place, Vaggie, Alastor! It's so clean!" Your smile faltered for a moment. Not because of the familliar name — you had long since gotten rid of your fear regarding that name — but because people who just died wouldn't act that way.

"Yeah, super cool." The girl beside her mumbled as she dragged her feet over towards the stand.

As for the man at the back, all dressed in red, he hummed as he walked towards the glowing gates of heaven.

"Hello there!" You greeted, making sure your halo was glowing as bright as possible. "Welcome to heaven, darlings. Could I get your name, please?" You asked politely, pulling out the book of names Saint Peter had entrusted you with.

You stared at the trio ahead of you. A tall gal dressed in a suit with rosy red cheeks that almost made her look like a doll, another doll by her side that had ashen-grey skin and a giant x over her eye, poor thing she must have lost it when she died. And the man that accompanied the two ladies, standing at the back in a dapper looking suit.

"Charlie... Morningstar." The girl in the red suit said.

You nodded your head. "Charlie Morningstar." You drawled out the name, opening up the book and scanning your eyes through the book as your bunny ears flapped about, wondering where you had heard that name before. You frowned when you could not find Charlie's name anywhere in the roster. "Charlie... Morningstar. I'm really sorry, dearie, but you really aren't on my list. A-are you in the wrong place?" You questioned.

"Um, my dad got me this meeting so maybe you could try Lucifer Morningstar?" She mumbled, but the name was loud enough for you to hear.

"Oh dear lord in heaven!" You gasped.

The three of them looked at you. You noted that the man in the suit and deer antlers gazed at you the most intensely, tilting his head over as he narrowed his eyes at you.

"Darling, I really think all of you shouldn't be here-" you frantically said as you flapped your wings out, flying down towards them. Your skirt flapping in the wind alongside your feathery wings.

"Oh lord, here we go." The girl at her side muttered.

"No, uh, we're here for a meeting."

"[y/n], we can take it from here." A mature voice from above said as you looked up to see Sera and Emily — the Seraphim sisters — descend down to you, along with Saint Peter who was holding a milkshake in his hand.

You nodded your head, understanding your place, before stepping aside. Though, you felt the burning gaze of that man boring holes into your head. You turned towards him, a frown present on your face as you stared at him, confused. Noticing that you had noticed him, he turned away, his sharp-toothed grin faced towards Charlie now. That smile... you had seen that smile before. Even the way he dressed, it screamed that he died during your time period.

You continued staring at him, even as he avoided your gaze.

"Dearly beloved, it is my pleasure to say onto thee," Saint Peter suddenly started singing, and you realised that you had lost track of the conversation. "Welcome to Heaven, oh!" He sang as the pearly gates slammed open. You flew up alongside Saint Peter, your wings flapping as your bunny ears twitched. "Where the virtuous reside, 24/7, oh-oh! People are happy that they died," Well, that was certainly an exaggeration considering you didn't exactly... like the way that you died.

As he sang, you flew through the streets, rallying the rest of the winners to join in song. As you flew back, you landed back onto the floor with Saint Peter just as he finished his verse.

"Welcome to Heaven, where everyone hopes to go! Oh-oh! Where angels always glow! Oh!"

You sang as you ran towards all your winner friends as they danced in the streets for the envoys from Hell. Just as you finished singing, you felt those dark eyes on you once again, and you stopped dancing in the street to stare back at him.

Your head hurt as radio static filled your brain, and you struggled to keep yourself upright. You almost toppled over. You grabbed your head, attempting to get the static out of your brain. "Wha-"

"'Cause every single day in Heaven, is a happy day!" Both Emily and Saint Peter belted out as they flew in the air, causing you to break your gaze from the man and focus on the soaring duo in the air.

"Welcome to Heaven!"

The song ended, and you immediately fell to the ground. You had been dead for so many years, so it had been decades since you felt breathless, of all things.

"My, what is a dame like you doing on the floor!" There that static was again, but this time it was accompanied by an eerily familliar voice. You wanted to call out to Emily, or Sera, but they had already run off. Charlie and the girl by her side with Emily, and Sera to God knows where, leaving you alone with this shady man.

"I-" you began.

Without even extending his hand, this strange deer- whatever he was, pulled your hand up abruptly, holding onto it so tight you felt your blood stop pumping through the veins of your hand.

"What is your name, Sweetheart? I have to say, you and those little angels put on quite a show! All you little Oliver Twists are so adorable." The demon chuckled as he pulled you uncomfortably close.

"Please let me go." You said to the man, attempting to push him off but he only held you tighter.

"Aren't I quite the rude chap, I should have introduced myself before asking for your name." He grinned wider, spinning you around in a painfully familliar way.

"Alastor, my dear, pleasure to meet you!" He said, grabbing your hand and kissing it.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

Alastor grabbed your hand, bowing down as he looked up at you, that sweet grin on his face. "Alastor, my dear, pleasure to meet you." He said, before sealing your fate with a kiss on your hand. "I hope that we can get along well." You gazed at him with wide eyes, your eyes raking over his bronzed skin and brown — almost red — hair. Glasses lined his gleaming eyes.

Those eyes were the same words that echoed in your mind in your worst nightmares.

✧ Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ✧

And now here you were, reliving that nightmare.

"What the fuck!" You yelled out, which caused some angels to look over at you. Sure, cursing was normal, but it was typically somewhat taboo on cloud nine and this was one of the only times you had ever cursed. You reeled your hand back, your eyes widened as you stumbled back. "I-it's you." You commented, holding your hand close to the pearl-white blouse that you wore.

"Yes, my darling, it is!" Alastor laughed once again, that sinister shit-eating grin still present on his face. "I'm surprised it took you so long to realise it." He commented, grabbing your hands in his, causing you to freeze up. "I had my suspicions the moment I saw you, but when you sang... oh..." He murmured. His face was filled with ecstasy, his claws going up to his face as he grinned deviously.

"I need to get out of here." You muttered as you turned on your heel and snatched your hands away, preparing to leave.

Alastor just grabbed you back into a tight embrace, his face propped against your shoulder. "I knew it was you, little bunny." The nickname only made you more uncomfortable than ever as you remembered the intimate moment when he first gave you that nickname.

"What's wrong, little bunny?"

The moment he spoke, your wings shot up, pushing him away from you and slapping his body aside. You flew up as he stumbled onto the pristine roads of heaven.

Don't come near me again, you wanted to say, but you couldn't find the courage to spit in the face of your murderer, not even now.

So, this time, you ran away.

You should have done that years ago. Maybe you would have lived longer then.

[pt.2]

[olenvasynyt]

Top 3 most controversial acotar takes/opinions, now☄️

Uh nooooo only my top three? Alrighty. These are going to be very harsh:

1. I have read the ACOTAR series at least 3 times since 2021 and I very often skim chapters every week for posts and videos. And I will be fully honest, I never want to reread the series ever again because of Feyre. I dislike her biases, her hypocrisy, her habit of ignoring other people’s POVs and the mistakes she’s made. I hate her excuses and her blindness and selfishness and how she treats everyone who is not in the IC. I hate how she treats Tamlin and Lucien. I physically cannot reread ACOWAR without flinching at all of the stuff she does, ESPECIALLY her taking down Spring out of revenge. I do not like her as an FMC and I’m glad we have moved past her story and onto other characters.

2. I think the fanbase’s hatred for Tamlin is so extreme and it is heavily influenced by Feyre’s own biases, as well as stupid memes on tiktok. If you take a second to look at the story from Tamlin’s perspective, you can easily understand his actions. With Hybern, EVERYONE FORGETS THAT 1. He was not part of the Archeron Sister’s kidnapping, that was Ianthe. It’s literally explained by Hybern in the book. And 2. He was playing as a double agent, which is hinted at many many times and it is something we later discover. I would go into it more but I feel like that’s its own post that many people have made before.

3. I don’t think SJM is the best writer. I know writers can retcon, especially in huge series like this, but she uses retconning as a crutch, and it’s very frustrating. She has so many inconsistencies and plot holes and inconveniences that personally bother me. I think her world building in ACOTAR is so flat and not thought out at all, and her magic system is even worse. Most of her villains, not just in ACOTAR but in her other series, are not that good idk. She also has a habit of the typical villain monologue that I am getting so sick of and I literally skip the part of the human queen during the Blood Rite because I think it’s so badly written 😭😂

And here’s some random ones just for fun with no to little explanation (I couldn’t do just 3 LMAO sorry)

4. ACOTAR would be better in 3rd POV limited and we can still get the mystery of the world, Feyre’s biases, etc. A lot of problems I have would be solved if we got the POVs of other characters

5. I would like Rhys so much more if he was revealed to be a villain

6. Lucien is one of the only characters I genuinely enjoy, and I’m holding out for him. If he did not exist, I would not be reading ACOTAR at all

7. The IC are awful for how they treat Nesta and I DESPISE THE “intervention” they put her through. It was not a real intervention and readers should not try to defend it in that way

8. This fanbase is filled with too many straight normies who have never experienced a fanbase before and refuse to broaden their minds and think beyond canon. Tamsand would be the most popular ship in any other fanbase. There would be more sexuality and gender headcanons. Trans headcanons, trans fanfics, m-preg fanfics, etc etc. But I guess this is a very popular fantasy romance so I get why those aren’t popular but I should not have to explain why it’s okay to ship ships that aren’t canon, and why people often insert their heteronormative fantasies in queer ships (looking at you Azris)

[originalaccountname]

Sorry to bother you but I’ve been getting into BSD and Chuuya’s my fave, but I’ve been seeing some contradictory things in fanfic so…

Does Chuuya actually have a god sealed inside him? I thought it was just like his power without limitations and was dubious of those takes, but since eldritch beings can apparently be a thing (and not an ability), I think it could be plausible either way.

Though even if it’s not I can see why people would use that route for some good angst.

This is not a bother at all! This is something I very much like to talk about

if you're really new I do recommend you go read both "Dazai, Chuuya, Fifteen Years Old" and "STORM BRINGER" light novels (but SB especially), not only are they great books with Chuuya as the focal point but they will help answer your question in depth (you can buy the English translations but I can help you find the translation online if that's what you need, just message me again)

The short version is that Arahabaki being an actual god, a separate entity from Chuuya that has a personality/a voice/desires, is a common fanon trope, but not a canon fact. The truth is more complex and much more fun, lore-wise, in my opinion

And now the long version, because I'm passionate about this and this is my excuse to deep dive into it (spoilers for Fifteen)

In Fifteen, Chuuya says this:

Chuuya himself presents "Arahabaki" as nothing more than pure power. No thoughts, no personality, but powerful for sure.

That phrasing in Fifteen created a lot of confusion I think, talking about gods as real but also not:

But I think it's more of a symbolic reference, talking about immense power that seem out of this world. Because in practice, as Chuuya said before, "Arahabaki" is simply raw power, not an entity. You can't pray to it, it can't understand you, it can't perform miracles (which is why he knew the Old Boss couldn't have been brought back by Arahabaki and it was all nonsense from the start)

I'm also putting part of the blame on the anime, where they decided (while not being exactly wrong either, out of context it's weird) to illustrate Chuuya "floating in a bluish-black darkness, surrounded by a transparent seal" and being pulled out by a hand:

like this:

When, if you actually reread that part in the novel with knowledge about Storm Bringer, it's actually this moment that was being referred to:

Which brings us to Storm Bringer! (heavy spoilers I'm serious)

"Project Arahabaki" was the Japanese government's attempt to create an ability weapon from an individual. They wanted to craft a singularity that could be used multiple times, thus granting them access to power that should not be accessible normally. They based their research on what France had discovered through Verlaine. The objective is to create a massive energy output through a self-contradicting ability, for which you need a vessel:

Chuuya is the device. "Arahabaki" is the massive energy. That massive energy can control gravity to the point of being able to create localized black holes! N implied that part of the lab's work for the Arahabaki Project was to modify Chuuya's body to be able to withstand the constant gravity effects on it so he doesn't just die. Chuuya's normal use of his ability doesn't seem to have any drastic effects on him, and his physical resilience (to getting hit, stabbed, poisoned, shot, electrocuted, to going through a black hole) does seem to imply they did succeed at least in part.

And this bit here explains why "Arahabaki" was the chosen name for the project; unexplained phenomena across History that can be linked to an ability going haywire, but were attributed to god-like interventions at the time. So you're a funny little mad scientist, you read research papers from another mad scientist that named their own creation after a mythological monster, and you decide to do the same with your own local folklore.

But!

There's still something to be said about how "Arahabaki" is a singularity, and therefore, has its own set of rules. Chuuya does loose control, Chuuya does regress to a sort of destructive instinct while under Corruption. But "Arahabaki" is still no more than an ability singularity. Here's what is said about Guivre and Arahabaki:

They are both singularity life-forms. They exist because they are singularities; outside of it, they are nothing. The inner workings of abilities are still mysterious, but most of them have a link to their wielder's desires. For example, Atsushi's Tiger is there to protect him, a mirror to his will to live no matter what. Verlaine's Guivre is similar:

Guivre was a beast born out of Verlaine's loneliness and resulting hatred. He felt deeply alone in not feeling/being human, and through Pan's (his "creator") special "programming" of Verlaine's ability, N was able to trigger the true form of his singularity with that flare gun and metal powder, which took the form of Guivre. It's what the hat was supposed to prevent, but Verlaine had already lost it by then.

Chuuya's Arahabaki is probably similar. Its first apparition was when Rimbaud tried to absorb him and use his ability for himself, and any subsequent use is linked to grief and survival. Basically, if they're their own entities, they are still born in a specific context and deeply linked to the original ability user's character. And Arahabaki? Only exists if Chuuya uses his activation phrase to get rid of the limitations put into place to prevent him from exploding:

More about about Corruption: SB is kind enough to give us an explanation on how the nullification process works, right here:

Chuuya's self-contradicting ability makes him able to control gravity through the sheer amount of energy it creates by permanently interacting with itself. It is kept under control through the use of an activation phrase, O grantors of dark disgrace, do not wake me again, which, after being either said or thought by Chuuya, will open his "Gate" (which I'm interpreting as a blocker put in place by the lab so the singularity doesn't just kill him, like those poor people they mentioned existed through History), and by opening it, "free Arahabaki's true power" (aka Corruption). When Dazai uses his ability on him, the base self-contradicting ability is nullified, which cancels out the singularity taking place, which stops Corruption and allows that "Gate" to close again. The red markings are there because they're cool and fun.

To conclude, I'll let Dazai do the honors:

bonus: what does that mean for Chuuya's ability?

bons 2: Perceived timeline of Chuuya's past and what happened to to create confusion around his humanity

[mae-lou-ron]

Keeping You Around

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x reader

Summary: Commander Wolffe's assignment to embark on a reconnaissance mission takes an unexpected turn when he finds himself stranded with you—a development he was far from prepared to deal with.

Warnings: hurt/comfort, canon typical violence, mild injury mentioned, mando'a nicknames, mutual pining, idiots in love arguing, Wolffe kriffs up, stubborn Wolffe is stubborn, but stubborn reader is stubborn. Fluff at the end.

Word Count: 3,700 (it was supposed to be like 500 but again, brevity is not my strength, okay?)

A/N: Real talk I wrote this in about 3 hours last night. Barely proofread bc I’m a dangerous woman trying to stop falling down editing rabbit holes at 3am. Lots of familiar tropes and scenarios ahead, but my goal was to practice writing conflict dialogue and thought Wolffe would be fun to try. Inspired to write this while watching Nick and Jess argue in New Girl S1E22 😜

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Cyar'ika!" Wolffe's voice boomed through the dilapidated hangar, the sudden sound of it nearly making you drop your spanner. "Cyar- Maker… there you are. What is wrong with you?!" Wolffe demanded as he strode over to you from a room off to the side, angrily trying to get his pauldron to snap back into place.

"Ah, Commander, I see you’ve regained consciousness," you said drily, not looking up from the panel you were rewiring. Your hands were growing tired, just like the rest of you from the tedious task of fixing the power supply in hopes of getting a signal out to the 104th.

"Care to explain why I woke up in a strange room with half my kit off?" Wolffe demanded, his voice a dripping with irritation.

"Because you were much easier to drag without it… and I needed to make sure you weren't bleeding internally while you were unconscious," you said matter-of-factly. "I'm sorry—if I had time to wait for you to come around, I would have asked," you said, your voice losing its edge incrementally as you met his eyes for the first time. “Not like you would have admitted you were injured anyway,” you muttered under your breath.

He regarded you carefully, his expression severe. You could see his mind racing through a hundred scenarios while he’d been unconscious, though thankfully none had come to pass. His ARC trooper instincts kicked in as his eyes scanned the space for potential threats.

"Relax," you sighed. "I cleared the place, there's no one here. By the state of things I don’t think anyone has been here for a long time,” you gestured around to the various consoles and furniture covered in a thick layer of dust and debris. “Except for the scurriers, at least,”

"How… where's the shuttle?" he turned his head towards the closed hangar doors. No shuttle in sight.

"About 5 klicks east where we crashed it…" The panel before you flickered a few times, the power pulsing it to life before it cut out again. "Dank farrik!" you swore and kicked the side of it as the last of your patience with the blasted thing finally left your body. "It's no use, I can't keep the power on long enough to start anything up," you grumbled as you pulled yourself to your feet, wiping your hands on your flight suit in frustration.

When you looked up at Wolffe, he was staring at you with the same unreadable expression. His brow furrowed slightly as he took in your disheveled appearance and the scattered tools around you. His hands perched on his belt, mismatched eyes glittering.

"What?" you shrugged, slightly unnerved by his stern gaze.

"Where we crashed it, Lieutenant?" Wolffe's deep voice thick with implication. "The last thing I remember is you ignoring my direct order to put the ship down in that clearing."

"If I had, the clankers would have advanced on our position, cutting off what looked like the only civilian escape route,” you countered. "Landing further away drew them to us instead…it wasn’t part of the plan to get shot down…" you added as you remembered the chaos of the crash. The impact had been jarring, a barrage of tree branches cracking against the hull like breaking limbs. A second impact threw an already off balance Wolffe into one of the wall panels, knocking him out.

