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matcha3mochi · 11 days ago

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PROTOCOL Pairing: Doctor Zayne x Nurse Reader

author note: love and deepspace is my addiction guys LOL anyways enjoy!!

wc: 3,865

chapter 1 | chapter 2

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Akso Hospital looms in the heart of Linkon like a monument of glass, metal, and unrelenting precision. Multi-tiered, climate-controlled, and fully integrated with city-wide telemetry systems, it's known across the cosmos for housing the most advanced medical AI and the most exacting surgeons in the Union.

Inside its Observation Deck on Level 4, the air hums with quiet purpose. Disinfectant and filtered oxygen mix in sterile harmony. The floors are polished to a mirrored sheen, the walls pulse faintly with embedded biometrics, and translucent holoscreens scroll real-time vitals, arterial scans, and surgical priority tags in muted color-coded displays.

You’ve been on the floor since 0500. First to check vitals. First to inventory meds. First to get snapped at.

Doctor Zayne Li is already here—of course he is. The man practically lives in the operating theatres. Standing behind the panoramic glass that overlooks Surgery Bay Delta, he looks like something carved out of discipline and frost. His pristine long coat hangs perfectly from squared shoulders, gloves tucked with methodical precision, silver-framed glasses reflecting faint readouts from the transparent interface hovering before him.

He’s the hospital’s prized cardiovascular surgeon. The Zayne Li—graduated top of his class from Astral Medica, youngest surgeon ever certified for off-planet cardiac reconstruction, published more than any other specialist in the central systems under 35. There's even a rumor he once performed a dual-heart transplant in an emergency gravity failure. Probably true.

He’s a legend. A genius.

And an ass.

He’s never once smiled at you. Never once said thank you. With other staff, he’s distant but civil. With you, he’s something else entirely: cold, strict, and unrelentingly sharp. If you breathe wrong, he notices. If you hesitate, he corrects. If you do everything by protocol?

He still finds something to critique.

"Vitals on Bed 12 were late," he said this morning without even turning his head. No greeting. Just judgment, clean and surgical.

"They weren’t late. I had to reset the cuff."

"You should anticipate equipment failures. That’s part of the job."

And that was it. No acknowledgment of the three critical patients you’d managed in that hour. No recognition. No room for explanation. He turned away before you could blink, his coat slicing behind him like punctuation.

You don’t like him.

You don’t disrespect him—because you're a professional, and because he's earned his reputation a hundred times over. But you don’t like how he talks to you like you’re a glitch in the system. Like you’re a deviation he hasn’t figured out how to reprogram.

You’ve worked under strict doctors before. But Zayne is different. He doesn’t push to challenge you. He pushes to see if you’ll break.

And the worst part?

You haven’t.

Which only seems to piss him off more.

You watch him now from the break table near the edge of the deck, your synth-coffee going tepid between your hands. He’s reviewing scans on a projection screen—high-res, rotating 3D models of a degenerating bio-synthetic valve. His eyes, a pale hazel-green, flick across the data with sharp focus. His arms are folded behind his back, posture perfect, expression unreadable.

He hasn’t noticed you.

Correction: he has, and he’s pointedly ignoring you.

Typical.

You take another sip of coffee, more bitter than before. You could head back to inventory. You could restock surgical trays. But you don’t.

Because part of you refuses to give him the satisfaction of leaving first.

So you stay.

And so does he.

Two professionals. Two adversaries. One cold war fought in clipped words, clinical tension, and overlapping silence.

And the day hasn’t even started yet.

The surgical light beams down like a second sun, flooding the operating theatre in harsh, clinical brightness. It washes the color out of everything—blood, skin, even breath—until all that remains is precision.

Doctor Zayne Li stands at the head of the table, gloved hands elevated and scrubbed raw, sleeves of his sterile gown clinging tight around his forearms. His eyes flick up to the vitals screen, then down to the patient’s exposed chest.

“Vitals?” he asks.

You answer without hesitation. “Steady. HR 82, BP 96/63, oxygen at 99%, no irregularities.”

His silence is your only cue to proceed.

You hand him the scalpel, handle first, exactly as protocol demands. He doesn’t look at you when he takes it—but his fingers graze yours, cold through double-layered gloves, and the contact still sends a tiny jolt up your arm. Annoying.

He makes the incision without fanfare, clean and deliberate, the kind of cut that only comes from years of obsessive mastery. The kind that still makes your gut tighten to watch.

You monitor the instruments, anticipating without crowding him. You’ve been assisting in his surgeries for weeks now. You’ve learned when he prefers the microclamp versus the stabilizer. You’ve memorized the sequence of his suturing pattern. You know when to speak and when not to. Still, it’s never enough.

“Retractor,” he says flatly.

You’re already reaching.

“Not that one.”

Your hand freezes mid-motion.

His tone is ice. “Cardiac thoracic, not abdominal. Are you even awake?”

A hot flush rises behind your ears. He doesn’t yell—Zayne never yells—but his disappointment cuts deeper than a scalpel. You grit your teeth and correct the tray.

“Cardiac thoracic,” you repeat. “Understood.”

No response. Just the soft click of metal as he inserts the retractor into the sternotomy.

The rest of the operation is silence and beeping. You suction blood before he asks. He cauterizes without hesitation. The damaged aortic valve is removed, replaced with a synthetic graft designed for lunar-pressure tolerance. It’s delicate work—millimeter adjustments, microscopic thread. One wrong move could tear the tissue.

Zayne doesn’t shake. Doesn’t blink. He’s terrifyingly still, even as alarms spike and the patient's BP dips for three agonizing seconds.

“Clamp. Now,” he says.

You pass it instantly. He seals the nicked vessel, stabilizes the pressure, and the monitor quiets.

You exhale—but not too loudly. Not until the final suture is tied, the chest closed, and the drape removed. Then, and only then, does he speak again.

“Clean,” he says, already walking away. “Prepare a report for Post-Op within the hour.”

You stare at his retreating back, fists clenched at your sides. No thank you. No good work. Just a cold command and disappearing footsteps.

The Diagnostic Lab is silent, save for the low hum of scanners and the occasional pulse of a vitascan completing a loop. The walls are steel-paneled with matte black inlays, lit only by the soft glow of holographic interfaces. Ambient light drifts in from a side wall of glass, showing the icy curve of Europa in the distance, half-shadowed in space.

You stand alone at a curved diagnostics console, sleeves rolled just above your elbows, eyes locked on the 3D hologram spinning in front of you. The synthetic heart pulses slowly, arteries reconstructed with precise synthetic grafts. The valve—a platinum-carbon composite—is functioning perfectly. You check the scan tags, patient ID, op codes, and log the post-op outcome.

Everything’s clean. Correct.

Or so you thought.

You barely register the soft hiss of the door opening behind you until the room shifts. Not in volume, but in pressure—like gravity suddenly increased by one degree.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

Zayne.

“Line 12 in the file log,” he says, voice low, composed, and close. Too close.

You blink at the screen. “What about it?”

“You mislabeled the scan entry. That’s a formatting violation.”

Your heart rate ticks up. You straighten your spine.

“No,” you reply calmly, “I used trauma tags from pre-op logs. They cross-reference with the emergency surgical queue.”

His footsteps approach—measured, deliberate—and stop directly behind you. You sense the heat of his body before anything else. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you feel him standing there, like a charged wire humming at your back.

“You adapted a tag system that’s not recognized by this wing’s software. If these were pushed to central review, they’d get flagged. Wasting time.” His tone is even. Too even.

Your hands rest on the edge of the console. You force your shoulders not to tense.

“I made a call based on the context. It was logical.”

“You’re not here to improvise logic,” he replies, stepping even closer.

You feel the air change as he raises his arm, reaching past you—his coat sleeve brushing the side of your bicep lightly, the barest whisper of contact. His hand moves with surgical confidence as he taps the air beside your own, opening the tag metadata on the scan you just logged. His fingers are long, gloved, deliberate in motion.

“This,” he says, highlighting a code block, “should have been labeled with an ICU procedural tag, not pre-op trauma shorthand.”

You turn your head slightly, and there he is. Close. Towering. His jaw is tight, clean-shaven except for the faintest trace of stubble catching the edge of the light. There’s a tiredness around his eyes—subtle, buried deep—but he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t waver. He’s so still it’s unnerving.

He doesn’t seem to notice—or care—how near he is.

You, however, are all too aware.

Your voice tightens. “Is there a reason you couldn’t point this out without standing over me like I’m in your way?”

Zayne doesn’t flinch. “If I stood ten feet back, you’d still argue with me.”

You bristle. “Because I know what I’m doing.”

“And yet,” he replies coolly, “I’m the one correcting your data.”

That sting digs deep. You pull in a breath, clenching your fists subtly against the side of the console. You want to yell. But you won’t. Because he wants control, and you won’t give him that too.

He lowers his hand slowly, retracting from the display, and finally—finally—steps back. Just enough to let you breathe again.

But the tension? It lingers like static.

“I’ll correct the tag,” you say flatly.

Zayne nods once, then turns to go.

But at the doorway, he stops.

Without looking back, he adds, “You're capable. That’s why I expect better.”

Then he walks out.

Leaving you in the cold hum of the diagnostic lab, your pulse racing, your thoughts a snarl of frustration and something else—unsettling and electric—curling low in your gut.

You don’t know what that something is.

But you’re starting to suspect it won’t go away quietly.

You sit three seats from the end of the long chrome conference table, back straight, shoulders tight, fingers wrapped just a little too hard around your datapad.

The Surgical Briefing Room is too bright. It always is. Cold light from the ceiling plates bounces off polished surfaces, glass walls, and the brushed steel of the central console. A hologram hovers in the center of the room, slowly spinning: the reconstructed heart from this morning’s procedure, arteries lit in pulsing red and cyan.

You can feel sweat prickling at the nape of your neck under your uniform collar. Your scrubs are crisp, your hair pinned back precisely, your notes immaculate—but none of that matters when Dr. Myles Hanron speaks.

You’ve only spoken to him a few times. He’s been at Bell for twenty years. Stern. Respected. Impossible to argue with. Today, he's reviewing the recent cardiovascular procedure—the one you assisted under Zayne’s lead.

And something is off. He’s frowning at the scan display.

Then he looks at you.

“Explain this inconsistency in the anticoagulation log.”

You glance up, already feeling the slow roll of nausea in your stomach.

Your voice comes out measured, but your throat is dry. “I followed the automated-calibrated dosage curve based on intra-op vitals and confirmed with the automated log.”

Hanron raises a brow, his tablet casting a soft reflection on the lenses of his glasses. “Then you followed it wrong.”

The words hit like a slap across your face.

You feel the blood drain from your cheeks. Something sharp twists in your stomach.

“I—” you begin, mouth parting. You shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening on the datapad in your lap, legs crossed too stiffly. Your body wants to shrink, but you force yourself not to move.

“Don’t interrupt,” Hanron snaps, before you can finish.

A few heads turn in your direction. One of the interns frowns, glancing at you with wide eyes. You stare straight ahead, trying to keep your breathing even, your spine straight, your jaw from visibly clenching.

Hanron paces two steps in front of the display. “You logged a 0.3 ml deviation on a patient with a known history of arrhythmic episodes. Are you unfamiliar with the case history? Or did you just not check?”

“I did check,” you say, quieter, trying to keep your tone professional. Your hands are starting to sweat. “The scan flagged it within range. I wasn’t improvising—”

“Then how did this discrepancy occur?” he presses. “Or are you suggesting the system is at fault?”

You flinch, slightly. You open your mouth to say something—to explain the terminal sync issue you noticed during the last vitals run—but your voice catches.

You’re a nurse.

You’re new.

So you sit there, every instinct in your body screaming to speak, to defend yourself—but you swallow it down.

You stare down at your datapad, the screen now blurred from the way your vision’s tunneling. You clench your teeth until your jaw aches.

You can’t speak up. Not without making it worse.

“Let this be a reminder,” Hanron says, turning his back to you as he scrolls through another projection, “that there is no room for guesswork in surgical prep. Especially not from auxiliary staff who feel the need to act above their training.”

Auxiliary.

The word burns.

You feel heat crawl up your chest. Your hands are shaking slightly. You grip your knees under the table to hide it.

And then—

“I signed off on that dosage.”

Zayne’s voice cuts clean through the air like a cold wire.

You turn your head sharply toward the door. He’s standing in the entrance, posture military-straight, coat half-unbuttoned, gloves tucked into his belt. His presence shifts the atmosphere instantly.

His black hair is perfectly combed back, not a strand out of place, glinting faintly under the sterile overhead lights. His silver-framed glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose, catching a brief reflection from the room’s data panels, but not enough to hide the expression in his eyes.

Hazel-green. Pale and piercing

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is fixed past you, locked on Hanron with unflinching intensity—like the man has just committed a fundamental breach of logic.

There’s not a wrinkle in his coat. Not a single misaligned button or loose thread. Even the gloves at his belt look placed, not shoved there. Zayne is, as always, polished. Meticulous. Icy.

But today—his expression is different.

His jaw is set tighter than usual. The faint crease between his brows is deeper. He looks like a man on the verge of unsheathing a scalpel, not for surgery—but for precision retaliation.

And when he speaks, his voice is calm. Controlled.

His face is unreadable. Voice flat.

“If there’s a problem with it, you can take it up with me.”

The silence in the room is instant. Tense. Airless.

Hanron turns slowly. “Doctor Zayne, this isn’t about—”

“It is,” Zayne replies, tone even sharper. “You’re implying a clinical error in my procedure. If you’re accusing her, then you’re accusing me. So let’s be clear.”

You can barely process it. Your heart is thudding, ears buzzing from the sudden shift in tone, from the weight of Zayne’s voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel. You look at him — really look — and for once, he isn’t focused on numbers or reports.

He’s solely focused on Hanron. And he is furious — not loudly, but in the way his voice doesn’t rise, his jaw locks, and his words slice like ice.

Just furious—in that cold, calculated way of his.

“She followed my instruction under direct supervision,” he says, voice steady. “The variance was intentional. Based on patient history and real-time rhythm response.”

He pauses just long enough to let the words land.

“It was correct.”

Hanron doesn’t respond right away.

His lips press into a thin line, face unreadable, and he shifts back a step—visibly checking himself in the silence Zayne has carved into the room like a scalpel.

“We’ll review the surgical logs,” Hanron mutters at last, voice clipped, his authority retreating behind procedure.

Zayne nods once. “Please do.”

Then, without fanfare, without another word, he steps forward—not toward the exit, but toward the table.

You track him with your eyes, unable to help it.

The low hum of the room resumes, like the air had been holding its breath. No one speaks. A few nurses drop their eyes back to their datapads. Pages turn. Screens flicker.

But you’re frozen in place, shoulders still tight, hands clenched in your lap to keep them from visibly shaking.

Zayne rounds the end of the table, his boots clicking softly against the metal flooring. His long coat sways with his movements, falling neatly behind him as he pulls out the seat directly across from you.

And sits.

Not at the head of the table. Not in some corner seat to observe.

Directly across from you.

He adjusts his glasses with two fingers, expression cool again, almost as if nothing happened. As if he didn’t just dress down a senior doctor in front of the entire room on your behalf.

He doesn’t look at you.

He opens the file on his datapad, stylus poised, reviewing the surgical results like this is any other debrief.

But you’re still staring.

You study the slight tension in his shoulders, the stillness in his hands, the way his eyes don’t drift—not toward Hanron, not toward you—locked entirely on the data as if that can contain whatever just happened.

You should say something.

Thank you.

But the words get stuck in your throat.

Your pulse is still unsteady, confusion mixing with the low thrum of heat behind your ribs. He didn’t need to defend you. He never steps into conflict like that, especially not for others—especially not for you.

You glance away first, eyes back on your screen, unable to ignore the twist in your gut.

The room empties, but you stay.

The echo of voices fades out with the hiss of the sliding doors. Just a few minutes ago, the surgical debrief room was bright with tension—every overhead light too sharp, the air too thin, the hum of holopanels and datapads a constant static in your head.

Now, it’s quiet. Still.

You sit for a moment longer, fingers resting on your lap, knuckles tight, back straight even though your entire body wants to collapse inward. You’re still warm from the flush of embarrassment, your pulse still flickering behind your ears.

Dr. Hanron’s words sting less now, dulled by the cool aftershock of what Zayne did.

He defended you.

