#survived today with 4 hours of half sleep

[martyryo]

paitn

[fading-event-608]

Listen, I know it is tiring to see suffering on your dash, but you can't give up. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a week. In less than a month it will be a one year since October 7th and you can't be silent then either.

I'm again asking you to donate to Falastin's campaign to get her family out of Gaza, once again with a drawing of an olive tree I've been doing for several weeks. It is growing but very slowly and we've got 4 donations in the last 24 hours - we are thankful for those, truly, but her family needs more. For food, for water, for medicine, for tents - half of them are sleeping on the street, - and for evacuation when the border opens.

Again, this is very urgent - so urgent that I can't find the right words to express it.

Please continue sharing fundraiser posts, ignore and block zionists, keep donating - keep in mind the conversion rates.

I also offer commissions for donations greater than 10$ and you can dm me for any questions.

Vetted by 90-ghost, number 282 on The Vetted Gaza Evacuation List, number 957 on the Butterfly Effect Project, Falastin's account,

[plussizefantasia]

Gentle Hands

Flufftober Day 4: Playing with Their Hair

Thorin Oakenshield x f!reader

Word Count: 1.9k

AN: This is a long one, you guys. I don't know what it is about Throin that just makes me not be able to stop writing. I'm not 100% happy with the ending but I needed to get it posted today. As always, please reblog if you enjoyed the story!

divider credit: @royallaesthetics

Being the queen of Erebor had its ups and downs. The long and arduous meetings were a pain, especially as you were often the only woman present. Sometimes Dis would be kind enough to join you as she knew how much you detested the stuffy dwarf lords who looked down at you, but she had other duties that required her attention and could not always be there to be a buffer.

You wouldn’t trade your crown for the world though, because the crown came with Thorin. Your One, the absolute love of your life, your other half, your soulmate. Sometimes he was the only thing that kept you going, that gave you strength to deal with the pig-headed dwarf lords from the Blue Mountains. He was your reason, and you were his. You battled with him side by side to get him where he is today. You journeyed with him to reclaim the mountain, you stayed by his side even when he was overtaken by the dragon sickness, and you sat vigil at his bedside when the rest of the kingdom feared he wouldn’t survive the wounds inflicted upon him by the white orc. 

You take care of each other. You have since the first time you met and you don’t plan on stopping anytime soon. When the two of you got married and you took the title of Queen you both quickly realized that there was very little time left in the day for both of you to spend together. The time apart hurt you both and a decision had to be made. 

Several long discussions later had led you two to the routine you had today. Your days ended about an hour before he did. In that hour you would make sure that dinner was served for the two of you in your chambers and ensure that everything was ready for the both of you when it was time to get ready for sleep.

The two of you would share dinner together, in private, and speak about your days. Yu would tell each other the good and the bad and be there for one another throughout the highs and the lows. By doing this you kept the bond between the two of you strong and made sure that each other was the best they could be. 

That night, Thorin had walked in right as the last maid had finished placing the last tray of food at your table. She bowed to her King as she left the room and shut the large wooden door behind her. You stood and walked towards your lover looping your arms around his neck and leaning into him. He did the same, placing his hands upon your waist he pulled you into him and the two of you rested your foreheads together. 

You stayed like this for a moment before pulling apart. As you pulled away you could feel the brush of Thorin’s lips on your face and the soft caress of his facial hair that followed. 

“You look ravishing tonight ghivashel.” He spoke aloud, holding out one hand to you. When you took it, he spun you gently getting a full view of the dark blue dress that adorned your body. It was not one of the fanciest dresses that you had but it hugged you in all the right places. And Thorin loved the color on you, it complemented his family colors and he thought you looked exquisite every time he saw you in it. 

“You look wonderful as well amralime” You responded, leading your love to the table which was full of food. That was something that you had to get used to when you became Queen, the amount of things at your disposal. 

You had not been royalty in the Blue Mountains where you and Throin had met for the first time. You were the daughter of Blue Mountain’s most knowledgeable and well-liked historians, also a good friend of Balin's which is what had garnered your family an invitation to the youngest prince’s naming ceremony all those years ago. Now you lived a life of luxury, one that Thorin had assured you that you deserved, but one that was difficult to get used to nonetheless. Every dinner was a feast where the table in your chambers would be stacked high with meat, bread, and cheese. There was always a cask of wine around and some sort of dessert severed in excess. You and Throin were never able to eat it all and it made you feel the tiniest bit guilty every time you saw what was sent back to the kitchens. 

On the table rested a tray full of braised lamb, some roasted potatoes, a basket full of rolls, some sort of stew in a still steaming pot, a jar of honey and a ball of some kind of herb spread, and a tray of Thorin’s favorite dessert, honey cakes. There was no way that the two of you would be able to finish all the food on the table but you sat and began to eat regardless.

“How was your day ghivashel?” Asked Thorin once you both had had a chance to eat some. 

“Tiring as always my love, but I did manage to have a breakthrough with some of the Lords that Dain has sent over to negotiate. They are certainly not happy with me, but I believe we have an understanding now.”

Thorin smiled at this, he had no doubt when he asked you to marry him that you would make a wonderful Queen and he has yet to be proven wrong. He admires you greatly, you were not bred to be royalty as he was, but you seem to have taken to it like a fish to water. 

“I knew you could do it, darling, you are the strongest woman I know.”

“Do not let Dis hear you say that she would have your beard.” The two of you laughed and you soaked in the loveliness of the evening.

You both continued to talk through your days, offering advice when needed and celebrating the other's accomplishments with joy. 

“You look tired ghivashel, shall we get ready for bed?” Thorin asked you, placing his hand on your elbow and looking into your eyes. You sighed and nodded pushing yourself up from the table and into your husband’s arms. 

He guided you towards the bath chambers and helped you ease out of your dress. There was a hint of lust in his eyes but you both knew that nothing would come out of it. Thorin wanted you anytime he saw you, it was very unlikely for there not to be a small amount of lust in his eyes whenever they were on you. You were the same way, you could easily recognize how handsome your husband was. He was broad and built, corded muscles would tightly beneath his skin. And his hair, Mahal his hair was one of your favorite things about him. The deep color complemented his complexion and the grays that kissed his temples and flowed through the rest of his locks made it shine. Silver was one of your favorite types of metals and to see it woven in amongst your husband's mane made it all the more attractive.

Thorin placed his hand in the emerald bath, to test the temperature of the water. When he was sure that it would not burn you he helped you lower yourself into the tub and submerge yourself in the waters. You have recently begun to have the maids add rose water to your baths as well, knowing how soft the extracts made your skin feel and how much you loved the smell in your hair. 

Thorin rolled up the sleeves of his white undershirt and lathered the hair soap in his hands. This was his favorite part of the night when he got to take care of you. He cherished you and would give you the world if he could. Washing your hair for you was the best way he knew to show his love. He knew you loved the way his hands carded through your hair. He could tell by the way your shoulders would fall and you would let his hands hold the weight of your head. 

As he delicately washes your hair for you, you begin to wash the rest of your body. Using scented soaps imported from Rivendell you clean your body from the dirt of the day. When Throin finishes rinsing out your hair, and you are done washing up, he leaves your side to go grab your dressing gown and help you into it. 

You place a kiss on his cheek as you pass him on the way out of the bath. He is getting ready to get into it and clean himself for the night. When you return to the larger open room of your chambers you sit at your vanity and begin to prepare yourself for sleep. You know that Throin doesn’t usually take too long in the bath, the two of you have timed this out pretty well so that he usually ends at the same time you do. 

When he finally emerges from the bath, he is dressed in his black sleep shirt and a soft pair of trousers. His raven locks are still wet, they are not dripping onto the floor as he’s already gone through them with a cloth. You know that he is as eager as you are for the last step of your nightly routine. He rounds to his side of the bed and takes a seat on top of the covers. His back is facing you and he begins to settle himself. You grab the brush and the hair oil that he loves and lift yourself up onto the bed as well. 

Thorin washes your hair for you, and you re-braid his for him. It is the way for you two to reassure each other that the love you have is strong. The dwarven tradition of braiding your One’shair is one that you and he both enjoy. 

You drip the oil onto the roots of his hair and with your fingers rake it down and through his tresses. You will admit that you do more playing with your husband’s hari than is strictly necessary but if the way Thorin is practically purring, you don’t think he minds.

Once you feel that his hair is free of tangles and sufficiently oiled you begin to take the sections into your hands that hold the braids. One of his braids is a marriage braid and it is the one you take the most time with. The others denote his status as king, his family line, and his victories in battle. After all the years of marriage, these braids are second nature to you and you’re pretty sure you could do it in your sleep if you wanted.

Your love for Thorin is felt by the way your hands move. You never pull his hair and your movements are always slow and gentle. You take care of him, more than just doing his hair, you hold his heart in your gentle hands as well.

When you finish you place a kiss on your husband's temple and hand the brush you used over to him to place back on his side of the room. He does so without complaint. You slip under the covers and get comfortable while Thorin blows out the candles in the room. When he joins you he pulls your body closer to his and the two of you just lay together. Getting comfort from the other without needing words.

[6rookie-writer0110]

I don't want to walk alone anymore

Tara Carpenter x Male Reader

Request- Tara Carpenter x male!reader where y/n was stranded on an island for 4 years when he was 12 years old. He had to survive by himself and his parents died. On the island there were mercenaries and y/n had to kill to survive. He came home when he was 16 years old, he came home with scars on his body caused when he was tortured. As well as a bow he used during the island. In the beginning, Tara always kept quiet and never spoke to y/n unless it was necessary.

•

In the third week of college their professor asked them to do a project in pairs and because they sat next to each other they were paired.

You couldn't sleep last night and you barely sleep. You sat up on your bed and sighed, then you look at the time.

“It will be a long day” You mumbled.

You have to get ready for class and you take a shower first. After a while of getting ready, you noticed that you have time to get breakfast. You head to a small cafe shop and you are standing in line, thinking about what to buy.

“You are three dollars short,” the worker said.

“Crap, I thought I had enough” She sighed.

You recognized the vote and it's Tara from your class.

“I will pay for it,” You said.

She turns around and she recognized you.

“Oh, hey Y/n. You don't have to pay for it” Tara said.

“I don't mind and you don't have to pay me back,” You said.

“Thank you,” Tara said.

You ordered your coffee and muffin, you paid for everything. You walk out of the cafe shop and you walk to class while drinking your coffee. You sit in class and start to read the chapter and wait for the professor to arrive. Ten minutes later, Tara arrived to class. She sits next to you and you don't say a word. You don't talk to anyone in class and she always sits next to you.

“Hello everyone. I'm going to pair everyone into groups and the grade will be fifty percent toward your final grade. And everyone has to write five pages on the topic. There are no expectations of working alone and the due is three weeks. Tara Carpenter and Y/n will be working together...” The professor said.

Tara looks at you and you don't say a word to her. Class is over and everyone starts to leave and you start to put your books away. Then Tara stands in front of you and you stare at her.

“We should get lunch so we can go over what to do,” Tara said.

“You pick the place,” You said.

You and Tara leave the classroom together. She takes you to a small Italian place and you paid for the food.

“So... I was thinking we write half then we get together and compare notes,” Tara said.

“We should pick the part we would write first,” You said.

“I noticed you don't talk a lot and I never saw you at parties,” Tara said.

“I don't do well at parties,” You said.

You and Tara share food, you mostly listen to her talk. You walk her back to her dorm room and you meet her friends. She noticed you didn't say much, you said bye then walked away.

“Y/n, wait,” Tara said.

“Yes?” You asked.

“Let me get your phone number so we can stay in touch,” Tara said.

“Sure,” You said.

Tara saved your phone number and you did the same. You walk away and head to your dorm room, you changed clothes and start to study. Unexpectedly you get a text from Tara...

Tara- Y/n?

You- yes?

Tara- just making sure you didn't give me a fake phone number

You- I have no reason to lie

Tara- you are something.

You- ok

She didn't text back because she was busy and you didn't text back either. You got tired of studying for long hours and you barely ate, you start to get ready for bed. But it wasn't a peaceful sleep, you have another nightmare. You jumped out of your sleep and you are breathing hard.

----

During class, you and Tara don't talk to each other. Even outside of class, you and Tara barely text each other. But today, you met Tara at the library and start to work on the project.

“Y/n, I'm having a game night at a friend’s place... Maybe you want to come?” Tara said.

“No, thank you. Look, you can write this part but change a few words,” You said.

You give her the book and show her.

“What other part you would write?” Tara asked.

“Why the Roman Empire Collapsed, but I would go into further details,” You said.

“Okay,” Tara said.

You and Tara continued to work together and help each other. You don't talk about yourself and she noticed. After a while, you walk her back to the dorm room. Her dorm room is across campus and it's nighttime.

“Y/n, you don't have to walk me to my dorm room if you don't want to,” Tara said.

“I don't mind. Plus, I heard on the news ghost face is back and I like to walk” You said.

“Thank you,” Tara said.

She is hoping that Ghostface won't hurt you. She goes into her dorm room and you walk to your dorm room.

---

Tara went to meet a friend Mindy.

“I noticed you talking to Y/n,” Mindy said.

“So?” Tara said.

“You don't know, who he is? Tara come on” Mindy said.

“What are you talking about?” Tara asked.

Mindy went on her phone and googled your family. Mindy starts to show Tara, what happened to you many years ago.

“He was on a boat with his parents, but his parents died and nobody knows how exactly they passed away. He was stranded on an Island when he was twelve but he was found until he was sixteen years old. He did interviews but he wouldn't talk about it so much” Mindy said.

“I had no idea, this happened to him,” Tara said.

“Last year, I had a class with him and he didn't speak to anyone. And he doesn't speak about his past or show off. He just goes to class and back to his dorm room. Once I asked him for a pen and gave it to me and that's it” Mindy said.

“He is my partner and we have to write five pages and other stuff. He is nice to me and he only texts me if I have questions on the project” Tara said.

“I'm not surprised. I have never seen another side of him” Mindy said.

“Me too,” Tara said.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

You are at Tara’s dorm room studying together.

“Y/n are you free tonight?” Tara asked.

“Yes,” You said.

“Maybe, you would like to come to a party with me?” Tara asked.

“I’m not much of a people person,” You said.

“I know. But maybe, change your routine for a night and you won't be alone, I will be there” Tara said.

“But, other people will be there,” You said.

“Maybe, think about it? I will send you a text later and let me if you will come” Tara smiled.

“Sure,” You said.

You go to know Tara more. You listen to her talk about her favorite movies, but you didn't know any of the movies she was talking about.

“Next time, we will watch the movies together,” Tara said.

“I guess,” You said unsure.

“I know you will like it” Tara smiled.

Later, you leave and Tara is getting ready for the party. She sent you a text and you start to think about what to write back...

Tara- do you want to come to the party with me?

You- ok...? I will go?

Tara - lol. I will take that. I will pick you up in ten minutes.

What I have done, you thought to yourself. You took a quick shower and started to get dressed. Twenty minutes later, you hear a knock at the door and she is smiling at you.

“Ready to go, Y/n?” Tara asked.

“I guess,” You said.

You leave with Tara. She can sense that you are feeling nervous about the party. You and Tara take the train and is packed, and some people have costumes on. Tara noticed Ghostface and she starts to breathe hard and she doesn't want Ghostface to hurt you.

“Tara? Are you okay?” You asked.

She takes out her inhaler and used it.

“I’m... I'm fine, Y/n” Tara said.

She looks around but doesn't see Ghostface anymore.

Once at the party, Tara introduced you to her friends and you don't say anything. You are starting to feel awkward, you walked away and went to get something to drink. You sit on the couch and watch everyone have fun and talk to each other. You don't try to make a friend and you just drink your soda.

Tara noticed you not talking to anyone. She was going to walk toward you but a friend started to speak with her. You get up and head to the door and Tara goes after you.

“Not having fun?” Tara asked.

“No. I feel out of place, but I will wait for you so I can walk you back to your dorm room” You said.

“Y/n, that's so sweet. I don't want to make you wait for me” Tara said.

“I don’t mind. Have fun and I will come later also I saw a pizza shop open” You said.

“You know what, I'm going with you then we can do something else,” Tara said.

“Are you sure? I'm not a fun person” You said.

“Stop doubting yourself and yes I'm sure,” Tara said.

You and Tara left together and walked toward the pizza shop

----

You and Tara have been working hard on the project. You went to her dorm room to study together but you and Tara started to get tired. You end up falling asleep on her bed and she fell asleep next to you. You are having a nightmare, it feels real to you and you're breathing hard. In the dream, you are being chased and you just killed someone.

Tara starts to wake up and she sees that you are having a nightmare. You are mumbling something that she couldn't understand. She starts to shake your arm to wake you up.

“Y/n, wake up. It's only a dream, wake up” Tara said.

You wake up but grabbed her neck, thinking she is the enemy. You feel her fingernails dig deep into your forearm

“Y/n!” Tara yelled.

You snapped out and you noticed what you did. You let go of her and you start to apologize.

“Tara, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you, I am so sorry” You repeated over and over.

You get out of bed, you rushed to put your books away.

“Y/n, wait,” Tara said.

You run out of her dorm room before she got a chance to say something. You are still breathing hard and you went straight to your bedroom. You grabbed the water bottle from the mini fridge, you drink it fast. Your shirt got wet and you are breathing hard.

The next day, you sent a text saying sorry. Everyone on campus is feeling scared because Ghostface killed two people. Ghost face, threaten to kill you and she didn't want that to happen. She starts to keep her distance from you.

Today in class, Tara doesn't sit next to you. For the project, she doesn't answer your texts, and you already finished your part of the project. After class, you follow her

“Tara... Tara we can talk?” You asked.

“Leave me alone!” Tara yelled.

You didn't say anything back and you watched her walk away. Tara is hoping that you don't hate her for yelling at you. You are starting to feel bad for what you did to her.

Tara did keep avoiding you. You are keeping your distance from her and you don't say anything to her when you are in class or in the hallway. But Ghostface has killed more people again and Tara is feeling scared but doesn't show it around her friends.

✯ ✯ ✯ ✯

Tara is walking back to her dorm room from Mindy’s dorm room. She noticed Ghostface walk by fast then she stopped. The lights down the hall went out and Tara is feeling scared. Tara ran towards the exit but Ghostface jumped out of the shadow and grabbed her from behind. Tara screamed then she headbutts Ghostface in the face.

Now Ghostface starts to chase Tara. Ghost Face tackled her to the ground, almost being stabbed in the face. She managed to stop the attack with all her force, she screams for help.

“Fuck you!” Tara yelled.

You left a place where you can practice archery. While walking back to your dorm room, you see Ghostface trying to kill Tara. You rapidly get your bow out and then grabbed the arrow. You hit Ghostface in the shoulder then he falls off Tara. Then Ghostface struggled to get up, you start to walk closer to them.

“Y/n,” Tara said.

The second arrow hit Ghostface in the leg and Ghostface is screaming in pain. Tara is breathing hard and she is having an asthma attack. You had to make a choice go after Ghostface or save Tara. You run towards Tara, then you search through her jacket and take out the inhaler. You put it in her mouth and pressed down then you move it away.

“Ghostface is gone,” You said and you keep looking around.

You help her stand up

“Thank you, Y/n,” Tara said.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” You said.

“No!” Tara yelled.