You managed to keep the shuttle in the air long enough to find a patch where the trees thinned out. In all honesty, it wasn't even your worst landing to date. As soon as it stopped moving, you immediately went to Wolffe. The shuttle was trashed, but you thanked the Maker one of the speeders stowed within it had survived. With great difficulty, you dragged Wolffe's unconscious form from the wreck, your muscles screaming in protest as you moved him to a safer distance away. There you were able to quickly assess his injuries, relief washing over you when you found a strong pulse and no signs of severe trauma. A few bruised or broken ribs, maybe, and thankfully he was wearing his helmet in the crash, but you still needed to check him for a concussion.

With Wolffe secured, you turned your attention to finding shelter, knowing that staying put wasn't an option. Your initial scans of the area indicated a hidden structure not too far from your position. So, with even greater difficulty, you heaved him onto the back of the speeder with whatever supplies you could quickly grab, and took off to higher ground.

“We’re both alive, relatively unscathed, gave the civilians a chance to escape, I handled it, Wolffe,” you reasoned, annoyed but not surprised at his reaction. Wolffe was a textbook control freak, but over the last year it had become almost endearing to you. Relishing in the way his eyes widened when he was flustered, or how his gravely tone would elevate ever so slightly when you pissed him off.

Like right now.

"Maybe if you listened to orders for once, you wouldn't have had to," Wolffe retorted, through gritted teeth.

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, because you're such a shining example of following protocol?" Referring to all the times Wolffe and General Plo bent protocol to keep their men alive, to secure the mission’s success.

"That's different and you know it," he growled, taking a step closer.

"How? How is it different, Wolffe?" you challenged.

He hesitated for a moment, then sighed. "Because I'm trying to keep you safe, dammit."

"And who's been keeping you safe?" you raised your voice, your frustration bubbling. He bristled, but you could tell your words surprised him when he deflected back to you.

“You can’t just keep running into the fray like that, you’re going to get yourself killed!”

“Ok, that’s actually kinda hilarious coming from you,” you chuckled sardonically.

“You’re not a soldier…and lately you seem set on going against everything I say trying to keep you alive!” his voice grew louder with every word.

“Wow, Wolffe. Do you even hear yourself?!” the words came out of your mouth, stopping him in his tracks, scowling at his puzzled expression.

“What?" he snapped in a deep voice. His eyes blazed with both anger and confusion, clearly caught off guard by your outburst. The tension in the air was palpable as you both stood there, locked in a silent standoff.

“I can take care of myself, and believe it or not, I always have, with or without you around,” you growled. “And I don’t appreciate you making me out to be this fragile little thing who needs to be taken care of…I volunteered for this mission, and I dragged your heavy ass here away from the droids while you were taking a nap,”

“I wasn’t aware I was responsible for what happened while I was unconscious, cyar’ika,” his tone filled with warning.

"And I certainly wasn't aware that saving your life would piss you off so badly," you spat, your chest heaving with exasperation.

The tension between you simmered, neither willing to yield. Wolffe had been acting strangely ever since he learned you volunteered for this mission. His behavior grew even more peculiar when you were paired to conduct recon scans for command. It made sense—you were a decorated pilot, and he was a decorated commander—yet his unease was obvious.

While Wolffe is a lot of things, he is not someone who will willingly talk about his feelings. So you stood there, glaring at each other, both too stubborn to acquiesce. You were slowly moving towards one another, your determination coming off you in waves.

“When are you going to stop being so stubborn,” he said, chest puffing out slightly.

“Maybe I’m waiting for you to do the same,” you hissed.

“Don’t count on it, cyar’ika.” he took another step in your direction. The clones were already formidable in their presence, but Wollfe’s brightly painted armor made his presence even more powerful. It took you gritting your teeth and clenching your fists at your side to quell the impulses that were firing in your brain. You closed the distance, showing you weren’t going to back down. Not on this.

“Well, Commander, next time I’ll be sure to avoid any missions you’re assigned to, then you won’t have to carry my ‘dead weight’ around…” you half regretted the words as soon as they left your tongue, you wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt that maybe— maybe you’d misheard things. But it looked like you were going down this road anyway.

His eyes flashed with anger, but also a realization at your words. For a moment, you saw a flicker of vulnerability beneath his tough exterior. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a sheepish anger that spoke volumes.

“Yeah Wolffe, I overheard you talking to Rex before we left,” you said as you bit back the fire in your lungs. “Ironic, don’t you think?” you sighed after a few long moments of silence.

Wolffe's conversation with Rex had echoed in your mind, each word a dagger twisting deeper into your heart, fueling your pain. You couldn't shake the feeling, the knowledge that someone you cared for so deeply likely saw you as nothing more than a burden.

His face fell as your words deflated him. “You…” he sighed. “You weren’t supposed to hear that…”

“Clearly. But now that I know how you really feel about my abilities we can stop pretending, so thanks for that I guess,” you looked at the floor, unable to keep the hurt from your voice now.

Wolffe's expression shifted, a sadness crossing his features. He reached out but stopped mid-air, unsure. "That's not... I didn't mean it like that," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with a hint of desperation. "You have to understand, cyar’ika, the situation is-"

“Will you stop calling me that!?” You nearly screamed, your voice echoing off the bare walls in the hangar. You could have sworn he winced, the only sound being the wind blowing through the cracks in the door. Wolffe opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, clearly struggling to find the right words.

"I would never speak about you like that, Wolffe, especially not to Rex," your voice was uncharacteristically small as you crossed your arms protectively. You had considered dropping the mission, faking an injury—anything to avoid this. But Wolffe was still one of your closest friends in the GAR; he'd have seen right through you. So instead, it lit a fire in you to prove him wrong. You knew it was childish to crave his approval, to want him to be proud of you. But what else could you do when you were desperately in love with the man?

Wolffe's eyes searched your face as he stepped closer, shoulders slumped incrementally, but his voice was low and earnest. "Those words were never meant to hurt you," he softly called you cyar'ika again. You ignored it, waiting for him to continue. "What you heard... it wasn't what you think." He reached out once more, but you stood firm against the pull of his warmth. "Please, let me explain?"

His tone was softer than you'd ever heard from him. A tingle ran down your spine as you glanced at his hand, then back into his tawny eye. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you raised your eyebrows, daring him to continue.

"I'm all ears, Commander."

Wolffe grabbed a nearby stool and pointed at it, which you took only after he took a seat on the stool opposite you. He suppressed another wince with a hand over his ribs, you’d apply more bacta later, you thought to yourself as your knees nearly bumped his, but you ignored that too as he let out a ragged sigh. Running a hand through his cropped hair, he sent a few tendrils astray and you had to avert your gaze to avoid being distracted by the sight.

"You’re right, I didn't want you to come here with me," he said quietly. When he felt you bristle and open your mouth to protest, he touched his fingertips to your knee, seeking permission before he continued. “But then you volunteered- and what was I supposed to tell you- tell them?”

“You didn’t think I could handle it,” you said softly shaking your head and shifting in your seat with your eyes still on the floor.

"It's not that," Wolffe said, his voice low. He leaned forward, his knuckle gently nudging your chin. When you looked up he was gazing at you with an intensity that made your heart thrum. You could feel the weight of what he was trying to say in his long pause. “I didn’t think that I could handle it,” he confessed, eyes guarded as he gauged your response.

Wolffe's confession caught you off guard, revealing a rare vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior. The bands around your heart loosened as understanding dawned, pieces falling into place. His overprotective nature, steely demeanor, and reluctance to have you on this mission suddenly made sense. Gently, you placed your fingertips over his where they rest on your knee, a silent acknowledgment of this newfound insight. But still, what he said to Rex still had its bitter sting.

“Anything would have been better than you letting Rex think I was a liability, Wolffe,”

“I know…I’m…sorry, I can’t even imagine how angry I’d have been if I were you." He paused, his eyes searching yours.

“I’m still angry,” you said quietly, but a glimmer of your softening resolve shone through, he saw it making his posture relaxing incrementally.

“And I deserve it,” he turned his hand over beneath yours, wrapping his gloved fingers around your palm. The gesture surprising both of you. “I’ll talk to Rex as soon as we get out of here- but I don’t even think I’ll need to once he reads our mission report,” he mused.

You both sat in silence for a moment, the weight of your conversation hanging between you. The anger that had fueled your argument earlier had dissipated, replaced by a different kind of tension. Wolffe's thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand.

“I won’t make this mistake again, I promise you,” he said before he brought your hand to his lips, gently pressing them to your knuckles. You felt his breath fan over your skin, making your own breath stop in your throat at this unfamiliar, but not unwelcome side of Wolffe.

“Thank you,” you murmured as you moved your hand from his lips to his cheek. "We've always been quite the team," your eyes locked with his mismatched gaze. “We can protect one another. Together. I don’t need a savior, I just need to know you’ve got my back, as I have yours. I always will…”

Wolffe's eyes softened, a mix of gratitude and admiration shining through. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours in a gentle Keldabe kiss. "Always, cyar’ika," he murmured, his voice low and filled with promise. "Together.”

You chuckled softly at his pet name for you. "Wolffe, why do you keep calling me that?" The question had been on your mind for a while, but you'd never asked before. Truthfully, you were afraid to know the answer. You'd always assumed it was some kind of teasing nickname, especially given how his brothers snickered whenever it slipped from his lips around them.

Wolffe shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. A strange and unfamiliar site, but you couldn’t help but smile internally at your ability to unearth this side of him. After a moment, Wolffe seemed to find some resolve. His gloved hand reached up and brushed a stray hair from your eyes. When you looked at his face again you swore you saw pink in the man’s cheeks.

Wolffe can blush? You thought to yourself, eyes growing wide at this information. “It’s mando’a…there are words in basic that would cover it, but it’s…it’s more like a feeling. A sentiment…” he trailed off. His eyes softened as he looked at you, a hint of vulnerability in his expression. "The closest thing I can think of is…darling, beloved," Wolffe swallowed, his voice low and tender.

The realization dawned on you like a class two Venator crashing down, and between all the tension from the mission and trying to survive on this rock, you could help but burst into a fit of soft laughter.

“What?” Wolffe looked confused.

“So it doesn’t mean ‘idiot’?” You bit the inside of your cheek to stop your giggles.

Wolffe chuckled, a rare smile tugging at his lips. "No, cyar'ika. It definitely doesn't mean 'idiot'." He paused, his eyes crinkling as they met yours.

“I sure feel like one right now,” you murmured, your eyes distant thinking back to some of the times it slipped out in conversation.

“I’m the dik’ut in this case, cyar’ika,” he gazed at you softly, hand brushing another stray hair from your face.

“Well…” you said, leaning in closer. Your skin flushed with the renewed electricity between you. “I suppose it’s alright, now that I know why your brothers have been laughing when you say it…”

Wolffe slapped his forehead. "Kriff," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll need to have a word with them when we get back." His eyes softened as they met yours again, a hint of amusement dancing in them. "But right now, I'd rather focus on you, cyar'ika." His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin as he leaned in closer. "Have you any idea how long I've wanted to kiss that scowl off your face?" he said softly, his nose brushing against yours. He paused there, giving you time to pull away.

You scowled at him for good measure, “So, what are you going to do about it, Commander?” You whispered, eyes locked on his.

Wolffe's eyes narrowed, something swirling in their depths. Without another word, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a tentative kiss. His hand cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer as he poured all his unspoken emotions into the gesture. When you finally parted, breathless and redfaced, he rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Believe me now, cyar’ika?”

"Yes..." you murmured dreamily, your eyes still closed. "But I think I could use a little more convincing," you added, savoring his taste as your tongue grazed your bottom lip. He grinned and leaned in again, this time with more fervor, eager to kiss you properly—to kiss you the way he'd always longed to but never thought he could.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your lips.

You swallowed thickly, your eyebrows knitting together slightly. “What for?”

He put both of his hands on your cheeks, thumbs caressing your skin lightly. You found your eyes fluttering closed at his touch.

“For saving my life,” he whispered.

Your eyes snapped open. The sincerity in his voice made your heart skip a beat. You couldn't help but smile, your hand coming up to cover his on your cheek.

“Don’t mention it,” you grinned. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance to repay the favor before we get out of here,” you chuckled.

“At least once, I reckon,” he huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “and about ‘cyar’ika’— I won’t call you that anymore, not if you don’t want me to. It just sort of…slips out…”

You interrupted him by ghosting your lips over his. “Don’t you ever stop calling me that…”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned in to kiss you again. The warmth of his lips against yours sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself melting into his embrace. As you pulled apart, breathless and giddy, you couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this insane mission had been worth all the trouble after all.

“Now,” he said, reluctantly pulling away. “As much as I’d like to see where this goes, cyar’ika, we should probably get back to finding a way to contact General Plo,” he said with the faintest edge of regret in his voice.

“I would have gotten it working if you hadn’t interrupted me,” you teased.

Wolffe chuckled, shaking his head. "Is that so? Well, I suppose we'll never know now." He stood up, offering you his hand. "Come on, let's see if I can get that comm working while you get some rest. I can tell you haven’t slept since the crash," His eyes sparkled with a new affection and familiar determination, reminding you why you'd fallen for this gruff commander in the first place.

“I still need to check you for a concussion…” you pointed your finger into his chest plate as he guided you towards the room he’d just left.

“Oh I think it’s safe to say I am— so you’re just going to have to figure out a way to keep me awake tonight I guess, Lieutenant,” he said ominously, but his face gave nothing away.

You couldn't help but laugh. "Is that an order, Commander?" you teased, quirking an eyebrow at him. Wolffe's lips curled up in a rare, mischievous smirk as he pulled you closer, his voice low and husky as he murmured close to your ear. "Consider it a personal request, cyar'ika."

[peachesofteal]

okay okay I’m the anon who sent in the ask about if Simon would’ve chased Darling and like…now you have me intensely needing that AU where he chases her, carries her back, and ties her to the bed 😈

AND wondering how they even got her to the flat in the first place?? Like even Darling is confused, so it must’ve been that quick for Simon and Johnny to get her from the hotel back home for her to wonder how the hell she got back there

Sorry sorry I’m just so obsessed with Dead Disco and all these possible AUs and different scenes and scenarios have me going absolutely FERAL

I could be very well tempted to write "tying to the bed" au but also, loved this opportunity to revisit Darling and the guys between chapters three and four, when she was incredibly vulnerable and in a difficult mental space. So, thank you. All my love to you! 🩵

Canon for Dead Disco - takes place between Chapters 3 and 4. 18+ Mature themes. No smut but Darling doing darling things (eating issues, alcohol use, anxiety, depressive episode, etc.) Mentions of prescription medication. 

“Do you have any clothes?” Johnny asks, rubbing your shoulder softly. You nod and point to the bag that sits haphazardly on the chair. Simon rifles through it while Johnny works the towel in your hair, trying to get it as dry as possible. You sit still for him, unmoving, and it hurts when he remembers the way you were only two months when he washed your hair, giggling against him, relaxed and happy while he massaged his fingertips into your scalp, carefully making sure everything was rinsed from roots to ends.

Something rattles in Simon’s hands, and it draws your attention, your head whipping to where he’s got a bottle of pills in his hand, a full bottle, and Johnny smothers his grimace. Simon puts it back in your bag without saying anything, but the silence speaks for itself. You haven’t been taking your meds. 

“I’m sorry.” You lament, voice choked with tears, and Johnny pulls you into his chest, smoothing a hand over your hair. 

“Shhh. It’s alright, we know.” His heart breaks for you, for what he knows is going on in your head, for how you must feel. Abandoned. You felt abandoned by them. You felt like you were on the outside. You felt left behind.  He swallows the guilt, not allowing his own unsteady emotions to take over, instead choosing to finish with your hair and coaxing you out of your robe to get changed. 

“Are we…” you begin but trail off, and he holds the t shirt that Simon pulled from the bag towards you. “really going to get a new place?” you finish once your head pops through the hole, and he realizes it’s Simon’s t shirt. You were wearing his own when you answered the door, and he wonders how much of your bag is actually their clothing.

“Yes, darling.” Simon answers. “But first we need to get you home.” You stare at him kind of blankly, a little void-like, before you blink and nod slowly. 

“Okay.” 

“Okay? You’ll let us take you home?” Simon clarifies, because he needs it. Johnny knows, he needs to hear it, the permission, the allowance for what comes next. 

Control.

“Yes.” You whisper. Simon looks at him, and it’s all Johnny needs to understand. Stand down. Let me handle it. Lock step. Johnny nods. 

They get the hotel room together pretty quickly. You sit on the bed with your legs crossed the entire time, eyes burning a hole in the wall, vacancy still present there, unmoving until Simon prompts you, encourages you to stand, where Johnny hesitantly offers you his hand, to hold. Take it. Take it, please darling. Trust me. I’m here. I’m right here. 

You stare for a long moment, before you’re finally clutching onto him, letting his fingers intertwine with yours as he moves you towards the door. 

When the three of you get to the elevator, you falter. You step away from the both of them, letting go of Johnny’s hand, panic rising through you, your eyes darting between them and the elevator. 

“Darling.” Johnny tries to reach for you, but you step back. 

“I-“ you gasp, and then press your palm over your heart, like it aches, like you’re physically hurting. “I d-don’t know what’s wrong with me.” You sob, the sound tearing into Johnny, shredding him apart and he gapes at you, momentarily confused. No, no no. Come back to us. “I don’t- I don’t know.” Simon moves, fast, into your orbit, wide palm streaking across the dead air to hold onto you, pulling you into his chest while gripping your neck. Not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to act as the fail-safe, the thing that they turn to sometimes when presented with no other choice. The shutdown button. It settles you easily, gently, and pulls you back into yourself in moments like these. “I’m sorry.” You blubber, while Simon walks you backwards, slowly, until you’re pressed against Johnny, and his arms come around you easily.

“Stay with us, darling. Stay here. With us.” He coaches you, trying to keep you present, keep you calm while kneads his fingers against your shoulder. He vaguely remembers the still cold, half drank beer that was sitting in the dresser in your room, and it clicks together a bit more, why you’re so upset in this moment, compared to the tired, subdued, near catatonic state you’ve been in for the last hour. Alcohol is a depressant. And for you, and others who struggle similarly, it can make or break you. It can leave you feeling anxious for days after over consuming, can make your heart hurt and your brain confused that much more easily when you’re vulnerable like this. Johnny knows this. “Love, look at me.” He taps your jaw while Simon shuffles your bag back onto his arm and presses the elevator button, all the while still rubbing your neck. You peek up at him, face still half burrowed in his chest, and he takes the opportunity to ask. “Were you drinking earlier?” 