You hadn’t expected it. Not from him.

You replay it in your head—his voice cutting in, his posture like stone, his eyes locked on Hanron like a scalpel ready to slice. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even look at you.

But you felt it.

You felt the impact of what it meant.

And now, as you sit in the empty conference room—white walls, chrome-edged table, sterile quiet—you’re left with one burning thought:

You have to say something.

You rise slowly, brushing your palms down your thighs to wipe off the sweat that lingers there. You hesitate at the doorway. Your reflection stares back at you in the glass panel—eyes still a little wide, jaw tight, posture just a bit too stiff.

He didn’t have to defend you, but he did.

And that matters.

You step into the hallway.

It’s long and narrow, glowing with soft white overhead lights and lined with clear glass panels that reflect fragments of your movement as you walk. The hum of the ventilation system buzzes low and steady—comforting in its monotony. The air smells of antiseptic and the faint trace of ozone from high-oxygen surgical wards.

You spot him ahead, already halfway down the corridor, walking with purpose—long coat swaying slightly with each step, back straight, shoulders squared. Always composed. Always fast.

You hesitate. Your boots slow down and your throat tightens.

You want to turn back, to let it go, to pretend it was just professional courtesy. Nothing more. Nothing personal.

But you can’t.

Not this time.

You quicken your pace.

“Doctor Zayne!”

The name catches in the air, too loud in the quiet hallway. You flinch, just a little—but he stops.

You break into a small jog to catch up, boots tapping sharply against the tile. Your breath catches as you reach him.

Zayne turns toward you, expression unreadable, brows slightly furrowed in that ever-present, analytical way of his. The glow of the ceiling lights reflects off his silver-framed glasses, casting sharp highlights along the edges of his jaw.

He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.

You stop a foot away, heart thudding. You don’t know what you expected—maybe something colder. Maybe for him to ignore you entirely.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking up to meet his.

“I just…” Your voice is quieter now. Careful. “I wanted to say thank you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is steady. Measured.

“I don’t tolerate incompetence,” he says calmly. “That includes false accusations.”

You blink, taken off guard by the directness. It’s not warm. Not even particularly kind. But coming from him, it’s almost intimate.

Still, you can’t help yourself. “That wasn’t really about incompetence.”

“No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”

The hallway feels smaller now, quieter. He’s watching you in full. Not scanning you like a chart, not calculating — watching. Still. Focused.

You nod slowly, grounding yourself in the moment. “Still. I needed to say it. Thank you.”

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the warmth in your cheeks, of the way your hands twist at your sides, of how tall he stands compared to you, even when he’s not trying to intimidate.

And he isn’t. Not now.

If anything, he looks… still.

Not soft. Never that. But something quieter. Less armored.

“You handled yourself better than most would have,” he says after a moment. “Even if I hadn’t said anything, you didn’t lose control.”

“I didn’t feel in control,” you admit, a breath of nervous laughter escaping. “I was two seconds from either crying or throwing my datapad.”

That earns you something surprising—just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile. But not quite.

“Neither would’ve been productive,” he says.

You roll your eyes slightly. “Thanks, Doctor Efficiency.”

His glasses catch the light again, but his expression doesn’t change.

You glance past him, down the corridor. “I should get back to my rotation.”

He nods once. “I’ll see you in the lab.”

You pause.

Then—because you don’t know what else to do—you offer a small, genuine smile.

“I’ll be there.”

As you turn to leave, you feel his eyes on your back.

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sophie-looks-at-things · 1 year ago

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As You Wish

Pairing: Aemond x wife reader

Summary: Aemond's new wife has a moment of reflection wondering if her new husband truly cares for her. Aemond is determined to prove to her that he is utterly devoted to her.

Warnings: smut, some slight angst? maybe idk honestly haha, Aemond loves his wife he just has issues expressing it lol, p in v, oral (f receiving) man is a champ when it comes to that, praise, 18+, vulgar language lol, slight breeding kink

AN: hey y'all! long time no see haha, I finally watched the season 2 hotd premiere last night and had to finally write something! this is my first go at a legit fic and not just headcanons so don't be too judgy haha. but I hope y'all enjoy it! :)

PS: it is unedited rn, but I was just too excited to post it, so I'll edit it later!

The rose-scented bubbles of the bath water lapped soothingly against your flesh. This had become your routine, after the evening's supper or feast you would call to your handmaid to draw a bath. Scalding hot water, warm enough to turn your skin pink upon contact. The boiling water and the familiar scent of the roses were one of the few things that brought you comfort after your marriage to Prince Aemond. Your family had come seasonally to court for many moons now, your mother being a friend of Queen Alicent. As your brothers sparred with the young princes in the training grounds, you took more kindly towards the gardens. Wandering around the maze of flowers and bushes searching for faeries and nymphs. Of course, you had been only a child then and had not yet known that such silly things don’t exist.

It had been the Prince himself that informed you of such. You had been crouched on your knees before a bed of yellow roses, looking between the stems and leaves for the little creatures. The skirts of your dress soiled and stained brown from the earth beneath you. You had been so preoccupied with searching for them, that you hadn’t heard the crunching of grass and footsteps behind you.

“What in the Seven Hells are you doing?” Aemond had asked you, voice bitter but curious. You stood up hastily, nearly tripping on your own two feet as you spun around and curtsied clumsily.

“I am searching for faeries my Prince. Mother said that they can be found amongst the stems of the most beautiful flowers!” Your small hands began to nervously dust themselves off on your already dirty skirts. Aemond’s eye followed the motion, his upper lip curling in disgust. It had only been a couple of moons since the young prince had lost his eye. The scar was still fresh and red around the edges, the eyepatch clearly bothering him. For it appeared to be fastened too tight around his head.

“Don’t be absurd, such pathetic things don’t exist. All you’ve succeeded in doing is soiling your clothes.” He motions down towards your skirts, your cheeks heating in embarrassment. Feeling ashamed to be talked down upon by someone you hoped to be a potential friend. Even though his eye, or lack thereof, scared most, you had found it intriguing. Your father had told you stories of men in faraway places who wore their scars like badges of honor, like trophies of war. The marred skin being a testament to their victories in battle. Your father however did not return to tell the tails of his own scars, for he had passed in the Stepstones, aiding Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon in their war.

“My apologies my Prince, for I-” you dared a look up into face, his brows knit together, arms crossed over his chest. You lowered your eyes in shame once more “I shall go change my skirts at once.” And with that you darted off, not waiting for a response from the young Targaryen.

That had been many years ago though, and you were no longer a child, and nor was he. Prince Aemond had grown into a handsome man, not just physically, but intellectually as well. The water of your bath had grown tepid as you recalled the memory, a slight frown adorning your features. Why had he wanted to marry you? He hardly had shown any interest, more likely it was because his mother and grandfather craved the military prowess your family possessed. They needed it for the impending war. So a proposal for your hand had been made, and your eldest brother eagerly accepted. After your father’s passing, and your mother grew older in age he had taken it upon himself to attend to the coming and goings of your house.

It wasn’t that Aemond was exactly an unkind husband, he just wasn’t present, ever. There was always a reason or excuse for him to leave a room once you arrived. The only full night you had spent with him had been your wedding night, in your marital bed. He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle, but he possessed an air of duty and responsibility when it came to the consummation. For once he spilled his spend inside of you he had fetched a cloth for you to clean yourself. Then turned his back to you and slept, not uttering another word.

The sound of your chamber doors creaking open drew you from your thoughts. The clanking of a sword and heavy footsteps made their way towards you in the bathing room. You were met with the sight of your rather disheveled lord husband. Before you could offer him a greeting, however, his eye lifted to your face, and he asked:

“May I join you?” Taken aback slightly by the question there was a pause, the room silent. Then, you nodded, “Yes, yes of course you may husband.”

Aemond had waited for your approval before stripping himself bare of his clothes, riding clothes by the looks of it. He must have been out on Vhagar. You observe him as he untethered his belts and the laces of his boots. The years of training had done him well, his arms and back muscles lean and corded. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to drag your nails down them, as he fucked into you–

“Wife? Did you hear me?” Shit, he must have asked you something, looking up from the muscles of his arms to meet his eyes you shook your head. He chuckled a bit, smirking, you had been caught in your staring.

“I asked you, how was your day my lady wife.” A hint of amusement laced his voice, he had rid himself of his clothes, having placed them neatly over the back of one of the armchairs in the rooms.

“Oh, well, it was alright. Nothing too exciting I'm afraid. I did have tea with your mother and sister though. That was quite pleasant, Helaena was telling me of the butterflies that come for the roses this time of year. She said we must go see them once they arrive.” As you spoke Aemond made his way around the tub, to behind you. It took an embarrassingly great deal of effort not to stare as he had presented himself bare before you. To look only above his waist and not let your eyes drift down towards his cock.

“Mmh, yes we must see them then,” his cold hands met your shoulder blades, rubbing small, soothing, circles on them. This was his way of telling you to move forward, so that he may join you in the tub, taking his place behind you, and pulling you onto his lap.

“You take such tepid baths wife. You’ll catch a cold one of these days.” He mumbled into your ear as he made himself comfortable behind you, his legs outstretched beside your own. It wasn’t that such small talk was uncommon between the two of you when he was around. Besides, you two did share chambers, so despite his avoidance during the day, he was bound to return to you at night.

Turning fully to face him now, with a surge of annoyance, the water sloshing around the two of you with your sudden movements. “Why do you care? You are hardly even here to see me as is, I doubt you would even notice.” Aemond’s singular lilac eye widens, not from anger, but rather from surprise. His lady wife was always so sweet, so silent, this was new, and dare he say exciting.

“A woman can only take so much you know–” You go to stand, to leave the tub, and go to bed, done with whatever this conversation is. Aemond’s hand shoots out to grasp your wrist, stopping you from doing so.

“Wait!” It came out more harsh than he had intended. “I do care for you my lady, truly I do. I did not know that you–”

“Prove it.” You say interrupting whatever he is about to tell you. You keep your eyes level and voice steady. “Prove it to me then husband,”

Aemond says only one thing before attacking your lips, “As you wish,” He is not gentle in his kisses, he does not know how to be gentle. Perhaps you could teach him. His grasp on your wrist moves to your waist as he continues his assault on your lips. His hands roam the flesh of your waist, your hips, your thighs, his lips move down towards your neck. Biting and nipping at the flesh there, sure to leave a mark for all to see.

“Aemond–”

“Shhh, let me take care of you tonight. Let me prove to you how much I desire you, my love.” He murmurs between bites and kisses. He pulls back, only for a moment, “You are beautiful, I am sorry I have not told you this enough,” his lips attach themselves to one of your breasts, suckling at the nipple. You let out a surprised breath as he bites down, a wave of pleasure shooting straight to your core.

His roaming hands have found purchase on your ass, his deft fingers kneading the plump flesh. Suddenly his grip becomes tighter as he rises from the tub with you in his arms, water spilling over the sides and onto the floor. You hurriedly wrap your arms around his neck, in an attempt to steady yourself.

“Aemond! You’ve made a mess–” He laughs, fully this time, not just a chuckle. It’s a lovely sound you think.

“Fuck the mess, the maids shall deal with it in the morning. I’ve neglected my dear lady wife and that must be rectified immediately. One of the hands on your ass pulls back and gives it a small slap. You gasp in surprise, tucking your face into his neck, peppering small kisses there, just as he had done to you moments before. You could get used to this side of your husband. Aemond lets out a hum of satisfaction at your ministrations, soon after playfully throwing you down onto your shared bed.

“Aemond the sheets, they’re soaked now–” you began to protest cut off rather abruptly by his grip on your ankles. Pulling you down towards the end of the mattress, your cunt now level with his lips.

“That should hardly matter, we have others–” he places a kiss on your inner thigh. “Besides the only thing I care to see soaked is your cunt after I am done–” Without another word or hesitation, Aemond licks a hot stripe up the center of your core. Then a second, and a third, until he loses all control. He devours you like a man starved. His strong arms wrap themselves around your things, pulling you impossibly closer to him. His tongue continues its assault on your cunt.

“You taste of the finest ambrosia–” the vibrations of his voice sending shock waves of electricity to your clit. Aemond is only spurred on further by the sound of your sweet moans. His name falling from your lips like a chant, like a prayer to the Seven. His lips find purchase on your clit, sucking and licking till you're writhing beneath him. Your hands shoot down, finding purchase in his long silver locks.

“Aemond, oh Aemond–” the words spill from your lips like nonsense. The only thing you are able to focus on is his lips and tongue lapping at your cunt. The man between your thighs devouring you like this is his last meal alive.

“Cum for me, cum on my tongue. And then I shall reward you with my cock. Cum for me my love–” As if on command, you feel the muscles of your lower abdomen contract, and then all that lovely pleasure overflows, and bursts from you. With a strangled cry of his name, you cum on his tongue. You look down at your husband between your thighs, his lips glistening in your release.

“Good girl, my good, sweet, perfect girl. You did exactly what I asked,” he crawls up your body, stopping only to place the occasional kiss to your hot skin. His lips return to your neck, sucking love marks into the skin over the faint ones he had left before. A newfound favorite of his perhaps. He gives his cock a few strokes, his thumb collecting the beading drop of arousal from his tip. Wordlessly, he brings the digit up to your lips, pressing down gently on your bottom one. You open your mouth, sucking the essence from his finger, swirling your tongue around it, eager to please him. He groans in response, resting his forehead on yours,

“Perhaps another night my love, I need to be inside of you now.” You release his thumb with a slight pop.

“Fuck me then, husband–” Not needing any further encouragement, Aemond sheathes his cock inside of your cunt. The warm, velvety walls squeezing him perfectly. “Fuck–” he moans breathlessly as he slowly begins to thrust into your weeping cunt. The squelching noises from his movements turn your cheeks red, you move to hide your face in the crook of his neck once more, but a hand on your chin stops you. From above, Aemond’s lilac eye bores into your own, like a spell, you are unable to look away.

Aemond’s thrusting becomes faster, harder, like a man starved. The grasp on your chin returns to your hips. As Aemond rolls back slightly, sitting on his knees, he brings your hips to meet his, your back still on the bed. From this angle he has full control over your body, not that he hadn’t before. But now he could control his thrusts, making them sharper, harder. Beneath him, your eyes screw shut in pleasure, consumed by his ministrations.

You look beautiful like this, he thinks. Cheeks red, hair a mess, sweat glistening on your skin. He had been a fool before, not indulging you more often. Not being by your side, it was a mistake he would make no more. He had been too afraid of your rejection, too afraid you would find him repulsive because of his scar. The scar that he himself found so disturbing. But clearly, the way his name fell from your lips, as your face contorted in pleasure, this was not the case.

“Shall I cum inside of your perfect cunt? Shall I plant my seed, and watch you grow and swell with my child?” He barely recognized the words coming from his lips, too lost in carnal desire to notice.

“Yes, yes Aemond, yes–” the words leaving your lips like a hymn, a prayer to your lord husband. Aemond’s fingers began to circle your bud as he continued to rut into you.

“Together then, I can feel you little wife–” As if he possessed some kind of magic, you did as commanded. Aemond’s release coating your walls, both of you warm and well sated. Once more he leans down, leaving a small peck on your lips before resting his forehead on yours.

“I have been a fool, a complete and utter fool. I am not a great man in many ways my sweet lady wife. But for you perhaps I could be,” He places another kiss on your lips.

“I would like that very much Aemond,” you smile a bit as you say this because it is true and it would be unfair to not allow him to prove as much. After all, that is what you asked of him is it not? Without pulling out or away from you, Aemond rolls to his side, tucking you into him, desperate to keep you in his arms.

“Stay like this with me tonight, please?” He asks, afraid you’ll send him away.

“Tonight and every night if you behave,” you give him a slight pinch to add emphasis to your comment. You feel his chest vibrate against your cheek with laughter.

“As you wish,” he says one final time, as the two of you drift off to sleep, held safely in the arms of one another.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader smut #smut #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #hotd aemond #smutty smut smut #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #love this man #god i love him #aemond x reader #prince aemond targaryen

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shinigamigloss · 4 months ago

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sweet mornings!

cw: just fluff, stuff, very short, husband leon, and mentioned scar on his chin!, he makes a 'joke' about the age gap between the two of you, idek;3

⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ⋆⁺₊⋆

The morning light streams through the half-open blinds, spilling honeyed inks across the bathroom tiles. The redolence of fresh coffee lingers in the air. Then there’s the sharp aroma of Leon’s usual aftershave – the very scent you’ve grown to affiliate with home.