“I’m not going to leave you alone,” You said.

“Fine. I will stay with you” Tara said.

“Fine,” You said.

Tara follows you to your dorm room then you locked the door. You and Tara sit together on the bed.

“Why are you out late?” Tara asked.

“I was at a place where I can do archery. Why are you out late?” You said.

“I was with a friend until Ghostface attacked me. I had to keep my distance from you because I didn't want Ghostface to hurt you. I'm sorry, Y/n I didn't want to drag you into my problem” Tara said.

“I understand, what you had to do to survive. What happened that night, I had a nightmare I didn't mean to hurt you. It felt real to me” You said.

“I believe you, Y/n. We both did things we are not proud of, I killed before” Tara said.

“You had to do it to survive, Tara. Same way, when I was on the island, I had to kill so I can live for the next day. We have both been through traumatic moments but we are still here” You said.

“Yeah, but my mine won't leave me alone,” Tara said.

“Are we comparing?” You asked.

“I guess. Our lives will never be the same” Tara said.

“It won't,” You said.

She stares into your eyes, then you felt her lips on yours. You start to kiss her back and she gently put her hand on your neck and she doesn't stop kissing you back.

----

Months later... You and Tara have been dating in secret. Tara doesn't want her sister to find out. You and Tara have been opening up to each other, you told her what really happen on the island and you had to kill people. But Tara didn't judge you or made you feel about your past, and Tara told you everything about Ghostface. You still don't show a lot of emotions and you are somewhat affectionate with your girlfriend.

“Y/n, you shouldn't be ashamed of your scars,” Tara said.

You took off your shirt and you have scars all over your body.

“I feel insecure,” You said.

She put her hand on your chest.

“Babe, don't feel insecure. We both have scars that we wish would go away. But like what you said, we had to survive. I still find you attractive with the scars” Tara said.

You were about to kiss her but someone knocked on the door.

“Tara, open it's me, Sam,” Sam said.

Tara starts to panic.

“Hide!” Tara whispered.

“Where?” You asked.

You were about to go to the bathroom but she said no. But she made you hide under the bed but you forgot your shirt on the bed. Tara opened the door and Sam walked in.

“What’s up?” Tara said.

“I came to check up on you. Is this your shirt?” Sam said.

Sam grabbed the shirt off the bed.

“Yeah, it's my new shirt,” Tara said.

“Well, it's an ugly shirt. Let's go out and eat” Sam said.

“Oh okay, yeah” Tara stuttered.

Sam goes to the bathroom and Tara looks under the bed.

“Sorry, babe. But I will make it up to you, I promise” Tara whispered.

“It’s okay. I will hold that against you and my shirt isn't ugly, my girlfriend bought me that shirt” You whispered

“I have a cute boyfriend. I will text you later” Tara whispered

Sam comes out of the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked.

“I-I dropped my phone under the bed, but I got it. Let's go out to eat” Tara said.

“Yeah. But I'm not in the mood for pizza” Sam said.

They leave the room and you heard the door close. You wait a few minutes then get out of under the bed. You put your shirt on and you head back to your dorm room.

[lxvsiick]

O U R

PART 12 | SUNGHO FIRST WIN!! (written)

A/N: guys it’s been so long since i’ve been on less than 5 hours of sleep and 2 hours of sleep is making me crash out 😵‍💫 ,, bouta pull a y/n and down 4 cups of coffee ,, might have to hibernate once i finish my classes today

୧⋆｡🕯. -ʚɞ

Taesan trudged down the hall, swinging a bag of Subway in his hands. Out of nowhere, Sungho had begged him to bring lunch, practically promising his firstborn in exchange for a burger and fries. He sighed, wondering why he always gave in so easily. At least he’d get to sit down after this, or so he hoped.

Pushing open the door to the art room, the smell of paint and ink immediately hit his nose. The room was well-lit, with tables scattered around, various projects in different stages of completion. His eyes quickly found Sungho, who was lounging at a nearby table with someone else.

Then he saw her.

The girl who had dropped a massive book on his head at the library. His heart skipped a beat as he hesitated in the doorway, the bag of food feeling heavier in his hands.

Sungho spotted him first, grinning wide. “Oh, you’re here! Thanks, man. Just set the food down for a sec.” He nodded toward the table in front of him, where she was seated, working on a sketch.

Trying to keep his cool, Taesan awkwardly stepped forward and placed the bag of food down. He couldn’t help but glance at her, who looked up and smiled politely. He wasn’t ready for that—his stomach did an unexpected flip.

“By the way,” Sungho said, gesturing between them, “you two should meet.” He gave a lazy shrug, leaving the introductions vague. “I’ll let you ask each other’s names. I’ll be in the office eating.” A teasing grin on his lips, he grabbed his bag of food and slipped out, leaving them alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Taesan stood there, suddenly feeling very out of place in a room full of unfinished art and half-sketched projects. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at her, trying to muster something to say.

“Uh… h-hey,” he managed, giving her a small, nervous smile. “I guess we haven’t officially met.”

She smiled back, just as awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess not. I’m Kim Y/n.”

“Oh, uh, I’m Han Taesan or Han Dongmin. B-but you can just call me Taesan.” he stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. “But you can call me yours” is what you really wanted to say, right? SHUT UP BRAIN! Why did his name suddenly feel weird in his mouth? He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the art project in front of her, desperate for something to focus on that wasn’t her face. If he focused on her face, he wasn't so sure he would remember anything else.

The silence that followed was heavy and awkward, stretching longer than it should have. Taesan shifted on his feet, his heart pounding, when she suddenly broke the silence.

“Hey, um…” she started, gesturing to a large book sitting on the table next to her. “I wanted to apologize again for, uh, dropping that massive art book on your head the other day.” Her tone was sincere, but there was a hint of a nervous smile tugging at her lips.

“Oh, that…” Taesan gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, that’s okay. No permanent damage or anything.” He was trying to joke, but it came out stiffer than he intended. He mentally kicked himself for being so awkward.

She laughed softly, the tension breaking just a little. “Well, that’s good. I was afraid I might’ve knocked you out or something. That book weighs a ton.”

“Yeah, it did feel like getting hit by a brick,” he said, finally relaxing a bit. “But, you know, I’ve survived worse.”

They shared a brief smile, the awkwardness still lingering but not as intense now. He wasn’t sure if he should keep the conversation going or let it fizzle out, but Y/n seemed a little more at ease, which helped him breathe a bit easier.

“So uh… art major?” Taesan asked, gesturing to the work she was doing.

She nodded. “Yeah. What major are you?”

“I’m a music composition major.” Taesan answers, nervously fidgeting with his rings.

“Oh, that’s cool.” The beating of his heart was making Taesan dizzy. He still couldn’t believe Sungho knew her this whole time. Park Sungho, you bastard.

“S-so are you a junior like Sungho hyung?” Taesan rambled out. Placing her pencil down, Y/n shakes her head.

“No, I’m a sophomore.” Taesan widens his eyes. She was in the same year as him? 

“O-oh we’re the same year then.” Taesan says. “Wow, you’re a sophomore and you’re on the same level as Sungho hyung.” Y/n lets out a small, embarrassed laugh.

Just as the conversation was starting to feel a little less awkward, the door to the office swung open, and Sungho reemerged, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Alright, I’m good to go. You ready?”

Taesan turned to face him, caught off guard by how fast the time had passed. “Yeah, sure,” he replied, giving Y/n a quick glance.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/n,” Sungho said as he started to head toward the door. As he passed Taesan, he gave him a teasing smirk to which Taesan squinted at.

Taesan gave her a small wave. “Yeah, see you around,” he mumbled.

“Bye,” she said, smiling at them both as they made their way out.

As they left the art room, Taesan couldn’t help but feel the strange mixture of relief and regret. He’d survived the awkward encounter, but somehow, he wished it hadn’t ended so soon. Turning to Sungho, Taesan gives him a light punch on the arm.

“You knew her this whole time, hyung?” Taesan says, his eyes squinted at the older boy. Sungho shrugs with an innocent face.

“You never asked.”

୧⋆｡🕯. -ʚɞ

PART 11 | PART 13

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST [OPEN]: comment a 🐝 to be added

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© ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, lxvsiick, 2024

[raineandsky]

The Villain's Housekeeper

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (part 8) (part 9) (part 10) (part 11)

tw death mention

The courtesy the villain has decided to show the hero has been incredibly weird. A relief, of course, but weird.

They avoid the hero most days now. The time they used to spend watching the hero break their back for them is now spent as far away from the hero as humanly possible. The hero kind of understands, though—since their damning little slip up in the bedroom last week, the villain’s demanded they stop doing the chores until their arm is better. There isn’t much to watch anymore.

And when the villain disappears out the front door for the night, it’s always with the same instruction now: “get a decent night’s sleep, don’t lie on your arm, and for the love of god don’t make it worse.”

No chores to be done in their absence. No rules. Just… rest. Get better. It’s a breath of fresh air.

Anyway, the lack of random work to do gives them more time to snoop. Okay, so it’s not no rules, but one very easily breakable rule. A rule they couldn’t care less about breaking—snapping clean in half, if they can. The agency taught them how to pry and leave no trace. This is the easiest, most rewarding part of their stay here. It's more of a routine than anything now, trekking through their notes.

The villain’s office is a mess, to put it lightly. It makes it just that little bit harder to restore when they’re done, but it doesn’t matter too much—they get information. A list of missing villains, heroes on hit lists, plans. Plans to infiltrate and extort and seduce and kill. God, everything the agency’s ever wanted is in here. The hero commits it all to memory, and by the time the villain gets home they’re already asleep on the sofa downstairs.

The villain always comes back in the early hours of the morning, and today is no different. The only difference is that the front door batters against the opposite wall and the villain staggers rather loudly into the kitchen.

The hero is up in an instant, sleep torn from them abruptly. They trail after the villain, glancing instinctively to the floor for blood, but the tile is clean. The villain sinks into a kitchen chair like it’s the last thing they’re ever going to do.

“[Villain]...?” the hero says into the silence. The villain barely responds, their gaze burning into the table as they lean their face against their palms, their elbows propped up on the table.

“We’re dying,” the villain says flatly. “We’re dropping like flies, and [Supervillain] is still trying to send us all to our deaths to save herself.”

It’s not hard to feign surprise; this wasn’t mentioned in any of the paperwork the hero’s seen. They pull a chair out and settle opposite them. “What do you mean?”

“What do I—” The villain’s tone is scathing for a moment, but they bite back the end of their sentence with a sigh. “Heroes are killing us. I’ve found more than one person face-down in some back alley. People I know—allies. Friends.”

The hero’s throat closes up for a long, long moment. “I– I’m sorry,” they say testily, but they come out as more of a choke. The villain doesn’t seem to hear them anyway.

“Every so often [Supervillain] sends a new batch of villains into the thick of it, to try and take down some of the heroes wiping us out. Those who do survive are few and far between, usually screwed up beyond repair. And [Supervillain]— she’s—”

The villain sucks in a shuddery breath. The hero waits patiently.

“[Supervillain]’s chosen her next round of sacrifices,” the villain says with a breath of a humourless laugh, and a knot twists in the hero’s stomach. The villain fixes them with an empty stare, and the hero shoves down the urge to glance away. “I’m one of them. I’m— I’m being sent to die.”

Perfect, some part of the hero’s mind murmurs. A safe haven, all to yourself.

But despite everything, the villain’s been kind to them. Even though they humiliated them and forced their hand, the hero’s not in the claws of the superhero yet because of them. And they’re going to die. The villain’s going to leave one day, and they won’t come back. The hero’s brain almost can’t wrap around it.

“She— I’ll be setting off… for good next Thursday.” The villain’s face morphs into hopelessness.

It’s Tuesday now. Nine days.

The villain clears their throat, though it doesn’t seem to dislodge the anxious rasp residing there. “I, uh— I’m sorry,” they say unexpectedly. “For being a villain, for making you dance for my entertainment to stay alive, for— god, for everything. I’m sorry, [Hero].”

The hero can only blink at them for a moment. Sorry? “That’s, uh… it’s okay,” the hero says dumbly after a moment.

“No, it’s not. The least I can do is fix what I can before I… y’know.” The villain’s eyes lock onto the hero’s so intensely that they can’t find it in themself to look away this time. “I’m so sorry.”

You saved my life. You let me stay here. You let me hide from your enemy. You let me hide from mine. You ignored the benefits of turning me out for what? Companionship? Necessity? Something else entirely?

The hero can’t say that to their nemesis. The villain already sounds insane saying all this. They don’t need to feed into the absurdity of the evening. So they simply force a smile, of sorts, onto their face, and say, “I forgive you.”

(next part)

[aching-tummies]

True Stomach Ache

Members of my household (myself included) have been pretty busy lately. Due to that, we've been surviving on leftovers. We tend to batch-cook maybe two or three times a week or order a massive amount of take-out the one night in order to have it in the fridge to re-heat when it's time for a meal. Honestly, not my favorite strategy. Leftovers are already kind of lackluster…but 4-6 day old 'what was once curry' should be considered lethal. Personally, my rule of thumb is 3 days--if it's been in the fridge for 3 days then I don't want to eat it anymore. Unfortunately, that's the kind of thing that's been going into my poor tum for the last three days or so. I haven't had the time to cook and fast-food and stuff in my area is becoming increasingly overpriced and decreasing in quality. I don't want to spend the equivalent of 1.5 hours of pay on something that tastes like the cardboard and plastic it was shipped to the store in so I've opted not to eat out. With eating out not an option, I've been subjecting myself to the mystery leftovers in our fridge alongside other members of my household. They get mad at me when I don't help liquidate the leftovers anyway and I didn't want to be stressed and yelled at so I drank the proverbial Kool-aid (in this case, curry). My stomach really isn't happy about it. I guess last night and this morning, my tummy decided to get even.

Last night we had yet another dinner of 4 day old curry. Thank heavens for the fact that we have enough washrooms in the house for everyone because everyone suffered for the curry last night. Due to the curry's repeated exits, I ended up going to bed ravenous--'dinner' having been rejected by my stomach. I was too tired to bother trying to find something to fill my stomach so I opted to go to sleep hungry--thinking that at the very least I could treat myself to some hunger-kink in the morning.

Hopes of indulging in hunger-kink were dashed when I woke up due to a nasty twinge in my lower belly. It felt like a cross between period cramps and the urge to use the washroom. My intestines were empty though, thanks to the curry liquidating my guts a half dozen times last night. So…my stomach and intestines were empty, but they were all cramping up like they needed to go. I ended up writhing on my bed for a few hours, trying anything to quell the ache in my intestines. I tried rubbing it for a bit, which didn't help. I tried laying a weighted sack over it in hopes it'd squash the ache. The 'sack' is really just one of those microwavable heating packs filled with either grains or plastic beads or whatever. Even without heating it up, sometimes just the weight of it is pretty comforting when I've got stomach issues.

It's been a long time since I've truly felt like I experienced a true 'stomach ache'--like…this wasn't what I'd normally describe as indigestion or period cramps or being overfull or hungry--there was seemingly no cause and no explanation for my stomach to ache like it was this morning. I had initially planned to try sugarless bears take 2 today…but my guts were already being put through the wringer so I decided to save them for another time.

As always, if you want to treat this like an RP-starter, feel free. Honestly, with how often my stomach's been acting up I've been really thirsty for tum-content lately. I'm definitely not gonna doxx myself of whatever but at times I wish I could just meet up with someone into this stuff and let my stomach be their problem (or I guess, toy?) for a few hours.

[enigmaticexplorer]

I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XXVII

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers. 

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 5.8K

4 Kelona

The gray of nautical twilight greeted Kazi as it did most mornings: ordinary, habitual. 

For years, the familiarity of the morning darkness had provided her comfort. Reminiscent of tumbling waves and a crisp breeze. It was her routine, after all.

Today, the darkness of nautical twilight emphasized the emptiness of her bedroom. The emptiness of her bed.

Ever since the move to Eluca, Kazi had always slept on this side of her bed. The side closest to the window, farthest from the door. It was her spot. Her routine. She awoke each morning with the need to make only one side of the bed; she went to sleep each night tucked beneath the sheets and quilt of one side. Simple, effective.

Before, she’d never realized the loneliness of nautical twilight. 

And yet, this morning, the opposite side of the bed—the side farthest from the window, closest to the door—was abandoned. Bare of warm skin, and sleepy smiles, and a hoarse voice. 

A knife, rusted with contempt, dug beneath her skin, into her very being, and sawed away. Left her hollow. Tired. Hurting.

All she could do was massage her chest. A futile attempt to feel something. 

This was why she had spent so many years convincing herself that life was better alone. 

Because a life alone meant less pain, less hurt, less disappointment. 

It didn’t matter she yearned for something more; it didn’t matter she yearned for a love she didn’t deserve.

Yearning could be destroyed. Tied to an anchor, thrown overboard, and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. Long ago, she had learned that important lesson. She had cut the yearning from her chest, and even though it left jagged, unhealable scars, she’d hardly cared. All that mattered was she no longer felt. And if she couldn’t feel, she couldn’t yearn. And if she couldn’t yearn, she couldn’t be hurt. 

So went her life. 

Until Wolffe.

You’re expecting me to hurt you. You don’t trust me. And I can’t spend the next year second-guessing whether you want to be with me, too. I can’t do it…knowing there’s a possibility you’ll run from me.

So many contradictions existed within her—fought for her attention. 

A desire for closeness, intimacy, true vulnerability; a desire to be known. 

A fear of those very things; a fear of the eventual abandonment once someone came to know her. 

You are broken.

You hurt him.

You always hurt them.

The thoughts grew louder, clanging against her skull. A repetitive gong, harsh and unending. 

Kazi screwed her eyes shut and ground her palms against her ears. Forced herself to breathe slowly. But her bed was cold, and the darkness was lonely, and the blue flowers she recently bought for Wolffe were dying, and she thought she might cry.

A quick shower, loose clothes, a desire to run, and Kazi found herself in the aircar.

The dirt paths of Eluca’s jungles wound and curved like a river; a bronze glow embraced the horizon. 

A half hour passed in aimless driving until she stalled near a familiar farmhouse, its gray stone exterior cozy. Beyond the house, dozens of neat rows of low-squatting trees awakened the land. 

Morning birds whistled whimsical tunes as Kazi stepped from the aircar. An abundance of flora—colorful flowers, overhanging fruit trees, cushiony moss underfoot—embraced the landscape. 

Tilting her head back, she sucked in an unsteady breath. The fresh scent of rain-showered vegetation greeted her, and while it was incomparable to the salty breeze of a morning walk along the ocean’s shore, it quieted something within her. 

With another scan of the rows of trees, Kazi turned her attention to the farmhouse. On the porch, tugging on a pair of black gloves, stood Fehr. Elaborate braids crowned her head. Exhaustion wrinkled her eyes. 

A morning song filled the air while the two women regarded one another. Fehr eyed her warily, and Kazi winced. She’d seen her appearance in the mirror: drawn features, unbraided hair, hollowed eyes. An uncomposed appearance. Her mother would have been appalled. 

With a glance down the gravel path leading away from the farmhouse, Fehr turned on her heel and disappeared inside. A few seconds later she reappeared. She tossed Kazi a pair of gloves. Dirt stained the loose material.