“Yeah.” You whisper. “I’m so-“ 

“Don’t.” Simon soothes you. “Don’t apologize, darling. You’re okay. Everything’s alright now. We’re going to get you home, and get you into bed. Maybe something easy to eat if you feel up to it, okay?” 

“Okay.” You mumble. You keep yourself pressed into Johnny and he can’t help but soak it up, loving the feeling of you in his arms, safe, here, with him. Not gone. Not MIA. Here. 

You fall asleep in the car. Johnny holds you in the backseat, the entire time, and nobody speaks. Simon occasionally checks on him via the rearview mirror, and then reaches his hand behind the driver’s seat to squeeze Johnny’s knee. It’s a comfort, and Johnny just wants to fast forward until the three of you are together, at home, in bed. 

He wakes you when they pull into the parking garage, managing to rouse you enough to get you into the elevator, and by the time the doors are opening on their floor, you’re fully awake, your hands twisted together while you walk. He breathes deeper, breathes easier, when the front door opens, and he walks through, turning to coax you through the doorway with an outstretched hand and open palm, as Simon stands with every muscle tense, his eyes not blinking, not willing tear his gaze away from where you linger, and he knows its because he is afraid you'll bolt. Johnny's not sure he could keep him from chasing you down at this point, and when he glances at him again, he sees how his body is thrumming with nervous energy, ready to break into a sprint at a split second’s notice.

Come on, love. Come inside. 

“Darling?”

[pit-and-the-pen]

My Sisters Keeper- PT I

Summary: Rose has protected Violet for as long as they've been alive. But in the riders' quadrant, you live to be a rider or die trying.

Content warning: Cursing, canon level fighting.

WC: 6.5k

divider by @tsunami-of-tears

I stood outside of my mothers office, ringing my hands. I had stopped minutes ago. Working up the courage to walk in there and give my mother a piece of my mind. Through the thick wooden door I heard exactly what I needed to. That tone my mother so often got. The one that I fought to make sure she never used with Violet. I shoved through the doorway, ignoring the tingle it shot through my arms. 

“You can’t let her go through with this mom.” 

“Rose!” Mira scolded me immediately. But I kept my eyes locked on my mother. General Sorrengail. 

As I held her glare, I heard the faint rumble of thunder. 

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do with my daughter.” She spoke slowly, eliciting every word,

“I will if you’re sending her off to get killed.”

“Sorrengail’s are riders. You’re a rider.”

“Brennan was a rider too.” Her face fell for a fraction of a second before she stood up a little straighter, squaring back her shoulders. 

“She is going. End of discussion.” I opened my mouth to speak. “End.Of.Discussion.Rose. Now get out.” Her nostrils flared and I clenched my hands into fists by my side. Sensing that I was about to really lose it, Mira tugged on my arm. Pulling me from the room with  Violet walking behind us. 

“Do you have a death wish?” Mira scolds me the moment we’re out of earshot from the door.

“If it keeps her safe.”

“You keep her safe by surviving the parapet, not by pissing off the general so much she kills you before you can.”

“Mira-”

“Stop. I’m right here.” Violer cuts me off and I feel shame heat up my cheeks.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t think you can protect yourself…” I grapple with the words, they come out too fast and everything sounds wrong.

“I get it. But I need you to believe in me. I need someone to think that I’m going to make it.” The words cut through me. Sobering my rage and I nod. Mira rolls her eyes at the two of us.

“Now, if we’re done being so sentimental. Here.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out two matching vests. 

“Are those…” 

“Dragon scales. Yes. Got them from Teine during his last molt. Put them on, and don’t take them off. Both of you.” She hands Violet and I the vests and helps Violets into hers. I study mine as I slide it on. A simple vest but the scales extend up higher on mine, right to the base of my head. It would completely cover my neck. Mira sees me struggling to fix the top part in place and comes over to give me a hand. 

“It ties down into the vest, that way no one could cut it or untie it if they get your hands on you.” She pulls the leather ties into two holes on the top of my shoulders. I give my neck a twist back and forth. Surprisingly, it doesn’t cut off my movement. It fits perfectly snug.  She gives me a proud nod and I try not to blush under the weight of her gaze. 

“Now, other matters. This bag weighs nearly as much as you do, Vi. What the hell is in here.”

“Just stuff that I’ll need.” Violet answers as Mira starts pulling book after book from the pack.

“You’ll still have access to the archives. You don’t need all of these.” Violet starts to protest. 

“I’ll keep these with me. I promise.” Mira continues before Violet could interrupt her. “And you need to change. Those robes will become a sail up on the parapet.”

Mira quickly shoves some riding leathers into Violet's arms. Gesturing for her to change right there. She does and I get a view of just how small my sister is. She was trained to be a scribe. She hasn’t had years to build the muscle that I have. The gray tips in her hair tell just how much the fever affected her more. 

“And if you won’t cut your hair, at least tie it back.” Mira says. I sigh and motion for Violet to turn around so I can braid it back. She finally gives her a once over and makes a content grunt. “Better.”

She looks over at me and doesn’t seem to find anything she needs to change. 

“As expected. Although you should cut your hair too.” 

“I’d have to shave half of it to get rid of it, ya know?”

I know she’s talking about the silver streak that starts from my scalp. Only about the width of my hand but enough to let people know that both twins were affected. 

“Let them know, I don’t care. It’ll just make it better when I beat them all.”

“She’s got a point.” Violet murmurs in agreement with me. Mira rolls her eyes more dramatically this time. She looks like she is about to say something before a bell cuts off her words. 

“Shit. Okay, one last thing for both of you.” She reaches into her sheathes and pulls out three daggers and slides them into Violet’s vest. Then she hands me my sword. 

“Both of them are balanced for you. I know you’re used to that sword Rose. It’s better than any stock you’ll find in the college.” I put it in place on my back and the moment it’s settled Mira sweeps both of us up in a bone crushing hug. My hands go numb but I force them to hug her back anyways. She releases us as a second bell tolls and she walks us only to the edge of the steps. 

“Don’t make me an only child. Or make me live with only one twin.”

And that’s all we get before we start climbing the stairs, watching Mira disappear around a corner. I grab a hold of Violet's hand as we start climbing, my arm out behind me. Eventually we reach the rest of the group. The others that are waiting their turn to cross the parapet. The line is longer than I imagined. 

Violet and I are sandwiched in between a girl with dark skin and curly hair tied up against the crown of her head, and a blond boy who is fiddling with a golden ring on a chain around his neck. 

“I’m Rhiannon.” She says to me, I almost flinch. Not expecting her to talk to either one of us. When I don’t respond fast enough, Violet reaches past me to extend her hand to the girl.

“I’m Violet and the grumpy one is Rose.”

“Twins?” She says, eyeing the both of us. We nod. 

“Cool.”

“I’m Dylan.” The boy behind us chips in and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Dylan goes on about the girl he’s engaged to back home. “We’re waiting until I graduate but the first thing I’m doing is marrying her. We wanted to do it before but she told me she could wait.” 

Violet nods along and I try to look interested. Don’t make friends. That was what I’ve been told for as long as I can remember. You don’t make friends here. Because it will only hurt that much more when you have to watch them die. Violet apparently didn’t get the memo. 

Violet is quiet for a little bit and I can finally see the parapet ahead of us. 

“What size shoe do you wear?” She asks the girl in front of us, Rhiannon. I’m trying to forget her name but I just can’t for some reason. 

“Eight.” She answers, seeming a little confused.

“I’m a seven and half so it’ll be tight, but you need to switch shoes with me.” I snap my head back to Violet. 

“Are you crazy?” I hiss in a whisper to her. She ignores me. 

“With those shoes, you’ll slip right off the edge.” And she’s already taking off her shoe, holding it out for the girl to take. Rhiannon does the same. Whispering her thanks. 

We finally get to the front of the line. Rhiannon gives her name before the two of us. 

“Name?” The rider at the parapet asked the two of us. 

“Rose Sorrengail.” 

“Violet Sorrengail” The rider snapped her eyes up. Studying both of us. 

“As in General Sorrengail?” 

I rolled my eyes as I looked back at Violet before I quickly nodded to the rider in front of us. 

“The one and only.” 

“I thought there was only one coming through this year?” The rider quirked an eyebrow as her gaze fell to Violet. I felt that oh too familiar bubble rise in my chest. 

“Well there's two. So are you going to let us go now?” I crossed my arms, almost daring the rider to say something back. 

“Come on, some of us actually want to get through this thing. Are you both going to keep yapping or cross?” A voice from behind Dylan calls, and I turn my head around to see glacial blue eyes filled with so much pure loathing that it almost makes me flinch. “No one cares what your last name is. Either get moving or get out of my way.” I snap my jaw shut. 

“Go ahead.” She waves Violet through, giving my sister's hand one last squeeze. . 

“See you both on the other side.” Violet says as she takes her first step onto the parapet. It goes against everything I’ve ever been taught. Keep Violet safe. That was the reason I was the rider and she was the scribe. My breath catches as she stumbles for half a second. She’s nimble but I’m scared she'll be knocked over with the way her arms are limply held out beside her. 

Finally, she’s far enough across that they let me go. 

Mira was right, the wind was wicked up on the wall. The stray bits of my hair whipped around my face, luckily I had the sense to tie it back or else I wouldn’t be able to see a damned thing. I take a steadying breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat. I’m a Sorrengail. I am a rider. I was trained to be a rider my whole life. I will not die today. The words Violet said earlier echoes in my ears. Neither of us will. I keep my eyes trained on my sister's braid, the silver hair peeking out through the woven strands of hair. She stumbles again and I bolt a step or two closer towards her. Catching up to her as much as I can while still keeping my own footing. It’s slicker than mud up here on the smooth stones. I’m close enough to Violet that I could reach out and grab her if need be. But I know she needs to do this on her own. She’ll never let me live it down if I help her get through this. But she loses her footing as a strong gust of wind blows and she almost goes over the side. 

I curse and beg my feet to move faster. I swore I heard something pop as her knee landed on the hard ground. She’s half hanging on and I can’t catch up with her. No matter how hard I clench the muscles in my core, the wind is too strong to fight against so I’m forced to sit and watch as Violet scrambles to pull herself up. 

“Come on, Vi.” I shout and I see her rolling onto her back, safely on the parapet again. Well as safe as she’s going to get up here. I let out a relieved sigh and focused on the path in front of me again. 

But before I can pull my focus back to me, I hear a curse then a yelp from behind me. I risk a glance backwards just in time to see Dylan go over the ledge. My body acts faster than I do, leaping towards the spot where his foot would have just been but I’m too slow. Too slow by a long shot and I see his panicked look as he realizes he’s falling. I close my eyes before I can see him land. Damn it Violet. 

That move wasted strength and I have to push myself off of my stomach. Wobbling ever so slightly as I lock eyes with the boy from earlier. Jack Barlow, I heard him when he gave his name loud and proud for everyone to hear. He smirks and puts his head down like a bull as he starts to charge at me. He doesn't miss a step. Doesn’t stumble for a second as he closes the gap in between us and it’s my turn for panic to wash over me. I force my muscles to work, to turn in the opposite direction and run. I can’t make out the words Jack is screaming at me over the wind but I know that look. Jack is ready to kill me and my sister. He turns around and pulls another person over the edge of the parapet as if to prove his point. 

My side hurts, my calves are screaming at me as I put my weight into my thighs, forcing my center of gravity lower as I break into a run. 

“Violet, move.” I shout as I almost catch up with her. “Move. faster.” I grit out when she doesn’t speed up. She glances backwards and I know she sees the same thing I do. Jack barreled towards us at a breakneck speed. Her eyes go wide and she, thankfully, picks up the pace. We have less than a third of the parapet left in front of us but it’s more than enough time for Jack to catch up with us. I’m basically pushing Violet along with me, my hands on her back. Praying to Z that she moves faster. 

I feel the air whoosh around me as I push her towards the other side. Towards whatever semblance of safety becoming a cadet will grant us. And I almost sigh with relief as I see Violet land on the other side, rolling on her shoulder in an unnatural angle, but safe nonetheless. My feet leave the ground to leap and I feel someone’s arm wrap around my waist. Years of training make my body move faster than my mind. I push all my weight forward. Just barely wiggling out of the grip on my waist and feeling all my breath get pushed out of me as I land on my back. I fight back the yelp as I feel a stone press into my neck. Sending a wave of pain so sharp it brings tears to my eyes. I scramble to my feet just in time to see Violet with a dagger aimed right between Jack’s legs. 

“I’ll kill you.” He spits out. 

“No you won’t. Because the way I see it. You’re still on the parapet and she’s a cadet. And she literally has you by the balls on this one.” The rider at the ledge says and I see Violet’s hand push just a little further and I see a tinge of green color Jack's face. I fight the smirk off of my face. Maybe Violet will survive after all. He snaps his teeth at her and I’m beside her instantly. 

“Let me down.” He grits through his teeth and before I can protest, Violet is sheeting her dagger at her side and steps out of the way to let Jack step down. I gawk at her, but she avoids my gaze. Keeping her eyes locked on Barlow. 

He steps up to her, chest almost touching hers. “When I get the chance, you’re fucking dead. Both of you.” I push Violet out of the way and tuck her behind me. I make myself as tall as possible as I force venom into my words. 

“She might be our fathers daughter. But me, I got stuck with my mother.” I bit out. “So if you want to fuck with her, you go through me.” My fists balled against my sides.

“Bitch.” Jack spat near my  feet. I fought the urge to strangle him right there. But Violet tugged on my arm, pulling me away from him.. 

“At least think of something original.” I  muttered under my breath, letting my sister lead us closer to the college. 

The rider at the edge doesn’t look the least bit surprised at this interaction as she asks for our names. 

“Sorrengail?” She all but shouts and I wince. Suddenly feeling every set of eyes on us. I want to wrap myself around my sister. Shield her away from the wandering eyes of the other riders. And as I look around, there's only one that shakes me to my core. The dark hair, a rebel relic snaking along his neck. 

I watch his tan skin flush with anger for a mere second before his face becomes ice cold. I know exactly who it is. Xaden Riorson. And before I can spit out anything to him. A warm hand wraps around my arm. Tugging. I go to push whoever it is off and am met with familiar brown eyes that almost make me melt. Dain. 

“Shit.” He says under his breath as he looks from me to Violet. Violet who is desperately trying to hide the way she isn’t putting weight on her left leg. 

“Dain.” I fight to keep my voice neutral. To keep the way I’m swooning out of it. And he tugs both of us over to the side, out of hearing range from the other riders. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” And I know he isn’t asking me. His eyes are only on Violet, concern laced on every feature of his gorgeous face. I shake my head, trying to calm my mind. 

He’s changed in the last year since I saw him. His hair is a little longer and stubble covers the sides of his face. No longer the clean cut boy he was before he left for the riders quadrant. And I’m shocked at how…good he looks. Dressed in rider black, a sword peeking over his shoulder. He turns to me and I know he asked me something. Something that he’s expecting me to answer. 

Violet nudges me with her elbow and it snaps me back to where we are. I just got caught gawking at my best friend. My best friend who not so subtly told me he’d be counting down the minutes until he saw me again. My best friend who I may or may not have been in love with since he started sprouting like a weed when we were fifteen. 

“Sorry. Adrenaline.” I force the words out, my mouth suddenly feeling very dry. 

He sighs but a hint of a smile plays at the edge of his mouth. 

“Did you at least try to talk your mother out of it.” His words pull a snort from me. 

“Have you met my mother?”

His hand runs through his hair and I try not to think about how soft it must feel. Gods I need to get it together if I’m supposed to join his squad. 

“Listen, there's still time that we can sneak her into the scribes quadrant. They haven’t submitted the names and I know they would take her in a heartbeat.” Violet is already shaking her head. 

“She would just drag me back by my hair. She promised me as much this morning.”

“She’ll get over it. Once you’re in she can’t make them take you.”

“Dain, face it. I’m a rider now despite you being less than thrilled. I made it across. Doesn’t that count for anything.” I see the internal war he’s fighting as he chews on her words. Letting them sink in. 

“We’ll figure out something.” He says and Violet stalks away. Ready to give our names to the rider, not so patiently waiting for them. Leaving me alone with Dain for the first time in a year. 

He smiles my smile. The one that makes one side tug up higher than the other and makes  his eyes crinkle around the edges. Fuck it. I think and launch myself into his chest. Arms wrapping around his neck. He doesn't hesitate to squeeze me back, arms wrapping around my middle tight enough that my toes are the only thing touching the ground. He smells the same, cedar and wind and something that is utterly Dain. He releases me and holds me at arms length, looking me up and down so intensely that I fight the urge to look away. 

“You look good. And in one piece.” He puts another step in between us as I nod. “Tell the girl to put you in my squad. Flame section, second squad. Tell her this is me cashing in the favor she owes me.” He shots me a wink before he walks away, joining the rest of the riders who are looking at us with varying levels of confusion. Let them think what they want. I’m not here to make any friends. I repeat the words to the red-head taking names. And she nods. 

We wait for the rest of the rider candidates to make it across or fall. Once the formation is called, we find out that we lost almost 20 percent. The highest in the last decade. I blame the rain. 

We stand in a rough set of lines, Violet and I falling into near perfect formation as we guide Rhiannon behind us. Then I see him, staring directly at Violet and I with a look that roots me to the spot. He whispers something to the rider calling names, Nyra I think her name is. 

“Dain Aestos, you and your squad will switch with Aura Beinhaven’s.” All Dain does is nod, his face tense. Violet and I share a glance that lets me know neither of us know what is happening. 

But as we passed the next squad, I sucked in a gasp. We’re being moved to fourth wing. Xadens wing. Xaden just stands there with that smirk that makes me want to push him over the edge. But I can’t. Infighting is strictly prohibited according to the codex. Of course, unless it can be excused as training or punishment. Which is exactly what Xaden will be able to do now. Xaden nods at Nyra and steps forward towards all of us. 

“You’re all cadets now. Take a look at your squad, these are the only people who aren’t allowed to kill you, per the codex. You want a dragon? Then earn one.” 

Cheers erupt around us. Violet and I just  glance at each other. I break formation to grab my hand in hers and Dain looks back, looks down at our joined hands and shakes his head. I don’t let go as Violet goes to pull her hand from mine. 