He reclines on the shut toilet seat, legs spread wide, arms flung loose on his thighs. His baby blue bathrobe is sloppy over his impressively big shoulders, sleeves a little bit too short, contributing to his appearance of the harried, underpaid househusband that he so often claims to be.

The sight is a lovely one, from Leon’s favorite coffee cup inscribed with ‘My dad is a superhero’, to the newspaper he always peruses in the morning.

“You don’t have to do that, you know,” he tuts at you. You don’t say a thing. Rather, you dip the shaving brush in tepid water.

“I’m a grown-up man. I've been shaving myself since– damn, since before you were old enough to drink.”

Ouch.

You shake your head in faux disbelief and lather the soap onto the brush. “Leon, you and I both know that you consistently miss this specific spot.”

Of course you’d hurt his feelings like that. Leon absolutely feels betrayed.

Your husband huffs dramatically. “One time. One time I leave just one patch, and suddenly I’m the inept one.”

“Well, you do have a reputation to uphold, Mr. Kennedy.” An impish smile graces your lips. You prod at his chin, tilting up his pretty face.

“Now, stay still.”

“Yas, ma’am.” Smiling to himself, he obliges.

You apply the foam to his stubbled jawline. His hair is fetchingly tousled from sleep, silver threads woven into his otherwise brown locks that reflect the morning light in a way that makes your heart race inside the cage of your ribs, your bones.

“You starin’ at me?” he impeaches playfully as you reach for the razor.

“Shhh. You talk too much.” You draw the knife slowly down his jaw. “I gotta be careful. One mistake and—“

“You slit my throat?”

“Yup.” You don’t hesitate.

His lashes flutter, and he draws a long, balmy sigh. “I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“You figured it out, huh?”

“Yep. I love a slow-burn assassination plot and a femme fatale.”

You wipe the blade and move on to the next part on his skin – cautiously so when you feel the trace of a healed scar under your thumb.

“Tragic,” you retort.

He snorts out a laugh. The bathroom is warm, heavy with steam from the shower he just took.

When you near his upper lip, he raises his brows. “Bet you won’t kiss me right now.”

Mind games are his absolute favorite when it comes to teasing the hell out of you.

“I won’t.” You obviously lie. Leaning forward as if to show him, you dab a tiny bit of foam on the tip of his nose instead. “Oops.”

He automatically grumbles. “Unbelievable. There goes my kiss.”

“You’ll live, Leon. You’re a big man.”

When you’re finished, his face is vividly smooth, and you can’t resist running your fingers along the curve of his jaw. “Perfect.”

Leon catches your hand before you can pull it back, giving a slow kiss to the inside of your palm. “Mrs. Kennedy, I think you missed a certain spot.”

“Huh?” A frown sits on the gap between your eyebrows.

“No way! Where?”

He touches his peach-kissed lips. “Right here.”

Greedy.

You nearly roll your eyes at this cheesy attempt to flirt.

“That was so bad, Leon.”

“It did the trick, didn’t it, sweetheart?” He pulls you in. Tips his chin up expectantly. Looking adorable in a way you don’t understand how.

With a flourish of a sigh, you bend down and finally kiss him on his lips. Soft and all familiar. He tastes like morning coffee and mint. Simply delicious and inherently him.

In these very vibrations of seconds, you subconsciously know that you’ll let him get away with any missing spots for the rest of your life.

#leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x fem reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy #resident evil death island #resident evil

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lullabyes22-blog · 8 months ago

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What is up with this recent tendency in the fandom character tags to mention everyone in the cast even though the post is literally just some tepid-ass take on one character or some unrelated ship.

Like - y'all.

Tumblr has no algorithm and does not work like Instagram and TikTok- tagging every character under the sun unless they're relevant to the post will not get you more reach or numbers or follows or whatever else.

It will, however, have your post show up for folks who don't want to see it (and even have a specific tag blocked) at which point they will become annoyed and block your account at best, or report your account as a potential spambot at worst.

Ffs. Keep that TikTok-ass algorithm pandering out of sites that literally are not built that way, and require you to do the 'heavy lifting' i.e. building your mutuals and followers from ground up + doing your own research and curating your own timeline to reflect it.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #fandom #fanfiction #fanfic

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rafescherie · 4 months ago

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✮⋆˙ conversations about 'what-ifs' between bsf!rafe and you quicky intensify, leading to a heated moment you both had been anticipating.

warnings — angst — rafe being frustrated.

cherie's note — loosely inspired by already over by sabrina carpenter -`♡´-

the warm carolinian sun sinks low over figure eight, casting streaks of vibrant orange and pink across the sky. a tepid breeze rolls off the water, rustling the sea oats lining the dunes. you sat beside rafe cameron on the bow of his father's boat, legs dangling over the edge as the waves lap against the hull. the salty air clung to your tanned skin, mixing with the distant sounds of the shore. on night's like this, the kooks usually gathered in crowded parties. tonight, it was ust the two of you, drifting in the quiet.

rafe leaned back on his elbows, hands lazily fidgeting with something within his grasp. you had been best friends since you were kids — him, the golden boy of figure eight, and you, the only girl who ever seemed to see past the reputation, past the anger.

"you ever think about leaving?" you ask, pulling your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.

rafe glanced over at you, his blue eyes flickering with something unreadable. "what, outerbanks?"

you nod softly, "yeah. just... getting away. starting fresh somewhere new."

he exhaled, tilting his head back, staring at the sky as if the answer was somewhere within the clouds. "i don't know... sometimes." his gaze falls on you again, a little longer this time. "but you'd be there, right?"

your breath caught. he said it so easily, like it was obvious. like the idea of leaving without you was even a possibility, and to him, it wasn't. you forced a smile, nudging his arm with your shoulder, "of course. you think i'd let you have all the fun?"

he chuckled, but there was something off about it, something almost... sad. you ignore the way it made your chest ache, heart racing within your ribcage.

silence stretched between you, the kind that had always been so easy — until this moment. the water rocked the boat in a slow rhythm, the moon rising higher now, its reflecting rippling on the surface of the ocean below your feet. you had spent years like this, side by side — best friends, always teetering on the edge of something more but never crossing the line.

but then, rafe shifted. he turned, sitting up straighter, his arm brushing against yours. the warmth of his skin sent a shiver down your spine, "can i tell you something?"

you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "yeah."

his jaw tenses, his fingers tapping restlessly against the wood beside him. he looked out at the water for a beat too long, like he was talking himself into it, and then—

"i don't think i can be just your friend anymore."

the words came out sharp, like they had been gritted between his teeth, like it physically pained him to say it. his fingers curled into fists against his thighs, frustration coursing through his bloodstream.

your stomach twists, but you stay silent.

"i can't keep doing this."

your brows knit together, "do what?"

"this," he said, gesturing between you. his jaw clenched, like the words tasted bitter against his tongue. "act like you're just my best friend when i fucking know you're not."

your pulse jumped, but you kept your expression unreadable. "rafe—"

his fingers twitched like he was holding himself back. "tell me i'm wrong," he demanded, his voice lower now, laced with something dangerous. "look me in the eye and say you don't want me too, and i swear i'll drop it."

you didn't move. couldn't. the boat rocked beneath you, the world narrowing to just him, just the raw desperation in his voice, the way his chest rose and fell unevenly like he was barely holding himself together.

but you didn't say anything.

rafe let out a breath that was almost a laugh, except there was nothing funny about it. it was sharp, bitter. "yeah," he muttered, voice thick. "that's what i thought."

and then he moved.

his hand shot up, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up to his. his lips crashed against yours, rough, desperate, years of restrain breaking all at once. he kissed you like it pissed him off, like he was mad at himself for waiting this long, like he was mad at you for making him wait. his fingers hugged the curve of your hip, tugging your body forward into him, like he was afraid you'd slip through his hands.

your hands fisted in his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you steady. the ocean rocked the boat, but none of it mattered — the way his breath mixed with yours, the way he kissed like he had something to prove.

when he finally pulled away, he didn't let go. his forehead pressed against yours, his breathing uneven, his grip still tight on your skin. "tell me i'm wrong," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, but the challenge in it was unmistakable.

your chest rose and fell, your heart beating in time with his.

"you're not."

rafe let out a quiet curse, and before you could say another word, he was kissing you again, his hands moving to your waist, pulling you onto his lap like he needed you closer, like he still wasn't convinced this was real.

and this time, you didn't hold back either.

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maintitle · 7 months ago

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I want to talk a little bit about the Morrigan/Mythal situation, because I've seen a lot of people talk about how Morrigan chose Mythal and chose that power and therefore this is her life and her ultimate evolution and generally just dismissing what happens to her after Mythal rejoins her as a natural evolution of the character, girlboss, ect. I don't want to be dismissive of that take because it can be one that is easily taken without reflection, but I do think it terribly misunderstands the nature of Flemeth and Morrigan's relationship and the methods by which she was very carefully raised.

So let's talk about Morrigan, how she was groomed and abused, and the training she took great pride in that was ultimately weaponized against her by design. Let's also talk about the great pains the game goes through in order to sidestep these issues, and by doing so leaving a much better story on the cutting room floor in order to make a very tepid story of parental forgiveness that misses the depth of their relationship entirely.

I'd like to say at the jump that the fusion of Morrigan and Mythal isn't a story I'm resistant too. I assumed this was the direction they would go and I truly think there was some fascinating storytelling to be had that expanded upon the themes already present in both. But I also think the Veilguard writers either misunderstand the exact nature of how Morrigan was raised, or needed to ignore it in order for Morrigan to serve as a vessel for Mythal in order to serve Solas' story (an issue I have with her use in this game in general, but that's for another post.)

The most revealing conversation that I think Morrigan has in regards to Flemeth is actually one that occurs very early in Origins. I think it's juxtaposition with other scenes is important;

Morrigan: "My Mother has been hunted from time to time, yes. My Templar fools like Alistair, which should tell you how successful they generally were. Flemeth made a bit of a game of it, in fact. The Templars would come again and she would look at me and smile and say that the fun was to begin once more."

Warden: "You really had no trouble with them?

Morrigan: "I am unsure. I was too young to understand, and perhaps 'twas bravado on Flemeth's part. Or perhaps she was merely amused. I will never know. Flemeth would warn them, once. 'Twas a warning they inevitably failed to heed." Morrigan: "And then the true game began. Often Flemeth would use me as bait." She giggles in amusement. "A little girl to scream, and run, and lure the templars deeper into the wilds and to their doom."

Warden: "Flemeth used you as bait?"

Morrigan: "'Twas a game, and I a young girl. If I didn't get to play, I would have been very upset."

This is a really important example, not just of how callously Morrigan was trained to kill when she was challenged at such a young age, but also because it exemplifies how Flemeth taught her. There's an assumption that Flemeth simply yelled and screamed at Morrigan her entire childhood, and that was true in places, but Flemeth was very crafty in how she presented the lessons that she felt were necessary for Morrigan to have.

A bit further into the conversation;

Warden: "Do you still think it was fun?" Morrigan: "I think that my Mother made it fun so that a child did not learn to fear. And I think it was necessary."

Interestingly, if you don't agree with this assessment, Morrigan ends the conversation very suddenly.

The point of highlighting both of these conversations isn't necessarily to outline the casual and cruel abuse, but instead to show how sinister Flemeth's teaching methods were. She treated a child with kindness and the warmness of a friend or Mother when it suited the needs of Morrigan's lessons, but when she broke out and did something that would endanger those teachings, she violently lashed out, as is evident with the mirror scene.

These juxtapositions are important when you look at who Morrigan becomes as an adult, and why she's sent away during the Blight at all. As we know, it was Flemeth's plan all along for Morrigan to offer the ritual before the battle with the Archdemon, but Morrigan posits that it's now her making those decisions and not her Mother. This is highlighted by the line;

Morrigan: "Some things are worth preserving in this world. Make of that what you will."

If we jump ahead a bit to Inquisition, this thought process is expanded on a lot more, in a lot more detail, highlighting the philosophy in Mythal's temple;

Morrigan: "There is... a danger to the natural order. Legends walked Thedas once, things of might and wonder. Their passing has left us all the lesser. Corypheus would squander the ancient power of the well. I would have it restored"

Inquisitor: "I wasn't expecting your answer to be so... romantic."

Morrigan: "Trust me. Your surprise is matched only by my own." Sigh. "Mankind blunders through the world, crushing what it does not understand: Elves, dragons, magic... the list is endless. We must stem the tide or be left with nothing more than the mundane. This I know to be true."

On a surface level, this can be seen as an evolution of who she was in Origins and what she believed then. I can see how that mistake might be made, and I can see how that thought process can lead to accidentally mistaking Veilguard's reply to it as being that same evolution. But if we look at the Dark Ritual, we see this is an opinion based within the philosphy she was always taught by Flemeth.

In order to expand on that, we can actually look to the comics, in the little-explored character of Yavana, sister of Morrigan.

I want to stress first we don't TRULY know much about Yavana. History implies she's a figure out of Antivan legend going back multiple ages, but it's sort of impossible to know if that's true or if it's even her and not a previous Witch Of The Wilds, or even a previous host of Mythal. I hesitate, therefor, to truly assume what her relationship with her Mother was like, however I will very carefully put forward that, based on what little dialogue we have of her, she may be a 'failed' daughter of Flemeth that Mythal deemed unworthy, as she knows about Mythal inhabiting her daughters, see's it as Flemeth does, and seems somewhere between disapointed and jealous in the fact that Morrigan seems to misunderstand that. (I'm not really here to run back the whole Origins possession versus Inquisition's and now Veilguard's 'a soul is not hefted on the unwilling, because frankly it doesn't really weigh in on the point being made here as much as you'd suspect, as you'll see.) But this assumption is questionable, and might be both wrong and not relevant to the issue, if perhaps fairly telling.

What we DO know about her for certain is that she was raised by Flemeth, and at some point moved to Antiva in order to nurture and preserve the return of Dragons to Thedas. Her actual wording of this point, I think, is so telling of FleMythal as a character that I almost wish it wasn't hidden away in the comics;

This is, nearly verbatim, the same message Morrigan gives both in short in Origins before the Dark Ritual, and in much more detail in the Temple Of Mythal in Inquisition. I also find Alistair's response to this INCREDIBLY telling, as one of Alistair's great talents is seeing through people;

While I think the phrasing is very purposefully dismissive and flippant, I don't think the sentiment is totally off base. It actually leads me into the entire thesis of this post, and an aspect of this relationship that some fans and even writers seem to blatantly miss;

The preservation of the old magic is not Morrigan's dream. The preservation of magic is what Morrigan was raised to value most in the world by her abuser.

To illustrate this, let's look at Morrigan's arc in Inquisition, and what it's actually saying about her and Flemythal; The cycle of abuse.

Mythal's Temple is a story about Morrigan and the folly of pride, certainly, but it's also a character arc of a woman who was very carefully raised to HAVE that pride. This isn't an assumption I have made based on evidence, Flemeth outright says it in DA2;

Hawke: "Is (Morrigan) someone I should know?" Flemeth: "She's a girl who thinks she knows what is what better than I, or anyone." Chuckle. "And why not? I raised her to be as she is. I cannot expect her to be less!"

This is, to be, the smoking gun of Flemeth's entire method of teaching and parenting. She is incredibly adept at training flaws into her daughters, pride being the greatest of them. More than that, she's very talented at imparting just enough knowledge that they think they know everything, while also holding back vast amounts of it in order to stay in control.

The Temple Of Mythal is one of the crowning achievements of that. While you can't exactly expect Mythal to have known that's where Morrigan would end up (although Morrigan certainly questions if she knew it would happen), it really hardly matters if she knew or not. Morrigan was raised from birth in order to make the exact decision she made at the Temple. The preservation of what might be lost is such a core part of her being that she can't escape it... and more than that, she can't fathom it being a negative trait. To her, it's a holy calling.