“I hope those trousers can get dirty,” Fehr said, starting toward the closest line of trees. “You can stay for two hours. I don’t want them to ask questions.”

Kazi wrung the gloves between her hands, hesitating for a few seconds. She should be at the house—swimming, then making breakfast, then preparing for work. Her routine existed for a reason.

However, the reminder of an empty bedroom—the thought of an empty kitchen—convinced her to follow Fehr. 

They stopped beside the first tree, its pseudostem cylindrical. Broad, fuzzy leaves—asymmetrically positioned from the base to the top—expanded from the thick trunk. A clump of blue peelroots grew near the pseudostem, just beneath the protective shade of a pale green leaf.

Native to Eluca, a bunch of peelroots provided enough nutrients to sustain an adult human’s life for several days. Due to their versatility and generally quick growth cycle, peelroots were common in times of war and economic upheaval. An easy way to stave off hunger. They were also a staple in the Elucan diet. Hence why the farm was both a cherished family business and a necessity to Elucan society.

Kneeling beside the tree, Fehr motioned for Kazi to join her. The wet soil soddened her knees but she ignored it, eyeing the trowel Fehr handed her. 

“We’re planting seeds,” Fehr said.

“Why?” Kazi studied the cloudless, sky blue peelroots. “They all look healthy.”

“The trees may seem healthy”—Fehr started to dig a hole at the base of the tree—“but they’re dying.” 

Nonplussed, she clutched her trowel and mimicked Fehr’s technique: shallow, quick scoops.

“The problem with peelroots is their complacency with their environment,” Fehr said. Her movements were graceful, swift and dexterous, a skill to be envied. “Their roots grow accustomed to the soil. They become frail, unable to provide the necessary nutrients to allow the trees to thrive. After five years, they die.”

Kazi breathed a disbelieving chuckle. “That’s inefficient.”

Fehr cast a knowing look in her direction. “For a new grove to grow, it requires the nutrients of older trees.”

Digging at least fifteen centimeters deep, Fehr patted the freshly churned soil into a flattened bed, leaving a hole no more than ten centimeters wide. 

“These seeds will grow in the next year and they’ll replace the older trees”—Fehr leaned back on her haunches and retrieved a packet from her pocket—“keeping my farm sustainable.”

Together, they scattered a handful of seeds into the hole, covered them with soil, and moved to the next tree. The process was slow and laborious. A monotonous technique, similar to knitting, that kept her from her thoughts.

Soon, the heat of the morning burned Kazi, sweat dripping down her spine. The soil, though watered, was difficult to churn; it required muscles she wasn’t prepared to use. Her back ached, and her fingers protested their grip. 

At the twelfth tree, the seeds cast into their hole, Fehr offered her a bottle. While Kazi sipped the cool water, wiping sweat from the nape of her neck, Fehr considered her with a probing gaze. 

“Complacency isn’t just a problem my trees endure.”

Kazi returned the bottle to its owner and knelt to the ground. Indifferently, she said, “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Her warning scowl went ignored as Fehr lowered herself to the ground, too. “Solitude can be complacency.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “You must know this from personal experience.” 

The snarky comment was rude and malicious, and Kazi regretted the words when Fehr flinched. But she hadn’t come here to discuss her shortcomings and personal issues. She’d come here to escape them.

Fehr dropped her attention to the ground. Collecting a handful of soil, she scattered it across the hole, clumps of dirt like snow powdering the seeds.

“Love is a risk. It’s why so few find it,” Fehr said quietly. “You must take the risk and fall.” 

“Love isn’t the end all be all,” Kazi argued. Rays of sunlight shattered through the neighboring trees and she shielded her face from the exposure. “A life without romantic love isn’t meaningless or pointless.” 

“No, it’s not. Just as a life with romantic love isn’t meaningless.” Fehr tossed another handful of soil across the hole, watching her. Her steely gray eyes were sharp, observant. “But you seem damn lonely, Kazi.”

“I have people I care for, people I love,” she said defensively. Her voice was shriller than intended and she cleared her throat. “Regardless, loneliness and solitude aren’t the same thing.” 

“No?” 

“No. Loneliness is a desire for companionship. It’s the realization that you’re alone and you don’t want to be alone. It’s pain…it’s envy. But solitude…” Kazi shifted her gaze to the rising sun, massaging her chest. “Solitude is peaceful. It’s quiet. It can’t…hurt you.” 

With an aggrieved breath, Fehr pushed herself to her feet. “Solitude won’t comfort you when you’re alone at night.” The older woman made her way to the next tree.

Still kneeling in the dirt, Kazi dropped her gaze to the dark brown earth. To the hands clenching atop her thighs. She wanted to curl inwards: to hide herself from the sun, and Fehr’s words, and the disappointment in Wolffe’s eyes. 

She wanted to apologize to Wolffe, and she wanted to be with him.

She wanted Daria to be healthy, and she wanted to go home. 

Most of all, she wanted to see her younger self. To know what had happened to that little girl who was so full of life and adventure. To find the little girl who stopped trusting others, who stopped seeing worth in herself, who couldn’t fathom the thought of another person wanting to be with—

A tear caressed her cheek, lonesome. It arced downwards, splashing her knee. A hasty swipe—rough, heartless—smeared dirt across her skin. The glove’s worn material abraded her cheek. 

She didn’t deserve to cry.

So Kazi staggered to her feet and she continued onward to the next tree. And the next. And she would have kept going—lost herself in her aching muscles, the sun beating upon her, the fresh scent of plants awaking—if Fehr hadn’t interrupted with one, simple statement:

“The Empire has taken control of my farm.”

Kazi stiffened. Her mouth parted in shock. “Seriously?”

“The farm is still in my name”—Fehr surveyed her land—“but it’s under Imperial control. One wrong move and I’ll lose it all.”

Suddenly, the exhaustion clinging to Fehr made sense. It wasn’t just the loss of her income; it was more: Fehr would lose her family’s history. She would lose the proof that her family had claimed and nurtured this land for centuries. Proof that her family had endured, survived, lived. She would lose her connection to the generations before, and generations to come.

“The network?” Kazi asked carefully. 

With a tired sigh, Fehr shook her head and retrieved the bottle, turning away. Consolation meant nothing, so Kazi remained silent. She scanned the rows of pale green trees—the centuries of love dedicated to a farm that kept the Elucan people fed. 

“Things are changing for Eluca.”

Fehr offered her the bottle but she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. Instead, she leaned against the nearest tree. The soft bark cushioned her shoulder. 

“All of the mines are under Imperial control. Most farms,” Fehr muttered, the bottle hanging limply at her side. “There is talk of a new academy being built in the capital. The first of its type in Veridian Sector.”

“A military academy?” Kazi surmised.

“Yes.” 

“It makes sense.” A leaf tickled her ear and she shoved it aside, looking toward the jungled horizon, toward Canopis. “Veridian Sector continues to grow with the influx of military bases. Why not build an academy that can feed directly into those bases?” Her eyes rolled. “The Empire can’t be omnipotent if it’s not omnipresent.”

A sardonic scoff sounded from Fehr—acknowledgement of the truth. Resentment of it. Tossing the bottle to the ground, she faced Kazi, planting her hands on her hips.

“Why are you here?” Skepticism narrowed Fehr’s eyes. “Why didn’t you return to Ceaia?”

Kazi shrugged. “It’s not worth it.”

“You don’t belong here.” 

The words were soft-spoken, hushed, and yet she reared back at their criticism. Criticism of her decision-making. Criticism of…her complacency. Pushing away from the tree, she crossed her arms over her chest. Wariness withheld her response. 

“You don’t belong on a jungle planet,” Fehr said. “You should be home. With your daughter and sister. Making what you can of life.”

“Yeah?” Kazi smiled coldly, dismissively. “I could do that. I could return home.” She cocked her head to the side. “Do you know why I could do that?”

Silence met her question, and she barked a mirthless laugh, staring Fehr in the eye.

“Because I’m alive. Unlike all of those people who were killed.” Her smile grew thinner, accusatory. “I’m alive because I ran.”

Fehr weathered her mockery with blasé self-assuredness. “You ran to save your sister.”

“I would’ve run if Daria hadn’t been there.” Another laugh. Except this time it was weak, choked. Her hands started to tremble. “I would’ve run because I don’t care about others. I’m not brave or courageous. I would’ve run. Just like I’ve done my entire fucking life.”

Fehr observed her with a patience undeserving. A patience that made her blood churn hotter, faster. A patience that made her want to smear the understanding from the older woman’s expression.

“I ran from home the first moment I could. I left my sister,” Kazi spat. “I abandoned my mother and sister for years. And when the Purge happened, I ran from Ceaia to save myself. I’ve been running away from things ever since my father died.” 

Because Kazi was ten years old the first time she ran away. 

She was supposed to be a brave, kind little girl who saw the vastness of the ocean as a challenge to be journeyed. Who saw the world as a new adventure to be uncovered.

But then her father was in a fishing accident: a raging wave tossed the boat; heavy machinery was improperly secured; it fell from its restraints and crushed him.

Somehow he survived: the breaking of his ribcage, the shredding of his leg, the cracks in his spine. He survived long enough to be rushed to the med center.

By the time a surgical droid attempted to recover his heart, it was too late. He couldn’t be operated on. He was going to die. 

The healer on site allowed Kazi, Daria, and their mother to say their farewells.

The medical room was small. Clinical, devoid of life. Its white walls were barren, caging Kazi in a room with her father who was struggling to breathe. His words were wet gurgles; droplets of blood flecked his sallow skin. His pants were harsh (they haunted her dreams for years). A thin blanket tried to hide his mangled body. It did nothing to hide the blood pooling. 

“My little Kazi,” he rasped, reaching for her. 

That little girl could only stare at her father in horror. Terror. 

She didn’t want to lose her papa. She didn’t want to see him suffer. 

Her papa was dying, and she was scared.

“He wanted to hold my hand,” Kazi said apathetically. “He kept saying my name. But I wouldn’t go to him. And then…I ran away. Because I thought”—she clenched her jaw—“I thought that if I ran, then he wouldn’t die. I thought it was impossible. How could a father die without saying goodbye to his daughter? But he did die. And I wasn’t there to say goodbye. And his last memory was of me running away from him.”

It was important for Fehr to know the truth: to know how emotionless, how heartless she was. 

She had run away from her father, and he’d died without her love.

She had run away from Daria, and her sister had spent years believing she was nothing more than a burden.

She was still running; because it was easier to push Wolffe away than it was to accept his attention.

His adoration.

His companionship. 

For his companionship was a mellifluous song in her mind, a steadiness to her heartbeat, a tender balm to her soul. It was good and gentle and patient, and she didn’t understand why she was the recipient of it. Why he had chosen her.

Fehr removed her gloves. She pinned Kazi with a grim look. “Keep running,” she said, “and eventually you’ll forget there’s a life out there to experience.”*

Other than the succulents foresting the bookcase and a few potted plants swaying from the bar, the kitchen was bereft of life when Kazi returned to the house. Unsurprising. 

Tiredly, she started on breakfast: eggs scrambling, bread toasting, porridge cooking. She reached into the fridge but froze.

Inside, lumina berries, sliced and chopped, awaited her.

6 Kelona

A buzz filled the auditorium at Hollow’s Schooling One.

Seated in the last row and secluded by shadows, Kazi tapped her foot against the floor: a combination of awkwardness and apprehension. The former was due to her seat between Wolffe and Fox; the latter was reserved for the men’s arrogance. With the increasing Imperial presence on Eluca, attending a youngling’s play was asinine—

A hand palmed her thigh and she flinched. The muscles in her leg tensed; her throat bobbed. 

For the last three days Kazi and Wolffe rarely interacted. 

During breakfast, Wolffe opted to work in his garden; throughout the evenings, Kazi kept busy with Neyti and Daria. Conversations were minimal, typically reserved for family dinner. Even then, they expertly deflected. 

Wolffe’s distance was palpable: a canyon gaped wide in a perennial yawn. It should have been a relief. For most of her life Kazi convinced herself that distance—avoidance—was good. A protection against vulnerability. A necessary partner to solitude. 

However, Wolffe’s distance was her anathema: soft kisses and teasing smiles replaced by terse exchanges, awkward stares; sunrises lacking enthusiasm, depth; bedsheets tidied and cold rather than rumpled, well-used. It irked how much she felt his absence.

Kazi let her eyes wander from the black stage curtain to Wolffe. He was already watching her. A finger twitched on her thigh. Exasperation arched his brow.

“This is risky,” she whispered.

A sigh cleaved the air and she shot Fox a scowl. He rolled his eyes—the only part of his face she could see. All four men wore disguises: hooded ponchos to cover their hair and blasters; cowls that hid the lower half of their faces. 

“We’ve been over this,” Wolffe said. The fingers on her thigh squeezed. Gentle, light. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if it was intentional—a desire to touch her, feel her. Or accidental—a reflex from months of exploring and memorizing one another’s bodies. “We’re prepared—”

“You’re hiding your faces.” Kazi scanned the auditorium. “It’s—”

“A cultural preference,” Fox interjected.

“—suspicious,” she hissed.

“No one will approach us here,” Wolffe said. At the self-assured calmness of his tone, she gritted her teeth. “They’re too worried watching their own backs.”

Kazi pressed her mouth together. “What if they follow us back?”

“We’re soldiers. No one here is trained enough to be a threat.” His thumb arced beneath the hem of her dress; his eyes flitted to her thigh, quick, furtive, and then returned to hers. “We’re prepared.”

“And if it’s stormtroopers who investigate?”

Fox nudged her with his knee. “You said they won’t arrive for another two days.” 

The news arrived that morning at work. Stormtroopers were to be stationed at seven of Eluca’s local towns. A demonstration of the positive relations between Eluca and the Empire, as well as improved security for Elucan citizens. 

The truth: The Empire considered Eluca a strategic location for Imperial activities in the Outer Rim. Both its doonium mines and the construction of a military academy and military base made it necessary to Imperial whims. So, the rebellious activities in the local towns needed to be exterminated before high-ranking Imperial officers started their investigation into Eluca’s future.

Fox lounged back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’ll be fine.”

His carefree attitude miffed her the most. Out of the four men, Fox was the most paranoid. He emphasized security in favor of sentimentalism; he preferred his brothers’ safety over the emotions of others. And he should have argued against the men’s attendance. Instead, he agreed to appear. Without a fight or precaution. 

To Kazi, it felt like a betrayal. 

“Neyti asked us to be here,” Wolffe said. He reached for her hand but froze, hesitated. Carefully, he settled his forearm on the armrest; he drummed two fingers against it. “We couldn’t say no.”

“You could have,” she argued. Her gaze dropped to his hand, frenetic, surreptitious, and then returned to his. Her thigh suddenly felt cold, bereft. “You should have. This is risky—”

“Some risks are worth it.”

“I don’t just mean tonight,” she said sharply. Wolffe and Fox scrutinized her with wary confusion. “Eluca is getting too much Imperial attention. It’s too risky for you to stay here.”

Wolffe narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“You weren’t going to stay here forever.” The shaking of her leg undermined her casual tone. “It’s time that you considered other options.”

“Other options?” Wolffe repeated dubiously.

“Yes.” Her shrug was noncommittal. “Another planet—” 

“That’s your decision, huh?” he snarled softly. Accusation simmered in his eyes; it burned her skin, more volatile, more intense than an erupting sun. He scoffed a sardonic chuckle. “You want us to leave?”

“I want you safe,” Kazi snapped. A tremble hissed through her words, and she inhaled shallowly. “It’s not safe here anymore. It hasn’t been for months. We were stupid, Wolffe. Ignoring the Empire’s arrival. Their increased power. And for what?” 

“For what?” His expression was stony. A dim light emphasized the glint in his eyes: fury, hurt, disappointment. “You know why, Ennari.”

Kazi pressed her hands beneath her thighs. To hide their trembling. Once again, she surveyed the auditorium, malaise a spider crawling across her shoulders. 

Maybe it was the knowledge that stormtroopers would be stationed in Hollow’s Town in two days.

Maybe it was the pressure of the magistrate’s project. It was considered high priority. So much so that the magistrate had provided her high-security clearance to access the cams and Imperial reports from the clone assassin facility. For long hours the last few weeks, she’d meticulously analyzed the available intel. To ensure that any information relating to the men was properly scrubbed, manipulated, or deleted. 

Maybe it was the fitful sleep the last few nights. The nightmares she awoke from in a sweat, her heart racing, her leg muscles pulled taut. However, in these nightmares, she didn’t relive the moment Neyti’s mother was shot. 

It was Wolffe. Every fucking time. 

“It’s getting too dangerous for you,” Kazi said weakly. Former fury ebbed from Wolffe, and she searched his gaze. A silent plea for him to understand her intent. To remember that his life meant something to her. Even when they weren’t…together. “I just…I want you to be safe.” 

Wolffe regarded her, his jaw clenched tightly, and then his posture slackened. His murmured “I know” was rough, pensive.

The lights lowered and the auditorium fell silent. The curtains lifted. 

A bright spotlight wobbled. It limned a line of younglings. Younglings outfitted in stormtrooper costumes.

An unwelcome thought hit Kazi: an understanding of why Neyti had kept her role secret. 

Hastily reaching for the program, she flipped through the pages, stumbling to a stop on the listed roles.

The blood drained from her face. From the corner of her eye, Wolffe stiffened.

Neyti’s listed role: Lead Rebel. 

Lanterns lit the silver-flecked night, blackened clouds sweeping across the sky in water-painted brushstrokes. Though Kelona marked the incipience of Eluca’s six-month summer season, the temperature was comfortable. Enough so Kazi, Daria, and Nova sought the tranquil climate to quilt.

A handful of lightning bugs lazed among the back porch. One landed atop her hand and Kazi paused in her stitching. A gentle wave convinced the bug to wander, its lackadaisical curiosity satiated. The interruption granted her an opportunity to assess the quilt. 

It told a story, nebulous in its intent: pale yellow fabrics a contradiction to gray and black panels; they spread across the quilt—left to right—an ombré of darkness permeating the cheery color. Children, smiling, naïve, dominated the left side of the spread. They grew into adults, serious, hardened. And then…

Well, the quilt was unfinished, so the story’s conclusion evaded Kazi. However, the ever-darkening panels suggested tragedy.

Taking advantage of her unintended break, Kazi stretched her wrist, snuck a glance at the cracked open window, and then checked her comm. Her message to Fehr remained unanswered. Frustrated, she chewed the inside of her cheek. The skin protested, sore and swollen, abused by her former worry. Worry instigated by Neyti’s school play.

For the entirety of the return drive from the school, Kazi fumed to herself. She was aware of the others—conversing, chuckling—but their voices were distorted. Distant. Her grip on the steering wheel was hard. Hard enough her knuckles burned white. Her spine was so stiff she felt its lasting ache hours later.

The play was a warning. Neyti slated as the lead rebel was a fucking warning from Teacher Jaci: she hadn’t forgotten the youngling’s outburst in class. But the repercussions went beyond school politics. Teacher Jaci held sway within the school district, and her cunning connivance could cause problems for Kazi. Namely unwanted Imperial attention. A potential threat to her family. 

As soon as they reached the house, she’d decided to comm Fehr. To learn whatever the rebel network had on Teacher Jaci. To prepare necessary information. Instead, her plans were interrupted by Neyti. The little girl—her mouth pinched in a frown—tugged her aside. A nod toward the other adults offered them privacy on the front porch.