“And I bet some of you are feeling pretty bad ass right now. You made it into your first year, right? The elite, the chosen. Invincible even?” 

More cheers but the tone of his voice makes my stomach curl. The cheers get louder but over them I can hear the telltale sound of wings. 

Rhiannon gaps besides me. I lock my muscles into place to stop from fleeing as the riot flies right towards us. Instead I keep my head held high. Forcing my heartbeat to slow. Dragons can smell a coward from miles away. 

They land mere feet from us, the force enough to shake the ground. Screams rip through the air, but I keep my gaze ahead of me. 

I hear the sound of footfalls as people start to dash out of formation. I don’t close my eyes in time as I see the curl of flame reach out. And that smell, the smell of burnt flesh is one that I know I’ll never forget. It’s enough to make me gag. Violet squeezes my hand but says nothing. 

“Anyone else feel like changing their mind?” Silence. “No? Well then, half of you will be dead by the end of this year. Another third the year after. And even fewer will make it ‘til graduation. No one cares who your mommy,” He stares right at Violet and I. “or you daddy is here. Here you’re nothing more than a cadet. So who here still feels invincible.” More silence weighs the air like a blanket. “Good. Because to them you’re not, to them you’re just prey.” 

We’re left to our own devices for the rest of the day. Dain quickly pulls Violet to somewhere deeper into the college once they dismiss us from formation. I don’t wait around for them, instead going up to the dorms to sit for a second. The dorms are already noisy. Full of cadets talking over each other and I just lay down in my bed, pushing my pillow over my ears to drown out the noise of people I don’t want to get to know. People that will most likely be dead in the next couple of months. The thought shouldn’t bother me. I was trained to be a rider. And the only thing a rider cares about is their squad and their wings. But that doesn’t stop the single tear that drips down my face as I recall the way Dylan looked at me when he realized he was going to die. When he realized he would never get to marry that pretty girl back home. I lock the thoughts away into some deep vault in my mind. I don’t have time for weakness. I grant myself the moment to feel and then sit up in my bunk. Rolling my shoulders back with a deep breath. I stretch out the tension in my neck. Feeling the nerves protest against the movement but ignore it. 

I stay in the barracks until it’s time for dinner then head back right after I’m done. Violet lingers, talking to Rhiannon and the rest of our squad. I have no interest in fighting through the awkward glances and down right hateful glares of some of our fellow cadets. 

The next morning we’re called to formation after breakfast. Then comes the worst part of the day, the death roll. Name after name is called. Not enough time to process them, let alone mourn. 

Suddenly the names just stop. And that’s all there is before squad leaders turn to talk to us. Dain only gives Violet and I a quick once over before his face takes on that neutral look that has something inside of me clawing to get out. 

“I expect to see you all alive when we get to the sparring gym later.” And I feel Violet tense beside me. Right, the first day meant we have trials. A simple way to assess where all of us are with fighting. This will determine who we are put up against throughout the year. Do well and you put a target on your back, do poorly and you get an even bigger target on your back. Either way you’re screwed. 

“Sawyer” Dain calls to the boy beside him. 

“I’ll get them to class.” 

Sawyer shouts out the instructions on how to get to the classroom and I try my best to picture the steps. Storing them in my memory in hopes that I won't forget them within twenty minutes. 

Rhiannon, Violet and I walk together. I really hoped she would let h er go after the parapet. But it seems she’s intent on keeping her around, so I’ll tolerate her for now. 

A faint bird whistle has my head spinning. I catch that familiar tuff of brown hair and hook my arm around Violets pulling us away from Rhiannon. 

He ducks into a corner, hidden from sight. 

“How’s your knee?”  

“It hurts but I’ll live.”

“Good. Did anyone try to screw with you two last night?” He’s scanning us for injuries. We both shake our heads. 

“No one tried to kill us last night, if that's what you're asking.” I cross my arms, already annoyed by his hovering. 

“Dain. Take a breath.” I snapped at him. 

“You should both cut your hair.” He points to both of our braids. 

“Don’t you start with me now.” Violet  groans. 

“Why were we moved to fourth wing?”

It’s Dain’s turn to groan. His hand went to the side of his face, rubbing the stubble. 

“Dain?” Violet presses expectantly. 

“Fine. Riorson want’s Rose dead. Well both of you. But when he heard Rose was joining this year, he never shut up about it. It’s common knowledge and you just so happen to make it even more fun for him. Two birds with one stone or something.” 

“He’ll have to get through me first.”

“And that’s exactly what he wants, Ro.” He snaps back at me. “Just try to avoid him. As best as you can. He’s a wingleader so he is personally allowed to make your life a living hell. So please.” He turns to me fully. “Please don’t give him a reason to.” 

I roll my eyes and he grabs my hand. I flush from head to toe. “Rose. I’m serious here. Don’t give him more of a reason. Please.” And it’s that hint of concern. Concern so deep it makes my face hot that has me nodding my head. 

“You’re thinking like a rider now.” Violet mutters to herself. 

“I’m still me. Promise.” he taps his shoulder, where his signet patch should be. “I just have this now.”

My eyes go wide as I realize what his patch means. Classified. What signet does he have that warrants that? 

“I can read a person's recent memories.” And it’s whispered like a confession. I feel a frisson of fear. 

“Dain, that’s illegal.”

“Not like that. I can’t hear them from across the room. I have to touch a person’s face and it’s incredible.” 

“Okay, we’re going to be late if we keep talking.” I say as I hear the noise above us grow louder. 

“Just remember, stay away from Xaden. Low profile. Both of you.” He points to us and we both nod our head before we part ways.  But as we do, I see Xaden leaning over the railing to shout down at us. 

“I knew your parents were close but this is something else.” He shakes his head. “Tell me which one of you is he fucking?” 

If I wasn’t blushing I am now. Even the tips of Dain’s ears tinge with pink.

“He can’t hurt you right? You’re a squad leader and he’d have to call a quorum?”

“Yes but he can hurt you two.”

“I expected better from you Aestos. Should learn to hide your friends better.” He locks eyes on me. He was trying to bait us and I gave him all the ammunition he needed to make my life hell. 

“Run. Now” Dain orders and I grab Violet's arm and we bolt. 

My brain is mush throughout history, but of course Violet is the star pupil without even trying. We just barely make it to battle brief. Stuck in the first row thanks to the seats Rhiannon saves for us. 

Professor Markham stands at the front of the class as Devra steps aside to make room for him. His eyes soften as he lands on Violet. Of course he would recognize her. She trained under him for most of her life and he was certain she would be the best scribe in years. And she would have been. Still is. 

We launch right into the first question. No preamble to get us ready, straight to business. My eyes cloud over as I try to study the map, trying to focus on the details. This was always Violet’s strength not mine but I fight to keep up with her as she mutters to herself. 

Markham pushes us for questions and I hear Vilet mutter something to Rhiannon who calls out loudly. 

“What altitude was the village at?”

His eyes flicker to Violet who makes a point of looking anywhere but him. 

“A little less than a thousand feet. Why?”

She shrinks into herself a little. I don’t blame her, MArkham is intense when he wants to be. 

“Just seems a little high for an attack.”

“Keep going.” Markham pushes and Violet chimes in when Rhiannon pauses. 

Question after question and my head is reeling trying to keep up. I’m trying to connect the dots that she’s already seen. Jack eventually cuts her off and I clench my hands by my side. Finding something to twirl between my fingers so I don’t choke him for the tone he uses with Violet. That self-righteous, pompous tone. The asshole has the nerve to try to talk down to her when she easily knows more than even the second years. Devra scolds him for it. And I only give him a small smirk as I turn back to the front of the room. 

We’re dismissed shortly after and we all file into the gym. Now this. This I’m ready for. Violet may have me beat in academics But I can run circles around the first years in the gym. 

We’re called to the mats in pairs. 

We all watch in shock as Jack Barlow snaps the neck of his opponent. The sickening sound of bone crunching threatens to bring up my breakfast. He lets go of the limp body as the instructor rushes forward. Shouting at him. Barlow just stands with a shrug as he looks towards Violet and I. He’s strong but he’s big. Uncoordinated. He’d go down easy but Malek help you if he gets his arms around you. 

I’m finally called to the mat after a flawless victory from Rhiannon. Stepping onto the mat, I will my focus on the person standing in front of me. I didn’t listen to their name. I don’t care about their name. I care about the fact that when they lunge at me, there's a slight twitch in their left shoulder. I dodge it easily enough. Side stepping out of the way. I catch their still extended arm between their wrist and elbow. He tries to swing out of my grip but I only use it as leverage to twist his arm behind his back, palm facing up. I don’t hesitate to bring my elbow down on his extended arm. The telltale crunch letting me know I broke some bone. He cries out and I follow him as he falls to the ground. I have to keep him from hitting me.

“Yield damn it. I broke your arm.” I grit out. But he doesn’t. Just swings widely, trying to find any purchase as I pin him on his side. And I’m suddenly more grateful than words can explain as his hand makes contact with the back of my neck. I tense for a second, expecting the wash of fire to explode from every nerve in my body. But there's nothing. Another heartbeat and nothing. I’m so happy I could cheer, but I only put more pressure onto his broken arm and he cries out again. I twist his shoulder back slightly, knee resting in the hollow of his armpit and I can feel the muscle tense under me as I place myself to dislocate his shoulder. 

“Fine. I yield. I yield.” He yells as I still my foot. Stopping just in time for me to push him off of me. My shove knocks him onto his back and I can see the way he’s fighting the urge to cradle his arm. I sigh and stick my hand out for him to grab. He shoves it away and struggles to stand, slightly off balance. 

Someone escorts him to the menders and I file back in line. 

“He didn’t even touch you.” Rhiannon gasps out when I stand next to her. I shrug. Little does she know I’ve spent my whole life avoiding that very thing. Because if they do, I’m down. If I’m down then I’m dead. And no one here needs to know that. It’s bad enough they seem to be able to sniff out Violet’s weakness. But seeing mine. That might just be a death sentence for the both of us. 

One more fight and then I tense as Violet’s name gets called. She paired up against a pink-haired second year and I freeze completely when I see the rebel mark on her forearm. Shit. 

The two circle each other on the mat, whispering to each other too low for me to hear over the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. 

Imogen is fast. Faster than humanly possible. 

“You can’t use your powers here.” Dain shouts. As Imogen flips Violet onto her back, my hand shoots out onto Dain’s arm. My fingers digging into the skin on his forearm to keep me from sprinting into the ring to pull Imogen off of my sister. A quick flash of metal makes my blood pressure skyrocket. She tried to use a dagger. I don’t feel relieved as Violet sends a punch that I know messes up her hand. Her thumb tucked in at just the right angle for the ligament to pop. 

Imogen is a blur once again and has her pinned before the instructor can scold her for using her powers. “Yield” She calls as she shoves Violet’s face into the mat. She doesn’t and I watch in horror as Imogen pulls her arms further behind her back. Further than arms should bend and I lunge forward at the same time as Dain. 

“Damn it, Violet, yield.” I call out. My voice died down just in time to hear the sickening crunch of bone again. This time followed by a cry I’m too familiar with. 

Emetterio calls for the end of the match as Violet goes limp in front of me. 

I’m rushing past Imogen, shoving her out of the way as I grab Violet. Shaking her slightly to try to get her to come back around. 

“Oops.” Imogen says in a sickly sweet tone. She walks another step before I trip her, leg hooking against her ankle. She topples to the ground and I roll myself onto her. Straddling her hips, and pinning her wrists to her sides with my knees. She thrashes in my hold but I just place more of my weight on her, pressing harder with my foot. 

“Try that shit again and you’re dead.” 

“Not if I kill her first.” She snarls at me. And I push until I feel the bone move in her hand. 

Suddenly I feel someone lifting me up by the collar of my shirt. Dain’s brown eyes stare into mine. 

“She’s in your squad. Back off before you get in trouble.” He whispers as I try to squirm out of his hold. 

“I don’t care.” I hiss back. 

“But I do. Stop. Or are you going to make me pull rank?” I stopped squirming. Pushing myself out of his grasp. 

“Go calm down. Now.” Dain hisses when I find my footing.

 Imogen is smiling up at me. Like I did exactly what she wanted. And I probably did. But as I walk out of the gym, I realize I don’t give a shit what they think. Not if it means protecting Violet.

Taglist: @ninthcircleofprythian @sarawritestories @milswrites @daycourtofficial

[coopigeoncoo]

Meat Cute, Chapter 2

Chapter Links: First, <- Chapter 2 ->Next

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Rating: Mature (rating may change)

Tags: Canon-typical violence, Cannibalism, Reader is a cannibal, Fake/pretend relationship, Puns, Raccoon Reader, Tags may change, Swearing

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In a bid to appear more approachable to the denizens of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor enlists the help of his favorite butcher to step into the roll of an (after)lifetime: pretending to be his paramour! ---

“You can't deny we have so much in common,” Alastor's grinned, his smile somehow, impossibly, widening even farther as he leaned down on the counter on a single elbow; his nose nearly touching yours as you stood frozen in place. “I'm somewhat of a Butcher myself, you know.”

–--

A story where one thing is certain: the steaks are never bigger than when love is on the line.

---

Continue reading below, or follow the link to A03!

Extermination came and went with you wrapped up in all the blankets from your bed, crammed into the walk-in cooler Hal used to age gigantic slabs of meat.  Once the distant screams had died down you were quickly pulled from the fridge and put back to work, barely able to hold a knife in your frost nipped fingers. 

“Lotsa screaming means lotsa bodies,” Hal explained, tying the strings of his apron around his wide hips in a tight double knot.  “And lotsa bodies means lotsa meat.”

As though summoned by his words, a forceful knock sounded from the delivery entrance; a salesman bearing the first of many scavenged corpses sold to the shop for a quick buck. 

You stared down at the man laid across your chopping block, his face contorted to showcase the abject terror of his final moments.

“I'm sorry this happened to you,” you murmured quietly, fingers tracing the jagged cut that had ripped the man open from pelvis to sternum.  “But I promise to do a better job than they did.”

The angels had cut his life short.

And then you cut him into pieces.

It didn't seem particularly fair to you, but you supposed it was as balanced as things could be in Hell.  

Hal, in a rare show of mercy, gave his employees the weekend off to recuperate from the pre and post Extermination rushes.  You had been content to hole up inside your cramped apartment and sleep for the full two days, but once you remembered your promise to Ms. Rosie you managed to pull yourself out of bed and get dressed with a minimal amount of cursing. 

It wasn't difficult to find her once you actually managed to wake up enough to stumble down your apartment stairs without breaking your neck.  You'd pass by Franklin and Rosie's Emporium often enough running errands for Hal.  It would be hard to avoid the boutique considering it was smack dab in the middle of main street; placing it along just about every route through town.  

The Emporium offered a wide selection of impeccably tailored clothes you couldn't ever hope to afford with your meager earnings.  It was nearly impossible to swallow back the sour burn of envy roiling in your belly at the sight of the smartly dressed women spinning in front of mirrors in their tailored waistcoats and silver buttoned shoes.  You self consciously soothed out wrinkles in your burgundy colored skirt, the fabric likely permanently creased from being trapped under the tight sash of your butchery apron.

The checkout line moved slowly as every patron stopped to chat with Rosie or the woman standing beside her, and it felt like a small eternity had passed before you made it to the front of the queue.  Rosie's eyes widened as she saw you, a bright smile stretching across her face as she quickly skirted around to the front of the counter.

“Take over from me, Franklin!” Rosie called out to her companion over her shoulder, motioning you to follow her with an excited wave of her hand.  “I've got a special guest visiting!”

Rosie led you to a darling two person cafe table pushed into an alcove with a giant window overlooking the central square of Cannibal Town, where a barbershop quartet was starting to attract a fair bit of attention from passers by.  Rosie was silent as she slid up behind you, but the weight of her aura was somehow palpable; like a humidity that clogged the air and made breathing a laborious task.

“It's pretty peaceful for a place called Cannibal Town, isn't it?” Rosie boasted, but you couldn't fault her for her pride.  You knew from stories around town that the orderly life on display was the result of her tireless effort to secure a better life for the sinners under her rule.  

“It is,” you agreed readily, sliding carefully  into the chair that one of her attendants had pulled out for you while Rosie settled down across the table.  “You've built a lovely community, Ms. Rosie.”

“Oh, aren't ya' just the sweetest thing!” Rosie chirped in delight, hoisting a tray of finger foods up under your nose.  “Canapé?”

You were too nervous to be hungry, but grabbed a couple of crackers topped with thin slices of blood sausage and dollops of roasted marrow to be polite.  Not sure what to say, you quickly popped one of the hors d'oeuvres into your mouth immediately and hoped Rosie would take hold of the conversational reins.

Rosie, mercifully, rose to the occasion.  

“So, you seem to be fitting in pretty well around here.  That's unusual these days,” she said, deftly pouring some piping hot bone broth into dainty porcelain tea cups.  “Hard to find new sinners willing to live without television or cellular phones.”

You couldn't help but think of how much of your life had been squandered in front of screens; the endless hours of scrolling and watching and seeing and wanting- of wondering why your life never seemed to compare to the ones that clogged your social media feeds.  

“Those- those things do me more harm than good, I think,” you admit between small bites of sausage.  

“Oh, honey.  Those gadgets are nothing but trouble for everyone,” Rosie cooed comfortingly before angling her head down to mumble into her cup “especially down here.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing to worry your pretty little head over,” Rosie laughed dismissively, pushing a platter of finger sandwiches towards your now empty plate.  You grabbed the one with a thumb poking out, saving the sandwiches stuffed with choicer pinky digits for your host.  

“It's nice to see you don't shy away from the…specialized fare Cannibal Town is known for,” Rosie said approvingly, watching as you skillfully de-nailed the finger in your sandwich.  “Did working at the butcher shop help acclimate ya'?”

“A bit.  I won't lie, it was really hard at first.  I spent a lot of time pretending that I was eating other stuff- beef, pork, a really convincing soy substitute,” you admit. “But after a little while that started to feel, I don't know, disrespectful?”

“Oh?” 

“It's like- this person is nourishing me.  I am alive because of them.  It didn't seem right to pretend that they were somehow less than what they were; especially when they were providing me with so much.  Acknowledging their life, what they were-” you paused, considering your words along with the remaining phalange held between your fingers.  “It's the least I can do.  A way I can thank them.”