I'm going to pull out the most direct conversation of abuse Morrigan documents now, not to pile on more evidence, but instead because I think it's a more effective conversation to use as juxtaposition of why she thinks that than I could make myself;

Leliana: They say your mother is Flemeth, a witch of the Korcari Wilds. Morrigan: They also say that washing your feet in winter makes you catch cold in the head, but we all know that is not true. But sometimes they are right and they are right in this. Leliana: You know the stories about-- Morrigan: Of course. You think my mother would let me go without telling me all the stories of her youth? Leliana: My mother told me stories too. She was the one who kindled my love of the old tales and legends. Morrigan: Hmph. my mother's stories curdled my blood and haunted my dreams. No little girl wants to hear about the Wilder men her mother took to her bed, using them till they were spent, then killing them. No little girl wants to be told that this is also expected of her, once she comes of age. Leliana: I... uh... I see. Morrigan: No, you don't. You really don't.

This is the environment Morrigan grew up in. She was exposed to Flemeth taking advantage of men, she was exposed to gruesome murder both as a game and in casual moments. Any attempt she made to take self-possession or grow as a person was aggressively curtailed and broken. This was a girl so afraid of her home life that, for many years, she spent as much time as she could living amongst the animals of the forest, and escaping her home life.

Now, imagine; This same abusive woman gives you positive reinforcement. You're a child, and you crave that attention like any child would of their Mother, and you know that reinforcement comes when you're an attentive and talented student. The closest you ever are with your Mother is when you're taking in everything she has to teach you, so it becomes the center of your life. Soon, it's not just a method by which to be close to your Mother, but a core tenant in your life. They stay with you as a fascination, as something you take pride in, as a holy crusade even as you escape your abuser and move on into a happier version of your life where you've grown and matured, where you've seemingly broken the cycle.

Now, imagine the discovery that those few, core, good memories you have were horribly tainted. The lessons you were taught were cyclical, a method by which to control you and gather that which she needs. Your life goal, your career, your passion was entirely made in order to benefit the abuser you've run from your entire life. Imagine who devastating that would be.

That's what happened at the Temple Of Mythal. That was the pride that Flemeth trained into Morrigan, the path by which she wanted her to evolve. She seized that opportunity, and that opportunity either tied her to her abuser forever, and/or told her abuser where she and her son was after years of protecting him from her.

Everything you know, everything you are, everything you've protected... is based on a lie.

Morrigan's character arc in Inquisition is her breaking that cycle. 'What Pride Had Wrought' is in reference at least partially to Morrigan's personal journey, where that pride, that passion, is something she recklessly seizes on because to her it is good and right and just and hers by nature, and it is that pride that was so ingrained into her by her abuser that she watches tear her son away from her and into the hands of said abuser.

In that moment, when she's faced by everything that her pride could lose her, she is forced to reckon with everything she has ever believed, and in the face of her greatest fear... she chooses to break the cycle of abuse. She chooses to assure that her son is safe.

The most obvious quote to be in this write-up;

Flemythal: "As you wish. Hear my proposal, dear girl. Let me take the lad, and you are free of me forever. I will never interfere with or harm you again. Or, keep the lad with you... and you will never be safe from me. I will have my due." Morrigan: "He returns with me." Flemythal: "Decided so quickly?" Morrigan: "Do whatever you wish. Take over my body now, if you must, but Kieran will be free of your clutches. I am many things, but I will not be the Mother you were to me."

This is obviously Morrigan's most famous line, but I actually am not sure if folks understand the truth depth of it; This is not only breaking the cycle of abuse and freeing her son of it, but she's also going against every natural instinct that was bred into her. This woman, the girl that was raised to lure men to their deaths for fun, who's most crucial life lesson was to do anything in order to survive... accepts she will never be safe again. She accepts the possibility of constant danger just to keep her son safe a day longer, a sacrifice her Mother would have never made for her.

This was a possible full culmination of her story. And Veilguard... sort of ignores the meaning of it by giving undo attention to Flemeth's head tilt.

I want to take a moment to preface this next section by saying that I was in no way resistant to the idea of Morrigan being possessed by Mythal in Veilguard. I in fact expected it and was excited by the possibility. There was a really brilliant way to handle the situation even within the parameters of how the game handled it, but the developers chose instead to dismiss this situation in a few lines so that they could instead focus on Mythal, and her relationship with Solas.

I don't want to outright insult the writers here. Veilguard was a game I greatly enjoyed. But I do want to say this because I find it deeply regressive, and I also find the decisions that were made were a symptom of this issue; Morrigan is not in Veilguard for her own character. Morrigan is in Veilguard because she is a convenient vessel through which to explore a character that has much more importance to the main antagonist. This is already slightly regressive because it's two characters largely only serving the plot of one male character, but I find it most troubling because the character they use her for is her own abuser, and by paying as little attention to that as possible while also barely using Morrigan herself as a character, it creates a very tepid story of parental forgiveness that... doesn't work as presented.

From her scene in the Crossroads after finding all of Solas' regrets;

Morrigan: "When I learned she intended me to become the next receptacle of an ancient god's soul, I feared naught would be left of my own. It inevitably came to pass on a deep night: I was awakened by the presence of a blaze of magic in the shape of a woman who both was, and was not, my Mother."

Rook: "I don't think I'd recover from that."

Morrigan: "Neither did I, at the start. Mythal's memories were both gift and burden, this blazing woman told me, but I must accept them of my own accord. The decision was paralyzing. What would it mean to become such a host? What would be lost if I refused? In the end, 'twas something in my Mother's voice which guided me."

Rook: "What was that?"

Morrigan: "Regret. Not the regret of a God, but of a Mother who knew she would never see me again. And so my mind remains my own. What I gained was knowledge... both Mythal's, and of those who bore her."

I think you can see where the problem lies, but let me reiterate:

Morrigan was a child of abuse. That abuse was calculated, both in how she treated her aggressively and how she gave her affection. Her methods of teaching, of raising a child, were there entirely to teach that child to continue on the legacy of Mythal. The preservation of magic was imbued very carefully into Morrigan and Yavana both in order to gather and save aspects of the ancient elves, and in order to prepare them to carry Mythal's soul. Pride was a weakness trained into them from childhood, and their lofty goal of protecting ancient magic was a weapon to be wielded in order to control them. This was a cycle Morrigan first discovered in Inquisition and began to fight against, because she wanted to break the cycle of abuse for the sake of her son.

In this game, Morrigan took on the memories of Flemythal... in order to preserve ancient magic that must be protected so that it is not lost. An instinct given to her by her Mother... in order to be used as a weapon... so that one day she would take on the soul of Mythal.

I want to be clear, I am not opposed to this storyline. I'm not going to yell 'That's problematic, you can't write that!' or 'That's a regression of her character!' because I think it's a fascinating direction to take both their characters.

The problem to me isn't that they went down this pretty natural path, the problem is they did it by... sidestepping any negative parts of how this would affect Morrigan. They sidestepped the fact that the reason she accepted her was largely because of something that Flemythal trained into her and weaponized against her, and the writing treats it as... a difficult moment that eventually brought her peace.

I think this is most exemplified in the aspect of Mythal's soul that remains in the Crossroads. As a concept some are saying it's arbitrary considering how Flemythal saved herself inside of an amulet in Origins/DA2, but I think that's lacks context. It's clear Mythal couldn't prepare this time, because she didn't expect Solas to murder her. Her soul, while saving itself, fractured into pieces. I'm definitely willing to defend that choice.

The problem, I think, is more that the fracturing is seemingly mostly used as a way to sidestep how Mythal's soul fully joining Morrigan would change this scenario. Morrigan's ultimate fear was becoming one with the soul of Mythal, so in order to avoid that they've attempted to only give Morrigan the memories of Flemythal while also seemingly leaving her unchanged as a character.

My issue with this thought process, first and foremost, is that it prevents them from exploring a much better story that has the chance of presenting a much better payoff as a story of an abused child coming to terms with her Mother. It removes the chance of Morrigan's possession being a major character arc, one that would further what she went through in Inquisition while also offering Flemythal a pathway toward an understanding with her daughter so that that ending could still be explored, in order to get to where they want to truly get to as fast as possible, which is using Morrigan as an agent for Mythal's forgiveness in order to fulfill Solas' character arc.

Imagine a more fleshed out version of this story, one where Morrigan had more of a presence within it. Over time, as you discover more about Mythal out through those flashbacks, you begin to realize something is... off about Morrigan. Her unique way of talking has slowly changed, her more sarcastic and poetic tone drips away in favor of Flemythal's more loose, jovial, sometimes playful but always pointed and aggressive tone. The player is prepared to pick up on that, but Rook isn't. Things eventually come to a head where Mythal has to reveal herself, likely as an aggressor similar to how she's handled in the Crossroads, and Morrigan is actually allowed to exist within this presentation. She sneaks through occasionally. The magic of the crossroads allows her moments of clear headedness. She reflects that she accepted her Mother's soul out of that fear, and that it's begun to change her, that she's scared of what she's losing, and even more frightened of how she's coming to understand her Mother. Conflict occurs and if you've reached Morrigan, she fights against Mythal's influence and regains control enough to fracture them just enough to have to come head-to-head, where you can guide them through decades of conflict to a mutual understanding or forgiveness through this bond they have, help Morrigan fully overcome Mythal, or help Mythal dominate Morrigan. Ideally, you'd have the ability to either remove Mythal's essence from Morrigan forcefully with an 'I reject you!' scene, or you can have your moment of forgiveness where the Flemeth side of Mythal removes herself from Morrigan, perhaps into the idol you use for Solas at the end.

But that's not what they did. What they chose to do, I think, is to sidestep a difficult issue, a problem this game does tend to have. I'm not entirely sure if they didn't quite grasp Morrigan's relationship with her Mother, or felt they were forced to gloss over it either because of the world state issue or their need to use Mythal, but the decision they came to is not an acceptable payoff to that story.

The truth of the matter is, this version of the stories' either inability to explore this issue in full or it's misunderstanding of it greatly hurts the characterization and misses a massive chance at more impactful storytelling. And that, to me, is the most damning creative decision of the entire game.

#this post brought to you by seeing a few too many posts about how this is an appropriate end for her #and one specifically that conflated complaints against it to be male morrigan romances as if a romance has anything to do with the issue #This isn't really a story and the warden or their romance and it only tangentially has to do with Kieran #the core of this issue is how it dismissed her abuse #but more importantly glosses over it rather than using it as the core of a better story #anyway if you reply with 'oh but morrigan is a natural liar so--' i will bite your ear off thanks <3 #Morrigan #Yavana #Flemeth #Mythal #Femythal #Origins #Dragon Age: Origins #DA:O #DA2 #Dragon Age 2 #Inquisition #Dragon Age: Inquisition #DA:I #Veilguard #The Veilguard #Dragon Age: The Veilguard #Dragon Age: Veilguard #DA:V #DA:Ve #DA:TV #Veilguard Spoilers #The Veilguard Spoilers #Dragon Age: The Veilguard Spoilers #Dragon Age: Veilguard Spoilers

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prettyundeadgirl · 9 months ago

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Until the Night Turns

│Track Two of Strange Trails

Summary: Arthur couldn't keep his eyes off you during Sean's return party.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Female Reader

Wordcount: 1.4k

Tags: Fluff, Kissing

AO3 Link

A/N: I apologize for not updating sooner, I'm in college and I haven't had much time to write unfortunately :/

likes, comments, and reblogs are highly appreciated!

In the time of night when the oscillating red and orange ribbons of fire wavered and the abounding stars splattered across the sky flowered brightly, Arthur sat at an old wooden table, a silent witness to the ongoing party. The area was bustling with laughter and chatter, and the warm flickering glow of the campfire cast a golden hue over the scene. The tepid wind roused the trees, and the scent of freshly bloomed wildflowers was prominent in the air.

He took in the joy of his exultant family, bonded together by hope and the pursuit of a better life. The camaraderie was a temporary release from the baggage of an unimaginably difficult time they had previously experienced. Moments like this were rare for him and always bound to end in a trice, and he’d once again return to a life of bloodshed.

Arthur believed himself to be a living, breathing embodiment of a tragedy, with an intrinsic reflection of worthlessness pinned from birth and condemned to a life of misfortune. His years would pass him by, slow as cold molasses and equally bitter, but when your paths crossed, those beliefs waned, and your saccharine nature made his life sweeter.

He took a thoughtful sip from his beer, and his gaze soon fell upon you, as it did multiple times throughout the night. While gossiping with the girls or grabbing a drink for yourself, you felt his eyes on you. You didn’t mind of course and rather relished in the fact that he spent his time admiring you, and you didn’t let it go unnoticed as you would return the glances with the warmest of smiles.

Your presence was serene amidst the revelry, sending an unwitting grin to appear on his face. All that was familiar to him disappeared, and he placed all of his attention on you, transfixing him in that untouchable moment and capturing the image in memory.

You held Jack in your arms and swayed to the music that radiated from the gramophone nestled in the heart of the camp, watching as Dutch and Molly danced beneath the euphoric light of the argent moon tucked away behind the dusky veil of clouds.

His thoughts stemmed from a more hopeful root, and he imagined what it would be like to have a family with you—if that were in your dreams. To get away from this life and give you the one you so rightfully deserved.

Unlike Arthur, you didn’t mind what kind of life you lived as long as he was by your side; that was all that mattered. Besides that, your thoughts ran similar to those of his, and as you looked at Jack’s large brown eyes and tousled chestnut hair, you felt immense happiness and like a mother toward him at times. As you spun around once with Jack, a rupture of small giggles rang out from him.

By instinct, you looked ahead to meet Arthur’s gaze. “I’m going to see if Uncle Arthur would like a dance, okay?”

“Okay!” He nodded, and you put him down, watching him run off toward his mother. You take in a steady breath as you strode to Arthur. His ruminations ceased at your approach.

“Would you like to dance?” Your gentle voice stirred emotions deep within him that refused to fade, and the crease between his brows had relaxed at your tone. He remembered the first time you had spoken to him, those exhaled words engraved into his wandering thoughts on that one summery day. He initially denied his love for you, stirring a thousand words unsaid in his morning coffee, letting it all dissolve at the base of his tongue, and swallowing it into inexistence.

It took a while for Arthur to accept that you made him not feel burdened by the heaviness of his polluted soul anymore, and instead made him feel like the good man he never believed he was. Never thought he could be. You saw that goodness in him, even when he couldn’t see it himself, and you were the feeling of bliss that one would strive for in their lifetime.

“‘Course, though I ain’t much of a dancer.” He finally answered, and rose from his seat, abandoning the beer he once held to take your hand–your touch was warm, and he dipped his head down to hide the faint smile that formed on the corner of his mouth.

You assured him with a simple That’s alright, as you guided him beside Dutch’s tent, and he captured you in the circle of his arms, with one hand resting on your lower back whilst the other interlaced with your own. Your hand rested on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, fingers slipping beneath his undone collar. You pressed your ruddy cheeks to his chest—his jacket held the scent of gun oil, rich leaves, and a hint of musk that always attracted you.

“I thought you said you weren’t much of a dancer? You seem to be doing good to me.”

His chuckle reverberated through his empty lungs, each rib chiming in harmony. “To you,” He emphasized. “Maybe not to others.”

“That’s true.”

His heart was sent into a fluttering frenzy as it beat fiercely against his ribs, threatening to break them as you pressed closer. It lasted longer than a moment before you moved your head away to glance at him with perpetual admiration. The simple way you looked at him, and truly saw him like no other had made him sink into the deepest peace he had ever known. And the gleam of stars matched that of your eyes as you stared deeply into his, and the melodic trill filled your ears.

The departing footsteps of Dutch and Molly were overlooked as you both were in wonderment, swaying in each other’s embrace. He spun you around once, your long flowy dress flaring beneath you. When you returned to his embrace, your eyes trailed over his features and landed at the seam of his lips. Arthur reaches for your face, his thumb brushing your lip, and all he can do is wait for that simple nod you give for him to close the gap between you.

♫ ♪ ♫ ♪

Your tent’s flaps were closed, providing you both privacy from the outside world as the party subdued. You listened to nature's symphony take over, the small crackle of the dying fire, the winds whistling, and the song of an owl you’d sometimes hear before you fell asleep.

You had distanced yourselves from the party early, conversing with one another for most of the night. About life, the past, and each other. He preferred your company over any party, listening with much intent to your stories as you spoke with immense passion. Every other sound apart from your voice he tuned out.

When the conversation had simmered and there wasn’t much else to say, you took the opportunity to finally thank him, hands folded in your lap.

“For what?”

“For dancing with me. I haven’t had this much fun in… awhile.” You finally looked at him after staring at your hands.