Neyti was blunt: “Steiner’s missing.” 

The youngling’s directness earned a prolonged blink from Kazi. “What?” 

“Steiner’s missing,” Neyti repeated, wringing the dragon pendant of her necklace. “She missed school yesterday. And today. She said she’d be here.” She paused; her lower lip pouted. “She was a rebel. Like me.”

Kazi took in her mounting concern—fidgeting, a deepening frown—and then looked toward the dirt path winding away from the house. Had someone uncovered Heracli and her husband? Had something happened within the network?

“Steiner must be sick,” she said slowly, carefully. A logical explanation for the youngling’s sudden absence. With a small smile, she placed a hand on Neyti’s shoulder. “She’ll probably be at school tomorrow, and you can tell her all about the play then.”

Neyti scrunched her nose in uncertainty. For a long minute, she considered Kazi. Her acceptance was a cautious nod, and she wandered inside without another word. 

Alone on the front porch, Kazi had stared at the white-painted house. A few wood planks were chipped; some of the paint on the banister was peeling. Yet her focus remained elsewhere as she considered Carinthia’s last message.

Assessed Eluca’s future. 

Warred with what she wanted and questioned if her judgment was selfish. 

Tried to decide the best path forward, though so many unknowns hid it: decayed leaves of self-doubt, thorned trees of self-loathing. 

The rustle of cloth drew Kazi back to the outdoor table. Daria was setting aside the panel she was stitching, massaging her fingers with a grimace. Kazi noted the occasional spasms in her sister’s fingers. She made a mental note to inform Healer Natasha. At this point in the disease’s trajectory, there was nothing to be done—

“Were you going to tell me?” 

Kazi frowned her bemusement.

“Were you going to tell me”—Daria pierced her with a withering look—“that you put Neyti up for adoption?” 

The censure in her sister’s tone made Kazi wince. A furtive glance at Nova revealed his stalled stitching, the shock widening his eyes. 

Carefully, Kazi set aside her needle and draped the fabric across the wooden table. She should have known Daria would uncover her secret, and she should have known her sister would reveal it in front of an audience. To force her hand. Some things never changed.

Kazi eyed her sister. “How did you find out?”

“It’s true?” Daria stared at her incredulously. Betrayal flushed her pale features. “How long have you been planning this?”

“Since we first arrived here.” Her sister’s silence was enraged, wounded, and she flattened her hands down her thighs. “I completed the application back in Melona. It was only a matter of time before someone was matched with Neyti.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Daria whispered. Seconds stretched as Daria regarded her: hands clasped tightly in her lap, mouth pressed in a thin line. “How could you?”

“We were barely talking back then,” Kazi said. A sharpness knifed through her words, and she grimaced. Nova was present; she needed to compose herself. Control her defensiveness. “Anyway, Neyti isn’t your responsibility—”

“Fuck you.” 

Kazi flinched. 

“Neyti loves you. She loves you,” Daria hissed. Her hands shook; her voice shook. “How could you give her away?”

“You don’t get to judge me.” She chuffed a resentful chuckle. “I thought I wouldn’t be a good mother—I thought she deserved better than me. That’s why I put her up for adoption. It was in her best interest—”

“Bullshit,” Daria snapped. “You’re running away. Again! You’re running away because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.” Her sister’s snort was derisive, and she stiffened. “I thought I wasn’t good enough for Neyti. I thought that Mama was right about me.”

Daria let out a long breath and then unfolded her hands, diplomatic in her disposition. “I know what it feels like to be loved by you. I know what it’s like because I feel it in all of my memories,” she said quietly, assuredly. “Mama was wrong about you. She was always wrong about you.” 

Kazi searched her sister’s face—studied the sincerity softening her eyes. A small smile, toothless, wistful, lifted the corners of her mouth. “So I have your approval, then.”

Daria tilted her head to the side. “Approval?”

“To be Neyti’s mother.” 

Her sister’s brows furrowed. “Yes.”

“Good.” Kazi retrieved her needle and adjusted the fabric she was stitching. “I already revoked Neyti’s application. And I asked Carinthia to remove all of her history from the Center’s records.”

A disbelieving noise sounded from Daria. “What?” 

“I needed to know that you believe in me,” Kazi said, spinning the needle between her fingers. “That you believe I can do this—I can be good to Neyti. That you don’t think I’m…” Heartless. Emotionless.

“Zee.” Her nickname was an exasperated murmur, and Daria collapsed back into her chair. She stared at Kazi, green eyes dulled by medicine wandered across her face, and then Daria smiled. A smile their mother trained her to eschew. A smile reserved for private moments. A smile genuine, unhindered that few could claim witness of. 

It was a smile that Kazi hadn’t seen in years. Probably since their father’s passing.

An amused laugh slipped free from Daria—so unlike her practiced smiles and chuckles. And Kazi felt herself smile in return. Heard herself laugh, too.

And for years to come, she would relive this moment: this moment and her sister’s rare smile.

Soon, the three moons crested the night sky, white baubles dangling, and Daria bid Kazi and Nova goodnight. As the backdoor snapped shut, Kazi cast her gaze toward the sunroom. Toward the single curtain drawn aside and the equally lonesome lamp lit. 

A silhouette was hunched over the game table, the head downcast. As if its corporeal form were studying something on the table. Earlier that evening, she’d come across the new puzzle while dusting the sunroom. Hundreds of pieces—a myriad of blue—were separated between distinct shades. By the time they left for the play, the puzzle’s border was completed.

“Delaying the inevitable?”

Kazi quirked an eyebrow at Nova. “Made that decision yet?” 

With a half-smile, he reclined in his chair: relaxed yet assessing. He gestured to his cheek. “Did I ever tell you why I have this tattoo?”

His easy demeanor contradicted by his narrow-eyed gaze made her wary. Slowly, she shook her head.

“To honor my squad.” He paused. “I lost them. You know that?”

The spinning needle faltered in her grasp. Her “No” was soft. 

“There were four of us,” Nova said. “We grew up together. We trained together. We served together.” He inclined his head toward the house. “You’ve seen how Wolffe, Fox, and Cody are. That’s how it was with my squad. They were my brothers.” 

Lightning bugs popped, warm-yellow lights reminiscent of a dying fire. A humid breeze played with Nova’s curls and tousled the strands freed from Kazi’s braids.

“We landed on that planet together. Made plans to get a few rounds on Coruscant when we got back.” Nova released a harsh breath; resentment shadowed his eyes. “I was the only one who made it out alive.”

Kazi lowered her gaze to the quilt: pale yellow fabrics of brotherhood, blackened panels of death. However, it was the section Nova had worked on tonight—color seeping through the darkness—that whispered the story’s conclusion. 

“Cody saved my life,” Nova said. A faint smile shadowed the lower half of his face. “He…reminded me that what happened to my vode wasn’t my fault. That I was still needed. That I could still do some good.” He tapped his cheek. “Another reason for the tattoo.”

Low lamplight dimmed, deserting the outdoor lanterns. Wolffe had finished his puzzle for the night.

Nova levelled her with a deliberate stare. “I’ve made my decision. Have you?”

Kazi maintained eye contact, even as her throat grew dry, tight. Discomfort pressed her legs together, and she mustered a deprecatory smile. “I tried to be my parents’ perfect daughter.” The admittance was low, embarrassed, and she cleared her throat. “Every decision I made was to gain their approval. To make them happy. To earn their love.” 

A star blazed across the black-painted clouds: a reminder of nights at sea. Back then, it was just her and her father, and the endless expanse of cold, indomitable ocean reflecting milky, eons-old constellations

“My father…I made sure I was his perfect little girl. I was always his perfect daughter. Everything I did was for him. And he loved me so much for it.” Her cheeks sunk beneath a broken smile. “And my mother…I cared about her approval for so long that I forced myself to be the woman she wanted me to be. But it wasn’t enough. It never was. So I stopped caring. I just…stopped.” 

Nova watched her with an indecipherable expression. His silence was a gentle encouragement.  

“I’m afraid of being happy,” Kazi whispered. Her eyes strayed toward the house, and she massaged her chest. “I’m afraid of enjoying the good things only for them to disappear.”

“Why do you think they'll disappear?”

“Because…I haven’t earned them.”

Masterlist | Chapter 26 | Chapter 28

A/N: * Line inspired by Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986): Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.

[meetinginsamarra]

Rest

for today’s prompt “Rest” by @notjustamumj

@lisbeth-kk @calaisreno @raina-at

You’ve all been so fast with filling today’s prompt! I reblogged them all around noon and had not written a single word for this. So much for increasing pressure... To be fair, I’ve completed chapter 4 of my casefic WIP and have already written for 2 hours this day. And nearly another one for this ficlet.

----

Rest

Sherlock as good as stumbled out of the train. He had gotten several hours of distance between himself and Tarek Saleh’s henchman in Istanbul after taking the first available train that left from Pendik station this night.

He was exhausted, bone-tired and his body was aching everywhere. The broken ankle throbbed with the fires of hell and yelled at him every time it had to support Sherlock’s body weight.

Still, he felt lucky that he had escaped the weapon dealer at all. Sherlock had successfully avoided to get shot, to break his neck, to get shot again and to get crushed by heavy rubbish bags.

People on the train had looked at him suspiciously. He had stood out like a sore thumb, crammed into the farthest possible corner of the non-subdivided passenger compartment. He knew that he looked like rubbish and smelled like he had taken a bath in it.

Which he literally had. His escape by getting literally dumped into the hopper of a bin lorry had been a close call, Saleh’s goons had already come very close to the skip where Sherlock had hidden.

Apparently, the stench of rotten food had soaked too deep into his skin and hair to be scrubbed away by the quick wash he had gotten in the dumpsite’s maintanance building. He had discarded his soiled clothes and stole one of the grey boiler suits but he still reeked.

His battered face and wild hair did nothing to make him presentable and he had no cap to hide the disaster. Also, his broken finger was set with an – in lack of a better word – interesting construction made of ice lolly sticks and duct tape.

Sherlock desperately needed to get access to his emergency funds, get medical supplies for his wounds, get new clothes, get practically everything else he needed to carry on hunting down Moriarty’s web.

But first of all, he needed to sleep. In the half delirious state he was in, he was prone to making mistakes and mistakes meant certain death.

Sherlock hobbled out of the Antalya’s busy train station and caught a bus that would bring him to the coast where all the tourist hotels were located. It would be quiet there this time of the year and Sherlock planned on breaking into one of the uncharitable concrete blocks that housed dozens of holiday flats.

Getting access without getting caught was tedious but he managed by using the last dregs of strength he could muster.

The flat was cold and dark with the shutters firmly closed. It smelled damp and dusty but to Sherlock it seemed like heaven. He sighed with relief when he discovered that the water had not been turned off. The shower was cold but refreshing nonetheless and he used the small rest of a forgotten bottle of shower gel to clean himself. He tore down the curtains in the living room area, using one as a towel and wrapping himself firmly in the other one. It would be enough to keep him warm and then, finally, he could let himself fall onto the bare mattress of the king-size bed.

Tomorrow, he would think about tomorrow. He had survived today, yet another day to keep John safe. But now he would rest.

---

This could be placed at the end of chapter 13 in my Whumptober fic “Learn My Scars” when Sherlock tells John about what had happened to him in Istanbul.

[capriciouscaprine]

GOOD morning!!! (numbersss)

feeling a bit wiped after two days in a row of not enough sleep; gonna try to come home and go straight to bed tonight (plzzz)

this morning's breakfast was my usual coffee and a larger than usual yogurt with berries and granola, so we're calling that 250

I actually have packed another yogurt bowl for my 2nd breakfast at my internship!! (it's 4+ hours after I've had regular breakfast, and lunch is another 4+ hours after that) this is my first time doing that; I just haven't felt secure in knowing when I was eating and having the wherewithal to plan ahead, but I'm happy that I'll have something filling and nutritionally well-rounded; I'll be having that with a coffee, so a tidy 250 again

after action report from yesterday's honestly somewhat manic eating: I need to be prepared with a warm, filling, high-protein, comforting meal before I work on budgeting or planning my meals before I go shopping on my limited budget; clearly, it kicks off feelings of deprivation, and the obvious maladaptive self-soothing behavior that follows is eating snack after snack to reassure myself that there is plenty of everything

I'm not gonna focus on it to talk about my previous experiences that led to this pattern bc I'll probably end up back in that cycle when I'm not prepared for it, but it's enough to say I went through some even tougher times before, and I survived them and now I'm here!!

also, being stressed also brings out that manic feeling of wanting a snack; honestly just going to my classes makes me feel that way?? (I've never been diagnosed with mania in any form so don't have any actual experience with it, so please excuse my using it as an honest descriptor for how I have felt on those rare occasions); again, I clearly need to build in opportunities to sate those feelings, bc fighting them seems to make me feel overstimulated instead (all the warning lights going off in my brain and I have to fight off doing the things that would satisfy them like having a sweet or crunchy snack?? nope, that drives me even more nuts)

being prepared for these things would also be good for my wallet, since I can pre-budget for a specific meal in terms of both c's and $'s

ultimately, the constant snacks WEREN'T satisfying, bc what needed satisfying was feeling uncertain/insecure/unsafe; a solid meal that I could savor would have helped more, in part bc I could have taken that time to slow down and address the actual underlying feelings instead of seeking, finding, unwrapping, consuming, and repeating

ultimately, it wasn't too terrible a day to have consumed more c's on: I did a lot of walking around at work, plus hefted grain and concrete bags, and just in general used my muscles a lot, so hopefully a decent amount got used up; if today weren't going to be a long day at my internship, I'd see about jumping on the treadmill to use a few more, but as it is I'll see about doing that tomorrow after work

oh! I had one of those moments where someone was about to throw themself onto an unpleasant task just bc I looked too tiny to manage it!!

I had to grab more concrete from the store, and the way they were stocked honestly sucked, but I managed to roll the two 60 pound bags I needed down off the self and set them into my cart, and as I was dusting myself off, a man in a clean, professional outfit (not a suit but like what contractors wear, the tucked in embroidered company shirt and relaxed workman's khakis type) had come down the aisle and stopped and asked if I was alright and if I needed any help!

this man could not more clearly have wanted to avoid being covered in concrete dust, but he also seemed to not be able to help himself in asking if the person lifting bags that were approximately half of themself (I'm almost there!!!) could use a hand

even my mom has been sort of pausing to watch me after she asks my to something physically intensive (she has some health problems so it's safer for her to not do those things, even though she still wants to); she's a very 'women are strong and can do anything on their own!!!' person, which is cool when you choose that for yourself, but as a mom that meant she expected me (eldest 'daughter', even tho I'm nonbinary) to do everything, which meant spending more time working than getting to goof off and be a kid as early as the end of elementary school

losing muscle mass and becoming less physically capable is actually super freeing for me; no, I don't need to renovate my house all by myself or manage a full garden or whatever, I can focus on my career and use the money I make there to pay for a professional to do it for me; I don't have to handle everything by myself without complaint, I can ask for and even expect people to offer to help; sure, there are drawbacks (cat litter...), but I know I can rebuild those muscles later; for now, I am excited by the possibility of not being able to lift heavy things and even openly struggling with them, especially in front of someone who has encouraged the idea that smaller = healthier

[null-whump]

HELLO everyone I did not edit this AT ALL and I am in SEVERE PAIN but by GOD I finished it and here it is for you to read!! and enjoy!! and comment on!!!!! and maybe the next update won't take so fucking long!!! great!!!!!!

(it was also supposed to be longer than this but I know that if I put it off anymore it'll be two months before I post anything at all)

Ace and Hunter Masterlist

Warnings: Forced domesticity, collaring/muzzling, mentions of past torture, abuse, brief strangulation/choking, restraints

-----------------------------------

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Why did people say ‘tick-tock’ for a clock sound? All Ace could hear was the same tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, over and over and over and over. Maybe some clocks were different than others. Maybe Hunter’s clock was just boring.

Your clock. You picked that one out, remember?

Ace clenched his jaw.

Remember? You said you wanted an old clock that you could wind up that would chime on the hour, so you went to an antique shop and found that one. Remember? Remember how you picked it because you thought Hunter would like the little wooden bird carving on the top?

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“This is stupid,” Ace muttered.

The sound of his own voice startled him. It had been so silent in the house, all day, while he waited for Hunter to get home from work. It didn’t help that he was chained to the floor in the living room, just out of reach of any furniture. He had been there since eight in the fucking morning. He had tried to keep his mind occupied. Ace had learned the first time that Hunter left him chained down that trying to pull the chains free was useless and would only make his hands hurt. He also learned that pacing in the very little room that he could made the cuffs chafe at his ankles. He didn’t stop though, because day after day after day of mind-numbing boredom made him prefer any distraction.

Distraction from the manacles around his legs, distraction from the injuries burning and itching under the bandages, distraction from the collar digging into his throat –

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

That stupid fucking clock. Ace glared at it. 4:56, it told him, unfazed. That meant Hunter would be home soon. Then he would unchain Ace from the living room and chain him back up in the kitchen where he would make dinner and then if he was lucky, Ace would get half a meal from the scraps Hunter served him from his plate. Then Ace would clean up dinner and Hunter would do whatever the fuck Hunter did until he decided to put Ace back in the basement for the night. At least he had a blanket now. And a pillow – and Hunter had started leaving the chains off two weeks ago.

Ace nearly laughed. He had been sleeping in a basement for nearly two months. But hey, at least he had a fucking blanket.

The clock whirred and began chiming for 5 o’clock. Ace sighed. At least he knew that Hunter wouldn’t take out his knives today. He always gave Ace at least two days of rest between ‘sessions’, and yesterday Hunter had been…more enthusiastic than usual. Ace shuddered at the memory, the bandaged wounds on his arms flaring up. He could probably count on three days, maybe four. As long as he didn’t fuck up a rule or something.

Ace heard the door swing open and scrambled to his knees. The burst of adrenaline that accompanied the sound of Hunter’s footsteps made his heart race, no matter how many times he heard it. Ace placed his hands on his knees and took a deep steadying breath as Hunter entered the room.

‘Just say it, you’ve said it dozens of times, it doesn’t mean anything it’s just words it doesn’t make you weak it’s just a part of surviving –’

“Welcome home, sir.”

Hunter reached down and ruffled his hand through Ace’s hair. “How was your day, raindrop?”

‘The same as it always is, fucker.’

“It was fine, sir.”

“Really?” Hunter smiled. “You weren’t bored, then?”

‘You fucking know I was.’

“…A little, sir.”

Hunter made a ‘hmm’ sound in the back of his throat. He hooked his finger under Ace’s collar and tugged on it, pulling Ace to his feet.

“How would you like me to start leaving you unchained while I’m away?”

Ace’s heart skipped a beat. “I – I would like that, sir.”

Hunter leaned down until his face was inches away from Ace, who struggled to keep from flinching back. “Really? You wouldn’t take the opportunity to try to run away, then?”

Ace’s mouth was dry. “N-no, sir.”

A blatant lie, of course. And yet, Ace dared to hope that Hunter would believe it. He had been so good lately, so carefully, painfully obedient, all for the tiniest chance that Hunter would give him enough freedom to escape. He only needed a little bit, a tiny bit of leeway, just enough to contact someone – Fay, the police – anyone, really, and this nightmare would be over.