You feel a bit vulnerable from your confession, never having voiced your thoughts out loud before, and it takes you a moment to muster the courage to look up from your hands and meet your host’s gaze again.  Rosie is positively beaming at you, her small nose crinkled in delight.

“I need you to promise me you'll try and get out more, sweetie.  It's very inconsiderate for you to deprive the citizens of Cannibal Town of your company,” Rosie said, leaning over the table to place her hand on top of yours, the press of her fingers a balm to your touch-starved soul. “You're one of us now.  It's time to start acting like it.”

You'd reluctantly started to make appearances around town.  It started small, with short walks around the park when the belladonna began to bloom, followed by the weekly al fresco concerts once the early spring acid rains tapered off.  

And then suddenly a switch seemed to flip.  People would wave good morning to you from across the street, customers would ask about how your weekend was, and  your coworkers invited you out for drinks after work.  You'd gone from merely existing in Cannibal Town to really living in Cannibal Town.  

You tried to not dwell on how much happier you were in Hell than you were on Earth, fearful about what exactly that said about the sort of person you were. 

The years ticked by and before you knew it the workers at the butcher shop had surprised you with a lopsided devils food cake to celebrate your fifth death day.

“When you're facing down eternity you don't celebrate every single year,” Dorcas, the girl who usually worked the register, explained.  “Five is the first milestone party, followed by twenty-five and fifty.  They get more spaced out as time goes on.”

You had woken up early the next day, dehydrated with a headache pounding behind your eyeballs from overindulging at your death day celebration.  Hal, in a show of incredible foresight, had scheduled you for the afternoon shift.  With a mug of watery coffee in hand, you were slowly shambling to the threadbare armchair in the corner of your room when the broken radio on the side table suddenly began shooting off sparks; the device alight with an eerie green glow.

“SWEET SASSY MOLASSY,” you screamed, accidentally spilling coffee down the front of your dressing gown as you leaped away from the ancient box radio.

“Salutations!  Good to be back on the air!” a staticky voice greeted, the cheery tone completely at odds with your abject misery as you pulled your soaked nightgown away from your chest to cool your singed flesh.

The radio was loud, the volume knob having been set to maximum when it suddenly powered on; but the sound inside your apartment was nothing compared to the uproarious cheers you heard coming from outside as the citizens of Cannibal Town overjoyed by the return of their favorite radio program.  

[redislazy]

Deadly Attachments, Chapter 06

<< Chapter 05　|　Chapter 07 >>

[EVENTUAL SMUT] - Minors DNI > ao3 <

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x female!Reader

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Summary: As a skilled mercenary, you've navigated countless high-stakes missions—until one job puts you in the crosshairs of Task Force 141 and the elusive "Ghost." Now forced into an uneasy alliance, you’re drawn into a dangerous game of shifting loyalties and hidden motives. But as the stakes climb higher, one question lingers: how close can you get to the man who was meant to be a shadow in your path?

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Content Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Military Action & Romance, Mercenaries, Soldiers, Non-Canon Antagonists, Eventual Smut, Military Inaccuracies, Slow Burn, Will add smut-specific tags later as the story goes

You arrive early to the briefing room where Ghost is already waiting along with Soap and Gaz, leaning back in his chair comfortably, looking as unreadable as ever. He’s busying himself with some papers, seeming completely oblivious to your presence, so you just stare as long as you can.

“You plannin’ to burn a hole through my head, or you got something useful to say?” His tone is flat, all irritation and none of the warmth you thought you’d seen last night.

You huff and sit across from him. “Just making sure you haven’t completely lost it yet, old man. Thought I might be doing you a favor.”

He raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth pulls in a faint smirk. “Nice of you, but I’ll manage. Maybe worry about yourself first, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the familiar sarcasm you've grown accustomed to. “Right. Sorry for checking in on the team’s resident grump.”

He scoffs, shifting in his chair as he returns his attention to the paperwork. “Better me being a ‘grump’ than someone who can’t hold her liquor. Didn’t take you for the lightweight type.”

The comment hits, bringing a slight heat to your face, but you brush it off with a shrug. "That's how you know I had a good time."

He glances at you briefly, almost like he’s weighing something, but his expression stays as neutral as ever. “That's how one causes trouble.”

The banter feels… normal, comfortable even. No strange glances, no hidden softness, and certainly no hints that he intends to bring last night up. You feel almost relieved. Whatever happened, it doesn’t seem to have shifted anything between you.

Nothing’s changed. And for now, you’re perfectly fine with that.

As he continues busying himself, you sit in silence, your eyes flicking over to Ghost as he moves around the room. He’s completely absorbed in whatever task he’s working on, never glancing your way, but you can’t help but watch him.

The way he stands, shoulders squared and back stiff, like he’s ready for anything, always alert. His mask is still firmly in place as always, but there’s something about the way he moves, how precise and controlled everything he does is, that makes you think he’s not just playing the role of the soldier. Perhaps all this time, it's truly just who he is.

Your gaze drifts to the way his hands move, brushing over the papers on the table, his fingers rough, yet graceful in a way that feels… deliberate. He’s not careless, never in a rush. Everything about him is measured. Even the way he breathes. Like he’s never not prepared for what’s coming next.

You can still feel the warmth of his hand against your face, the delicate pressure, how he lingered there for moments longer than necessary. His eyes on you, not cold, but something else—something that makes your chest tighten just remembering it. The way he brushed his thumb over your lips last night comes back to you, unbidden. The way he seemed to want to burn that moment into his memory, or maybe it was just you imagining things because you’d had a few too many drinks. You know how that goes.

But then you see it again—how his jaw tightens when he’s working, the faint furrow between his brows when he’s concentrating. You remember his eyes, the way they looked at you last night—not like you were just some mistake or a distraction, but like you mattered.

You bite your lip, eyes narrowing slightly. And just like that, it clicks.

You like Ghost. Not like some sudden revelation, more like a fact you’ve known for a while now but only just admitted to yourself. It’s not hard to see why, really. You’re not blind. The guy’s impossible to ignore.

He is intense, guarded, sure, but there’s something underneath it all that draws you in—his quiet authority, the way he handles situations, the way he holds his ground even when things get messy. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice how his voice, even when he’s pissed off, somehow still manages to send a shiver down your spine. Or the way he stands, like the weight of the world could rest on his shoulders, and he’d still carry it with no complaints.

You’ve seen men acting like him before, the type who carry themselves like they’re always in control, always ready for the next mission. But Ghost is different, very distinct. You know he's someone who’s had the kind of life that leaves scars, both physical and mental. You never needed confirmation to realize that. And there’s something about the way he hides behind his mask that makes you want to get past it, see who he really is.

But you’re not some love-struck fool, and this isn’t some sappy revelation. No, it’s more of an acknowledgment. A recognition of something you’ve known but never let yourself bother with until now. Because, truthfully speaking, you don’t have time for distractions. You’ve got bigger things to focus on.

And yet, here you are, watching him like a hawk, silently hoping he’ll look up at you the same way. But he doesn’t.

So, you keep your head down, keeping your distance like always, but in the back of your mind, the fact remains.

You like Ghost.

And that's not so bad.

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“Right, listen up,” Price starts, his voice steady and authoritative. “HQ managed to pull something useful from that drive we retrieved in Istanbul. Turns out, we’ve got a lead on one of Aegis’s high-ranking operators, someone who could lead us to the top brass.”

He pauses, his eyes sweeping across the room. “There’s always one, isn’t there? One high lackey in these secretive organizations who gets too lax. Thinks they’re untouchable, starts cutting corners, leaving traces. It’s a pattern as old as time—and lucky for us, they’ve made themselves our best chance to tear this operation wide open.”

Price leans on the table, his tone sharpening. “This is our window, but it’s not wide. We get in, we hit fast, and we make sure this bastard talks. Whatever they know, we need it. Aegis has been untouchable for too long, and I don’t plan on letting this opportunity slip through our fingers.”

You glance around, seeing the same looks of anticipation from the rest of the team. A lead—finally, something concrete.

“The problem is, this operation’s gotta go through channels. We’ll need clearance, assets… the works,” Price continues, his tone a little grimmer. “That means we’re waiting until HQ gives us the green light. Could take weeks. But sitting around isn’t an option.”

He pauses, scanning each of you. “So, until then, we’ll keep busy with some local missions. Nothing too complex, but I don’t want anyone getting rusty while we’re on standby.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table, but you feel a pang in your chest. You’d been focused on the Aegis mission from the start, never really thinking about anything outside of that. Now that they’re talking about ‘local missions,’ you can’t help but feel… separate, like the outsider you originally were. No one mentioned your role beyond helping with the Aegis case. After all, you’re still just a hired hand—a merc brought in for a single purpose.

Ghost is focused on Price, his posture tense as ever, while Gaz and Soap exchange a knowing glance. You’re about to quietly excuse yourself, assuming you’ll sit this out when Price’s gaze settles on you.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Price’s tone is sharp, but there’s something almost amused in his expression.

“I just… thought I’d step back,” you say, keeping your voice steady. “I’m not a soldier. I’m just here for the Aegis lead, remember?”

Soap rolls his eyes, leaning back in his chair. “Rubbish. You’re with us now, aye? Doesn’t matter if it’s Aegis or not.”

“Didn’t realize we were so quick to get rid of you,” Gaz chimes in, a smirk playing on his lips.

Ghost, too, narrows his eyes at you, though his expression is unreadable.

You blink, glancing between them, your stomach flipping in a strange mix of relief and disbelief. You’d prepared yourself to step back, to be the outsider again, but now… it feels like they’re giving you something more.

“Alright,” you finally say, unable to hide the slight smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Guess I’ll stick around, then.”

The murmur of approval that follows feels oddly comforting. You might still be a mercenary, not fully one of them, but in this moment, it feels like you’re finally part of something more.

“Here’s what we’ve got,” Price begins, laying a folder on the table. “A series of thefts from a military supply depot in Manchester. The MoD’s breathing down our necks to sort it out.”

“Thieves?” Soap grins, leaning back in his chair. “Aye, Captain, do we bring tea and biscuits too? Sounds like a right thrilling job.”

Price’s glare silences him. “Could be a gang. Could be a test run for something bigger. Either way, we’re not taking chances. Ghost, you and her go in first for recon. Soap and Gaz, you’ll back them up if things heat up.”

“Bring them in quiet, then?” Ghost asks, arms crossed.

“Quiet’s the goal. Fireworks if they bring the match,” Price replies.

You raise an eyebrow, unable to resist. “So, am I here to fill a quota, or are we pretending I have a role in this?”

Soap chuckles, but Ghost’s gaze cuts to you, sharp as a blade. “Your role is to follow orders. Don’t muck it up.”

Before you can retort, Price ends the briefing. “Gear up. We move in ten.”

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The depot is dark and quiet, rows of warehouses illuminated by dim, flickering streetlights. A faint breeze carries the metallic scent of the train tracks nearby. Ghost moves ahead of you, a shadow among shadows, his movements deliberate and controlled.

“Nothing yet,” you whisper into comms, your voice low but steady.

“Keep your eyes open,” Ghost replies, scanning the area with unnerving precision.

As the minutes drag on with no signs of life, your patience thins. “Riveting stuff,” you mutter, sarcasm lacing your tone.

“Keep quiet.”

“Afraid I’ll spook the crates?”

His silence is almost worse than a retort, but you catch the faintest exhale, like he’s suppressing a smirk.

Then movement catches your eye—a shadow slipping between crates near the far end of the depot. Your instincts kick in, adrenaline spiking.

“Got something,” you whisper, pointing toward the figure.

Ghost’s voice stiffens. “Stay there,” he orders, already moving.

You scoff, your pulse pounding in your ears. Stay? That's not what you are trained to do. Flanking around the opposite side, you keep low, your steps silent on the gravel.

The shadows ahead resolve into two figures: one with a crowbar prying open a crate, the other keeping watch.

The crowbar wielder spots you first. “Oi!” he shouts, raising the tool to strike.

You duck, the swing whistling past your head, and drive your shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling. Before he can recover, your knife is at his throat, and you shove him hard against the crate.

The shout has drawn others. Lights flicker on, illuminating more figures emerging from the shadows.

“Shit,” you mutter, already ducking for cover as gunfire erupts.

“What the fuck did you do?” Ghost’s voice growls through comms, furious.

“I improvised!” you shout back, squeezing off shots to keep the advancing figures at bay.

“By fuckin’ everything up?” His tone is venomous, but there’s no time to argue.

Soap and Gaz burst onto the scene, their arrival a storm of gunfire and shouted orders. The quiet op spirals into chaos: bullets ricochet off steel crates, shouts echo through the depot, and the thieves scatter like rats.

One lunges at you with a knife. You sidestep, twist his arm, and drive him to the ground with a sharp knee to his stomach. Ghost appears out of nowhere, finishing the job with a brutal kick that leaves the man unconscious.

The firefight ends as abruptly as it began. The depot is secure, the thieves restrained and lined up like wayward schoolboys under Price’s watchful eye. But the air is thick with tension, and Ghost storms toward you, his fury palpable.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, his voice low but deadly.

You open your mouth to explain, but his eyes—dark with frustration—stop you before you can speak.

“You disobeyed a direct order, endangered the op, and nearly got yourself killed. That’s your idea of handling it?”

You open your mouth again, but this time, the words don’t come. The truth hits you like a freight train. It’s not about the mission. It’s not about the team. It’s about you. You’ve always operated alone. For ten years, it’s been nothing but you—no backup, no team, no one to rely on but yourself. You’ve learned to trust no one, to act quickly, decisively, because there’s no one else who’s going to cover your back. You’re a mercenary by trade, a lone wolf.

But this—this isn’t that. This is a team. And you’re still learning how to fit into it. You’ve tried, god, you’ve tried. You’ve been making an effort to follow orders, to listen, to work alongside them, but it’s never been your way. Never has been, and it’s not as easy as just switching off your instincts. You’re still holding on to that lone mentality, still thinking like you’re the only one in control, like you’re the only one who matters.

Ghost’s words hit harder than they should. “You’re reckless. Dangerous. You don’t belong here.” His voice dips lower, sharper. “Having you with us is a mistake.”

The sting of those words reverberates deep within you. You know he’s right. You are reckless. You broke the plan, you jumped in too fast, and now the mission’s been compromised because you couldn’t hold back. Because you couldn’t trust them. Trust anyone.

"Ghost, that's enough." Price steps in, his voice firm, but it’s too late. The damage has been done. Ghost’s anger is there, thick and bitter, and you can’t shake the weight of his words. The worst part is that they’re true.

You didn’t belong to this team. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

You stand there, your chest tight, trying to process his words. Part of you wants to explain, to defend yourself, but the other part—the part that’s tired of being on the outside—wonders if he’s right.

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The ride back to HQ is suffocating. The armored van rumbles along the quiet roads, but the silence inside is deafening. No one speaks. Soap sits with his arms crossed, his mouth set in an uncharacteristic frown. Gaz glances between you and Ghost occasionally, his expression unreadable. And Ghost—he doesn’t even look your way, his body stiff as he stares at some indeterminate spot on the wall.

You keep your gaze fixed on your lap, your knuckles pale from gripping your knees. The tension coils around you like a vice, tighter with every passing minute. Price’s rare silence makes it worse, his disappointment palpable even without words.

When the van finally pulls into HQ, you are the first to move. No one stops you.

You barely register walking through the base, your boots heavy against the tile floors. The whispers from the other soldiers, the curious glances—they barely scratch the surface of your awareness. You reach your quarters in a haze, shutting the door behind you with a loud click.

The shower is the first thing you need. Stripping off your gear and bloodstained clothes, you step under the scalding water, letting it cascade over your skin. The grime and sweat of the mission melt away, but it does nothing for the knot in your chest.

You scrub harder, like you can wash away the words Ghost spat at you.

“You don’t belong here.”

The lump in your throat grows heavier, and before you can stop it, the tears come. Silent at first, slipping down your face and mingling with the water. But then the weight of it all crashes over you—his anger, the guilt, the humiliation. The sobs wrack your chest, harsh and unrelenting.

You press your hands to your face, muffling the sound.

The mission went wrong. You know that. You broke formation, ignored orders—again. But the way Ghost spoke to you, the venom in his voice, made it so much worse. Like you are a liability, something to be discarded.

You sink to the floor of the shower, the water pounding against your back as you bury your face in your hands.

You hate this. Hate how his words linger in your head, hate how they make you doubt yourself.

You aren’t a rookie. You’ve been a mercenary for over a decade. But this is different. Being part of their team—fitting into their system—it isn’t something you’ve ever had to do before. And tonight proves you don’t know how.

By the time the tears stop, your skin is red from the heat of the water, and the room is filled with thick steam. You turn off the shower and sit there for a moment, staring at the tiles.

Eventually, you force yourself to move. Drying off, you slip into comfortable clothes and sit on the edge of your bed. The exhaustion is bone-deep, but sleep feels impossible.

The words replay in your mind. “You don’t belong here.”

And the worst part is, you aren’t sure if he’s wrong.

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Getting off base for the night isn’t as straightforward as walking out the gates. It never is. You spend the better part of the night navigating the layers of protocol required for someone in your position. Hired hands aren’t exactly afforded the same privileges as the soldiers stationed here.

First comes the request—a formal nod to the chain of command. You keep it simple: a few hours in town to unwind, a brief break from the monotony. It isn’t a lie, but you know better than to overshare. They don’t need your life story, just a reason they can’t argue with.

Next is the approval process. Someone with a clipboard, a sharp eye, and just enough authority to make you wait longer than necessary finally hands over a clearance slip. It’s flimsy, just a card with your name, a stamp of approval, and the time you need to be back, but it’s freedom—conditional as it may be.

At the gate, the guards barely look at you as they check the slip, scan your ID, and wave you through. Their disinterest is palpable, an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer their responsibility once you step outside.

The heavy gate creaks open, and the air beyond feels different. Lighter, less stifling, with the faint promise of anonymity in the night ahead. You climb into the waiting cab, settling into the seat as the base lights fade behind you. For the first time in weeks, you feel untethered, even if only for a few hours.

The driver glances at you in the rearview mirror. “Heading out for a quiet drink?”

“Something like that,” you murmur, your voice even.