“Yeah, I know. Me too.” A deep sigh escaped him, and he took your hands in his, thumb caressing your knuckles. “I wish… I could give you something better than this.”

“Arthur,” You moved onto his lap. “Stop that. It doesn’t matter to me where we are. You’re here with me. That’s all.” You reassured his doubts, hand cupping his cheek.

He allowed himself to look at you and softened at your gaze. The dreaminess of your pretty features allayed him. It was apparent how much you both had wanted each other at this moment as the taste of longing glimmered in your irises, and the lack of doubts and reluctance within the warm space fueled your confidence to reconnect your lips with his once more. You gently wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling the ends of his hair prickle your skin.

The simple motion of Arthur laying you on your back, and drifting over you, sent a swarm of flittering butterflies within your chest. His kisses were as delicate as the shimmer of moonlight on water. He moved downward to your neck, close to your ear as he whispered how beautiful you looked tonight. His hand trailed you with need, slipping beneath your skirt, and showing you how much you truly meant to him until the night turned day.

⋆

Tags: @yyiikes and @kirksluv (if anyone else wants to be tagged in future chapters let me know!)

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan imagine #rdr fic #rdr #arthur morgan fic #my writing

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cellophaine · 3 months ago

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Chapter IV: Entrechat

Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Warnings: Fluff, description of injuries and blood, short and simple medical procedure, toxic environment.

Word Count: 5.9k

Author's Note: This is the longest chapter of the series to date! (by only 600 words but still). I ended up having to cut a chunk because time wasn't on my side and also I kept adding more stuff to the chapter and complicated the process. But here it is! I hope you will enjoy it 🫶

GIF Source – The GIF is extremely relevant!!

Your dance bag used to be indicative of your day. The heavier the bag, the longer the day, the more exhausted you'd be at the end of it. The bag would be strewn with multiple pairs of pointe shoes, two wrap skirts of different lengths, a practice tutu, warmup layers and tools, water and food. You would spend most of the day inside. Class in the morning, rehearsal for your part, and more often than not, understudy for Christine. You were only allowed to take your lunch break when the director was satisfied with your work, so it gave you an incentive to dance well and to perform perfectly every day. Every time. Some days, you didn't get a break until mid-afternoon. Despite your frustration and exhaustion, it was hard to find fault in Roger's teaching method as it clearly worked. A few passionate critics called you 'Roger Emerson's artistry crafted in a human form, and the true successor to Christine Lambert's illustrious career'. Jo and Amy shared a look of concern when you told them about the behind-the-scenes stuff, so you learned to sugarcoat the reality for them. You figured that they wouldn't get it. The harsh environment simply was something you had to live with in order to thrive. To be the best performer you could be.

In preparation for a new season, the stage calls could be as late as 10:30 PM. On performance days, you'd stay at the theatre, getting ready with your hair, makeup, and costume before helping others. You would often leave the theatre very late, walking fast with your head slightly down, a pocket knife clenched in your fist, hidden in the full bag.

Your bag is still a reflection of your day. It holds a single pair of soft shoes, a water bottle, and the keys to your apartment and mailbox. Its inconsequential weight on your shoulder speaks for what you think of yourself – aimless, unmoored to a real and substantial purpose. No ballet class, no performance. No adoring audience who cheers for you as you take your bow at the end of the night. There are over eight million people in New York. No one cares that you used to dance for a mid-tier ballet company, and now working as a secretary for a mid-tier law firm. You have nothing except for the self-imposed helplessness. And it holds you motionlessly at the entrance to Jo's new gym.

You're torn between two opposite points of the axis – the yearning to go back to the one thing you've done your whole life, and the fear that your moment was gone the night of your injury. You know that you can't stay away from ballet for too long as the fleeting nature of your youth and the tragically short career you chose, and still love, pull at the back of your mind. They tell you the more you spend away from the art, that’s more time you don’t have wasted. But when you finally decided tonight was the night you finally made a tepid return to ballet, you're still scared. What is the point? You can never be as good as you used to be. The thought has been exhaustingly persistent. But seclusion has provided you with a comforting contemplation that you can accept. There is no audience that you have to perform for tonight. There is a sense of self-assurance that even if your dancing is mediocre, no one else will be around to witness it, except for you. You don't even have to dance if you don't want to. You quickly insert the key into the lock and turn, the door opens to your newfound determination.

Upon entry, you can already see why Jo bought this place. It has an old-school vibe, and of course, the boxing ring to the left of the room. New lockers spread along the wall near the entrance, breaking up by a hallway and Jo's office from what you can see. A couple of towel carts gather below the window looking out into the gym. The back of the sign Fogwell’s Gym is prominent even in the low street lights, each letter red, big and bold in their respective glass pane. Sandbags spread sporadically throughout the room, but you’re not here for them. You keep straight and reach the new addition to the gym as Jo instructed on the right, opposite the boxing ring. You wave at Leon – the night cleaner – before entering the room.

The studio is small and separated from the open space, and more narrow than the room you used to dance in at Lady Liberty, but it works better than your apartment. A large floor-to-ceiling mirror covers the length of the wall, reflecting the empty room except for a standard moveable barre on the opposite side. The window blind is drawn on the view of the boxing ring and the rest of the gym, and you keep it that way. You bring the barre to the middle of the room, vertically to the mirror, and put on the shoes. You didn’t bother putting on a leotard and tights, settling for a pair of leggings and a fitted shirt. The simple and form-hugging outfit is enough to see your lines.

The music playing through your phone speaker is loud enough for you to follow in the stillness of the building. Plié, tendu, ronde de jambe à terre. You go through each exercise with ease. Balançoire, fondu, ronde de jambe en l'air. Your mind and muscle memories work in tandem, guiding your movements. Frappé, petit battements, relevé. Every day for five, sometimes six, days of the week for years. Adagio, grand battement, arabesque penché. Your body is warm, your alignment refined and you find yourself not too concerned about the predicament you're wrapped up in as you move onto centre work.

After a couple of simple combinations, you recall the Cupid variation from Don Quixote. It was nowhere near the hardest variation you'd done, but with the level you're on at the moment, the agility and quick footwork required would be a challenge. But you want to feel the satisfaction of successfully executing a complete piece. So you search for the music, and mark it out with your hands and feet.

Music fills the room, a little louder this time, but doesn’t mute the sound of pressure every time your feet touch the floor. You can’t land as softly as you used to, but you try your best to hold your weight. You feel a pinch in your leg on a piqué turn, but you push through to the flow of the music. As the variation almost nears the end, the door to the main area of the gym creaks loudly, and whoever enters inadvertently takes away your focus with them. Your feet knock together clumsily on an assemblé, making you lose balance when you come back to the floor. You stumble, letting the notes float past you and eventually end. The muffled conversation in the other room announces the unmistakable presence of another. Jo let you know about Leon, and you haven't expected the company of anyone else during the gym's off hours. You peek through the blind to find the familiar shape of a person your eyes perpetually search for throughout the workday. You open the door but stay at the threshold. And call out hesitantly.

“Matt?”

He turns to your direction and says your name. He's surprised to see you, but there is a moment of delay as if he already knew you were here.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm here to work out.”

He’s wearing a black tank, grey sweatpants, an old pair of trainers and a gym bag by his side. Your eyes trail over the stretch along the arm holes, noticing how worn the shirt looks, and how his arms look so much bigger than you've imagined. Not that you want to admit you have thought about his arms, but you can acknowledge that the dress shirts and suit jackets he usually wears are quite deceiving.

You course correct at his plain answer.

“But the gym is closed.”

“I can say the same to you.”

“My friend gave me the access. She owns the place.”

He thinks for a moment.

“Ahh. That explains the new equipments.”

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of his attempt at redirecting your attention.

“You still haven't answered my question.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, amused at your directness.

“Right, well, I also get after-hours access because of Leon.”

The man mentioned has already gone home, it seems.

“Oh yeah? You bribed him, didn't you?”

You lean against the door. Matt puts both hands up, feigning innocence.

“I admitted to no such thing.”

Your conversation has taken on a playful edge, and you allow yourself to lean into it.

“It’s clear to me that that’s what happened.”

“Are you conducting a cross-examination on me?"

"It doesn't have to be, but since you insist …"

He shakes his head in amusement.

"Can't believe it's only been two weeks since you started working for us. If I didn't know any better, I would think you'd been with us from the day we opened the practice.”

“Thank you. I’m just a quick learner. You’d know that if you came to the interview.”

Matt wets his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. You were only joking, but when he speaks, you can hear a touch of seriousness in his voice.

“I’m glad I missed it.”

“Why?”

The question was only a notch above a whisper, but he heard it.

“That led us to here. You're working with us. And I get to see you more often.”

His admission draws a soft intake of air from you. You feel the skin on your cheeks and ears grow warm as your heart quickens its pace.

“Flirting with me won’t distract me from the fact that you’re trespassing.”

He turns his head to curse softly under his breath in a slightly exaggerated manner. You chuckle at his attempt to make you laugh.

“You’re good.”

He says, shaking his head, the smile on his lips widens.

“Don’t worry, I’m just joking. I won’t tell Jo about this.”

Jo is already on the fence about Matt. Knowing about his trespassing will only aggravate her.

“What about you? What are you doing here?”

Matt asks. You straighten up from where you’re standing, suddenly feeling defensive despite the question being innocuous.

“I’m here to … dance. I want to slowly get back to ballet. My apartment is too small for what I want to do so … here I am.”

His face brightens.

“That’s great. I’m glad you’ve decided to give it another chance. You told me how much you missed it."

You're surprised to see he still remembered what you told him on the first night you met.

“You'll regret that when I play the same music over and over.”

“Go ahead. I don't mind. I need to expand my playlist.”

“Let me guess. All you listen to is emo, broody music that fuels your tenancy in court.”

His head tilts slightly to the side at your poking fun at him.

“Broody? Is that what you think of me?”

“A little bit. Sometimes. It’s just that … you have that air about you. Like you’re suppressing something, all the time.”

A flash of something you can't name crosses his face. But it's gone as he puts on an easy smile.

“Hm, I didn’t expect to be cross-examined on top of a psychoanalysis coming to the gym tonight.”

“Maybe I really have spent too much time with you three.”

You share a laugh. The banter is nice. You get to talk freely to one another, and your overthinking ceases to make an appearance in this moment. The air is not laden with dread, frustration or misunderstanding like two nights ago. You have thought about the situation since after that night, and you feel like you owe Matt honesty.

“I should apologize to you. For the other night.”

Matt’s brows furrow as you keep going.

“I misconstrued your words and intention.”

"You don't have to apologize. I could've handled it better. I should've addressed you properly–"

You interrupt with a call for his name.

“Thank you for doing that, but it was mostly my fault. I was overly sensitive, and frankly, in way over my head about a similar situation. I was just worried that you … might have changed your mind."

“Changed my mind about what?”

Honesty, you remind yourself.

“… About me. With all of that stuff that happened with my old company, I thought you might think that I’m more trouble than I’m worth.”

Understanding dawns on his features. He softens.

“What happened at your old company is not your fault. I meant it the first time, and I still mean it now: anything happened between us will stay between us."

You know that now.

"And I enjoy having you around the office. I really do.”

You can't tame the happy smile on your face. You let it mirror Matt's own.

“I enjoy being around you, as well.”

A quiet understanding makes the air between you lighter. The knot in your stomach unravels. You clear your throat, bringing both of you out of the comfortable quiet.

“I’ll … let you get back to it.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll close the door so the music won’t be too loud for you.”

“I really don’t mind either way.”

“Accommodating, as always.”

With a final remark and one last look at Matt, you retreat into the room and close the door anyway. As the night goes on, you can hear the rhythmic punches on the sandbag next to your own classical playlist. The melodies blur into one another, making up their own unique existence in an unlikely place.

You start going to Fogwell’s every other day. You find yourself looking forward to the visit for more than one reason. Every time you push through the discomfort that your old injury brings, the experience invigorates you, and you feel like you’re gaining a fraction of the old you back. You retrieve fragments of your old balance, strength, and flexibility. You're not confident enough to practice in pointe shoes yet, content with dancing in soft canvas shoes. You've been looking into ballet classes for adult dancers. A structured class with lesson plans can bolster your own framework and accelerate your improvement. You used to have classes at least five days a week, but for now, once to twice a week would be sufficient. Ballet classes are plentiful in New York, you just need to take the plunge.

You see Matt on and off throughout the nights you go. Seeing him is the other reason, but you can never admit it out loud to anyone. The delicate balance between you is restored, and you don't want to overcomplicate it. But there is no harm in innocuous talking that often veers on the side of flirting when both parties are willing participants. You chat and rehash about what happened at work before going back to your own things. You don't like staring at Matt, the act is too desperate, but your gaze does linger from time to time. The sandbag shakes from Matt's exertion, and you find yourself wondering if that's how he got the scars on his knuckles. The size of his arms, which are corded with muscles, fluster you when you've stared for too long.

You have been avoiding Jo's invites to hang out. Not to keep Matt's trespassing a secret, but you don’t like the way she tries to overshadow your thoughts and opinions with her own. The last time you saw her, she only said what she said because she was looking out for you. But you also know how once she has formed an idea about someone in her head, it’d be hard for her to let it go. If you agree to meet up, you know that she'll ask you about Matt again, and even worse, if you tell her about the misunderstanding, she'll only double down and urge you to quit your job at the firm. No matter what, you can't win. For right now, no one needs to know. Your connection with Matt remains as yours and his alone.

Time goes by, and the most accurate measure of it is your growing closeness with Karen, Foggy, and especially, Matt. To be more specific, it has been a little over a month since you started working for the firm. It’s not enough time for you to comfortably get drinks with them yet, but enough to be included and tag along on coffee runs and lunch breaks.

Therefore, you notice that Matt is late this morning, even though technically speaking, he was late on the day of your interview as well. He's always early or on time, so for his office to still be empty by the time the clock hits 10:45 is not like him. You pretend that you’re not even glancing at the time every five minutes, but you do. When you're even just a little restless, your mind takes over and forms an unpleasant thought. Matt must've spent the night with a woman.

The sudden delivery of the notion feels like a sharp sting on your cheeks. Your heart clenches, and what feels awfully similar to jealousy flares in your chest, making your stomach churn. You try to push the bitter feelings out, but it's too late. The silent acknowledgement is enough for your mind to helplessly dive deeper into the hole the invasive idea has dug. You don't have the right to be jealous, you're only Matt's colleague. What he chooses to do outside of work is none of your concern. With anyone is none of your rights to even question. Still, as much as you try to pretend that it doesn’t affect you, it does. Did he treat her nicely like the way he did with you? Did he kiss her with the same vigour? Same softness? Did he listen to her problems? Did he make breakfast for her this morning and that’s why he’s late? Maybe he's kissing her goodbye right now, with the promise of more whispered on her lips as he pulls away. The mental image of Matt kissing someone else pulls and cuts into your increasingly sensitive disposition. You look away from the document you weren’t really reading, willing your mind to make the words make sense again.

You haven't made much progress when Matt comes through the door a few minutes later, looking quite pale and dishevelled. He says good morning to you and quickly crosses the space to go to his office. Your response fades on your lips as he closes the door behind him. The cold demeanour is enough to spark a disappointment ember. It grows hot in your chest and along your skin as the conclusion clicks in place: he did spend the previous night with a woman. You look at the computer, hoping a vision change will help you forget quickly.

Matt often observes quietly, heedful of every little thing. He chimes in when something doesn't make sense, or when a question needs an answer. But in today's meeting, he is unusually silent. You notice the way he pushes his glasses up on his nose every other minute, the way he touches a particular part of his torso more often than not, and when you angle yourself in a way that grants you a view under the unbuttoned suit jacket, you find red spots that look like blood on his white shirt. You can't help but blurt out.

“Are you bleeding?”

Ms. Carrero turns to you, as do Karen and Foggy. You don’t care the way their bewildered gazes as you pull on Matt's hands, the ones that are trying to button his jacket up.

“It’s nothing.”

You part the material to find the small splotches of blood seeping through the cotton. Foggy’s voice is alarmed when he asks.

“What happened?”

Matt stumbles over his words, trying to smooth out his explanation.

“Oh, uh … kitchen … accident. I ran into a knife that I forgot I put there.”

“Are you okay?”

Ms. Carrero asks with concern laced in her scrunched brows. Matt nods, giving her a tight smile.

“You should probably get that taken care of.”