Hunter tilted his head. “Just how stupid do you think I am, Ace? Do you really think I can’t tell when you’re lying to me?”

“I – I wasn’t –”

Hunter’s hand was around Ace’s throat faster than he could blink, and the rest of his sentence was cut off as he was forced to struggle for air.

“Why don’t you think very carefully about your next words,” Hunter said softly. “I’m giving you every opportunity to do the right thing, Ace. Don’t be an idiot.”

His grip loosened minimally, enough for Ace to take in a thin breath of air. Enough for him to speak. Ace’s head spun. What was worse? To lie, when Hunter would never believe him, or to tell the truth and face whatever punishment Hunter decided to dole out?

“I…” Ace faltered, barely able to get any sound past the fear clogging his throat. He steeled his nerves and made his decision. “I – I lied,” he choked out. “I’m…I’m sorry, sir.” His stomach twisted with the knowledge that he was giving Hunter exactly what he wanted, but he was almost too afraid to care.

Hunter let go of Ace’s throat, and he nearly fell forward, gasping in relief.

“Rule number one,” Hunter said, and Ace shivered at the unsettling calmness of his voice.

“…Don’t lie to you, sir.”

Hunter considered him for a moment. “I’m going to show you exactly how useless it would be to try to run, but first…” he lowered the bag slung over his shoulder and reached into it. “I had a feeling I would need this today.”

He pulled out his hand, and with it, a black cloth contraption that flashed with metal clasps. Ace’s pulse skyrocketed, because he knew immediately what it was. Hunter smirked at the panic evident on Ace’s face.

“W-wait – please, I’ll be quiet, don’t –”

Hunter silenced him with a slap across his face, hard enough to make Ace’s eyes water. “Quit complaining, unless you want it to stay on longer.”

Ace flinched and shut his mouth. He forced himself to stay still, aside from his trembling, while Hunter secured the muzzle around his face. It wasn’t that the muzzle was even the worst punishment Hunter could dole out, and Ace knew, logically, that he should be grateful he wasn’t getting something worse. It was the awful, unavoidable humiliation of wearing that thing on his face, and Hunter’s insufferably smug face looking down at him like he was a fucking dog, that made Ace want to shrivel up and die.

But he had stopped fighting it, because he knew better now. He knew what happened when he fought Hunter, just like he knew what happened when he tried to take the collar off, and he knew what happened when he wasn’t waiting to greet Hunter properly when he returned home each evening. Ace was smarter now, that’s all. He wasn’t fucking afraid.

Hunter undid the restraints around Ace’s ankles and pulled him to his feet.

“Do you think, raindrop, that I would let you wander around the house freely, with no limitations in place?” Hunter asked. As he spoke, he curled one arm around Ace’s shoulders in a too-tight embrace and guided him across the room.

Ace didn’t think Hunter wanted him to respond, and he didn’t want to risk angering him by shaking his head (an act that could too easily be seen as defiance), so he kept still and allowed himself to be pulled to the window, which had curtains pulled across it. Hunter pushed them aside, while keeping Ace well to the side. Not taking any chances on someone seeing him from the street, Ace realized.

“See this?” Hunter drew Ace’s attention to the window, tapping his finger against the glass.

Ace looked, and his heart sank as he felt another little piece of hope for an escape whither away. Inside the window frame had been reinforced with sets of crossing metal bars – inconspicuous enough that they wouldn’t stand out while leaving no room for a person to fit through.

Hunter leaned down so that his mouth was next to Ace’s ear. “All the windows in the house are like this,” he said softly, and his breath on Ace’s skin made his stomach turn. “Every door locks from the outside, and last I checked, I have the only key.” He tightened his grip on Ace’s arm until Ace was sure it would bruise. “Am I forgetting anything, raindrop? Any other way you could sneak your way out of here?”

Even without the question being posed, Ace’s mind was racing to think of something, anything that Hunter had missed, but he was coming up hopelessly short. The house wasn’t very large, and there were only so many ways in or out.

Hunter chuckled lightly. “Didn’t think so.” He finally released Ace’s shoulders and pulled the curtain back in front of the window, cutting off the sunlight. “Now, I’m hungry.”

Tears stung Ace’s eyes and he almost tripped with the loss of Hunter’s support. He stood trembling, trying to regain his wits, for just a moment too long – a cuff to the back of his head from Hunter forced him to stumble forward and shake himself out of his daze.

Dinner was a silent affair. Hunter was gracious enough to remove the muzzle and spare Ace a few scraps of his dinner, and Ace chose to stay quiet in hopes of the muzzle staying off.

His good behavior was rewarded when Hunter stashed the muzzle in a kitchen drawer instead of putting it back on Ace. Then Hunter turned to him with a smile that promised nothing good, and Ace found himself wondering if maybe he’d prefer the muzzle after all.

“Unfortunately, the security cameras I bought are on backorder,” he began. “Luckily for you, I trust my security measures enough to leave you to roam around free while I’m away.” 

Ace tried to ignore the sick feeling that was twisting in his stomach.

“Until they arrive, I’ll expect you to tell me how you spent your day when I return home every night.” Hunter placed a hand on the back of Ace’s neck and began guiding him toward the living room. “Of course, you’ll have limits on where you can go and what you can do, and you’ll be punished if you disobey. I’ll tell you before I leave each morning if you’ll be allowed to eat, and how much, and so on.”

They had reached the couch, and Hunter sat down, pulling Ace down beside him. Ace tensed but managed to force himself not to resist when Hunter gently pulled Ace’s head down to rest in his lap. He shut his eyes and tried to ignore Hunter’s fingers combing through his hair.

“How about we practice?” Hunter said. His hand stroked through Ace’s hair. “Tell me about your day.”

--------------------------

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[meguhime]

A year has passed, can you believe it?

On June 4, 2023, my brother had a cardiac arrest and survived. The hospital was about an hour and a half drive away from where I live. So imagine, a year ago today, I was racing down the highway with Jon to get to my brother as quickly as possible, not knowing if he would ever wake up, when half way there we got a flat tire. We had to circle back and borrow my mom's truck and we raced back out again. My brother woke up a day later, and he was so precious, and funny, and most importantly, alive.

It's been a year now and I have learned to grow around the grief of almost losing him... but gosh, June was so hard. I dropped everything to stay with him for a month to be a full time caretaker (I had 400 hours of sick leave so if that says anything about me taking care of myself, well, you would be right.) And during that time, taking care of him, I started to realize how little I left for myself. He started to hold me accountable for that too. My favorite was always the middle of the night medication when I brought him some fruit, we'd eat it together, and then I would help him back into bed. Every night, he told me that he was already starting to feel better, and it really showed day by day. It felt really nice to be responsible and trusted.

A lot of things were hard last summer but there were also plenty of bright moments, like trying to be quiet when he was sleeping while playing games with the lovely people who checked up on us, or hugging him when he had nightmares (like he used to do for me when we were young). And when his fiance returned home, and it was time for me to go back home, across the bridge, past the place where we got the flat tire, and unfortunately get back to work, I knew he was doing well. Seeing someone heal right in front of your eyes is one of the most magical things you can ever behold, and even better if you get to be part of it.

A few months later there was some Family Drama TM, can you believe it? After all that, you'd think it wouldn't be that way. But that's the ebb and flow of things. There's a lot from last year that was the absolute worst ever, but it also opened my eyes about the way I was living. I'm grateful to have come out of that time a little stronger and surrounded by the most precious, funny, loving people.

[thegreatandpowerfulversy]

Alright I have time for one wormpost while im waiting in Airport #2/4 today, having read the remainder of Arc 13 on the first plane.

This one was... quite intense, even by Worm standards. Very close to too much, with both Genesis and Bonesaw. Two rounds of "testing" in the middle of Taylor's territory, and then an offensive against the Nine, and then a second offensive as rescue mission... Taylor may have had a point that they wouldn't survive 24 days of terror the way it was going, but they'll last even less time by acting like this.

Four and a half members left, supposedly, but that will be five again within hours as Bonesaw recovers. Likely more soon after, since she can also bring back Burnscar, and probably Hack Job a few more allies together as well. The necromancy is what makes Bonesaw really leagues beyond anyone else in the Nine (besides maybe Siberian if she stopped holding back); otherwise she'd be about on par with the others' threat level.

Brian's new power is interesting, and it certainly gives him a lot more versatility than he used to have, particularly on a team, particularly when that team includes two people with sensory/intel gathering powers that let them be fine in his darkness. More interesting though is the usual trigger event vision for Taylor and presumably every other cape in the area. She's right that the two... Worms, I guess... remind her of something, because that's Dinah. They see the world in the same way, and choosing the destination is just Dinah's stronger power, the one Coil has only asked for the one time so far when Crawler attacked the base.

I don't have that much faith that the PHQ will get involved, even with a weakened Nine. At best it will be too little too late, at worst they actively hinder the next attempt to stop the remaining members. Battery is still a liability after all, especially with Shatterbird in Coil's custody. Why does Cauldron want her to escape the city? Who knows? Maybe to study and copy her power to modify and give to others?

I guess I'll finish it out with the interlude before boarding my next flight and then try to sleep instead of starting Arc 14. G-d I hate airlines so much. Why is everything always such an ordeal.

[moonstonehailstorm]

Just get up. Don't sleep again, get up and start the day. Get out of bed and go. It's that easy... But I can't. And I can't be late again. Why is it so hard?

One hour. One hour is enough. More than enough. What took me three hours yesterday to go out of the house? I wasn't even sleepy... Was I? I can't remember. Did I sleep just 5 hours? 4? I know my sleeping habits are awful. It took me three hours to get out of my house. I wish I could call sick...

Is this happening too often? Am I losing or gaining something? I'm aware I can't deal with a lot of stuff right now.

You can do this because you've done it before. You can't escape people and this is what you chose. It's your fault: you chose this. Maybe this time was your biggest mistake. Oh, you know the red flags where there... Oh, are you gonna complain about life decisions again? For how long you've been stuck in the same stupid cycle...?

Maybe that's it. Maybe that's why making art and music is painful. It helps but it's painful. It's a window to another life that won't be, and never was.

Are you really starting this again??? Shut up...

I've been dragging this feeling for two days. Three, maybe. Today, I'm forcing myself to go out.

I must hurry up. I have one hour. One hour is more than enough. Today I have a long day ahead. It's going to be stressful, I know that already. The only thing I have to do is arrive on time. I can do it because I' ve done it before... Then, why is it so hard? It almost feels like being paralyzed.

Three days dragging whatever the hell this is. I'm tired. And I hate this. I want to scream. I'm trying to catch a shadow that's constantly behind me, or maybe it's in front of me, but it's too dark to see it. I'm so desperate to find what's evading me...

Half an hour has passed. Time works strange. It's never in your favor when you need it the most. Three days that feel like an eternity against one hour that can't be stopped at least for a little.

Buckle up, it's gonna be a long day.

Don't complain. Stop complaining and making everyone miserable around you. You're a dark halo of awful energy expanding with every word you spit out. You are here to help others, not to be helped. You're not going to start again, you're in this situation over and over again because you're the worst making decisions. You're going to be prevented from doing what you want to do for the rest of your life, because that's how this works. Never doing what you love, always surviving. Only surviving. You decided this path from day one. Your whole life's been about surviving, and that's all. You are here to help others, so shut up and keep going. You are tiring and annoying. You've been told that being with you is like living with an instructions manual. That's how annoying and complicated you are. No one wants to read the instructions EVER. Everyone hates them for a reason, who wants to find out how something works? You yourself don't even know that. You're trying to find where to turn off this when you well know I'm you as well...

Three days by now. 45 minutes. I just need to get up and get going. Why is it so hard...?

[a-reader-and-a-writer-for-all]

Since That Day

Fandom: DC, The Suicide Squad, Rick Flag

Summary: Since the day you lost Rick in Corto Maltese, you have been planning your revenge. And now, the time has come…

Word Count: 1251

TW: Language, Guns, Major Character Death, Possible Suicide, Ambiguous Ending

Note: This was written before Peacemaker (2021) aired

It had been 121 days since Jötunheim fell. Since Project Starfish went tits up and half of Corto Maltese was destroyed. Since the love of your life was taken from you by a bastard with a fucking toilet seat on his head.

It had been 119 days since all of your tunneling and digging had paid off and you had finally found Rick’s body in the rubble of Jötunheim, the shard of porcelain still jutting out of his chest. You had sat amongst the debris and dust as you held him in your arms one last time, your tears washing away some of the dirt from his handsome face. DuBois had found you an hour later and he helped you bring Rick’s body somewhere safe.

It had been 117 days since you watched them reduce Rick’s body to ashes. There was no fancy military service, no 21-gun salute like he deserved. Instead, it was just you and the surviving members of the Suicide Squad standing around a furnace. And when it was over, you were left with a vase filled with the ashes of your heart.

It had been 50 days since you had gotten a restful night’s sleep. Because even though Rick was gone, you were able to take comfort in the fact that so was his killer. But then you heard the first whispers of rumors. That the son of a bitch who took Rick from you was still alive, he had survived when Rick had died. And you weren’t going to let that stand.

It had been 46 days since you were able to convince DuBois to help you with your mission. He could see the obsession in your eyes and if it wasn’t for the guilt he had about letting Peacemaker walk away from his bullet, he might have tried to stop you. Instead, he suited up and followed on your quest for revenge.

It had been 40 days since you took the vase of Rick’s ashes out of your closet for the first time since you had brought them home. It hurt too much to stare at it just sitting on your counter every day but now you have found a way to put them to good use. And you knew Rick would approve.

It had been 35 days since you poured those ashes into five separate shell casings. Each casing had Rick Flag carved into the side of them in your handwriting. Because when all was said and done, you wanted to make sure everyone knew that Rick Flag took out Peacemaker once and for all.

It had been 12 days since you had received your first real lead on his whereabouts. DuBois discovered Peacemaker was working with Economos and Harcourt, and you weren’t surprised in the least. Of course Waller had something to do with this. And as DuBois promised to update you and you hung up the phone, you tightly grasped Rick’s dog tags that now hung around your neck. Soon, baby. I promise, this will all be over soon.

It had been 4 days since you got your first look at Peacemaker in person. Hiding on top of the building across from his location, you were able to see him exiting the building, Economos and Harcourt on either side of him. Part of you wanted to take out all three of them right now, you had enough bullets. But you forced yourself to wait. Peacemaker had shown he was stronger, more resilient than anyone could have predicted. You couldn’t risk him walking away yet again. So you waited….for now.

Today is the day. You can feel it in your bones. Everything has been planned out to the last detail over the last few days and now it is time to act.

Breaking into Peacemaker’s house was simple. He left the key to the front door under his mat. Stepping inside, you knew instantly you were in the right place. Everything looked dingy and coated in a layer of unknown substances (that you really tried to not look too closely). American flags or flag themed memorabilia decorated almost every inch of the walls. The table in the living room had four or five half finished whiskey bottles laying on it while beer cans littered the floor. In the corner, there was a dog bowl that had “Eagly'' crudely scrawled on it. Yep. This is Pissmaker’s house.

According to the information DuBois found for you, he should be back home within the hour. So, trying your best not to disturb anything that could alert him to your presence, you slip into the closet directly across from the couch. And you wait.

Twenty-two minutes later, the front door opens and your blood runs cold as you hear him mumbling to himself in the other room. His voice alone is enough to send you into a blind rage, but you use all of your training to keep your composure. Peering through the slats in the closet door, you watch as he approaches his table and drains one of the still open whiskey bottles.

As softly and quietly as possible, you slide the door open and sneak out. As soon as you are standing behind him, you raise the gun and cock it. Peacemaker freezes at the sound before cautiously raising his hands over his head.

“Smith.” You growl, trying to keep the fury filled trembling out of your voice.

Peacemaker slowly turns to face you, his hands still in the air. With what can only be described as a visual gulp, he warily says, “Hey, didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Why? Because you left me there to die with Rick? Because you thought your bullet pierced my heart like that shard did his?”

“Well…. Yeah.”

“It’s called Kevlar, you dumbass. Next time, make sure your target’s dead before you walk away. I learned that lesson the hard way.” You point the gun at his chest. “So, do you have a preference? The heart”-you raise the gun higher- “or the head?”

“Now, let’s just hold on a second-” he takes a step forward but the sight of you tightening your finger on the trigger stops him in his tracks. “Listen, I’ve changed. After everything that happened, everything I did, everything that I saw, I’m not that same man.”

You shrug, “I don’t care what kind of man you are now. You will always be the man who took my love from me. Nothing else matters. Oh, and Rick Flag says hello.” You pull the trigger twice in quick succession, perfectly placing a bullet into each eye socket.

Like a marionette with its strings cut, Peacemaker crumples to the floor. Calmly, you stroll over and flip his body with your foot. Two bloody holes stare back at you, but you aren’t taking any chances this time. Pressing the gun firmly against his chest, just above his heart, you pull the trigger twice more. His body jerks and flails, but there isn’t the slightest hint of life left. Satisfied with a job well done, you wipe your hands on his shirt and walk into the hall.

One bullet left….one more piece of Rick. You stare at the gun in your hand, knowing what you want to do and knowing it is the last thing he would have ever wanted. But Rick is gone…..and now, so is Peacemaker…..so what’s left? You raise the gun as you tighten your finger on the trigger one last time.

[yeenybeanies]

This is the Way I Pray | Chapter 2: Monday

whew! another long-ass chapter --w-- idk if they'll all be this long, but we're two for two at over 10k words lmao. WARNING: this chapter mentions nazis/white supremacists, & the desire to cause great harm to said nazis/white supremacists. also, bold+italic text is meant to be interpreted as non-english previous • next call of duty | wayne “champ” champagne (oc), john “soap” mactavish, simon “ghost” riley, kate laswell 11,400 words strong language, mentions of violence, alcohol use thanks for reading!! patreon ✨ ko-fi ✨ read it on ao3

Ghost was awake before his alarm would have gone off, as was often the case. He stared at the clock on his nightstand, watching the digital numbers flick from 4:59 to 5:00. 

He’d gotten about four and a half hours. For him, that wasn't bad. He turned his head to see Soap still sleeping. He looked peaceful. Ghost almost didn’t want to disturb him. 

Sitting up, Ghost pressed the heel of his hand into his eye socket, rubbing away the weariness clinging to him. “Johnny,” he said, his voice heavy with sleep. The Scot stirred and hummed back at him. “You gettin’ up?” 

Technically, neither of them needed to be awake yet. Their day wasn't supposed to start for another three hours. Soap lifted his head to glance at his own clock, then dropped it back onto his pillow. “‘Nother hour,” he mumbled. “Alarm set.” 

Some days, Soap liked to join Ghost in the early mornings. Evidently, today was not one of those days. Ghost took no offense, and silently slipped out of his bed to get ready. 

No need for the full kit of tac gear right now. Ghost pulled on a plain, black t-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. He brushed his teeth in the bathroom and applied his greasepaint over his eyes, then donned a balaclava. 

Soap was rolled over onto his back when Ghost exited the bathroom. One more hour. Ghost could be back by then with breakfast for the both of them. He grabbed his room key, wallet, and phone from the dresser, and made for the door, but paused before opening it. There was a new text notification on his phone from a number he hadn’t saved yet—Champ’s number. Curious, he tapped the notification. Champ had sent him a photo of the ghost plushie that Soap had won him last night, and a message attached saying “forgot someone” with a cowboy emoji.