The cab rocks gently as it takes the turns, the faint hum of the radio filling the silence. You keep your eyes on the window, watching the rolling countryside give way to the first signs of town life—rows of small buildings glowing under streetlights, signs of a world that doesn’t feel burdened by the weight of missions gone wrong or words that cut deep.

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The club comes into view, its neon lights flickering in an erratic but inviting rhythm. The bass thumps faintly in the night air, reverberating through the pavement as you step out of the cab. The loose sweater hangs over your frame, the sleeves just slightly too long, and the worn sneakers you slipped on feel out of place among the sharp heels and sleek outfits of the gathering crowd. But you don’t care. Tonight isn’t about fitting in—it’s about forgetting.

The bouncer eyes you up and down, his expression unreadable as he takes in your attire—clothes that scream out of place in the sea of glittering dresses and sharp suits around you. For a moment, you brace yourself for the inevitable shake of his head, but instead, he jerks a thumb toward the door, a flicker of something like amusement crossing his face. Maybe it’s the weariness in your eyes or the way you hold yourself, like you’ve seen enough to not care what anyone thinks. Whatever it is, he doesn’t stop you. “Go on,” he mutters, barely sparing you a second glance. The cacophony of music and voices hits you in a rush. The heavy beats, the swirl of lights, the haze of motion—it’s everything you need to drown out the thoughts still clawing at the back of your mind.

At the bar, you order something strong and down it quickly, the burn trailing down your throat a welcome distraction. The familiar motions of drinking, of sitting at a bar surrounded by strangers, almost make you feel normal. Almost.

The crowd shifts and sways to the music, bodies moving in chaotic synchrony, a rhythm dictated by the pulsing bass. You stay at the edges, nursing your second drink, your loose sweater brushing against your arms like a phantom reminder of the gear you shed.

You feel anonymous here, and maybe that’s the point. No missions, no formations, no Ghost’s livid words playing on repeat. Just the music, the heat of the room, and the simple, fleeting luxury of being nobody in a sea of strangers.

For a moment, you wonder if this will work—if the noise and chaos can smother everything else. You don’t feel like a mercenary tonight. You don’t feel like someone trained to kill. You feel like a woman who needs to disappear for a few hours, to let the beat carry her someplace else.

The glass is cool in your hand, condensation dripping onto the bar as you swirl the remnants of your drink, lost in the haze of the pulsing music. You don’t notice the stranger until he’s right beside you, leaning casually on the bar.

“Rough night?” His voice cuts through the noise, smooth and self-assured.

You glance up, taking in the sharp jawline, the easy smile, and the confidence that radiates from him. He looks like he belongs here—perfectly at ease in the swirl of lights and music, his shirt just tight enough to hint at a well-built frame.

“Something like that,” you reply, your tone light but guarded.

His grin widens, and he motions to the bartender. “Another for her, on me. Whatever she’s having.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”

“Let’s call it an investment,” he says, leaning in just slightly. His cologne is subtle, a faint mix of something woodsy and clean. “Trying to see if I can make you smile.”

You can’t help the small twitch of your lips, though you mask it with a sip of your freshly placed drink. “I don’t think I’m your type.”

He tilts his head, his gaze warm and teasing. “Maybe you’re exactly my type.” The words should sound cheap, but something about his delivery makes them feel playful instead.

The glass feels heavier in your hand as his words sink in, and you glance down at yourself—oversized sweater swallowing your frame, hair thrown haphazardly, and sneakers peeking out from beneath your jeans. You’re a far cry from the sleek, confident crowd that moves around the club, their sequins and sharp tailoring catching the strobe lights like polished glass.

A bitter laugh escapes your lips before you can stop it. “I doubt that,” you say, the edge in your voice barely concealed. “Look at me. I don’t exactly scream ‘fun night out.’”

He doesn’t miss a beat, his expression softening but still holding that spark of charm. “You think I care about what you’re wearing? Trust me, I’ve seen enough people dressed to the nines with nothing going on behind the eyes. You? I don’t think you realize how much you stand out.”

The comment makes your stomach twist—not with discomfort, but something lighter, warmer. You take another sip of your drink to hide your reaction, but his gaze stays on you, steady and sure, like he’s waiting for you to actually believe him.

You clear your throat, trying to brush it off. “Not sure if that’s a compliment or a really polite way to say I don’t fit in here.”

“It’s a compliment,” he says firmly, leaning closer. “And for the record, you’re a breath of fresh air in a place like this.”

For the first time in the evening, you feel the tension in your shoulders ease just slightly, his words carving a sliver of space in the wall you’ve built around yourself. Still, a small voice in the back of your head whispers disbelief, but you shove it aside—just for tonight.

“Alright,” you say finally, setting your drink down. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He extends a hand, palm up, an invitation that makes you hesitate for just a second. Then you slip your hand into his, letting him guide you to the dance floor.

The music envelops you, a bass-heavy track with a rhythm impossible to ignore. The crowd presses in around you, a blur of bodies and heat, but he keeps a respectful distance at first, moving in time with you. He’s good at this—confident without being overbearing, his movements fluid and easy.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, raising your voice over the music.

“Once or twice,” he admits, flashing a grin. “You’re not bad yourself.”

You snort lightly. “Don’t get used to it. I don’t dance often.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He spins you suddenly, his hand firm but gentle on your waist as he pulls you back.

The motion catches you off guard, but you go with it, the tension of the last few days starting to dissolve in the rhythm and the sheer absurdity of the moment. Here, under the lights, surrounded by strangers, you feel a little less weighed down, a little more like someone who can laugh at a flirtatious stranger and just enjoy the moment.

The bass thumps through your body, drowning out your thoughts. The weight in your chest hasn’t fully lifted—it lingers there, a reminder of the earlier mess—but the alcohol in your veins, the stranger’s hands gently brushing your waist as he dances behind you, and the sheer energy of the crowd help blur the edges of the pain. For a moment, you let yourself get lost in it.

His movements mirror yours, easy and fluid, and when you glance over your shoulder, his attention is locked solely on you. There’s no pretense, no guessing; he’s fully engrossed, his smile wide and genuine. It’s almost disarming, that kind of focus, but it also makes you feel… present.

You raise the drink in your hand to your lips, taking a slow sip, and catch his amused glance. He leans down just enough for you to hear him over the music. “Not bad, huh?”

You smirk. “I’ve seen better.”

He laughs, the sound melting into the rhythm of the song. “Liar,” he teases, his hands brushing your hips in time with the beat, keeping just the right amount of distance to make it playful.

The song shifts to something slower but heavier, the lights dimming, and the crowd around you sways together like a single entity. You hesitate, your instinct to step away clashing with the alcohol-fueled buzz in your head. Instead, you turn to face him, your drink now just a forgotten weight in your hand.

His eyes scan your face, a flicker of curiosity and something warmer behind his easy smile. He steps closer, his movements deliberate but not invasive, giving you space to pull away if you want. You don’t.

“You know,” he says, his voice low enough to cut through the music, “I don’t usually get this lucky.”

“Lucky how?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you’re already sure of the answer.

“Meeting someone like you,” he says simply, his tone sincere.

It’s a line—probably one he’s used before—but in the haze of the club, it feels… nice. You tilt your head, studying him. The lights strobe, casting his features in flashes of blue and red, and for a second, you let yourself relax into the idea that this is all there is. Just a night, just a moment.

He leans in slightly, and you can feel the shift in the air between you. His hand brushes your arm, and his voice drops even lower. “Can I…?”

You don’t answer immediately, your mind catching up with what’s happening. Then, slowly, he leans closer, his lips brushing yours with tentative softness.

It’s fleeting—a kiss that doesn’t demand anything, just a gentle question. And for a heartbeat, you let yourself lean into it, letting the world outside the club disappear completely.

The kiss deepens for just a moment, the stranger’s hands resting lightly on your hips, when suddenly, a sharp tug yanks you backward. You stumble, breaking away from the man, and find yourself face-to-face with Ghost.

He stands rigid, his imposing figure towering over both you and the stranger, his eyes blazing behind the mask. Even in the dim lighting of the club, the tension rolling off him is palpable.

“What the hell are you doing?” you demand, your heart racing—not from the kiss, but from the sheer intensity of Ghost’s presence.

“Saving you from making a mistake,” he growls, his voice low and dangerous. He turns his attention to the stranger, who looks bewildered and more than a little intimidated. “Back off.”

The guy raises his hands in mock surrender, his earlier charm replaced by wariness. “Hey, I didn’t know she was taken. My bad.”

“I’m not—” you start, but Ghost steps forward, his stance shifting like he’s ready for a fight.

The guy takes a step back, looking between the two of you. “Look, man, she’s all yours. I wasn’t trying to start anything.”

“Ghost!” you snap, grabbing his arm to stop him. “He’s a civilian. You can’t just—”

Ghost’s gaze snaps to you, the fire in his eyes still smoldering. “A civilian,” he repeats, his tone sharp with disbelief.

“What is wrong with you?” you shoot back, your own anger flaring now.

He doesn’t respond immediately, his jaw clenching beneath the mask. His grip on your arm loosens slightly, but he doesn’t step away. “You don’t know what kind of people come to places like this,” he mutters, his tone quieter but no less heated.

“I can handle myself,” you say firmly, pulling your arm free from his grasp.

“Clearly,” he bites out, his eyes flicking to the stranger, who wisely starts edging away.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Ghost, let it go. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ghost’s shoulders stiffen briefly, but after a moment, he exhales sharply, the tension in his body easing just slightly. He steps closer, his voice low and firm. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” you snap, but he doesn’t give you a choice. His hand closes around your wrist—not painfully, but with enough strength to make it clear he isn’t backing down.

“Ghost, I mean it—”

“Don’t make me carry you out,” he warns, his voice calm but laced with steel. His grip tightens just enough to guide you firmly toward the exit.

Fuming, you let yourself be dragged outside, too aware of the growing number of eyes on you in the club. Once outside, the cool night air hits your flushed skin, but it does little to cool your temper.

“Get in the car,” Ghost orders, nodding toward a black vehicle parked by the curb.

“You can’t just—”

“Get. In. The car,” he repeats, his tone brooking no argument.

Angrily, you yank your arm out of his grip and climb in, slamming the door behind you. Ghost rounds the car and gets into the driver’s seat, the air inside thick with unspoken tension.

As he pulls away from the curb, you whirl on him. “Why the hell were you following me? I got clearance. I’m not under your leash anymore.”

“I wasn’t following you,” he retorts, his tone sharp. “I was making sure you didn’t get yourself killed.”

“Bullshit,” you snap. “I’ve been on my own plenty of times before, and you never pulled this crap.”

“This isn’t the same,” he growls, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “You’re reckless, and you don’t think about what’s waiting around the corner. A place like that? You’re asking for trouble.”

“I’m asking for a night off,” you counter, your voice rising. “You don’t get to decide where I go or who I talk to anymore.”

His jaw tightens beneath the mask, but he says nothing.

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The drive is silent, tension filling the car like a thick fog. Ghost grips the wheel tightly, his knuckles white under his gloves. You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, your thoughts swirling with confusion and lingering frustration. The alcohol in your system is dulling your ability to piece things together, but one thing is clear—he's angry.

The car finally slows as he pulls into an empty park, dimly lit by streetlights and eerily quiet. He cuts the engine and sits there for a moment, his hands resting on the wheel, before turning to you with a sharp look.

“Get out,” he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You blink at him, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said, get out of the car.”

His tone sends a shiver through you, and for a moment, you hesitate. But the look in his eyes is unyielding, so you push open the door and step out into the crisp night air. Ghost follows, his boots crunching against the gravel as he comes around to face you.

“Why do you always cause trouble?” he demands, his voice low but biting.

The question hits you like a slap, and for a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. “Trouble?” you repeat, your voice shaking. “You dragged me out here just to call me trouble?”

“You don’t think!” he snaps, his frustration boiling over. “You act on impulse, you break formation, and you put yourself—and everyone else—at risk. What the hell is wrong with you?”

His words are like a punch to the gut, and before you can stop yourself, the dam inside you bursts. “Have you already forgotten what you said to me?” Your voice trembles, rising with each word. “That having me around is a mistake? That the idea of me is a mistake?”

His mouth opens slightly as if to respond, but you don’t give him the chance.

“You don’t think I’m trying?” you cry out, the alcohol making your emotions impossible to suppress. “I’ve been a merc for ten years, Ghost. Ten years of flying solo, doing things my way. You think I can just switch that off and magically fit into your team overnight?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the flicker of guilt in his eyes is undeniable.

“I’ve been trying,” you continue, your voice breaking now. “I really have, but it’s hard. And you—you make it even harder. You’re so quick to throw me away, like I’m nothing. Do you have any idea how much that hurts?”

Your voice cracks, and before you know it, tears spill over, your shoulders trembling as you struggle to hold yourself together. You hate this—hate how vulnerable you are right now, hate how much his words got to you.

Ghost takes a step closer, his towering frame softening as he reaches out. His gloved hands cup your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streak your cheeks.

“Stop,” he says quietly, his voice stripped of its usual edge. “Just… stop.”

You meet his gaze, your breath hitching at the look in his eyes—raw, conflicted, and entirely unguarded.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was angry, and I... I was scared.”

“Scared?” you repeat, your voice shaking.

He nods, his hands still cradling your face. “You don’t get it, do you? Watching you throw yourself into danger like that, without a second thought—it messes with me. The thought of you getting hurt…” He pauses, his jaw tightening. “It fucks me up inside.”

Your breath catches in your throat at his words, the raw honesty in them cutting through the haze of your emotions.

“I don’t know how to deal with it,” he admits, his thumbs brushing over your tears in a gesture so tender it makes your heart ache. “But I know I’ve been taking it out on you, and I’m sorry for that. You didn’t deserve it.”

For a moment, the two of you stand there, the weight of his words settling between you. The anger, the hurt, the confusion—it all feels distant now, overshadowed by the quiet sincerity in his voice and the steady warmth of his hands.

You stand there, the weight of everything crashing down on you, and the question rises in your chest, burning with a quiet intensity. The words spill out before you can stop them. “If you care so much about me, then why would you say things that hurt me like that? Why throw all that shit at me, if you actually care?”

Ghost’s gaze drops to the ground, his jaw tightening. For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, as though he’s struggling with the weight of his own words. His hands remain on your face, cupping your cheeks firmly, as though grounding himself in you. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do you, despite the tension building between you.

Finally, his voice breaks the silence, low and rough. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“No,” you reply quickly, “but you sure know how to do it.”

His eyes flicker to yours before he looks away again, the frustration evident in his every movement. “I don’t know how to show I care, alright? I’ve never been good at it.”

You blink at him, the confusion deepening. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, his thumb brushing over the skin of your cheek, almost absentmindedly, as though he’s not aware of how intimate the gesture is.

“You’re right. I don't know how to treat people the right way. And that’s been a problem for years.” He pauses, his eyes briefly meeting yours before they drop to the ground again. “I’m not good at expressing myself either. It’s been like that for a long time. I don’t know how to show I care about certain people. Especially you.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, the weight of his words crashing into you. “So, all this time… it’s been about you not knowing how to… show you care?”

He nods, meeting your eyes once more, soft but unyielding. “Yeah. I’m puzzled, okay? I’ve never met anyone like you. Someone who makes me care this much and still frustrates the hell out of me. It messes with my head. And I don’t know how to deal with it.”

You take a deep breath, your chest tight, processing everything. “So it’s not just about the team, then? It’s about me?”

His eyes meet yours again, more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen him. “Yeah. You get under my skin, and I don’t know how to handle it. I hate it, but I can’t stop it. And that’s what fucks me up.”

You try to process his words, still feeling the sting of the anger, but you can see the regret and vulnerability in his eyes. You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off.

“I’ve never met anyone like you, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I hate how it messes with me, how you’re different from the others. And that pisses me off, because I can’t fucking fix it.” His hands tense slightly on your face, as if trying to hold onto the moment. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m trying. I am.”

Your heart beats faster, the weight of everything crashing down on you. You swallow hard, your voice trembling as you look at him. “You don’t have to fix anything, Ghost. Just… don’t hurt me.”

His grip softens, and for a moment, you see him at a loss for words. He moves his thumb over your cheek again, almost as though he’s apologizing without saying it. Then, he looks at you, his gaze steady. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, the words carrying weight. “I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—bloody hell, I'm lost when it comes to you.”

You nod, the emotions still swirling inside you. “I don’t need you to have it figured out right now. Just don’t…”

“I won’t,” he promises, his voice barely a whisper, but firm. “I won’t hurt you again.”

The air between you thickens, the silence heavy with everything that’s been left unsaid. You’re still reeling from the intensity of the moment, the weight of Ghost’s presence and everything unspoken between you. His gloved hands are still holding your face, steady and grounding, but his gaze shifts, dark and unreadable, as though he’s making a decision in real time.

You feel it before he moves, the tension crackling like a live wire, and then, with deliberate slowness, he lifts his own mask. It’s only to his nose, just high enough to expose his lips. The action feels monumental, the vulnerability of it making your breath hitch.

The sight of him—the strong curve of his mouth, the way his breath brushes against your skin—is startling, disarming. And before you can say anything, before you can even think, he leans in and presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, unrelenting, full of frustration and desire that’s been simmering under the surface for too long. It’s not careful or measured—it’s raw, messy, and unapologetic. Like he’s trying to erase the memory of the stranger’s hands on you, of that kiss you shared, and replace it with this. With him.

His lips move against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak, his hands tightening slightly against your face as though he can’t bear the thought of letting go. You gasp into the kiss, your hands instinctively clutching at the fabric of his shirt, and that’s all it takes for him to deepen it, pulling you closer, his body pressing firmly against yours.

There’s no hesitation in him, no second-guessing, only the overwhelming need to claim you, to make it clear that this is where you belong. It’s intense, searing, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you—his lips, his touch, the sheer force of his presence.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only just enough to catch his breath, his lips hovering over yours. Both of you are gasping for air, the space between you charged with the kind of energy that leaves you dizzy.

The sight of him like this—vulnerable and exposed—is almost too much to process.

“I followed you back there,” he admits, his voice rough but steady, “to apologize. For what I said. I thought maybe—maybe if I just said I was sorry, you’d—” His words falter for a moment before he pushes forward. “But then I saw him. That bastard at the bar, leaning too close, looking at you like—” He cuts himself off, his jaw tight as he fights for control.