“It's not that bad. I can wait until the meeting is over.”

You know what Matt is trying to do, and you refuse to let him slide this under the rug. You say without giving him another chance to make up an excuse.

“Karen and Foggy can take care of the meeting. I can help you clean up.”

Karen nods while Foggy agrees with you. Matt hesitates. You lower your voice, almost pleading with him.

“Please, before you bleed out in front of Ms. Carrero.”

Matt concedes after a brief moment. You excuse yourselves as you stand up and walk to the door, holding it open for Matt to step through. The meeting reconvenes while you lead Matt into his office. You pull out the chair so he can sit and ask him to unbutton his shirt.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out to dinner first?”

Despite the cheeky remark, he listens to you, shrugging off the suit jacket.

“That’s a great idea considering how your kitchen skills don’t seem to be that great. Let’s keep you away from those knives for a while, yeah?”

You pull the chair on the opposite side of the desk and set it up next to Matt's.

“Ouch. Here I was, thinking we were having a good thing going on.”

You roll your eyes at him even though he can’t see it. Your voice softens.

“I’ll be right back.”

You search for the first aid kit in the kitchen before moving to your desk. In your bag, you find the tin of all-heal ointment balm and a Tide pen. You return to Matt’s office to find him leaning back on the chair with the few buttons unfastened from the bottom of the shirt. You set the kit on the desk, settle into the chair and ask.

“Can you hold your shirt up for me?”

This time, he listens without a sly remark. Your knees knock together as you get closer, and he accommodates you by parting his thighs. You slot in between, trying to calm your nerves at your proximity. He folds the material and holds it to his chest, revealing the expanse of smooth skin, well-defined abs, and a bloody bandage at his side. You're distracted by the sight momentarily before informing him of what you're going to do, and he nods. The wet patch comes off slowly under your careful fingers. The cut is much deeper than you thought, and the way Matt’s playing it off like it’s nothing alarms you. When you voice your concern, he only shrugs.

“I’ve had worse.”

“How? I’m very worried about your worse if this is nothing.”

The knot in your stomach tightens. You observe the wound, and it looks deeper than a simple kitchen knife cut.

“It looks a lot worse than it feels, trust me.”

“It also doesn't look like a simple accident.”

“Just my luck.”

"Did you try to impress someone? A woman you met at the bar, perhaps?"

You hope the joke didn't come off as forced as it sounds in your head. Matt gives you an easy, playful smile.

"No, there was no one to impress. My kitchen wouldn't be a mess if that was the case."

You release a disbelieving hum, and Matt holds the free hand up.

"I swear. This was a one-off incident."

"Right."

You shake your head, the corner of your lips involuntarily curl into a grin. You dip your head to take a closer look. Even though the wound is small and manageable, it still has a gaping opening, so slapping fresh gauze and bandage on top won't hold the edges close. You look into the first aid kit and are surprised to find the basics of what you need to properly clean and seal the injury. You put on a pair of gloves and grab a packet of anti-bacterial wipes.

“I will have to give you a couple of stitches so the wound can stay close, okay?”

His brows raise above the red glasses.

“Do you know how to stitch up a wound?”

He hisses softly as you clean the area with the wipe.

“Of course I do. I’ve darned shoes before. Can’t be that hard to stitch you up.”

You chuckle when his expression betrays him. He looks worried and on edge.

“I’m just joking. I know enough to take care of a simple wound like this.”

You clean the needle with an antiseptic cloth and prepare the thread.

“If I hurt you, let me know, okay?”

The smirk on his lips is cocky, yet simultaneously endearing.

“I’m a big boy. I can handle a needle.”

“But not a knife, apparently.”

That draws a deep chuckle from Matt. The room gradually falls into silence as you pour all of your focus on steadying your hands and making sure you don't pierce his skin too deeply. He takes the pain exceptionally well with only a few sharp breaths and soft gasps here and there.

“Did you have to do this a lot? Back when you were still dancing?”

His voice is as gentle as your hands. You take a moment before responding.

“Not really. It didn’t happen as often as you might think.”

His thoughtful silence gives you the courage to go on.

“I’d get blisters, cracked toe nails, things like that. The company started out very small so we didn't get proper healthcare professionals until about three years ago.”

Your hands are steady as you make it to the other half of the wound.

“It was the first performance of the season. I needed to rehearse for this one role, and all of the studios were taken. So I practiced in a closet full of costumes and set pieces. When I … basically spun around the room, I cut myself on one of the metal poles that they used as the foundation for the set. Tore through my tights and I started bleeding. I went home, wrapped it in a piece of gauze, secured a bandage on top and hoped for the best.

“During the show the next day, the wound opened and it soaked through the white tights I had to wear. After the show, the director said that if I pulled something like that again and didn’t get my injury in line for the next day's performance, he would bench me for the rest of the season. I didn't have enough money to get it checked out at a hospital. So I went to my friend slash roommate.”

“Did that friend happen to be Jo?”

“Yes. She used to be a professional boxer. She taught me how to stitch up my wound. Since I had to dance more than one role, on top of the two performances every day for six days straight as well, the wound would rip a little. So I had to add one or two stitches here and there.”

He breathes sharply as the spot you poke through is particularly tender.

“That sounds awful.”

“Dancing with the cut wasn't the best feeling, but at least I learned how to stitch up a wound from it.”

You cut the thread off and dab away the blood seeping through the now-closed cut. You take the gloves off and open the tin. A faint scent of soothing tea tree extract emanates as you take some ointment on your finger. You carefully smear a thin layer along the edge of the cut. Matt keeps still, holding his breathing to an almost motionless state. You close the lid and tap it twice before placing it on the table.

“Apply this after your shower, and whenever you change the bandage. It’ll help a lot.”

“Thank you.”

You cover the wound with new gauze and bandage.

“Thank you for telling me. And for stitching me up, of course.”

“Thank you for listening. Now, we have to take care of your shirt.”

“Right. Can’t go to my next meeting like this.”

He moves to unfasten the rest of the buttons, but you put your hand on top of his.

"You don't have to take it off. I can do it with this pen here."

He keeps his hands to the side as you flatten the material over your palm. The spots aren't too big, nothing a little diligent work can't fix. You dab the tip of the pen on the spots repeatedly before spreading the liquid. You watch as the red diminishes into a light pink then the barely-there colour of rust.

You put the implements back before closing the kit. You're about to stand up to leave when Matt reaches out and holds your wrist, keeping you there.

“I appreciate you doing this for me. Truly.”

Your heart stutters at the small swipe of his thumb on your pulse. You think about what Jo said. The man sitting in front of you is proving that he is anything but the terrible, awful things Jo thinks he might be capable of.

“You’re welcome.”

The moment is transient, and you miss his warmth when he lets you go. You're about to leave the room when he calls out to you.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“Not tonight. But tomorrow night. Definitely.”

That night, you take the subway to Greenwich Village. The ballet studio is on the third floor of the building, and you're the first one to arrive for class. You go through your warm-up routine in the corner of the room, staying out of the way as other students trickle in. Your guts alternate between excitement and nervousness, and both do little to ease your mind. This is an intermediate class for pre-professionals and advanced students. The room is filled with mostly younger people, and everyone gathers in groups.

The class goes quiet when an older woman enters the room with a big notebook on her arm. Charlotte Hill. She was an intern at the American Ballet Theatre for two years before quitting to found her own dance center after her name. You did a quick Google search before coming in, wanting to know the teacher a little more before the class. Everyone quietly put the finishing touches on their dancewear and grab their spots on the barre. Music flares through the speaker, and everyone starts the plié exercise without guidance from the teacher. You quickly follow others by watching them, but you still feel lost. Barre exercises vary depending on the teacher, the studio or the school. But to dive right into it without a single word going through the steps is bizarre. At Lady Liberty, the headmistress always went through the steps, even if it was just the names of them.

Because your spot is in a corner, when you do a soutenu turn to the other side, you have limited vision of what others are doing. There is no mirror on the wall when you work on the other side. You try your best to memorize the unfamiliar combinations as barre stretches on, but you can't keep up as well as others. Charlotte makes her way towards you, watching you struggle as the music changes again and again. The other students in the class go through each exercise easier as if they have done this so many times before, and you realize that is the case. You're singled out, your dancing is quite stiff with the teacher standing only two feet away from you. Her face is grim, and you can feel the mild contempt in her gaze, following your every movement. When she finally walks away, you can see discreet and sympathetic glances from a few students who look at you. Your nose burns, but you refuse to cry. You move your feet and your arms, you incline, raise and tilt your head. You keep dancing.

After putting the barre away, the class has a moment to drink water. One of the students who spared you a glance earlier comes up to you.

“I recognize you. You used to dance with Lady Liberty Theatre, right?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I get a seasonal ticket every year. I watched you perform several times now. You danced beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

She probably didn’t mean it, but the past tense has an unwanted effect on you. You swallow the lump in your throat, smiling as she introduces herself. Judging by the teacher's look of disinterest for you at barre, it's not an uncommon thought that you're no longer capable of dancing like you used to.

The class ends on a disastrous note. You could follow the centre works Charlotte gave decently, but that wasn't enough for her. You were asked to repeat a combination because according to her, your techniques were off. By that point, your muscles were strained, you were tired, but you carried it out anyway. You did everything she asked of you, even when she got into your space, following you as you moved through the space, shouting each step into your face. When you stumbled, she scoffed loudly, expressing her displeasure at your mediocrity while everyone else watched.

You stuff everything into your bag and try to leave the class as soon as possible, but the teacher calls out to you by your full name. So she knows who you are.

"We have classes for little children. Maybe you can come in and watch some day. You might learn something from them."

You're enraged, and you don't care about the consequences. Your voice is level when you answer her with defiance.

"You're just a terrible teacher. Don't project that onto me."

The sneer on her lips sours into a scowl.

"Your career is over. It's time you look for something else to do instead of wasting my time."

"Who are you to speak to me like this? At least I had a career. I'll be more than happy to never return to this place again."

You walk away before she can come up with a rebuttal. You know that you shouldn't have stooped to her level, but you don't care. You refuse to shed a tear over the teacher's deplorable hostility. Despite the positive changes in the ballet world in recent years, with more inclusivity and acceptance of races, body types, and backgrounds, there are still remnants of the old system that refuse to die. Those bits and pieces are carried on through people like Charlotte Hill, believing that ballet is the type of art that is reserved and accessible for people of certain classes. You scorn and reject that belief.

A smaller, but more insistent part of you thinks that the teacher's attitude stemmed from the fact that your place in ballet is not yours anymore. You chose to step away, to give it up, and you don't deserve a second chance.

Your hair is still wet when your head hits the pillow. You're exhausted and wracked with guilt and self-hatred. The night floats by, and the sun peeks through the open curtain, the soft light touches your unmoving form gently. But you're already awake, unable to sleep with the teacher's spiteful words and contemptuous looks embedded under your eyelids every time you close your eyes.

Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! I'd love to read your thoughts on the story!

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randomwriteronline · 2 years ago

Text

Water for Gali was a sister, a second half, an extension. In the water she was whole, embraced, with nothing to fear.

Water for Nokama was an escape, a bubble of respite. Somewhere nobody could snag her, bother her, search for her.

Water for Hahli was a home and battle ground. She was invincible within it, untouchable, unbreakable, unreachable.

Air for Lewa was a safety net, a support; a pair of outstretched arms always ready to catch him before it was too late.

Air for Matau was a vehicle, another means of transport; something he had to master lest he break his bones upon it.

Air for Kongu was a second skin, a third limb; he knew better than anyone its shifting secrets, its so quiet language.

Fire for Tahu was an old rival. It curled on him, molded itself in his image, quipping amiably as they fought together.

Fire for Vakama was a tepid gaze. It reached out timidly, barely still burning, asking to be allowed in his hands again.

Fire for Jaller was a solemn promise. One he would need to hold tight, strengthened by discipline, to do right by it.

Ice for Kopaka was a taste of wilderness, carelessness, freedom; it was howling alone, dancing wildly in the silence.

Ice for Nuju was a breath of stillness, study, tranquillity; it was gazing in endless white to decode the world on his own.

Ice for Matoro was a scent of expectation, fear, tenderness; he entrusted to it his footprints, hoping they'd last.

Earth for Onua was peace and quiet. The songs it rumbled through him soothed him like kind hands easing his worries.

Earth for Whenua was reflection and wait. The stories it had written on its skin kept him company like many old friends.

Earth for Nuparu was knowledge and innovation. He heard in it his own voice as he mumbled during tireless workdays.

Stone for Pohatu was a rough comfort forced soft; when he wrapped it around himself like a blanket, he felt safe, warm.

Stone for Onewa was a tough tool forced smooth; when he shaped it according to his vision, he felt in control, certain.

Stone for Hewkii was a lean muscle forced strong; a part of himself that he exercised apart, to carve it into its zenith.

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versesbyaaliyah · 4 days ago

Text

Boil Britannia

Written by Aaliyah O'Neil

This poem was inspired by the prompt 'Heatwave,' provided by @wrentalks and hosted by @picklemafia.

In the court of the Curdled Sun,

a parched decree is inked in sweat—

Let pavements bubble with laughter,

let hedges combust in quiet revolt.

Behold:

the Queen’s corgis bark in Morse,

pleading for ice cubes, gin, or revolution.

His Majesty’s boxers have fused

to royal thighs—God save us all.

The Thames, disillusioned,

has quit pretending to be a river.

It now identifies as tepid custard.

Swans lie belly-up, lifeless,

dreaming of Scandinavian passports.

And we—loyal subjects of the roast—

queue for air-conditioned absolution:

a cinema screening Frozen,

a Tesco aisle that hums like a cathedral,

offering communion in Calippos.

This isn’t weather.

This is nature filing for divorce.

The ozone’s absconded with Neptune,

leaving us—children of carbon and compromise

—

to burn our toes on yesterday’s ambitions.

A man melts in a suit,

his tie weeping polyester apologies,

while a fox in sunglasses

quotes Sartre from a bin:

"Hell is no longer other people—

it’s the reflection of yourself in your fan."

We laugh. It sounds like boiling kettles.

Someone offers a prayer to a discarded ice tray.

And somewhere, deep beneath the crust,

the Earth murmurs,

"I warned you, didn’t I?"

These original poems and content are my creative work and are protected by copyright. Please do not reproduce, share, or use them without my permission.

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sai-int · 8 months ago

Text

Panther | FNG

[PREV] | [NEXT]

MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 7.8k words

7.23.22 - 1143

The hotel room felt like a holding cell disguised as comfort. Beige walls, beige carpet, beige furniture—the place looked like someone had tried to save money by shopping for the most uninspired options available. A faint smell of industrial cleaner and something vaguely floral clung to the air, leaving an antiseptic sharpness in my nose. The bedspread, patterned with muted geometric shapes, screamed early 2000s nostalgia, but not the good kind.

I dropped my duffel on the bed, the springs squeaking in protest, and surveyed my temporary prison. No orders. No updates. Just waiting. My job was often like this—quiet stretches of tedium punctuated by bursts of chaos. But this particular stretch of quiet was gnawing at me. The unknowns about the mission swirled in my head, each unanswered question more frustrating than the last.

"One hell of a start," I muttered, kicking off my boots and tossing them by the door. The thud echoed briefly in the otherwise silent room.

The first thing I did was shower. The bathroom wasn't much better than the room—a cramped space with dingy white tiles and a warped mirror that distorted my reflection at the edges. I turned the shower knob to its hottest setting, waiting for steam to rise, but the water barely made it past lukewarm.

The spray hit my skin in uneven bursts, but I stood under it anyway, letting the tepid water wash away the film of airport sweat and grime. My hair clung to my scalp, plastered down in thick, wet strands, as I worked shampoo into my roots. The simple act of scrubbing felt grounding, almost meditative.

I leaned my forehead against the cool tiles, water streaming down my face as my thoughts spiraled. Who were these people I was about to work with? What kind of mission required this much secrecy? Was I walking into something I wasn't ready for?

The bathroom filled with the faint scent of cheap soap as I rinsed the last of the suds from my hair, the water trickling down the drain with an almost hypnotic rhythm. I can't allow myself to be human in this line of work; I'd be down in the gutter before I could count to three. Doesn't matter, I reminded myself. Stick with it.

After drying off with a towel that was more scratchy than soft, I pulled on an old pair of sweats and a loose t-shirt. The fabric clung uncomfortably to my damp skin as I brushed through my dark hair and stepped back into the main room.