Ghost rolled his eyes. He hadn’t forgotten the damn thing.

He stowed his belongings in his pockets, grabbed his jacket from the closet, and exited the room. 

With an hour to kill, the Brit wandered the hotel with no real destination in mind. Yesterday, he and Soap had scoped out the amenities, but now Ghost figured he could take a better look at the gym. He might hit it up at some point this week, time and mood permitting. 

Unfortunately, but nevertheless unsurprisingly, the hotel gym was rather disappointing. Camp Sasha was a small base, so it made sense that everything on it would be small.  This “gym” only had a couple of treadmills, an assisted pull-up machine, a smith machine, and some weights. Very bare bones. 

No, Ghost would probably not be hitting that up after all. His physique would survive a week without a proper gym. 

He moved on, slowly making his way to the little shoppette in the lobby. Breakfast options weren’t particularly exciting, but neither him nor Soap were picky eaters. He settled for a couple of protein bars, two croissant sandwiches, a coffee and a tea, and a blueberry muffin. 

The muffin was for Soap, of course. 

Breakfast in hand, Ghost headed back to their room. It was 5:58 when he swiped his key and pushed the door open. Soap was still sprawled out on his bed, now on his stomach. The muscles in his back tensed upon hearing Ghost enter. 

“That you, LT?” he mumbled. 

“If it wasn’t, you’d be dead already.” 

Soap snorted, and slowly pushed himself up onto his knees. “Good morning to you too.” He lifted his arms over his head and stretched, soft noises tugging from his throat. Some of them were pleased, some of them not so much. He was definitely still feeling the soreness from his wild trail ride yesterday. 

“That coffee I smell?” he asked.

“Sure is,” Ghost said, taking a seat on his bed. He set the coffee on Soap’s side of the center nightstand. “One sugar.” 

“Och, you know me so well.” Soap took the still steaming cup and held it between his hands, enjoying the warmth before taking a sip. 

It was shit coffee, as expected, but it was hot and had caffeine. 

Ghost handed over Soap’s portion of their breakfast, then pulled his mask up to his nose and bit into his sandwich. 

“Hm.” He chewed thoughtfully. “America has some good food. This isn’t it.” Also unsurprising. Military bases weren’t known for having excellent chow. 

Soap huffed and took a bite of his own. “Better than an MRE,” he mumbled around his mouthful. 

“Christ, Johnny, finish chewin’ before you open your gob,” Ghost admonished. 

A shit-eating grin spread across Soap’s lips. He finished chewing and swallowed, then said, “Oh, now you have a problem with me talkin’ with my mouth full?” 

For the second time today, Ghost rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to dignify that comment with a response. 

They finished their breakfast, Soap stashing the muffin for later, then Ghost checked in with Price and Laswell for any updates while Soap got himself ready. They sent over a couple new information packets to review, which Ghost skimmed over briefly. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” the Brit muttered. Soap leaned around the bathroom door, toothbrush in his mouth. Ghost held up his phone, “Latest intel thinks we’ll find more info on this politician by goin’ to a bar.” 

Soap ducked back into the bathroom to spit his toothpaste out and rinse his mouth, then reappeared with a towel around his neck. “A bar?” he repeated. “What kind of bar?” 

“Doesn’t say,” Ghost said. He scrolled a bit further, finding nothing. “Some place called the ‘Thunder Lounge.’” 

–– –– ––

A quick exchange of texts had the soldiers meeting up with the cowboy at oh-nine hundred. He was waiting for them in the conference room set aside for this mission. 

“Mornin’ fellas,” he greeted, cheerful and chipper. He had on his signature cowboy gear and bandana, the red fabric pulled up over his mouth and nose like it had been yesterday. His sunglasses sat perched up on the brim of his hat. Unlike yesterday, though, the sleeves of his button-up shirt were rolled up to his biceps, showing off blackout tattoos that covered the skin all the way down to his wrists. 

Also unlike yesterday, he had a gun belt around his hips, with a pistol nestled into the holsters on either side; and a pair of holster bags around his shoulders in a harness. 

“You always dress like that?” Ghost asked, taking in the sight. “Thought it was a costume for the rodeo.” 

Champ snorted, unoffended. He gave the Brit a dramatic once-over, one brow arched. “If that ain’t the pot callin’ the kettle black,” he said, gesturing to the skull balaclava. 

Ghost stared blankly at him for a long moment, then turned to Soap. “You know what that means?” The Scot shook his head. 

“Means you got no room to talk,” Champ clarified. His grin was evident enough in his voice. Soap snickered, earning himself a glare from Ghost. 

With pleasantries out of the way, the three of them settled around the conference table in the center of the room. Laswell was due to call here shortly and give them more information on today’s tasks. 

Soap’s wince when he sat down in one of the chairs did not go unnoticed. Champ tilted his head, a twinkle in his mismatched eyes. 

“How ya feelin’?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. It was pretty obvious.

“Sore,” Soap said, pushing faux-bitterness into his tone. “Dunno how you’re still standin’ after what you did yesterday.” 

Champ waved a nonchalant hand. “If it makes ya feel better, I am a lil’ bit sore m’self. Bull had some kick to ‘im.” 

“Actually, it does.” 

The phone in the middle of the table rang, making all three men stiffen. Ghost leaned over to answer it, and put it on speaker. “Laswell?” 

“Good morning, boys,” she greeted. “Have a good first day in Kentucky?” 

“Soap did,” Ghost replied. Champ chuckled. 

“I heard,” Laswell said. Soap made an offended noise, and muttered a curse to Price under his breath. “Good thing today shouldn’t be too strenuous. I’ve sent you all some information already on what’s going on; this meeting is for further details and instruction.” 

 Champ pulled out his phone to glance over said information while Laswell continued. She provided a few more updates and went further in-depth on what they already knew, what their goals were, and what other units were up to. 

As for them: their job was to place bugs around this bar so that Laswell’s team could listen in, see if they could identify this politician and find out about his involvement with terrorists. 

“Did you say the Thunder Lounge?” Champ interrupted. All eyes fell to him. He scrolled through the information packet, brows furrowing when he found the name of the bar. He bristled.

“I did,” Laswell confirmed, her voice lifting with an unasked question.

“That’s a fuckin’ Nazi bar.” Champ set his phone down and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Even with the lower half of his face hidden, his displeasure was clear. It practically radiated from him in waves.  

Ghost and Soap exchanged grimaces. 

“Deadass. That’s the local meet-up for all the white supremacist pukes in this neck a’ the woods,” Champ explained. “Fuckin’ vile.” 

“Damn, and here I was hopin’ we’d get to enjoy a drink while we investigated…” Soap said. 

Laswell sighed. “Of course it is. Doesn’t surprise me. We suspect that’s where the Ultranationalists are meeting. We need you three to go in there and—”

“Hell naw.” Champ shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ in there. Sorry, fellas. No can do.” 

The soldiers looked at him, Soap sympathetic, Ghost unreadable. 

Laswell tried again, “It’d only be for—”

“Said I ain’t doin’ it. Ma’am.” Champ pushed off from the wall and leaned his palms on the table, shoulders hunched. “‘Cos if I do go in there, someone’s gonna bleed. I’ll keep an eye on things outside.” He regarded the other two in the room with narrowed eyes, watching them for any signs of argument. Neither of them had any. 

Another sigh over the phone broke the silence. “Fine,” Laswell said. She wasn’t going to try and fight him on this either. “That might actually be good, having a pair of eyes on the outside. Ghost, Soap, does that work for you?”

The soldiers perked up. “No arguments here,” Ghost answered. 

“Good. And boys? We’re not looking to have any bloodshed today. This is supposed to be recon only. For all of you.”

Ghost nodded. “Understood.”

Champ scoffed, but added no further comment. He snatched his sunglasses from where they sat on his hat and put them on. 

Laswell continued on with some more information, then dismissed them to prepare for the day.

–– –– ––

The bar wasn’t set to open until sixteen hundred, but, at Laswell’s suggestion, the three men went to scope the area out well in advance. 

Champ had driven them, his old truck inconspicuous without the giant trailer behind it. It blended in with every other old truck in Kentucky. Even still, they only drove past the bar twice, not wanting to risk any chance of suspicion. 

On the outside, it really didn’t look like anything special. The building was well-maintained. Its front wall was covered with wood pieces, meant to look like a cozy cabin in the woods. 

Just laying eyes on it set a fire in Champ’s gut. Soap grimaced as well, feeling a similar sentiment. Even Ghost kept clenching and unclenching his fists. 

None of them liked this. 

The only thing keeping Champ cool was the thought of watching those scumbag fucks through the scope of his rifle, envisioning their brains spraying against the walls of the establishment with the pull of his trigger. What a lovely image. He could only hope that he’d get to make it a reality soon.

They decided it best to park the truck in one of the back rows of a grocery store around the corner. Champ chose a spot where they had a clear view of the front door. The bar also had big glass windows out front, which worked well for Champ’s purpose. 

“Alright,” the cowboy said after a while, noisily slapping the steering wheel. “‘M gonna get up on the rooftop ‘cross the way. Scotty, hand me that case back there?” He pointed to a black hardcase in the back seat that housed his rifle—a military-grade bolt action sniper. 

“Bar doesn’t open for another three hours,” Ghost said, glancing at his watch. “Is it gonna take you that long to get set up?” 

“Naw,” Champ replied. Soap passed him the case, and he popped his door open to get out. “I’ll be ready n’ a few minutes. ‘M jus’ tired a’ waitin’ here.” 

“So you’re going to go wait… on a rooftop?” It was a question, but Ghost said it like a statement—one he was having trouble believing. 

Champ paused, thinking for a moment. “Mm… yep. Sounds ‘bout right.” He fished his car keys from his pocket and tossed them to Soap in the back seat. “If y’all wanna move to another spot, be my guest. Jus’ don’t get me a ticket or towed.” Case hiked up on his shoulder, the cowboy tipped his hat to the both of them, and jogged off towards the building he needed. Soap and Ghost watched after him until he disappeared in an alleyway, then exchanged glances. 

“Can’t seem to sit still,” Ghost commented. “Reminds me of someone else I know.” 

Soap shoved the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Oi. Be nice. You’re just mad he gave me the keys an’ not you.” It had been a deliberate move on the cowboy’s part, since Ghost was the one in the passenger’s seat, and Soap was in the back. Soap met Ghost’s stare with a smirk. “Don’t think he trusts you to drive.” 

“Ridiculous,” Ghost muttered. “Did you say somethin’ to him about my driving?” 

Soap held his hands up. “I would never—” 

“Johnny. ” Ghost turned in his seat to better face the Scot, eyes narrowed through the opening of his balaclava. Soap scooted back against his door, his smirk blooming into a grin. Ghost didn’t miss how he stashed the keys in his back pocket, out of immediate reach.

“I didn’t! Honest, sir! I’ve not said a word to him that you haven’t been privy to!” he defended. 

Ghost didn’t quite believe him. The further narrowing of his eyes said as much. But he righted himself in his seat, a sharp breath through his nose, and set his attention back on the bar. He could also see the building Champ would be using for overwatch—some Greek restaurant with a big, gaudy logo that extended well above its roof. It made for a good spot to conceal the barrel of a rifle. 

Three more hours.  

If they were lucky, they’d start to see some activity here soon—employees coming in to set up for the night. 

Soap settled into the back seat, making himself comfortable in the space. They were going to be at this for the rest of the day, and likely through much of the night, too, unless they got some new intel. Surveillance was always the boring part of these missions. Scouting on foot? That could be fun. But just waiting around all day, watching? 

He definitely understood why Champ dipped. Watching through a scope, going into the sniper mindset, felt different than this. He was half-tempted to find the cowboy and join him on the roof. 

Unfortunately, he knew that wouldn’t fly. They were going to have to go in that bar at some point tonight, and Ghost would stand out too much if he went in alone. Hell, he was already going to stand out as it was, even with Soap with him, but it was going to work better if they went together. Besides, the two of them could plant bugs in the place more efficiently, without arousing any suspicion. 

“All set up over here,” Champ’s voice came in through their comms. 

Soap leaned into his mic, “Good view?” 

Champ lay out on the rooftop in sniper’s prone, with a light blanket covering him to protect from the blazing sun. Situated inconspicuously behind the big “O” of the restaurant’s sign, he peered through his scope into the bar. From his vantage point, he could read the labels of the various bottles on the shelves. “Oh yeah. I can see just ‘bout everythin’ in the main bar. Hate t’ see it, but they got a pretty decent selection a’ whiskey. Some good vodka… Shit gin selection… An’ that tequila is just sad.” 

“What kind of bourbon?” Ghost asked. If they were going to have to go in there and play nice with a bunch of Nazis, he might as well get a good drink out of it if he could. 

Champ hummed, skimming the labels. “I’d suggest goin’ for the Bison Sketch or the Creator’s Stroke. Ooh, they got Logtown Supply too.” 

“Not bad,” Ghost noted. 

“What about Scotch?” Soap interjected. 

Another hum and pause. “Nothin’ too impressive as far as scotch goes,” Champ answered. “Sorry, Scotty.” 

“Can’t win ‘em all, I suppose,” Soap said. 

Over the next hour, Champ leaned off of his comm and fell silent. As was par for the course with the two soldiers, Soap did most of the talking to fill the time, with Ghost offering commentary here and there. Soap, at one point, remembered the muffin from their breakfast earlier, and shared it with his lieutenant. 

Another hour in, and the skies darkened with rain clouds. Distant thunder rumbled. The first fat drop hit the windshield with an audible splat, and then the ensuing downpour crashed down upon the town. 

“Hell’s bells…” Soap muttered, leaning forward to peer up at the sky through the windshield. He glanced at Ghost, a twinkle in his eye. 

“Don’t fuckin’ say it,” the Brit warned. 

“What? Wasnae gonna say a thing, LT.” But the grin spreading across his face told them both exactly what he was thinking. 

It’s pishin’ it doon oot there.

Ghost sighed, suppressing an eyeroll, and pressed his comm. “Champ, how copy?”

There was a pause that lasted just long enough that Ghost opened his mouth, ready to ask again, but the country twang came through. “Solid. Still no movement.”

“You must be gettin’ soaked,” Soap said. “You doing okay up there?”

“Peachy,” the cowboy replied. “Rain’s a nice relief from the heat. It’ll pass in a few minutes, though. Don’t you worry ‘bout me.” 

The soldiers exchanged glances, then shrugged in mutual acceptance. 

As predicted, the rain did fizzle out within the next ten minutes, the gray of the skies splitting apart to let the mid-afternoon rays of sunshine filter back through. The air was ripe with the smell of petrichor. The fine citizens of Lexington continued on as normal, shaking out and stowing their umbrellas. 

It wasn’t until just before three thirty that something noteworthy finally happened. From their stakeout spot, Soap and Ghost spotted the silver sedan that pulled into the bar’s parking lot. It took the turn a little too quickly, and pulled into a far parking space a little crooked. A frazzled-looking woman rushed out and, after fumbling with her keys, unlocked the bar doors and slipped inside. Champ watched her through his scope until she disappeared somewhere in the back, beyond his view. 

“Guessin’ that’s the bartender,” he reported. “She must be runnin’ late.” 

“Sloppy,” Ghost said. Champ hummed in agreement. 

The interior lights flicked on, illuminating the bar with a dingy orange glow. The woman reappeared after a few minutes, an apron tied around her waist and her hair pulled up in a messy bun. Champ kept an eye on her as she moved about the bar, setting the space up for tonight’s business. She had some tattoos, he noticed, but he couldn’t see any outwardly Nazi-like symbols. Just normal tattoos. Of course, there was always the possibility that she kept any vile imagery concealed; Champ didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse. 

Probably worse, he decided. He’d prefer to recognize a Nazi from afar, rather than let them get in close.

By the time four o’clock rolled around, the woman had the bar set up, all the lights and signs on, and the doors unlocked. She was efficient, if nothing else, having opened the whole establishment by herself in half an hour. 

Right on the hour, another vehicle pulled into the parking lot, taking up the space right in front. It was a black, oversized, obnoxiously-lifted truck. Champ felt a twinge of annoyance at how it partially obstructed his view into the bar. The man that stepped out was a burly fellow in a patch-covered denim vest. A Confederate flag was sewn onto the back, spanning the width of the man’s shoulders. Champ sighed, eyes narrowing. 

“First confirmed piece of shit,” he noted. “Fuckin’ idiot.” He shifted his rifle, settling the crosshair on the back of the man’s skull. It would be so easy… 

But no. Not now. Killing this one now would not only compromise the mission, landing him in hot water with Nikolai and Laswell, but it would also tip off any other fascist shitbags and ward them away. It was better to let them feel safe, gather together, and then… 

“Easy, Champ,” Ghost chided, as if reading his mind. 

Yeah, yeah. 

The man stepped behind the bar to chat with the bartender. She seemed at ease with his presence, her body language relaxed and friendly. It only soured Champ’s image of her more. 

“‘M thinkin’ he works here too. Manager or another bartender or somethin’.”  His money was on the former; this place didn’t look big enough to necessitate two bartenders—certainly not on a Monday night. “When’re you boys gettin’ in there?” 

“Probably should soon, aye? Before too many people show up,” Soap said. The less eyes on them, the better. And the sooner they got the bugs set, the more conversations they could snoop on. 

Ghost grunted in agreement. He tugged off his balaclava and quickly threw on a black surgical mask in its place, then donned a plain black baseball cap. Flipping the sun visor down to access the mirror, he pulled out a wipe from his pack and swiped it across his eyes, clearing off the greasepaint as best he could. By the time the wipe was saturated in black, he still had dark smudges smeared across his face. He pulled out another one with a grumble, but a hand on his shoulder gave him pause. In the mirror, Soap’s blue-gray eyes met his. He held his hand out for the wipe, silently offering his help. Ghost thought it over for a moment, then passed the wipe and turned to face Soap. The sergeant smiled and scooted in close, gently cleaning up the smears of black that lingered around Ghost’s eyes. Once he was finished, he gave Ghost’s clean, lightly-freckled cheek a pat and leaned back. 

“Good to go, LT.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Didn’t think you’d take that off,” Soap said, nodding to the balaclava on the center console. 

Ghost grimaced, the movement creasing the skin around his eyes just so. “Had a change of heart. Figured it’d help me blend in better.” 

“Aye, because you blend in so well as is.” There was a tease in his tone that Ghost allowed himself to rise to. 

“I could always put it back on. Brought some eyeblack with me—” 

“No, no,” Soap said quickly, his lips pulled in a grin, “let me enjoy this.” 

Ghost scoffed and rolled his eyes, but there was some humor in his demeanor, albeit slight. Still, he had half a mind to tell the sergeant that this wasn’t for him. It was for the mission. 

“Fellas?” Champ interrupted. Ghost felt a pang of alarm, and checked his mic, then Soap’s. They were cold. Champ hadn’t heard any of that. 

“What?” Ghost answered. “You see somethin’?”

“Naw, not yet. Y’all just didn’t give me an answer.” 