“I hated it,” he whispers, voice rough and barely audible over the pounding of your heart. His forehead presses lightly against yours, and you can feel the tremor in his breath. “Seeing him with you. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to destroy everything.”

His words hit you like a punch, raw and unfiltered, leaving no room for doubt. Your chest tightens as you try to make sense of it, of him, of everything that’s just happened.

“I wanted it to be me,” Ghost mutters, his lips brushing yours again as he speaks. His voice is quieter now, but no less intense, each word laced with meaning. “It should’ve been me.”

You’re left breathless, stunned into silence, your heart pounding as his words settle into your bones. The weight of what he’s said, what he’s done, lingers between you, unshakable and impossible to ignore.

The world around you feels like it’s stopped moving, as if everything has frozen, leaving only you and Ghost, this moment, hanging in suspended time. His lips are still gently hovering over yours, but the kiss he just gave you lingers like fire across your skin, burning away any remnants of the confusion that was there before. His touch, his presence—it's so different from that stranger’s brief, fleeting kiss at the club. This? This feels real. This feels right.

Your head is spinning, heart hammering, trying to make sense of what’s happening. It’s like the fog is lifting and you can finally see the clarity you’ve been ignoring. The space between you and Ghost feels like it’s always been meant to be filled, like there’s no question about it.

With a breathless laugh, you close the small distance between you two and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring him to you as you finally let yourself feel the rush of everything you’ve been holding back. You tilt your head, deepening the kiss, as if trying to show him what’s been building inside you.

When you pull back just enough to speak, your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s laced with certainty. “It’ll be you,” you say, your hands resting against his chest, your eyes locking with his. “From now on, it’ll be you.”

Ghost's eyes ignite with relief, his grip on you tightening as if he's been starved of your consent. Crushing his mouth to yours, he kisses you fiercely, devouring every inch of your lips. His tongue claims your mouth, tangling with yours in a wild dance of passion that mirrors the unspoken hunger you both share. His touch becomes more demanding, yet gentle, sending waves of heat crashing through your body. This raw, carnal connection eclipses everything else—the world, the mission, the tangled past—reducing it all to insignificance compared to the burning fire consuming you both.

You pull back slowly, your lips still tingling, the world around you sharpening back into focus. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath your fingers as his gaze locks onto yours, raw and intense. The silence stretches, but it’s no longer uncomfortable—it’s charged, full of implicit understanding.

“I’m scared,” you whisper, your voice trembling with uncertainty. “Everything’s different now.”

He doesn’t look away, his thumb brushing your cheek with a tenderness that’s almost too much. “I’m scared too,” he admits, his voice a low growl. “Hell, I’m terrified.”

But the fear isn’t something to avoid. It makes everything feel real, exhilarating, like a dare. You both know that whatever this is, it’s a risk worth taking. No safety nets, no guarantees. Just the thrill of diving in, together.

And as his lips find yours again, the fear becomes fuel—the kind of fear that pushes you forward, deeper into the unknown, but this time, you know you’ll face it side by side.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘ -

Author's Note: definitely a rushed chapter (sorry about that, work’s been killing me), but things are about to get steamy after this. :^)

[bugs1nmybrain]

Shoulder - Tomura x Fem!Reader ◇ Non-S3xual MDLB

Listen I've put myself in a rabbit hole. I am embarrassed and ashamed. I am so sorry. My heart tugs for this boy. It was actually very sad to write this and I teared up a little to be honest. I want to hold him so bad, even if I die at contact. I don't know if I can tag this sfw only because I know the mommy dynamic weirds people out sometimes, but there is nothing sexual in this story at all.

This isn't a sexual fic but I would prefer minors to not interact.

Warnings: non-sexual mdlb (i am so ashamed), is it problematic? I have no idea, angst, reverse comfort, Tomura cries pretty hard, panic attack, unprescribed use of anti-anxiety meds, PTSD, mommy issues, nausea and vomiting, abandonment issues/separation anxiety, season 5 blue hair Tomura era (ignoring the Gigantomachia canon), reader is probably older than Tomura, reader is resistant to Tomura's quirk because the plot requires it, reader's POV, a lot of paragraphs start with "you" and "he" I'm so sorry

He was silent when he came home, not saying a word as he entered the bedroom. You watched as he just slid his shoes off and slumped himself on the bed, with himself turned to face the wall. He didn't acknowledge you.

This was unusual for him. It wasn't out of character for Tomura to be in a bad mood, but quiet wasn't typical. Usually, he would come complaining to you with his nasal voice, moaning and whining about how much he hated something or how bad his day went. It wasn't just that his silence that was concerning you. When you looked at him, he was breathing so heavily that you could see his back expand and shoulders rise and fall. At first, his breathing was slow and heavy, but it continued to build.

You left him be for a moment, not wanting to invade his personal space. Maybe he just needed a little time to himself. But when you went back to resume the task that you were doing before, you began hearing verbal, raspy breaths that sounded as if he was suffocating. You turned around to see Tomura's shoulders shaking, and he was closed in on himself. You realized that the only hands he had on him right now were the ones on his neck. His mother's.

You didn't want to upset him more, but you couldn't just watch him like this. You slowly approached him from behind and sat on the bed next to him. You didn't want to touch him yet, worried that he'd be startled or angered by the sudden sensation.

"Tomura?"

"What?" he rasped out, still gasping on the oxygen he managed to inhale.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't respond. His shaking got worse, and his breath seized to function. You could tell because his shoulders and back were no longer moving, and he was rigidly still.

"Tomura..." you reached out to rub his back, fearing that he'd snap, but he didn't. "Tomura, you need to breathe, okay?"

You rub firm circles on his back, and then motioned up and down. He was now only allowing small exhales come out through his nose, and his shaking stopped. Now, though, his body was tight and tense. You couldn't see it, but he was beginning to sweat.

"Tomura-"

"I need a bucket."

"Huh?"

"Now! I'm gonna puke!"

You didn't hesitate and rushed out of the room to grab a mop bucket from the kitchen closet. You returned fast, Tomura was now lying on his back with his eyes closed and furrowed, hands on his stomach.

"Here."

"I-" he was huffing in between words. "I" "I can't move" "I'm gonna throw up." "If I move I'm going to puke."

"It's okay, please sit up. You'll feel better if you let it out."

It takes you tucking your hand underneath his head and helping him to sit up for him to move. The moment he sat up, he snatched the bucket and hurled it into it. The sounds of him puking made you uncomfortable, but it sounded much more painful for him. It went all out quickly, though.

He holds out the puke bucket, signaling that he's finished.

"Are you done, baby?"

His mouth formed into an uncontrolled pouty frown and he held his head down. He only motioned a nod to tell you yes.

"Okay. I'm going to go put this outside for now and come back with a water."

Tomura mumbled an "mhm" and criss crossed his legs, head still facing downwards. You took the bucket and brought it out into the alleyway outside. You'd take care of it sometime later, but not now. All you wanted to do was make sure it wasn't stinking up the house, and to get back to your boyfriend to make sure he was okay.

When you came back your heart shattered. You watched in silence as Tomura sat there with a palm holding the sides of his face, crying. His sounds were very vocal, but when he realized you were back he began concealing them. He itched himself red as he cried, as if bugs were biting him all over. Slowly returning to his side, you began to stroke his long, blue hair softly. He shakes at your touch and his cries became uncontrolled, with breathy sobs and tears falling out from underneath his hand and he scratched vigorously.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You soothe at him gently.

"I can't-I can't breathe."

He was indeed still shaking and he sounded like he was choking on air. Your glance met the hands around his neck again, and you worried that they were causing more discomfort. You reach out to cup them, a little freaked out by it initially. They were dead hands, after all. Cold and lifeless.

"Maybe you should take these off."

"I can't. I need them! They're suffocating me! I hate this! I hate it..."

"I know, baby," he sobbed harder when you said that. "But they're hurting you. Just for a while, okay? You can put them back on later, once you've had a chance to catch your breath. Is that okay, sweetheart?"

His hand lifted off his face. He still averts his gaze, but he nods with a deep sigh. "Yea."

You proceed to remove the hands. It was hard, actually. They were snug on his neck so tightly, clasped together, and very difficult to separate from each other. You made sure to put them with the others, where they would be safe.

When you sat back on the bed you continued to rub Tomura's back. His tears soaked his lap, and his face was red.

"Hey, hey, hey..."You ran your fingers on his scalp for comfort. "Come here, Tomura..."

You gestured him toward your embrace and he latched onto you. His hold was tight and needy as he tugged on the back of your shirt and rested his face on your chest. His cries drenched your shirt and you could feel his heart pumping rapidly against your body. It felt like he was on the verge of a heart attack. You couldn't bare it.

"I have some anxiety meds, do you think that would help?"

He nods into your form and you try to get up from his embrace to get the medication. As you rise he pulls on your shirt, "please come back."

"I will, I promise."

It was sad, given that the meds were only inside of a drawer close to the bed. You got out a couple of pills and grabbed the water that you had gotten him earlier. Tomura wasn't prescribed these medications, but frankly, it didn't really matter right now. It wasn't like he hadn't committed far more severe crimes. He needed to calm down, or his body was going to collapse.

You move back on the bed and hold out the medicine and drink for him. He takes both with his trembling hands as you put your hand on his tense back again. The medication goes down easy, and he sits there with the water in his hand, shaking.

"You should drink more. You're going to be dehydrated because of crying."

"I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be, I want to make sure you're taken care of."

The pout that returned on his face made your heart thump in sympathy. What was going on? You had never seen Tomura in this kind of state before. It was unlike him.

"What's wrong Tomura? Please tell me. I don't mean to be nosy, but I can tell something is hurting your feelings and I want to help if I can."

Tomura turns back to snuggle you close, holding your body as if his life depended on it.

"I don't know how to explain it. I don't understand why I'm like this right now. I just...I feel empty. I think I miss her? Like I'm grieving something I don't even know. I don't get it. I fucking HATE this so SO much!"

You didn't need clarification on who he was referring to. The hands, the needy physical touch, the balling whenever you would stroke his hair or call him "sweetheart" and "baby"...It was clear to see that there was a void within Tomura. One that he'd never be able to fill. He must have felt grief for what he didn't have, what he lost a long time ago.

"I'm sorry, babyboy. I really am."

The grip he made almost suffocated you, but it was okay. He needed this, and you wanted him to feel nurtured. Loved.

"I can't get her back. I never will. What if I lose you, too? What if you stop being resistant to my quirk? I don't want you to, I can't bear even thinking about losing you. It makes me feel sick."

"You won't lose me, I promise," there was something you weren't sure would help. You expect a negative response somehow, but you try to test the waters to see what could comfort him right now. "Mommy's not going anywhere."

If Tomura wasn't crying before, he surely was now. You were scared that you broke him, but his grip around your waist didn't loosen, and he held you so hard that you felt stuck. His tears seeped out harder as you stroked his hair with his head buried in between your warm chest.

"Does mommy love me? Have I been good for her?"

"Yes, baby. You're my good boy and you've been more than good for me. Mommy loves you with her whole entire heart, Tomura. I'll never let you go for as long as I have you."

The exchange of words was foreign and was awkward to process, but it felt natural even so. There was nothing about it that seemed sultry. It was a need for him. You were simply substituting a void for him, and you couldn't feel ashamed for being there to give him that affection and nurture that he hadn't had since murdered his family. You only knew about what he had told you, and he only knew about what his master told him. This regression was heart breaking for you to witness, but if you could comfort him, maybe it would be all better.

"I love you. I love you so much, mommy. I need you to be here. I need you to hold me."

"I will. I'll hold you all night long. You're such a perfect little boy, do you know that?"

Tomura snickers as tears escape his eyes, "Thank you."

"Of course, baby boy. You should rest, though. You've been through a lot."

"Will you sleep with me?"

"Yes. I'll be right here with you and beside you when you wake up, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you, Tomura."

"I love you too."

[captianprices40thson]

Can you make a story for October, a male reader x soap. Where before the reader joined the 141 he was in a different military unit and one evening he got captured by the enemy and was murdered by dismemberment but some mad scientist there put him back together using the dismembered pieces. He came back by being hit by lighting. So now he kind of looks like frankenstein. he doesn't have all the bolts or dead skin, but he has one sliver gray eye. the other one is a light yellow, and he also has stitches on his face and his body. When he was finally rescued and back with his team, some were afraid of him and some belittled him. So he wears full body gear now so no one can fully see him. After joining the 141 he gets hurt really really REALLY badly and a some of his stitches rip, he tries to brush it off like it's nothing but soap refuses to believe him, so he kinda forcefully pulls male readers gear off and sees him body for the first time.

I'LL LEAVE THE REACTIONS OF SOAP TO YOU. Also can you do the reactions of the 141 too. Like maybe there in the room too when soap takes the gear off...

If you're not comfy with the dismemberment, you can just have it implied.

Happy early halloween, if you celebrate it🎃🎃🎃💖💖💖🙃🙃🙃

They took the credit for your second symphony, rewritten by machine and new technology.

Pairing: John ‘Soap’ MacTavish x Male Reader

Requested: Yes

Word count: 5.4k

Pronouns used: You/Yourself. Reader referred to as Y/N and male titles/compliments.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, blood, gore, dismemberment to the best best of my ability, fluff, angst, so much death on god, brutal deaths, stitches, skin ripping, bad language.

Notes: Finished this at 1 in the morning and posting it during Japanese class at school, going to go over and review it soon, but I want to get this out soon as possible. I loved this request and just saying, my inbox is open! If you’re not sure on what I do and don’t write, check my page!

“Y/N?” “Huh? “Y/N, were you even listening?” Your commander asked, a stern look on her face. You didn’t even realise how zoned out you had been, oblivious to the fact that the vast majority of your team had already prepped up.

“Oh…Sorry, Captain.” You apologised, standing up from your seat on the bench and making way to go put on your gear. Of course you were going to be a bit freaked and zoned out, this was a deadly mission. You knew your Captain was going to need everyone to be in tip top shape for this mission to go smoothly, if you slipped up and did something wrong…it would cost lives.

“Come on, Y/N. I need my best man out there today, not distracted Y/N, okay?” Your Captain told you, giving you a small pat on the shoulder. Valencia was a nice woman, even let you call her ‘Val’ on the odd occasion. She was a good person, believed in the good of the world more than one person should. She believed in you as well, she knew you could be great.

You nodded, placing your helmet on and giving her a thumbs up. The rest of the team were just waiting for you to finish up before they would leave, an indicator that this mission was already unorganised. A bad feeling, like a black hole, had appeared in your stomach.

“Alright men! Let’s do this. You all know the plan. I want Oak and Close going in from the left, Wilson and Stampler on the right. O’Niel and Bennets are on standby back here and C/N will be heading in from behind as our sniper. We have MedVac ready for those who will need it. Remember, we are going after Andrei Kowalski and his men. This is capture or kill. All clear?” Valencia cut you from your thoughts of dread by announcing the mission was about to start. You’d all get into your helicopter and make your way there…then would come the warfare and violence. You had become null to it by now, the screams and bloodshed were all but nothing to you.

It was liked you had blinked and you were on the field. Time meant nothing to you as you ran through the warzone, the occasional screams of your team members were able to be heard from miles away, sometimes the radio would cackle and you’d catch them conversing with one another, but you were alone in your field…

Always alone.

“C/N? Do you have eyes on him?” Your Captain’s voice called in from the radio, bringing you back to the mission on hand.Your eyes adjusted to look through the scope aimed at the building the team was meant to be invadinging. The lack of your team members indicated they seemed to be receiving a little more resistance than expected.

“Not yet, Captain. I see some of his guards, but not him. I’ll try and get into a better position.” You responded, getting up from your spot on the floor. Your suit was heavier and harder to move in considering it was a camo sniper version, but it was better than being spotted and murdered because an enemy saw you.

You adjusted yourself and lay down on the wet ground. The mud helped cover parts of your gear that didn’t fit in with the terrain, but you still had that odd feeling. That sense of unease that you just couldn’t seem to shake. You had gotten this feeling before on other missions, but it never led to anything.

And it was never this bad.

“C/N. They’re breaching the building now. Mission’s been changed, we’re taking out Andrei at whatever cost. We won’t be able to capture him.” Valencia’s thick English accent came over your radio, startling you a bit. You were a trained sniper, but somehow you were always caught off guard by the one thing you can always expect. You radioed back, confirming you got the message and were proceeding with the instructions.

Your voice drowned out the sound of the footsteps behind you. The cackle of the radio concealed the heavy breathing of the soldier lurking just a few steps away from you. You moved your arms to push yourself up, the rustle of your clothing covering the sound of his body standing over yours, his feet either side of your torso.

“Boo.”

You knew that voice, that unmistakable voice that always seemed to have a smirk behind it. A witty tone that had no business being there. The stench of the cigarette that always seemed to follow the man standing above you. You quickly turned your body around, abandoning the sniper rifle you were holding and just focusing on the fact that he was standing above you. Your eyes snapped up to look at him, your pupils dilating as you processed that it was in fact him standing above you.

Creeper. You had given him that name. When you served as rookies together when you first joined the force, it had become a habit for him to appear out of the blue and scare the hell out of you. He was Creeper to you even after he betrayed your team and you’re fairly certain that's what he is to everyone else as well.

“Alons-” You whispered, but he cut you off, his gun whipping around from his side and now inches away from your eyes. Your breath hitched, knowing you were done for. You looked away from the gun and back up to him, his cold dark brown eye meeting yours. The other eye was a pure white, you cringed every time you thought of the incident which caused him to be blinded. You knew he blamed you…

Maybe that's what drove him to betrayal.

“It’s Creeper, Y/N. I don’t go by that name anymore.” He hissed, his finger on the trigger twitching as he spoke. He was serious, he was going to shoot you and have no mercy about it. This was it…you were going to die here.

“I’m not going to kill you with this gun, Y/N…” He began, lowering the gun a bit. You let go of the breath you were holding from relief, but that was met with a slap to the face that was what he did next. He placed the gun back into his hold and then reached for his back. His arm was up like he was stretching, but his hand quickly grasped the axe he attached to his back and brought it down so he could hold it in both his hands.

“I won’t regret this…at all.” He spat, bringing the axe up to his shoulder like he was about to swing a bat. Your eyes went wide and before you could say anything else, he swung. He swung right down to your neck.