The sun did its best to break through the thick curtains, but to no avail. The space was dim and flipping through the TV channels proved to be as uninspiring as the rest of the room. Home renovation shows featuring overenthusiastic couples arguing about countertops. Reruns of Friends with jokes that hadn't aged well. A game show where contestants embarrassingly misidentified pop hits from the early 2000s.

I settled on the game show, not because it was good, but because it was the least mind-numbing option. The canned laughter eventually fell to static in the background after a few hours or so. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, laid down, and started scrolling.

Stale group chats. Generic memes on Instagram. News articles. Spam emails promising discounts I didn't care about. Nothing to distract me from the oppressive quiet.

Just as I was about to toss the phone aside, it buzzed in my hand.

The screen lit up: Carlos calling.

I swiped to answer and sat up to lean back against the headboard. "Carlos," I said, unable to keep the small smile out of my voice. "How y'doin'?"

"Bea!" His voice was so loud and cheerful it felt like he was in the room with me. "Where the hell did you go? Witness protection or something?"

I laughed lightly, feeling some of the tension in my chest ease. "'f anythin', 'm prob'ly more likely to put someone in witness protection," I chuckled. "But somethin' like that. Just got yanked into somethin' new. Y'know how it is."

"Yeah, totally. Oh wait- Leon's here too," Carlos said, his voice muffled briefly before another familiar voice chimed in.

"Bea! You're alive!" Leon's tone was light, with just a hint of teasing. "So, what's with the cryptic Houdini act?"

I hesitated, staring at the beige wall as I chose my words. "Can't really say. Actually don't even know much. 'M just...waitin' for now."

Carlos snorted. "Cryptic as hell. You good, though? You sound...off."

"Yeah, 'm good," I lied smoothly, though the knot in my stomach said otherwise.

"Calling bullshit," Leon interrupted. "You're terrible at lying, Bea."

I sighed, running a hand through my still-damp hair. I had to assume everything about what I'm doing is classified. "'M just a little... antsy. Don't know what 'm about t'get into."

"Doesn't matter," Carlos said. "You're the Panther. You're top dog. You've got this."

I grimaced and cringed. "Hate when y'all call me that.."

I could hear Leon chuckle in the background, he chimed in, "Oh come on! We've seen you pull off some crazy shit. This'll be a cakewalk for you."

I chuckled and rolled my eyes., feeling the tension in my chest ease a fraction. "Y'all are ridiculous."

"Yeah, but you love us for it," Leon said, his grin practically audible.

Carlos interrupted. "Yeah, Bea. Remember the time you had to hot wire that Humvee on the fly in the middle of fucking Iraq? How'd you learn to do that anyway?"

"That's a can o'worms you just don't wanna open." I said bashfully, trying to shut down the hype they were giving me.

The conversation drifted into lighter topics, touching on inside jokes and harmless teasing. They never let up. I said "fixin' to" and they drop it for 30 minutes.

"If you could hear yourself," Carlos said, barely able to get the words out between laughs.

"Oh shut it," I shot back, rolling my eyes even though they couldn't see me.

Eventually the call came to an end and I tossed my phone aside. The afternoon sun was finally coming down and the long forgotten game-show was still running in the background, yet the room felt heavier, the lightness from their banter fading too quickly. I needed to move. The restless energy thrummed under my skin, and sitting still felt unbearable.

Dropping to the floor, I started with push-ups, counting off each one in my head. The muscles in my arms and chest burned, screaming for a break by the time I hit 60, but I kept going. Sit-ups came next, followed by planks and burpees. Sweat dripped down my face and onto the carpet as I pushed myself to exhaustion, each motion burning off a little more of my unease.

When I finally stopped, my chest was heaving, and my hands were trembling. I sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, letting my breath slow. I got up and lugged myself back to the bathroom for another shower.

This time, I didn't care that the water was only lukewarm. It felt good against my overheated skin, washing away the sweat and replacing it with a sense of calm. The sound of the water, steady and rhythmic, drowned out the storm in my head, at least for a while.

Back in bed, the exhaustion hit me quickly, but sleep didn't come easy. My mind was still restless, thoughts flitting between the mission and the unknown faces I'd be working with. When I finally drifted off, the nightmares came fast.

The dream was jagged, a montage of half-formed memories and blurred faces.

My father's voice echoed, low and slurred, as he fumbled with his belt. A crash. A scream. My mother's blue face, the smell of gunpowder sharp in the air. The scene shifted, fragments colliding. The hollow sound of a shot, the thud of a body hitting the floor. My own cries drowned out by silence.

I woke up gasping, sweat sticking my shirt and the sheets to my skin. The hotel room was dark, save for the faint glow of the clock on the nightstand. 2:43 a.m. I pressed my hands against my face, grounding myself in the now.

"It's just a dream," I muttered, though the tightness in my chest said otherwise. It was a long time before I managed to fall back asleep. When I did, it was fitful, the shadows of the dream still lurking.

....

The morning light crept into the room through the curtains, painting the walls in muted yellows that did little to brighten the drab decor. My body felt sluggish as I blinked awake, the weight of the restless night still clinging to me. The clock on the nightstand read 9:47 a.m.—late, by my standards. The room was still and heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioning unit chugging along in the corner.

Rolling out of bed, I stretched, feeling the satisfying pull of tight muscles. My stomach growled, a low reminder of how long it had been since I'd eaten anything more substantial than a granola bar. Room service seemed like a small indulgence, but the idea of heading down to the lobby and facing the fake pleasantries of strangers wasn't appealing. I picked up the laminated menu from the desk and scanned the options. Pancakes, eggs, toast—the basics. I dialed the number, ordered a bit of everything, and sank into the chair by the window, letting my gaze drift across the parking lot below. It was weird and entirely unfamiliar to be somewhere so... normal. I had been practically living on bases for years.

After some time, a knock came at the door, the smell of coffee and bacon was already seeping through the hallway. I opened the door to a young man in a surprisingly crisp uniform who wheeled in the tray with a polite smile, his movements practiced and efficient. The food was neatly arranged: fluffy scrambled eggs, toast cut into perfect triangles, syrup glistening on a stack of pancakes. I poured the coffee into a white ceramic cup and took a long sip, the bitter heat jolting me into full wakefulness. This was way better than expected given the room. I had a feeling that this was more than just a dingy motel. Thanks, Laswell.

After eating, I headed for the shower again to wash off the night terrors and the sweat and torment that came with it. The bathroom's mirror was still fogged from last night's use, a faint outline of my reflection visible in the glass. I turned on the water and let it get hot for a few moments. I stared at my reflection, looking at myself indifferently as if I wasn't even real. A large scar ran across my left eye, several on my lips and cheek. To me, it was unsightly. No wonder people do double takes when I walk by.

The steam filled the room as I stepped under the spray, letting it wash away the stiffness from sleep. The scent of generic hotel soap filled the air, a clean but unremarkable smell that somehow felt comforting. Showers were a luxury I didn't take for granted. In the field, water was often scarce or cold, stolen moments of hygiene were wedged between long days of sweat and dirt... Sometimes mud or sand. The water rushed over my skin, pooling at my feet before swirling down the drain.

I didn't know if I should wear my fatigues or my civvies. I opted for my fatigues and figured it was a better way to make good first impressions. I slipped on the camouflage pants and tucked my forest green shirt into the waistband. I tried to lose myself in the endless loop of hotel TV. The channels hadn't improved overnight. A cooking competition played on one, the dramatic music and over-the-top commentary that grated after ten minutes.

When my phone buzzed, the sound cut through the monotony like a lifeline. I grabbed it off the nightstand, seeing a random number on the screen. Swiping to answer, I pressed it to my ear.

"Hello?", my voice steady.

Laswell's tone was brisk and to the point. "Two men will be at your door in thirty minutes to escort you to the plane. Be ready and packed."

"Yes, ma'am," I said automatically. She was probably using a burner.

The call ended before I could ask anything further. I set the phone down, the weight of her words settling over me. Thirty minutes. Plenty of time to throw everything back into my duffel, though I moved with purpose anyway, folding clothes and stashing toiletries with precision. I could hear my Drill Sergeants voice in my head from Basic Training yelling at me about how to pack.

Right on time, there was a knock at the door. I opened it up and two men in dark suits stood in the hallway, their expressions unreadable behind tinted sunglasses. "Ms. Dawson?" one of them asked, his voice low and professional.

"That's me," I replied, slinging the duffel over my shoulder.

They nodded and led me downstairs and out to a sleek black car waiting at the curb. The ride to the airfield was silent, the only sounds the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle as one of the men shifted in his seat. The city blurred in the distance as we got closer to the private terminal I came from just a day ago.

When we arrived, the private plane was already waiting, its sleek white body gleaming in the sunlight. The stairs were down, and I could see two figures waiting at the top—Kate Laswell and John Price.

I climbed the steps, my boots thudding softly against the metal, and nodded at them. "Ma'am. Sir."

Price gave me a small smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "At ease, Soldier. No need for the formalities right now. Just Price will do."

"Yes, si—Price," I corrected myself quickly, this habit would be so hard to break if this continues.

Laswell's gaze was sharp, but not unkind, as she motioned me to take a seat. The interior of the plane was immaculate, all leather seats and polished wood.

I settled into a seat across from him, glancing out the window as the engines roared to life.

"You're already a decorated Ranger," Price started, his tone casual but probing. "Air Assault, Jungle Warfare, Arctic Survival, 8 deployments... Silver Star... Hell, you've got more certifications than some of my guys."

"Thank you," I said simply as I sat up straighter, not sure where he was going with this.

"And..." He continued, "You killed Barkov."

"I did, Sir." I affirmed. That's how I got that stupid Silver Star.

"I was hunting him for a while. Glad someone got to him when I couldn't." Price gave me a genuine, yet controlled smile before returning to look at my file.

"Overqualified for most things," he continued, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Which is good. Means you're ready for whatever this is."

"I sure hope so," I said, my voice steady even as my mind raced.

"And the therapy?" Laswell interjected, her gaze sharp.

"I've been dealin' with it. It won't interfere, Ma'am." I responded firmly.

"Good. We don't babysit." she responded, seemingly satisfied.

After a few beats of silence, I turned my attention to Price and spoke up. "Who's your crew?"

Price promptly grabbed an accordion folder from his side as if he'd been waiting for me to ask. He opened it up and pulled out some files, sliding the first one to me.

"Sergeant Garrick. Kyle Garrick. They call him 'Gaz'."

I took the file, observing the picture of the man on the front before he pulled out another.

"John Mactavish. SAS. Sniper- Demolitions. Goes by 'Soap'."

I sat back as he spoke and I eyed the file as he slid it toward me. "Why?"

"That's classified."

I took the file and stacked it atop the other, making no attempts to argue with the Captain. Price pulled another file out and chuckled.

"There he is," He tossed it in front of me with finality. "Simon Riley."

I sat up and looked at the file curiously before meeting Price's eyes. "There's no picture-"

"Never." He interrupted. "Now the rest comes if we determine that you can work with us."

I nodded the gravity of the situation settling deep in my bones. This wasn't just a field OP. This was a fucking coalition Taskforce with men that make Carlos and Leon look like they're fresh out of Basic. I glanced at the files once more before looking back to Price.

"What's your Taskforce called?"

Price crossed his arms and sat back, a look of pride in his eyes, likely to the fact that this was entirely his.

"141."

....

The rest of the plane ride passed in a blur as I absorbed everything I could from the files, the quiet hum of the engines a constant backdrop. Simon Riley—Ghost, SAS, British, Lieutenant, 6 foot 5... The man was a fucking war machine as far as I could tell. John Mactavish—Soap, the name was weird as fuck, but mine was Panther, so I couldn't say much. SAS, Scottish, Sergeant, 6 foot 2. Then there was Kyle Garrick—Gaz, also British, SAS, Expertise in target elimination, weapons tactics, covert surveillance...By the time I studied them all, I was sure I'd gone cross-eyed.

By the time we landed at an airfield in what I guessed was Belarus—though I couldn't be sure—I felt more prepared, though still on edge. They were all Brits. Last time I worked with a British guy, I had to get someone to practically translate for me. Price and Laswell exited the plane first, their figures outlined against the dull gray sky. The chill of the airfield hit me, sharp and biting against my face as I stepped off the plane. Clouds hung low and gray, diffusing the light and casting everything in a dull, washed-out tone. My boots clattered against the metal stairs as I descended, the wind tugging at my hair. Standing near the edge of the tarmac were three men, their postures casual but their presence anything but.

The first one caught my eye immediately, mostly because of his mohawk. He had a boyish charm to him despite the hardened lines of his face, his grin quick and easy as his sharp blue eyes tracked my approach. His clothes were relaxed but practical—jeans, a plain shirt, and boots that looked like they'd been through more than a few scrapes. When I got closer, he tipped an imaginary hat and said, "John MacTavish, b'ye can call m'Soap." His Scottish accent was thick, the words tumbling out in a way that left me scrambling to decipher them. They were giving me their full names. Back at base we just toss out our last names and keep it going.

I managed a polite nod, offering a terse, "Dawson." His grin widened, and I wondered if he'd expected more.

Next to him stood a tall figure whose presence was as imposing as his attire was understated. He wore a black hoodie and dark jeans, blending into the dreary surroundings, but his face—or what little of it I could see—was unforgettable. A balaclava stretched over his head, the skeletal outline of a skull painted across it. Only his eyes were visible, sharp and assessing beneath the fabric. He didn't speak immediately, just extended a gloved hand.

"Ghost," he said, his voice low and gravelly.

I shook his hand, the contact brief and almost perfunctory. The mask unsettled me, though I kept my expression neutral.

The last man seemed the most approachable, dressed in what could've been casual streetwear: a jacket, a t-shirt, and jeans, topped off with a baseball cap. His expression was calm, his brown eyes warm as he offered me a small smile. "Kyle Garrick," he said, his accent lighter and easier to follow than Ghost. Or really Soap's, for that matter. "Most call me Gaz."

"Dawson," I said again, keeping it short.

As I stood there, my eyes flicking between the three of them, everything felt... off. They didn't look like soldiers—not in the way I was used to. No fatigues. No rank patches. No insignias to give away who or what they were. Covered faces, hats and mohawks... I'd spent years surrounded by military structure, the hierarchy so ingrained it was second nature to clock someone's rank and unit at a glance and approach accordingly. Here, they just looked like three men who, albeit shredded, could've stepped off the street, and I was definitely out of place.

And that's when it hit me. These weren't just Special Forces like I was Special Forces. They were Special Forces. The kind of guys whose faces you'd never see on the news because they were blurred out. The ones who didn't exist in the official reports. I'd been plucked from my comfort zone and thrown into something that felt leagues above what I was used to. But this was what I was trained for, wasn't it? I reminded myself of the certifications, the grueling schools, the endless hours of preparation. I was ready.

"Shall we?" Price's voice cut through my thoughts, and I followed the group inside the nearby building. The interior was all business: gray walls, functional lighting, and the faint hum of a heater somewhere in the background. We walked down a corridor and into a conference room with a large table at its center and chairs arranged neatly around it.

Once we were seated, the real introductions began.

"So," Soap said, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Where exactly are ye from? 'Cause tha's one 'ell of 'n accent."

It caught me off guard for a second. I knew my accent was noticeable to some Americans, but hearing it called out like that made me suddenly self-conscious. "Georgia," I said simply, but the single word drew a smirk from him.

"Ah, we read that in the file," Gaz chimed in, his tone light. "Didn't quite expect it to sound like that, though."

"Like what?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Like w'need subtitles," Soap said, grinning.

The other two chuckled, and I felt my ears heat up, though I tried not to let it show. "Y'all ain't exactly easy t'understand either," I shot back, glancing at Soap. "'Specially you."

His grin only widened. "What's th' problem? Ah'm speakin' plain English, Bonnie."

"Sure you are," I muttered. "'N that's not my name."

At that, Gaz and Soap looked at each other as if they had some inside joke, their lips collectively pursing to hold back laughter. Ghost looked like he'd rather be anywhere but in the room.

I didn't know what they were giggling about. Price had the bridge of his nose pinched between his fingers and Ghost was watching the two, and me, with ever observant hazel eyes.

Gaz leaned back in his chair, his expression amused. "It'll uh-" He cleared his throat before trying to maintain some sort of professionalism. "... Take some getting used to, for both sides, I think."