Ah. Ghost twisted around to reach for a bag in the back seat, and pulled out a little pouch containing the bugs. He dumped some of them into his palm, then handed the rest to Soap. “Settin’ up the bugs now,” he said, “then we’ll go in. Sit tight.” 

“Roger that.” Not like he had plans to go anywhere for the next several hours still. “Make sure ya lock my truck up when ya leave.” 

Ghost grabbed a case from the bag that housed a computer and harddrive, to which the bugs were synced. He pressed one of the headphones to his ear and switched on one of the bugs, giving it a few taps. A dull thumping noise rang through the speaker. Soap repeated the test with one of his bugs. 

“Sounds good,” he confirmed. “Champ, we’re headin’ in.” 

“Copy. I’ll be watchin’ from out here.” 

Soap hopped out first, and gave himself a pat down to make sure his comms and his concealed firearm were hidden. Ghost followed suit, shrugging on his jacket to cover up the holster at his side. He still stuck out like a sore thumb, of course, being as hulking as he was, and wearing jeans and a jacket in the Kentucky summer heat, but at least he didn't have the balaclava to make him more conspicuous. 

Soap made sure the truck was locked, then trotted up to Ghost’s side, and the two of them made for the bar. Before crossing the street, Soap glanced over his shoulder, spotting the barrel of a sniper rifle peeking out through the big O of the restaurant’s logo. He gave a subtle nod, pleased to know that they had someone watching over them. 

Ghost pulled the door open, a chime overhead ringing to announce their presence. The two workers stopped mid conversation to stare him and Soap down as they stepped in and took up seats near the end of the bar. They exchanged glances, then the woman approached with a friendly, albeit nervous smile. 

“Welcome in, gentlemen. What can I get’cha today?” she asked. Her accent was similar, but not identical to Champ’s. It wasn’t quite as… charming. 

The fact that she was a bartender in a Nazi bar wasn’t helping either. 

Scanning the selection of liquors, Ghost decided on a glass of Bison’s Sketch on the rocks. Soap, after frowning at the scotches available, settled for a glass of Creator’s Stroke, also on the rocks. 

The bartender poured their drinks, and Ghost passed her a few bills to cover the tab. 

“Never seen you two in here before,” she said, eyeing the two of them with cautious curiosity. “Y’all don’t sound like you’re from ‘round here either.” 

“Good ear,” Soap said, taking a sip of his drink. Bourbon wasn’t his favorite, but it was drinkable. He swallowed it down without complaint. “UK.” 

“Ah,” the bartender said. “Brits.” 

Over their comms, Champ snorted. The soldiers had their mics on, so he could hear everything they heard. 

“Close enough,” Soap said, forcing his jaw to move so he didn’t speak through his teeth. 

“Lots of foreigners comin’ in this week,” she mused. She shot her coworker a glance, “But the other fellas that’ve been comin’ in—they’re all Ruskies, ain’t they? Wonder if we’ll see ‘em again tonight…”

Ghost, Soap, and Champ all perked up, though the two soldiers did so subtly, so as not to tip off the civilians.

The other man shrugged. The bartender returned to Ghost and Soap. Mostly Soap, since he was the one willing to engage in conversation. “What brings y’all to Kentucky?”

Soap held up his glass of bourbon and put on a grin for the lady. “What else? This is Bourbon County, no?” 

Ghost stood up suddenly, startling the bartender. “The loo?” he asked. She stared back at him, confused. “Restroom,” he clarified. 

“Oh. Down the hall, to the right,” she said, jabbing a thumb in that direction. Ghost nodded and disappeared, hands in his hoodie pockets. The bartender shot Soap a bewildered look, brows raised. “Your friend’s a bit strange.”

It was Soap’s turn to snort. “Och, he’s a wee softie once ya get to know ‘im,” he said. In his ear, Ghost growled a warning, and Champ chuckled. 

In the bathroom, after Ghost finished up his business—which he did turn his mic off for—he stuck one of the bugs under the sink. This one, he assumed, would just record a bunch of pissing and shitting, but it didn’t hurt to bug the place just in case someone decided to have an important conversation in the loo. 

Outside of the restroom, Ghost noticed a small lounge area, and a couple of closed doors beyond. Switching his mic back on, he asked, “Champ, everyone still up front?”

“Yessir,” the cowboy answered. 

“Soap, keep ‘em busy. I’m gonna snoop.” He didn’t wait for an answer, knowing Soap couldn't give him one anyway—and silently stepped up to the first door. He pressed his ear to the wood, listening for any signs of life beyond. As expected, he couldn't hear anyone. The doorknob was locked, though, which presented a bit of a problem. 

“Anyone know how to pick a lock?” 

“Sure,” Champ answered. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a lock pick?” 

“Negative.” 

Champ hummed. “Some sort of multi-tool?” 

“I have several knives,” the lieutenant said bluntly. 

A heavy sigh left the cowboy’s lungs. “Alright… might have’ta brute strength it a lil’ bit. Use a knife with a tip that curves upward…” 

It took a couple of tries and, as Champ suggested, a bit of brute strength, but Ghost managed to jimmy the lock and gain access to the room. Or rather, access to a stairwell that led downward. 

“Looks like a basement,” Ghost reported. 

“Hurry up, LT…” Soap muttered through his teeth, “These two are gettin’ suspicious.” 

Right on cue, the bartender spoke up: “Your friend okay? He’s been gone a while.” She frowned at Ghost’s drink, untouched and half melted. “His bourbon’s all watered down…”

“Aw, y’know, he was complainin’ of stomach pain just before we walked in. I’ll give him another…” Soap glanced at his watch, “ three minutes. If he’s not back, I’ll go check on him.” 

Three minutes. Plenty of time. Ghost was already down the stairs, but he paused at the bottom, a little taken aback. “Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered. It was a storage room, the shelves lined with extra bottles of booze and paper products. But it was also a den of sorts, with a small table in the middle, and Nazi and Confederate iconography all over the walls. Disgust stirred deep in his gut. “If there are any secret meetings happenin’ in this place, they’d be down here.” 

“Hurry and bug it then,” Soap urged. “Gonna have to break a glass if you take much longer.” 

Ghost placed two bugs: one under the table, and another behind the big, ugly flag with a swastika on it. Just touching the damn thing sickened him, but he kept his complaints to himself, and quickly made his exit up the stairs. He closed the door behind him, smoothed out his hoodie, and put a hand to his stomach as he strolled back into the front bar area, selling the look of someone that had recently suffered from some gastrointestinal distress. He discretely stuck another bug to the underside of the countertop as he passed.

“There ya are, ya dobber!” Soap exclaimed, grinning wide. “Feel better?” 

Ghost played along with a grunt of affirmation and took his seat. He stared down at the watery mess that was his bourbon, brows furrowed. “Should have ordered after…” he mumbled. 

The bartender reached across and plucked Ghost’s drink up, startling him. “Let me get that for ya, darlin’,” she said, dumping and repouring the drink. “Want it served up this time, in case you have another emergency?” 

“Cheers, that'd be lovely,” Ghost said, forcing politeness into his tone. It sounded unnatural—at least to Soap and Champ. The bartender didn't seem to notice, though. 

���Y’know, you don’t gotta wear that in here,” she said, gesturing to the mask on Ghost’s face. “We never enforced the mandate.” 

Of course they hadn’t.  

Ghost took his new drink and lifted his mask from the chin with that same hand to take a sip, all while maintaining eye contact and keeping his lower face obscured. He swallowed the bourbon down, its smoky sweetness warming his mouth. 

“Personal preference,” he said simply. 

The woman shrugged her shoulders and let it be. 

Soap waited until she walked away from them, then knocked his shoulder lightly to the Brit’s. “What’d ya see down there?” he asked, voice low. 

“Lots’a evil,” Ghost answered. He took another sip of his drink. “ Definitely a Nazi bar.” 

“Is that fuckin’—” Champ’s voice cut in over their comms, almost a yell— “ Rage Against the Machine?!” Soap winced at the sudden outburst, and pushed a finger subtly to his ear. 

The other worker—the man in the vest—had turned on the juke box situated in the back corner. Sure enough, “Sleep Now In the Fire” blared through the speakers. 

“They’re playing Rage,” the cowboy said, his jaw slack in disbelief, “in a Nazi bar. I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.” 

“Calm down,” Ghost growled in warning. “Or get off the comms.” 

“Not even a hint of irony…” he grumbled, but resigned himself to continue his seething in silence. 

Soap finished off his bourbon and set the glass down with a loud clink. The bartender regarded him with a brow raised, presenting him with a silent question. He leaned forward, squinting at the liquor bottles behind her, his lips pursed thoughtfully. 

“Got any other scotch?” he asked. 

The bartender turned to look at the scotch present. “Pretty sure this is it,” she said. “Thought you said you came here for the bourbon.”

“Aye,” Soap conceded, lips pulled in a charming smile as he idly swirled the large ice cube in his empty glass. “But I’m feelin’ a little homesick. Sure ya don’t have anything in the back?” 

Ghost caught on to what he was doing. He took another sip of his drink and watched in silence. Maybe if he stared hard enough, he could unsettle the lady into cooperating.

The bartender frowned. “Think that’s all we got…” She caught on to Ghost’s stare, and shifted uncomfortably. “But, uh… sure, I can go look…” 

She shuffled away, disappearing down the hall. The man remained in place for a moment, then followed her after he too caught Ghost’s stare. Ghost watched after him, and saw him slip into the second door—the one Ghost hadn’t gotten to explore. It looked like an office, from the momentary glimpse he caught before the door closed. 

“Mean mug ya got there, Spooky,” Champ said. Ghost grunted, turning his gaze out the front windows. To most, it sounded like a noncommittal noise, but Soap recognized the hint of smugness buried under the gravel. 

There was something truly satisfying about making Nazis squirm without even needing to lay a hand on them. Ghost still wanted to bash their heads in, of course, but that wasn’t in the game plan tonight. Unfortunately. 

Now that they were alone in the bar, Soap wasted no time. He stood up and made a beeline for the lounge to stick a bug behind one of the frames hanging on the wall. He looked around, thinking if he should place another one and where, when he noticed some particularly unsettling posters. Lots of numbers. Dog whistles. Glaringly loud, to someone familiar with them, but innocuous enough at a glance to any poor sap that may mistakenly wander into the bar. 

“Fuckin’ filth back there,” he muttered, returning to his seat. Ghost hummed in agreement, his stare now directed to the bourbon left in his glass. “This place makes my skin crawl.” 

“Y’all are doin’ great,” Champ said. “Holdin’ up better n’ I would, that’s for sure.” 

“Kinda wish you were in here,” Soap replied, “to provoke ‘em, then we could get our hands dirty.” 

The cowboy laughed dryly. “If only. When I tell you my trigger finger’s itchin’ like I got a fire ant in my glove…” 

Ghost shushed them with a sharp hiss. The bartender walked back in a second later, empty-handed. “Sorry, darlin’,” she said, leaning her hands on the counter in front of Soap. “Only scotch we got’s what ya see.” 

Soap pushed a frown, head lolling dramatically to the side to exaggerate his disappointment. “Aw, that’s a shame. Guess I’ll have another a’ this.” He swirled his empty glass, then pushed it forward for the bartender to refill. Ghost finished the last of his drink, then wordlessly asked for a refill of his own, which the bartender obliged. 

Together, they sipped at their new drinks, making casual conversation as they subtly surveyed the empty bar. The bartender, upon recognizing that her attention was not currently needed, settled at the far end of the bar with her phone. The other man was still locked away in the office. It would have been nice to get a bug in there, but it was seeming less and less likely that there would be any opportunity to make that happen. 

Champ kept his vigil, watching steadily through his scope. His wet blanket and clothes were starting to feel a little uncomfortable against his skin, but he paid it no mind. It was nice when a breeze passed over him, graciously wicking away some of the heat bearing down on him. 

Another vehicle—a black sedan, not luxury, but not exactly cheap either—pulled into the bar’s parking lot, taking up a space on the side of the building. Champ tried to peer in through the windows, but they were tinted too dark for him to get a good look inside. 

“Incoming,” he mumbled into his comm. “Three fellas.” He swept his crosshair over all of them as they stepped out of the car and approached the door. They all had blazers and jeans on, but Champ did catch a glimpse at a hand tattoo. A Russian flag, and some writing that he couldn’t catch. “At least one of ‘em’s Russian. An’ all of ‘em are packin’.” 

The three men walked into the bar, pausing momentarily as they noticed Ghost and Soap seated at the counter. The two soldiers pretended not to pay them any mind. 

“My god… that fucker is huge…!” one of them said in Russian, garnering a few snickers from his companions. 

“Americans. What do they put in their food to make such a big man?” another commented. Champ snorted at that one. 

Ghost had a distinct and familiar feeling that he was the topic of conversation, despite the language barrier. A low, quiet growl settled in the back of his throat. 

“They think you’re American, Spooky,” Champ supplied, which made Ghost growl louder, offended. “Marvelin’ at how big ya are.” 

“I’ve killed for lesser insults,” the Brit grumbled, to the amusement of Soap and Champ. 

The bartender, having put her phone down, stepped up and greeted the three newcomers with a smile. She spoke with a sense of familiarity, welcoming them back in. They must have been the Russians she’d mentioned earlier. The men returned the greeting and ordered their drinks, then settled at a table in the back lounge. Between the distance and the music on the jukebox, the soldiers couldn’t hear them well—not that they had any idea what they’d be saying anyway. 

Champ, however, pulled out one of his earbuds and popped in another, connected to the bugs. He cycled through the channels until he found the bug nearest them—the one Soap had placed under the frame in the lounge—and listened in. It didn’t matter too much, since everything was being recorded anyway, but he listened regardless. It might save them some processing and administrative time with Laswell later. 

“Don’t recognize any of ‘em,” Soap noted, and Ghost agreed with a nod. 

“Nor I,” Champ replied. His earlier amusement was gone, tone now stony and serious. “But one of ‘em just mentioned somethin’ about a meetin’ happenin’ later on tonight. Got a good feelin’ these bastards’ll lead us to somethin’ good.” Which meant, unfortunately, that he had to leave even more patrons of the Nazi bar alive. For now.  

Soap pulled out his phone and sent off a text to the secure group chat Laswell had set up earlier. Members included herself, Price, Nikolai, Champ, Ghost, and him.

>> Bugs set. >> Got three Russians in here talking about a meeting later.

laswell << Understood. We’ll be monitoring the bugs from here on out. << Good work, gentlemen. You can leave when ready. We’ll let you know if anything comes up.

Ghost glanced over the messages, one brow quirked, then downed the rest of his drink and dropped another couple of bills on the counter. Soap followed suit, trailing after the lieutenant, out of the bar without so much as a goodbye to the bartender. 

“All done?” Champ asked. Ghost looked up, scanning the gaudy balloon letters for the cowboy’s rifle. 

“Affirmative,” he grunted. “Laswell’s takin’ over from here.” 

Champ hummed thoughtfully. “Think I’m gonna stick around for a while longer,” he said after a moment. “See who’s comin’ to this meetin’. Y’all can head out if you want to, though.” 

Soap and Ghost exchanged glances. While Soap wasn’t thrilled with the prospect of another several hours of stakeout duty, he couldn’t deny his own curiosity regarding the meeting. He nodded to Ghost, then replied, “We’ll stay too. Got nothin’ better to do.” 

“Sounds good. Move my truck though, will ya? It’s been there for a hot minute.” 

Soap agreed, and led the way back to the grocery store parking lot where they’d left the truck. He climbed into the driver’s seat and, after adjusting it to accommodate his larger size, shoved the keys into the ignition. Blessed AC blasted from the vents, immediately staving off the suffocating heat in the cabin. 

Ghost lingered outside, staring across the street to the rooftop Champ was on. 

“All good, LT?” Soap asked, rolling down the window. 

“You move the truck,” he said, “I’m gonna check up on the Yank.” He strode off before the Scot could answer, following in Champ’s earlier footsteps to the restaurant. There was a ladder in the alleyway at the back of the building that he scaled, bringing him to the roof. Champ’s location wasn’t immediately obvious, the cowboy having taken some measures to hide himself behind some discarded crates. As Ghost approached, he spotted the wide-brimmed hat first. The rest of him, laid out in sniper’s prone, was hidden under his still-damp blanket. 

Then Ghost heard a click. It was a familiar noise. Too familiar. He stiffened immediately, before realizing that it had come from under the blanket. The cowboy hat was turned slightly in his direction.

Ah yes, he’d neglected to inform Champ that he was coming up, and he’d essentially, albeit unintentionally, just snuck up on him. While he was lying down, no less. 

“At ease, Marine,” he growled. (Marine. Not soldier. He knew that American servicemembers, former or otherwise, could be tetchy about their branch and their titles.) “It’s just me.”

The cowboy hat tipped down, a sigh escaping from under it. “Heavens to Betsy, Spooky, don’t fuckin’ do that.” There was another click—this time, the sound of a pistol decocking under the blanket. Champ’s figure visibly relaxed as he turned his attention back to his scope. “I was two seconds from shootin’ ya, I suwanne.” 

(Who the fuck was Betsy? Suwanne? Christ, he was just as incomprehensible as Soap.) 

Ghost huffed and stepped up to Champ, taking a knee at his side. “I’d have been on top of you in one.” 

“Bullshit. I had at least three.”

“Hmn.” He called his own bullshit, but didn’t press the matter. “Move,” he said, nudging Champ’s ribs with his knuckles. 

The cowboy tensed, head whipping around first to Ghost’s hand, then up to his face. His eyebrows shot up over his sunglasses, surprised to see Ghost still in his “civilian” mask, but he didn’t comment on it. “Wha…?” 

“Give us a look,” the Brit clarified. “Take a break.” 

“Don’t need a break. ’M good.” 

“Not askin’.” He nudged again, a bit harder this time. “Move over.” 

Champ still didn’t move. “Five minutes.” 

“Thirty.”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

For a second, Ghost thought that Champ was going to argue with him some more. And Champ wanted to. He side-eyed the lieutenant, lips pressed together under his bandana, then reluctantly shuffled away from the rifle. The whole front side of his clothes was just as wet as the back, but from sweat, rather than rain water. It was a bloody hot day, same as yesterday. 

Ghost took up the space behind the rifle, settling in with practiced ease, and peered through the scope. He could see the bartender and the other man back behind the bar, and one of the Russian men leaned against the counter. 

“They sayin’ anythin’ interestin’?” Ghost asked. 

Champ tilted his head, listening in on the lounge bug where the other two Russians continued their conversation. “Nah… talkin’ about their recent sexploits. The other fella, though…” He switched around until he was listening though the bugs in the front bar, so he could hear what the first Russian and the bar staff were saying. 

And his face blanched. 

Ghost glanced back over his shoulder, one brow lifted. 

“Ain’t that—...” Trailing off, Champ fished out his phone and rapidly typed into the group chat.

>> the name LASKIN ring any bells? >> that’s an idaho congressman, yeah? 

“Champ, what’s goin’ on?” Ghost prompted. 

“Might have just gotten a name.” 

Laswell sent a response. 

LASWELL << Harold Laskin. US Representative from Idaho, yes.

>> mmk. one of these russians just namedropped

LASWELL << We won’t know if it’s him for sure until he shows up. If he does at all.

“Champagne, report,” Ghost ordered. He would check the chat himself, but someone had to keep an eye on the bar front. 