You had heard alot about death. You had many ideas about it. You had heard it would be painful, you had heard it would be painless. You had heard you stayed conscious, you had heard it was over instantly. No matter what divine entity you did or didn’t believe in, it didn’t matter, death wasn’t the same for everyone. If you could still create thoughts after you died, yours would be praying this isn't what it was like for everyone who did. You didn’t want every kind soul to feel the red hot poker being pressed against your skin that was your death. 

After the pain, there was silence. If you were able to think, you would be grateful for it. It would be comforting, calming to your soul to finally be at rest after an impossible amount of years without it. For once, your soul rested unbothered, ready to let go of the fraying rope that was your life.

Then you woke up.

The light was blinding, you would assume you were in heaven, but that would be entirely incorrect. Your ears rang with the most awful noise one could hear, an ear splitting ringing that would drive you insane if it was played for more than five minutes. What felt like a jolt of electricity slammed through your body like a hammer down on a nail. The blinding light disappeared as quick as a snap.

The first thing you noticed was the pain. It circled around all your main joints and connections between the body. Your wrists, knees, ankles, elbows, neck…everything ached. Then you felt the feeling of something pulling on all of your skin, like that time you received stitches in the webbing of your thumb, but everywhere else on your body that ached, along with across your face.

You tried to move your neck first, turn it and try to figure out where you were. The only thing you could see from your head being pointed directly up was a sort of dark blue hue that made the place seem depressing and creepy, like the only light was coming from the moon outside. You were able to move it, but it was stiff and harder than it would usually be. That was your first sign that something was off.

Your head looked down to inspect where you were, taking in the fact you were laying down on a cold metal table. You weren’t restrained or anything, but you were getting major creepy vibes. It felt cool on your back, it was clear that you probably hadn’t been laying there all that long, or the heat from your body would’ve warmed it up. Then you looked down at your hands as you tried to move them.

The stitches and ever so slightly discoloured skin was your second sign that something was off.

You sat up, your body rigid and hard like a doll being used for the first time. You weren’t in your normal clothes, just a simple robe that you’d wear in a hospital if surgery was performed on you, and by the looks of it, it had. 

You were able to move your arm up and inspect it, cringing at the stitches and blood. Several questions ran through your mind, the main one being ‘How the hell am I alive?’ and the second being ‘What the hell happened to me?’ Everything hurts, especially your neck. Your bones felt like they had been removed and remoulded, it all felt too weird to you. Your skin didn’t feel like your own.

A cold and icy voice broke you out of your mesmerised trance of inspecting your body. It came from seemingly nowhere. It sounded…delighted. Your eyes flickered over to the shadows in the corner, one of them was moving towards you. 

It was a man, probably around 6 feet with a stupid grin on his face. His skin was pale, paler than the moonlight shining in through the window above. He slowly walked over to you, hands behind his back like a villain.

“Finally…finally it fucking worked!” He grinned, shaking his head like he had seen something he couldn’t believe. You couldn’t blame him, what was happening was unbelievable. You quickly slid off the table, groaning as you moved for the first time in what would feel like to your body.

“What…the fuck did you do? W-What is this? What happened?!” You called out, your voice cracking as it was used for the first time in ages. You coughed, trying to make it not as itchy. It wasn’t working.

“Y/N…You’re still as animated as ever.” He grinned, gesturing to you and your stitched up body. You wanted to strangle him, clearly he had done something awful to you that you were going to get him to explain, regardless of whatever threats you had to make.

“Answer me right now you…you madman.” You hissed, walking towards him. Every step hurt, like it wasn’t meant to be taken. He smiled, taking a breath before speaking again.

“Y/N…Let me explain. Do you remember the night you went on the mission to kill my good friend Andrei Kowalski…do you remember being killed by your old friend Creeper? You should…you should remember being decapitated. Well…I was given your body…or what was left of it after Creeper chopped it up into a million pieces. Under strict orders from Andrei…to bring you back. So…I stitched you back up. Like you were my very own Frankenstien’s monster. The plan was to bring you back to life the same way Frankenstien had…and it worked.” The man smiled, seemingly okay with telling you his entire plan. You couldn’t decide whether he was stupid or just overly confident in himself that you wouldn’t escape and go find your team. “What now?” You asked, feeling the need to get into his head. After all, this man had literally just reanimated your dead body. He brought back a dead man and just stood there like an evil little Einstein.

“Now…I will bring you to him. So he can kill you over and over again…and you’ll come back every time.” He grinned and before you could react, he grabbed your hand and attempted to pull you closer to him in order to trap you. What he obviously didn’t anticipate was that your years of military training and work would stay with you and chime in when you needed it most.

You grabbed his arm, pulling him towards you and then placing your leg behind his so you could throw his balance off and keep him on the ground. You slammed him down and placed your foot on his chest, grabbing a metal rod just a few inches away from you and raising it high, just how Creeper had done.

“Y/N. Y/N WA-” He called out, extending a hand out to try and reason with you, but you brought it down on his head, instantly crushing his skull. You slammed it down over and over, making sure that if anyone even tried to bring this monster back from the dead, it would be impossible. You didn’t stop until you could see the brain sticking to the bat, that’s when you knew it was done.

You dropped the metal rod and stood there for a moment, huffing and puffing as you figured out what you had just done. You looked up from his body and to your horrible convenience, there was a mirror just in front of you. You stood in front of it, observing what you looked like.

There were clear and major differences that you could see so far. The first one being your eyes, they didn’t look the same as they had done before. One of them, the one on the left was a light yellow and the right one was a silver grey. It was creepy and inhuman, there was no pupil or iris either…just pure colour. You would question how you could still see, but you were too distracted by everything else and too high off of fear to question anything.

Your skin was neatly stitched together with a white thread, standing out against your skin tone. Most of the stitching wasn’t visible, but when it was it wasn’t too obvious, sort of the stitching you’d see on your friend’s hand when they’d get a deep cut or something. Just that, pulling your skin together. There was blood along most of the lines, the dried stuff was yours, the fresh belonged to Mr Crazy that you had never gotten the name of.

“Y/N?” A voice called out. Your eyes snapped over to the door in the corner or the room, the door was open. Standing in it, Valencia and the rest of your team. Valencia herself looked horrified as you stood over his dead body, his blood now mixing in with yours. The darkness in the lab made it look like you were a shadow, a ghost…a monster.

“Val-” You began, but were cut off by her running up to you and giving you a hug. You were caught off guard, she had never shown any affection to you, let alone physical. This was unlike her in so many ways.

“You idiot. We thought you died. We tracked your radio here but-” She spoke, cutting herself off as she made eye contact with you, or tried to. Your silver and yellow eyes had confused her, then she saw all the stitches. The one across your face concerned her the most.

“Y/N…what the hell happened to you?” She whispered, stepping back and raising her gun slightly. As the rest of the team looked over to you, they did the same. Placing their weapons in a hand that they’d be able to use in case you attacked them. You couldn’t explain yourself, you really couldn’t. Hell, even if you didn’t fully know what had happened to you, there was no way you could explain yourself.

“Captain…don’t…I-I’m not a threat.”  You whispered, stepping forward and raising your hand. To your surprise, she took a further step back, some of the men even raised their shields. She clutched her gun, raising it further to her chest. That's when you realised, you were not a human to these people you called your friends…

You were a monster.

______________________

“Why’d you join the 141?” 

“Huh?”

“Why’d you join us? You were a part of The Seekers, no? They’re a pretty elite team. Why’d you drop them for us?” Soap asked, shuffling a bit closer to you as you sat on the bench. It had been little over five months since you had joined the team and the connection between you and Soap had formed instantly. Unsurprisingly, the team members didn’t mind the fact your entire body was covered up. They had Ghost on the team, they weren’t going to judge you.

“Oh I…a mission went wrong. I didn’t feel like I could stay with them and neither did they.” You replied after a moment of thinking. For a minute, you had wanted to refrain from telling Soap the actual reason for it. Technically, it was the truth so that was going to lend a hand to your moral argument.

“Was it the same mission that…caused you to cover up?” He asked again. You thought about hitting him with the ‘that's enough’ that you had used before when he asked to see your face a while back, but you were close now. You felt he had a right to know now.

You gave a small nod, the glasses you wore over your balaclava covering your expression. You were glad he was respectful with his questions, never pushing you to answer anything you didn’t and never stepping over the line you had drawn. You didn’t want to get attached to this team as quickly as you had, but Mr MacTavish had broken down your walls quicker than you could put them up.

“C/N, Soap. We’re going to head out now, Gaz just got back with the all clear. Good to see you’re both in gear.” Ghost interrupted you two as he walked into the gear room. You were reminded that you were in fact, in the military and not some hangout session with Soap. You nodded, getting up and holding out your hand to pull the slightly shorter man up.

“Oooh, thank you M’lord.” He smiled as he took your hand, pulling himself up. You would roll your eyes if you could, so you just let out a small scoff. He chuckled as he walked with you to the deployment area, knowing they were in for a hell of a journey.

_____

“Y/N? You okay?” Soap’s voice cackled in over the radio as you made your way through the little abandoned city. The rest of the team were over in another section, leaving Soap and Gaz back at a small protected setup area. You were just so lucky to have Soap watching over you from the cameras that had been placed in all the buildings before it was abandoned. How your team had access to them, you had no clue. All you knew was that your man was here and you were to take him down.

“All good over here, Soap. Tell me if you see one of those fuckers hiding behind a corner.” You spoke back, pressing down on the radio with your gloved hand to respond to the man you were developing a small attraction to, whether you knew it or not.

“There’s a guy around the corner, knife him.” Soap informed you, shuffling from where he was laying in the safe room. You nodded, taking his advice and running round the corner, throwing and pinning the man to the wall, knifing the guy in the throat. You could practically hear the smirk in his tone when he came back.

“Nice kill. You should do that to me sometime.” He smirked, his Scottish accent only adding to his sassiness. You groaned at his painful attempt at flirting, firing back at him.

“You want me to kill you? Don’t worry, I'm already planning it.” You smiled, making your way through the destruction that was the ruined town of Norest.

“Do you have plans to kill every one of us?”

“Nope, just you.”

“I’m flattered. How’d ye do it?”

“If I tell you, I’d have to change my plan.”

“Fair play.” Soap smiled, checking the cameras to watch you move. He was so intrigued by you. He had never seen your face, never bothered to check your file. He respected you too much…along with the fact Gaz had caught him snooping around in the file area. But the respect came first.

Sometimes, he’d gaze at you and just wonder what it would be like to see what was under your gear. He wanted to see you, the real you. His sketchbooks were filled with a thousand pictures of what he imagined you looked like, each picture different from the last. Did you have bright blue eyes, ivory skin and wavy ginger hair, or did you have beautiful dark brown eyes, mahogany skin and medium length locs? Perhaps you had acne, perhaps you had a scar going across your left eyebrow. He didn’t have a clue what you looked like, but he knew you were handsome.

“MacTavish? Are you still with me?” Your voice snapped him out of his thoughts, not even realising he was kicking his feet like a schoolgirl (Gaz was utterly bewildered, but was unable to comment because he was actually doing his job and guiding his other teammates across the town in search of the man they had to find.) “Aye, I’m ‘ere.” “Good, thought I’d lost you. I need you to check around me. Pretty sure I heard our guy but I wanna make sure.” You told him, making sure to keep quiet. Your stitches were getting a bit itchy, but you could scratch them later when you were by yourself. It wouldn’t look natural for Soap to just see you scratch the middle of your face in a specific pattern and for him to not question it.

“Right, gimme a sec.”

There was a silence, what felt like an eternity of waiting before you got a response from the scott. It was like he was purposefully keeping you on your toes, wanting to see you squirm and hide for no apparent reason other than he was a chaotic man.

“Yeah, he’s there. I’ve informed Gaz and he’ll direct Ghost and Price over to you. He’s a few metres away, you could sneak up on him and take him down from behind.” Soap spoke, clearly moving as he did. He would be looking over at Gaz and getting his readings on Price and Ghost as he explained the situation to you.

You gave a nod, knowing he could see you. Peering round the corner, Soap wasn’t lying. The dark slicked back hair, tall physique and tanned skin let you know this was your guy. You slipped your hand into your 

You ran up to the taller man, placing your gun to the back of his neck and kicking his knee so that he’d fall and you’d be able to kill him nice and swift with no hassle or fuss whatsoever. Unfortunately, the man had different plans.

He quickly turned around, grabbing your gun and throwing it to the side. You were unable to press down on the back of his knees, because he had turned around and was now facing you. You reached for your knife, but were stopped when you felt his foot on your chest. It took a second to register what was happening, but by the time it did you were shoved into an already cracked wall.

You took a moment, knowing you didn’t have one. You had most likely gotten a concussion from the hit, but you couldn’t focus on that now. Just as you were about to grab your gun which had been thrown aside, the man stopped you. He grabbed onto your mask, his nails digging in past the fabric and into the stitched skin below, and shoved your head down to the floor once more. 

The screams of Soap came in through your radio, assorted word vomic that you couldn’t actually make out with everything spinning and your ears ringing. You’d hope he’d come to you and save you, but as soon as your mind stopped spinning, you realised you didn’t actually want him to save you. There was blood dripping and staining your mask. Your blood. It was an unnatural amount for something that shouldn’t have even drawn more than a drop of the red liquid, which could only mean one thing.

Your stitches ripped.

It seemed that your enemy had also been caught off by the amount of blood, giving you just a few seconds to grab the gun, aim it at his face and completely miss, hitting his shoulder instead. He grabbed it in pain and immediately resorted to grabbing out his own knife and stabbing it right into your stomach, ripping it through the skin and dragging a line down it. You cried in pain as your flesh was exposed and your stitches ripped, causing even further damage. 

Why wasn’t he killing you? Why not put you out of your misery and shove that knife right into your face. Why make you suffer? There were so many questions and not enough time to answer them. Well, there was probably enough time, but that would require knowing what the actual fuck was going on.

“Y/N!” You breathed a sigh of relief as you heard the sound of your Captain running towards you, Ghost right behind. The unmistakable noise of a gunshot colliding with someone’s head put a smile on your face, watching as the man fell to the floor.

“Y/N, You alright?” Price asked, kneeling down beside you as you pushed yourself up against the wall. Your hand was on your chest, covering up any exposed skin or blood. You nodded, trying to pass it off as if you were just shaken up. You couldn’t let them see…you.

“Y/N! You idiot!” The familiar Scottish accent put a smile on your face, watching the Scottsman run towards you was a relieving sight at first…but then you remembered what happened.

“Y/N, you alright?”

“Don’t look.” “Y/N, what’s going on?”

“You won’t like what you see, just step away. All four of you.” “I have a right to know. Are you injured?”

“No-No just go.” “Y/N, Let me see-”

You would’ve liked to protest more, but you were losing too much blood to fight him. Soap had pulled your hands back, moving your shirt so he could see the heavy amount of blood loss. He looked up at your glasses, noticing the blood on your mask. He knew what he had to do, even if he didn’t like it. 

When he removed your mask, your glasses came down with it. Gravity had decided to fuck you over more than you had already been fucked. There was a silence as the whole team looked over at you, the ripped stitching across your face…and your eyes. They were, if anything, the biggest indicator that something was different with you.

“S-Soap…” You began, but you couldn’t figure out how to finish what you were saying. You just wanted him to say something, say anything. Instead, he was just staring. You had no idea what he was thinking about, but you just knew he was horrified with you, along with the rest of the 141. 

“Oh…oh Y/N…What…what the hell happened to you?” He whispered and to your surprise, he placed a hand on your bloodied cheek. He looked concerned…but he wasn’t scared of you like you’d expected. He got closer instead of backing away, that’s what made him different from your old team.

“Soap…I’m sorry for not telling you…or anyone else about…” You trailed off, using an arm to gesture to yourself. You had no idea what he was thinking about, you could only hope it was something good about you. He was clearly about to say something when Price butted in first.

“You two, we should go. We can all have a…chat after Y/N isn’t bleeding out infront of us.” Price’s rough British accent made him seem more serious in all situations he’s in. This one especially. Soap gave a nod and turned back to you, his eyes not full of fear or hatred…just sympathy.

_______ “Do you think I’m a freak, though?” You asked as Soap walked around your hospital bed. It had been a few days ever since the incident had happened. Soap kept a close eye on you and reported back on your condition to the rest of the team. When you had woken up, the questions were slow and boring…but now you were finally opening your walls and so was he.

“No…I don’t think you are. I mean-I’ve got no idea what exactly you are, but you’re not a freak. Just…different.” He responded, careful to not say anything that might upset you. You took note of this, feeling a bit hurt that he was censoring himself, but knowing why he was doing it helped a bit.

“You don’t have to filter yourself, John. Tell me…any questions that you have.” You practically begged him. The whole reason you covered yourself up was not to be seen as different, but now that it was useless, it was useless for Soap to cover his questions up. It took a while for him to gather up the courage to ask you something, but he did.

“What…what happened to you? I’m assuming you weren’t born like this.” He questioned, trying to add a little humour to the end of the message but failing miserably. You took a breath and told him everything. The mission, what death felt like, killing the man who brought you back to life, not belonging to your team anymore because of what had happened. By the end, you were sure Soap was tearing up. He was an emotional man, you couldn’t blame him.

“I…I’m gonna be honest, Y/N…that’s really fucking depressing.” He expressed, placing a hand on his mouth. You stared at him for a moment, his eyes staring back into yours. He was fascinated by you, what you looked like. He was sure he had a sketch in his book that looked exactly like you…minus the stitching and the eyes.

“The rest of the team…what do they think?” You asked, closing your eyes and looking up. You needed to know the reactions of everyone in the team, you couldn’t live with yourself not knowing their actual opinions on who and what you were.

“Ghost and Gaz are…surprisingly alright with it. Price was a bit shocked, he was only shown a photo of you before…all that happened. But mainly..they don’t mind. When you come back to active duty…I don’t think you’d need to cover up as much anymore. You still can, if you want. Not gonna force you.” Soap told you, sitting down next to your bed. You were grateful for him in times like these, where he reminded you that you were no longer alone. He was always there for you…you loved him for that.

You loved that he was kind to you.

You loved that Soap was so understanding and patient.

You loved…

You loved Soap.

“I will say though,” his words cut you out of your sudden very gay realisation, turning to face him as he sat next to your bed. “You are way more attractive than anything I could even imagine sketching up.” (Happy Halloween!)