“Sorry—” Champ stowed his phone and pushed a hand under his hat, through his hair. “The bastard in front mentioned that someone named Laskin would be around later for a meeting. Laskin’s also the name of a Representative from Idaho.” He scowled under his bandana and shook his head in disgust. “Fuckin’ nasty piece a’ shit. Ultraconservative. Racist, misogynistic, homophobic, transphobic—the works.” 

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes. He dragged the crosshair over the Russian man still leaning against the bar, then the two workers. This new information didn’t exactly confirm that the staff were privy to the Ultranationalist plot—hell, there wasn’t any hard evidence yet that there was an Ultranationalist plot unfolding in this bar—but things were not looking good for them. For any of them. 

“I’m stayin’ right here tonight,” Champ said. “Gonna keep a look out. See if I can get a visual confirmation.” 

“Laswell can get confirmation from the bugs.” 

“No such thing as too much evidence,” Champ replied. And Ghost couldn’t argue with that. 

“Oi,” Soap’s voice cut in over the comms, “I’m parkin’ down the street at a pharmacy. You boys gettin’ along up there?” 

Champ answered before Ghost could, “Yep. Like white on rice, the two a’ us.” 

Neither Ghost nor Soap responded immediately, neither of them knowing what exactly that saying meant. Their confusion made Champ chortle. 

“I’m gonna assume that’s good,” Soap said eventually. “So ya think this Laskin guy’s the government official we’re chasin’?”

“He fits the bill,” Champ replied. “Definitely wouldn’t be surprised, given the shit he says on the regular.” He searched the Representative up on his phone and skimmed over an article about him. “His district’s up north, in one a’ the reddest parts of the Redoubt.” 

He went on to explain what exactly the “Redoubt” was, and some talking points and policies the Idaho Rep often spewed. It left the soldiers with bitter tastes in their mouths and a burning in their guts. How someone like that could be elected into government was beyond any of them. 

Ghost made a disparaging comment on the state of the American government, but Soap chimed in to remind him of the UK’s political turmoil as well. None of them had any room to speak, and yet all the room to speak. 

Kettle calling the pot black, or whatever. 

The topic of Champ’s life in the US came up, as it naturally would, but the cowboy just scoffed. 

“Oh, I don’t live here,” he said with a shake of his head. “I live in St. Petersburg.” 

“In Russia?” Ghost watched him in his peripherals, a little surprised. 

“Yeah. I mean, that’s where my boss lives. An’ they got free healthcare. Sure, it’s got plenty a’ problems of its own, but…” he shrugged his shoulders. “Ain’t too bad. ‘Cept the winters. Russian winters’re miserable.” Just the thought sent a shiver up his spine. 

“That explains why you speak the language,” Soap said. “Dual citizenship?” 

“Naw. Got a work visa.” Champ glanced down at his watch, then looked over at Ghost, still prone with the rifle. “Alright, Spooky, my break’s over. Up an’ at ‘em.” 

Ghost didn’t stir yet. Instead, he addressed Soap, “Sergeant, we’re gonna keep a lookout for a while longer.” 

A groan filtered in through the comm, the Scot none-too-happy about this news. “How much longer?”

“Until we see who this Laskin bloke is.” 

Champ frowned. “Y’all don’t gotta stay. I can do this on my own.” 

“And leave you without backup?” Ghost huffed. “Better yet, leave you alone with that itchy trigger finger? Don’t think so.” 

An offended noise left the cowboy’s lips. “'Ey! I don’t need a goddamn babysitter, a’right?” He moved in, pushing a hand to Ghost’s shoulder to encourage him to move. The Brit stiffened, muscles going rigid, like a wall of stone. Champ froze much in the same way. Ghost’s eyes slid away from the scope, down to that hand, then up to Champ’s face. 

Most people didn’t touch him if they could avoid it. Only Johnny dared to lay his hands on him. Sometimes Price. 

Champ kept the contact for a heartbeat more, then pulled his hand back, but he remained nearby. “Fifteen minutes,” he said, voice firm and unwavering, even under Ghost’s scrutiny. “We agreed, right? It’s been nearly twenty.” 

A noise behind them made the cowboy flinch, his gun out of its holster and cocked with a flash. Ghost tensed further, his shoulders tight, ready to swing the sniper rifle around in an instant if he needed to. 

From behind the lip of the roof, where the ladder hung over the edge, a dark tuft of hair popped up. A second later, Soap peered over the ledge, blue eyes wide and curious. Champ breathed out and decocked his firearm for the second time today. Ghost didn’t ease, though, until he heard the Scot’s voice call out. 

“Hello?” 

In lieu of a verbal response, Champ waved his hand to indicate where they were. Soap quickly made his way to them, three bottles of cold water in hand. He handed one to Champ, who graciously accepted, and set another down next to Ghost. 

In his earlier eagerness to get set up, Champ had neglected to bring his own water with him to the roof. He put his battle of wills with Ghost on pause for the moment while he cracked the lid open and took a few long swallows under his bandana. He gasped softly when he pulled the bottle away from his lips, the chill settling comfortably in his core. 

Damn, it was hot out. 

“‘Preciate ya, Scotty,” he said, offering his fist for Soap to knock with his own. “Now could ya please get your boy to shove off so I can have my gun back?” 

Soap looked between the two of them, his own bottle raised to his lips. He took a sip before speaking. “You hoggin’ the man’s rifle, LT?” 

Ghost grunted, neither confirming nor denying—but there really was no denying it. 

“Ghost…” Soap drawled, almost chiding. 

“How’s this,” the lieutenant said gruffly, “We take shifts. Two hours per.” It was not a request, so much as a compromise offered out of courtesy, but that didn’t stop Champ from trying to argue. 

“It’s my fuckin’—” 

Soap interrupted, “Aye, you just wanna stare at Nazis through that scope, don’t ya, LT?” 

His next grunt was definitely not a denial. “Can’t let the Yank have all the fun,” he mused. 

Champ let out a frustrated groan, and anger-chugged another few gulps of water. He checked his watch, petty enough to deduct the twenty minutes Ghost had already stolen, and mentally noted when the shift change would be.

“Soap’s next,” Ghost replied flatly, as if reading Champ’s mind. “You already had four hours.” 

“Feels like you’re tryin’a pull rank,” he grumbled, glaring at the back of the lieutenant’s head. 

“Feel free to try and move me,” Ghost offered. And Champ was tempted. He really was. 

Luckily for all of them, though, one of the Russians inside mentioned an important word: Ultranationalist. 

Or maybe it wasn’t so lucky. Champ lunged, shoving at Ghost’s shoulder again with more fervor. “Move move move—” Taken by surprise, Ghost did roll onto his side, moving just enough for the cowboy to slip in under him and stare through the scope. 

“Bloody hell, what—?” Ghost snapped, unhappy to be virtually lying on top of Champ. 

“Confirmed they’re Ultranationalists,” Champ said. “They jus’ said so. I heard ‘em.” He scoured the bar, and growled when he couldn’t see any of the Russian men. Only the bartender remained in the front. Everyone else must have retreated into the lounge. 

A heavy hand clamped down on the back of Champ’s harness, threatening to yank. It ignited a feral instinct in Champ’s gut. The cowboy snarled and shoved the hand off of him, his body tense, ready to retaliate. 

“‘Ey!” Soap cut in, shuffling closer before things could escalate. “Let’s calm down, a’right?” He held his hands up to placate the both of them. Few and far between were the times when Soap was the calming voice of reason. “Champ, settle down.” 

Play nice. Champ dropped his head, closed his eyes, and took a breath to steady himself. He reminded himself that he was supposed to work with the SAS. No fighting, per Nikolai’s very strict instruction. They were on the same side. They were working together. Allies, and all that.

He was fine. He was good. Water under the bridge. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Champ said, his voice calm and collected. He put on a smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the skin beyond the rim of his glasses. “Jus’ got… excited.” He scooted out from under Ghost and sat back up, hands swiping down his clothes to dust off any dirt. Ghost settled back into place behind the rifle, unfazed and unperturbed. 

Soap reached over, hesitating for a moment to pat Champ’s chest. Neutral territory. Not aggressive. “All good?” 

“Dandy,” he said. He pressed his earbud into his ear, tuning back into the Russian conversation. Their voices were hushed now, but the bug could still hear them. “They’re discussin’ what the meetin’ might be about. Guess they don’t know yet.” 

“That goes for all of us,” Ghost said. “Let’s hope this Laskin bloke shows up soon so we can find out.” 

Over the next few hours, things stayed relatively quiet. At around eighteen hundred, more people started to filter into the bar. Some of them showed their filthy politics more freely than others on their skin, their clothes. When Soap got a turn behind the rifle, he entertained himself with the thought of wiring the place up with explosives and blowing it to shit with all the Nazi and Ultranationalist fucks inside. 

Oh, how he loved it when he got to utilize his demolitions expertise. It wasn’t nearly often enough, in his opinion. 

As tidbits of information came in through the bugs, Champ updated the group chat. Sure, Laswell had her team also listening in on her end, but Champ figured he was faster, being able to translate and relay directly. She didn’t complain. 

By the time Champ (finally) got his turn with the rifle— his goddamn rifle!—again, the sun was sinking in the sky. As he settled down behind the scope, he let his mind clear and shift back into the sniper mindset. Calm. Focused. Alert. 

He could have done this by himself. A few hours spent in sniper’s prone was nothing compared to the days-long stretches he’d pulled in the past. But… despite the tense moment in the beginning there, and his reluctance to accept help, he found he didn’t mind the company. He’d spoken the truth last night when he’d told Nikolai that he liked these SAS fellas. 

He and Soap got along well. They were chatty, perhaps to Ghost’s annoyance. They talked easily. Bantered. 

Hell, Ghost even told one of his trademark jokes, which Champ got a kick out of. Soap, not so much, but the Scot still had an amused twinkle in his eye as he criticized Ghost’s shit humor. 

Another vehicle pulled into the bar’s steadily-filling parking lot. The fact that it was filling at all disgusted Champ, but he’d long-since resigned himself to swallow the anger and focus on the mission. This new vehicle stood out amongst the others in the lot. It was a high-end luxury model. Something expensive. Champ settled his crosshairs over the window, and his breath caught in his throat. Inside was a pale, middle-aged man with short hair dyed brown, presumably to hide any grays. He had a sharp nose and a weak chin, puffy cheeks, thin eyebrows, beady eyes. He was a skinny man, his suit doing little to bulk up his frame.

He looked like a weasel. Fitting, given the approximate translation of his name. 

“Laskin’s here,” Champ growled. His trigger finger itched with a new ferocity, but he kept it still. “It’s the Rep.” 

“Wha—for real?” Soap leaned over Champ, peering through the giant O. “Holy shite… tha’s him a’right.” 

Ghost didn’t bother to look, trusting the other two to confirm it. Instead, he sent a message to the group chat.

>> Got a PID on Representative Laskin. He’s just arrived at the bar.

LASWELL << Understood.

PRICE << Do not engage, boys.

LASWELL << This is good. Pull back for now. We’ll monitor their conversations from here.

>> Roger.

“Laswell says to pull back,” Ghost relayed, stowing his phone. Soap turned his head around to look at Ghost, his brows furrowed. Champ remained where he was, watching the Rep enter the bar and disappear into the back. “There’s nothin’ we can do right now,” he continued. 

Fuckin’ bullshit. Champ clenched his teeth and glared through the scope. This sucked. Ghost was right—to an extent; they could definitely do something right now, but then they’d all likely end up on the run from the cops. They had their PID. Laswell was listening in. 

The three of them, right here, right now, were now effectively redundant. Their job was done until they got more intel.

“Puta madre,” he spat. Reluctantly, the cowboy pushed himself up to his knees and lifted his rifle. Practiced hands folded it up and stowed it away in its hardcase. 

They dropped down from the roof and discretely headed back to Champ’s truck. Soap, still having the keys, was given the okay to drive them back to Camp Sasha. Champ climbed into the back, lying down across all three seats, while Ghost took up shotgun. 

“You don’t trust me to drive?” Ghost asked, staring at the cowboy through the rearview. Champ met his gaze for just a moment, then tipped his hat down over his eyes as if to hide. 

“Never said that,” he said simply. Though true, it wasn’t a convincing answer. It wasn’t much of an answer at all.

“So let me drive,” the Brit pressed. He didn’t actually care to drive at this very moment, but this had been nagging at the back of his mind all day. Champ hummed a high, uneasy note. Ghost twisted in his seat to face him directly. “Who said somethin’ about my drivin’?”

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Spooky,” Champ said, retreating further under his hat. “No one’s said nothin’.” That almost sounded convincing. Soap snickered as he started the truck up. 

“Was it Soap?” 

“Oi—!” 

“Wasn’t no one,” the cowboy insisted. “Don’t get yourself in a tizzy. It ain’t nothin’.” 

Props to him for refusing to snitch under Ghost’s questioning. But the lieutenant was still annoyed. (And he still suspected Soap.) He was about to grill Champ more, but the man lurched suddenly, curling in around his middle with a groan. 

“Ah! Oh… fuck …” 

“Champ?” Soap glanced back, immediately concerned. 

“It’s a cramp. M fine,” Champ said, his voice a little strained. “Jus’... ah, fuck, I don’t think I’ve eaten’ anythin’ since…” he paused for a long moment to recall his last meal. “Shit. Before y’all got here, I think.” 

Soap damn-near slammed on the breaks, but he had a reputation as the good driver to uphold. That left Ghost to stare deadpan at the cowboy. 

“You fuckin’ jokin’?” he asked. Champ looked up, his brows furrowed behind his sunglasses. 

“Uh huh. Guess I forgot… It’s fine, though. I’ll—” 

“You forgot?” Ghost repeated dubiously. Fuckin’ hell. “‘Ow the fuck did you forget to eat for… over thirty two hours?” 

Champ could only shrug. “‘M fine. Just a cramp. I’ll eat when we get back to base.” 

Base was a half an hour drive away, though. Wordlessly, Ghost righted himself in his seat and searched up local restaurants on his phone. Truth be told, he needed to eat as well. Neither he nor Soap had had anything (other than bourbon and water) since the muffin several hours ago. 

“Chinese restaurant comin’ up on the right,” he instructed. Soap flicked on the turn signal and got over. Champ looked like he wanted to protest, but he thought better of it. He was hungry, after all. So he folded his arms behind his head and leaned back, making himself comfortable in the back seat. 

Once they pulled into the parking lot, Soap volunteered to go in and place the order. He was getting a sesame chicken, Ghost wanted a sweet and sour pork, and Champ opted for a Sichuan tofu, extra spicy. That earned him a couple of raised brows. 

“What?” he said, looking between the two soldiers. “ Trust me, I can handle spicy shit.”

“You vegetarian?” Soap asked. 

“Naw. I jus’ like tofu.” He hiked his hips up to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket, and handed the Scot a hundred-dollar bill. “Get some krab rangoons and some spring rolls too. No change.” 

Soap accepted the cash and, with their order in mind, strode into the restaurant to place it. He was back in a few minutes, the worker behind the counter having told him that he could wait in his vehicle if he wanted to. He and Ghost fell into idle chatter—Soap doing more of the chatter than Ghost—while Champ was happy to fall into a light doze in the back seat. 

Fifteen minutes later, a worker handed off their food through the driver-side window. The smell immediately made Champ perk up. His stomach let out a low growl, reinvigorated. Soap settled down the communal foods on the center console, then handed Ghost and Champ their individual meals. Champ, with chopsticks in hand, tore into his tofu like a ravenous, half-starved dog. Soap, despite having actually eaten that day, chowed down similarly, albeit with a fork. 

Ghost… hesitated. 

Soap noticed first, slowing his pace and swallowing his mouthful. He looked between Ghost and Champ, frowning. Awkward. “Er…” 

“It’s fine,” Ghost said. “I can wait.” 

Champ looked up, noticing Ghost’s untouched food. “Oh! Shit, sorry, here—” he shifted around and situated himself so that he wouldn’t be able to see the Brit’s face, his back pressed to the back of Ghost’s seat. “This work? Won’t peek, I promise.” 

Ghost still looked uncertain, but Soap gave him an encouraging nod. With some apprehension, Ghost pulled down his mask to eat. 

Like the mannerless military men they were, they each cleaned their takeout dishes in five minutes flat. The appetizers lasted a little bit longer, needing some negotiation on who got the fourth spring roll (Champ) and who got the last two rangoons (Soap and Ghost). 

Once all of the garbage was stuffed in the bag and Ghost’s mask was back in place, Champ stretched out as much as he could in the back seat with a satisfied sigh. 

“Good call, Spooky,” he said, not bothering to pull his bandana back up. His sunglasses had been replaced atop his hat, no longer needed with the sinking sun. “Only complaint’s that those workers pro’ly took one look at you, Scotty—” said Scot glanced at him in the rearview as he pulled out of the parking lot— “said ‘white European boy,’ an’ held back on makin’ the Sichuan really spicy.” 

Ghost and Soap snorted in unison. “Dunno what ya mean,” Soap defended, “yours was plenty spicy! My mouth is still burnin’! You tried it too, LT!”

The Brit shrugged. “Wasn’t that bad.” He was a liar and Soap knew it. Champ could tell too. Ghost, cursed with a British palate, had even less of a tolerance for spicy food; he just had a supernatural talent for enduring the pain. 

“Aw, off wit’ ya!” Soap groaned, slapping his lieutenant’s shoulder. 

The rest of the drive back was relatively quiet. Despite the day being recon only, the three men felt a familiar, tired weight tugging them down. Pretending to play nice with Nazis, and watching the bar for hours through the scope of a sniper rifle was exhausting. 

Rock and metal music spilled from the radio at a comfortable volume. Ghost eyed the screen when a band called “Ghost” popped up. Soap made a tongue-in-cheek comment about the lieutenant moonlighting as a singer. Ghost just rolled his eyes and turned to stare out of his window. 

“...Are you ready to swear right here, right now, before the devil…?”  

The band was okay. Not bad. A little uppity for metal. 

In the back seat, Champ was conked out. Having done most of the overwatch throughout the day, he was feeling the mental drain. His hat sat on his chest, sunglasses set on the brim. The soldiers let him be until they pulled up to the camp gate, then Soap reached back and tapped his shoulder. 

“Need your ID,” he said. Champ mumbled something unintelligible and fished the ID from his holster bag, handing it off to the Scot. Slowly he pushed himself up to sit, and stretched his back until it popped. 

“Drop me at the stables,” he said. “You can take the truck back to the hotel.” 

Soap nodded and turned down the road leading to the stables. “Give the ol’ mule a pat for me, yeah?” he said, slowing the truck to a stop. 

“Will do,” Champ said with a salute. Hat back on his head, he popped his door open, but paused before stepping out. “Ah.” He reached down in the footwell and grabbed the plushie Ghost had tossed back there earlier. “Don’t forget this, Spooky,” he said with a grin, dropping it into the Brit’s lap. 

“Fuck off,” Ghost grumbled, glaring down at the toy ghost. It smiled back at him, unfazed. 

Champ left them for the stables. Soap pulled back onto the road and drove them to the hotel. He left Champ’s keys with the front desk worker, then he and Ghost headed straight to their room. They both were in need of a shower, eager to scrub off the residue from that goddamn bar. 

Tomorrow, their work would continue.