Price cleared his throat, bringing the room back to focus. "Right, 'nough of that."

As the conversation shifted, I couldn't help but glance at Ghost. I was trying to decipher the kind of man he was. Was he the 'large-and-in-charge' type, or the 'straight-up-asshole' type? The mask was he wore impossible to ignore. It wasn't just the look of it—it was the way he wore it like it was part of him, as natural as the rest of us wearing shirts. The question slipped out before I could stop myself.

"What's with the mask?"

His gaze shifted to me as if he knew I was already watching, and for a moment, I thought he might not answer. Then he said, simply, "To hide my face."

I blinked. "Well, sure, but... why?"

"To hide my face," he repeated, his tone flat, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The corner of Soap's mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh. Gaz just shook his head, clearly used to this kind of interaction. Defintely a straight-up-asshole.

Deciding to drop it, I focused instead on Gaz, who seemed the easiest to talk to. His voice was smoother than the others', his accent less pronounced, and he had an easy way about him that put me at ease. We chatted briefly about training and the differences between our experiences, though I still had to concentrate to catch everything he was saying. Soap chimed in occasionally, his words rapid-fire and impossible to follow at times.

By the end of the introductions, my head was spinning, not just from the accents but from the realization of what I was stepping into. These men were leagues beyond anything I'd experienced before.

.....

The base had a weird vibe. The walls were all utilitarian gray, the kind of color that felt like it sucked the personality out of the place. There was a faint hum from the fluorescent lights overhead, and the air smelled like oil, metal, and... something earthy. Maybe it was the boots dragging dirt in or just the age of the place. Either way, it was sterile in some parts and oddly homey in others.

After the "introductions", I'd been told to "familiarize myself." That was it. No details, no specific instructions, just those two vague words. I wasn't sure if it meant the base or the people, but wandering around seemed like as good a start as any.

Eventually, I stumbled into a kitchen. And when I say kitchen, I mean something that wouldn't have been out of place in a rundown apartment. Counters were scattered with mugs that didn't match, a few jars of instant coffee, and a box of cookies that looked like it had been forgotten halfway through a snack break. The fridge hummed in the corner, looking like it had seen better days.

It wasn't what I'd expected in a high-stakes special forces base, but then again, nothing here was what I'd expected so far. Still, the sight of the fridge sparked a faint glimmer of hope. I walked over, tugged the door open, and leaned down to scan the shelves. Water bottles, leftovers in containers with no labels, some condiments shoved into the door—no surprises so far.

"Y'all got any tea in here?" I muttered under my breath, my voice barely louder than the fridge's hum. I didn't expect an answer.

Which is why I nearly jumped out of my skin when I got one.

"Tea? What're ye lookin' for tea in the fridge for?"

I spun around so fast I nearly slammed the fridge door shut with my hip. Standing in the doorway, looking like he'd just walked out of a casual Saturday afternoon, was John? Johnny? Or Soap, as they called him, I couldn't figure out which to use. He leaned against the doorframe like he had all the time in the world, his arms crossed over a plain blue t-shirt that showed off his forearms. His mohawk was a little messier under the kitchen lights, and of course, there was that trademark grin.

I frowned, trying to tamp down the irritation at being snuck up on. "Yeah, I'm lookin' for tea. What of it?"

Soap tilted his head, his grin widening like I'd just said the dumbest thing he'd ever heard. "Tea's not somethin' ye keep in the fridge, lass."

I narrowed my eyes at him, gesturing to the open fridge like it was obvious. "Yeah, it is."

He straightened up a bit, his grin slipping just enough to show he was genuinely confused. "What're ye sayin'?"

Now it was my turn to stare at him like he was the dumb one. "Y'don't know what tea is? Are you kiddin' with me?"

"I'm not!" he said, hands up like I'd pulled a gun on him. "Tea's tea, aye? Ye brew it hot, maybe add a wee splash o' milk, bit o' sugar if yer feelin' fancy."

I blinked at him, my jaw slack. "What? No. That's not tea. That's..." I paused, searching for the words. "That's hot tea. Like... what y'drink when you're sick or somethin'."

He recoiled like I'd just insulted his mother. "Sick? It's a bloody staple, tha's what it is!"

"Well, where I'm from, tea is tea. Cold, brewed with enough sugar to make your teeth ache."

The way he looked at me, you'd think I'd just told him I put ketchup on steak. "Yer serious?"

"Dead serious," I said, crossing my arms.

We stared at each other, the air thick with mutual disbelief. I couldn't tell if he was about to argue with me or just walk away shaking his head. Instead, he threw his head back and laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls like it had been bottled up for hours.

I watched him, unimpressed, as he finally wiped his eyes. "Ach, tha' explains it," he said between chuckles. "Southern lass, aye? Aren't the lot of ye supposed tae be sweet? Should've known ye'd have yer own rules for somethin' simple like tea. "

I raised an eyebrow, the irritation creeping into my voice. "If you're lookin' for 'sweet' outta me, you gon' be mighty disappointed. If I was fixin' to be nice, I would'a joined a book club, not the Army."

Soap grinned like I'd just proved his point. "Aye, fair enough."

We both stood there for a beat, the tension easing just enough for a smirk to tug at my lips. "You know," I said finally, glancing back at the fridge, "I think I'll take my chances and just make my own tea later. Whatever this place considers tea... I'm good."

Soap chuckled again. "Aye, we'll get along just fine, Dawson. Once we figure out what the hell we're sayin' to each other."

I shook my head, turning back to shut the fridge. "Yeah, good luck with that."

Despite myself, I couldn't help but feel just a little less like an outsider. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

....

I spent some time making myself at home in the tiny, sparsely furnished quarters I'd been assigned. I wasn't surprised—it was a far cry from the usual military accommodations, but I wasn't exactly here for luxury. There wasn't much to unpack. Just the essentials: my kit, my clothes, and the few personal items I'd managed to bring along. A small cot sat in one corner, its mattress thin and creaky. There was a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist's office and a desk with a few scattered papers and a lamp, but nothing much else.

I decided not to bother unpacking my duffel—just stashed it in the closet. The walls were bare, save for the faded insignia of the base. It smelled faintly of stale air, probably from disuse, and I didn't mind. It had been a while since I'd stayed anywhere that felt this... utilitarian.

With no one around to ask questions, I continued to explore a little. I didn't expect to find much, but it felt better than sitting still. I wandered through hallways, checking out the base. It wasn't big, but it was functional—something that could be packed up and relocated in a heartbeat. Eventually, I ended up in what looked like a gym—a decent-sized room with mats, machines, a few heavy bags, and weights scattered across the floor. It was quiet, except for the faint sound of weights clanking somewhere in the distance.

I continued walking and turned a corner and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Ghost standing there, leaning casually against the wall. The skull mask was just as unsettling in the dim light of the corridor as it had been earlier.

"Price wants you in his office," he said, his deep voice carrying a weight that made it clear this wasn't optional.

I nodded, following him silently as he led me through the base. He didn't say much, which wasn't surprising, but the air between us wasn't hostile. If anything, it felt calculated, like he was trying to get a read on me.

When we reached Price's office, Ghost opened the door and gestured for me to enter. Price was seated behind a desk cluttered with maps, papers, and a mug that I'd bet good money was full of tea.

"Sit," Price said, nodding to the chair across from him.

I sat down, and Ghost, instead of leaving, took a seat on the edge of the desk. It felt deliberate, like he was part of whatever conversation was about to happen.

"We've been going over your file," Price started, his tone steady but not unkind. "You're lethal on paper. Qualifications out the ass."

I stayed silent, waiting for the but I knew was coming.

"But," Price continued, "we need to see it for ourselves. Paper's one thing. Real life's another."

I raised an eyebrow. "So, what's the plan?"

"Skills check," Ghost chimed in, his face unreadable behind the skull mask.

"An hour from now," Price added, his eyes locking onto mine. "Head to the gym. Sparring first. Then we'll see how you handle weapons, close-quarters. We need to know you can keep up with the team."

I nodded, standing up. It was what I expected, honestly. Nothing I couldn't handle.

One hour later, I was in the gym with work out attire, stretching out and loosening my muscles on the mat. Soap and Gaz entered a few minutes later, looking ready to roll. Soap was grinning like he always did, while Gaz seemed more composed, his face a little harder to read. I threw a few jabs into the air, working on my technique, when Price came through the door. He glanced over at me, then turned to Soap.

"Let's see what she can do," Price said, and Soap gave a sharp nod, taking off his jacket.

"Ready to dance, lass?" Soap asked with a wink as he stepped to the center of the mat.

I rolled my neck, stretching out my shoulders. "Let's go."

We started with MMA, both of us moving around the mat, sizing each other up. Soap came at me fast, throwing jabs that I deflected with ease. He wasn't sloppy, though—each punch felt measured. I responded with a low kick to his thigh, then stepped in for a quick clinch. He tried to knee me in the ribs, but I blocked it and shifted my weight to take him down to the mat. I stayed on top for a second, keeping the pressure on, then he twisted out, using his leg to sweep me off balance.

The fight went back and forth like that—each of us landing solid blows, countering, and repositioning. Soap had quick reflexes, but I was used to handling someone who fought dirty. A few more exchanges, and I managed to lock him into a submission hold, straining until he tapped out, panting heavily.

"Not bad," Soap said, rubbing his neck with a grin. "Yer a tough one."

"Thanks," I replied, already sizing up Gaz as he moved into position.

Gaz and I started on jiu-jitsu. He was precise, working from a neutral stance. We moved into a series of sweeps, escapes, and joint locks. He kept trying to set me up with a few shoulder locks, but I was able to adjust, using my hips to break the hold before he could sink it in fully. Every time he adjusted, I did the same, matching his intensity.

I felt the sweat start to bead on my skin as we grappled, neither of us gaining an advantage. Finally, I managed to roll him into a top position, securing his wrist and pulling him into a quick submission. He tapped out, laughing a little as he rolled to his feet.

"Good," Gaz said with a nod. "You've got a hell of a grip."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, breathing heavily. "You're not bad yourself."

We moved outside, where a range was set up for firearms testing. I grabbed the rifle that Price handed me, my hands naturally fitting around the grip. I went through the standard drills—standing, kneeling, prone—picking off targets with precision. The rifle felt smooth, as though it were an extension of my arm, and I was hitting bullseyes and headshots faster than I expected. I guess I work best while being watched by four men.

Ghost's gruff voice spoke authoritatively. "Move to the house."

I did, following his commands. My hands were steady, my mind focused. There was nothing distracting me. Just the target and the task.

I swiftly moved to a makeshift house setup outside, where cardboard cutouts of enemies popped up from behind walls. Ghost's voice crackled in my ear as I put the rifle down and got ready. I picked up a pistol and its magazine that was set on a table just outside the house. I popped the mag in and pulled back the slide and released. It snapped forward with a click and I knew the gun was locked and loaded.

"Clean house. Time's critical. Go."

I dashed forward, entering the first room and immediately spotting a cardboard enemy behind a corner. I squeezed off two quick rounds, head and chest, then moved, clearing the room with smooth efficiency. Ghost kept barking orders via a megaphone, guiding me through each step, my feet barely touching the ground as I cleared the rooms. It was all instinct now—years of training, muscle memory.

By the time I finished, my heart was pounding, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. I walked out of the house, eyes focused.

"1 minutes and 13 seconds " Price said, his voice calm but there was an edge to it. He was impressed, and I could tell.

The team exchanged glances, and Ghost gave a small nod. It was subtle, but it was there. I had proven myself.

...

The training session ended as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the air cool and crisp as night crept in. I was sore in places I didn't know existed, every muscle in my body aching from the relentless sparring and shooting drills. As I made my way back to my quarters, I felt the familiar buzz of exhaustion settling in, but my stomach growled louder than my fatigue. I hadn't had a real meal since I arrived, and all the energy I spent today made me ravenous.

I walked through the narrow hallways of the base and into the kitchen, hoping to scrounge up something to eat. As I opened the fridge, I squinted at the contents—the same as earlier. Definitely not what I had in mind.

I turned to the cabinets. Still nothing worth eating, just the usual dry goods and what I assumed. A sigh escaped my lips. "You guys got any MREs around here?" I muttered to myself.

"That's a no-go," came a voice from behind me. I spun around to see Gaz leaning casually against the doorway, arms crossed. He gave me a grin that seemed genuine. "Haven't had an MRE in like... three years. We eat actual food around here."

If one more guy snuck up on me in this damned base, I was gonna it blow up. "Oh." It didn't surprise me that they were eating better than the standard issue stuff. These were some of the best soldiers in the world, after all.

"Look," Gaz continued, walking over to the counter, "we're all heading out to a pub around the corner from here. You should come with us. Get some food, have a drink."

I raised an eyebrow. A pub? Maybe the guys were a little too comfortable around me. "Not really my vibe."

Gaz leaned against the counter with a grin that never seemed to leave his face. "You're coming. Come on, no excuses. You've been all business since you got here. Y'need to unwind."

I didn't answer immediately, just looked him over. I wasn't exactly in the mood to be social, but I was hungry, and honestly, I was starting to realize I might need to get along with these people if I wanted to be effective in whatever this group was. Plus, there was no point in staying holed up in my quarters.

With a grunt, I gave in. "Fine. But don't expect me t'start singin' on table tops or whatever the hell y'all do for fun."

He chuckled and nodded. "Deal. Just be ready in thirty."

I headed back to my quarters to shower and change. The water in the shower wasn't exactly warm, but it was enough to rinse off the sweat and grime from the day. I scrubbed my skin, trying to wash away the tension that had built up in my muscles. The soap smelled like cedarwood, something oddly comforting. It wasn't much, but it was enough to help me relax.

Afterward, I tossed on a black shirt, some jeans, a leather jacket I had stowed, and my boots. When I walked back out, the guys were already waiting outside—Soap, Ghost, Price, Gaz, and Laswell. It felt strange to be stepping out with them, like I was joining a team, even though I wasn't sure I was quite part of it yet.

We piled into a truck—Gaz took the driver's seat, and the rest of us settled in, all silent except for the occasional joke from Soap. I sat back, staring out the window, the streets unfamiliar and dull under the dim streetlights. I couldn't help but think about how much better it would feel to be on my bike, wind in my hair, engine roaring beneath me. It was the only way I really felt alive anymore. Out here in the field, everything felt stifling. Even this pub felt like it would be one more thing I was expected to conform to.

We got to the pub after a short ride. The building looked worn, nothing special, but I could tell it was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and I was just an unfamiliar face. The guys took their usual spots, settling into a back corner. Soap was already making jokes about something that had happened earlier in the day, and Price was giving him that look like, Not now, Johnny. Laswell, however, seemed more focused, scanning the room as she sipped on a drink.

I sat at the edge of the table, nursing a beer that definitely wasn't Bud Light, keeping mostly to myself. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate the offer of company—it was just... I wasn't used to being part of a group like this. They were a unit, seasoned and tight-knit, while I was still the new one. Sure I had Carlos and Leon back home, but we were just a clique, per se. They ended up asking me the usual questions, ones that I knew were meant to break the ice.

"So... Panther," Soap said, his Scottish accent rolling through the nickname like it was the most natural thing. "What's the story 'hind tha'?"

I froze mid-sip. Clearly, that was something I didn't talk about, at least not with strangers. I never chose it. It was a reminder of the things I'd been through. The long, brutal stretches of time spent in the Russian forests and the constant fight for survival. It wasn't just a name—it was a scar, a ghost of a past I didn't want to revisit. A branding.

I set my beer down a little too forcefully, then put on a passive aggressive smile. "That's a story for another time, bud." The words came out harsher than I meant them to.

Soap looked at me, eyebrows raised, clearly sensing my discomfort. "Alright, alright. We'll keep it light."

But my mind started to race, recalling the isolation and brutality I'd experienced. The memories of that bloodbath clawed at me, and I felt my breath quicken, chest tightening. I curtly excused myself before I could think about it further.

I pushed the front door open and leaned against the cold brick of the building. The air surrounding me nipped at my cheeks, goosebumps spreading over my skin as I tried to catch my breath. Moments later, Ghost appeared beside me like the very thing he was named after. His figure was nearly lost in the shadows of the streetlight, his tall frame imposing, even without him saying a word. There was no noise, no warning—just the sudden weight of his proximity.

He didn't speak, didn't even look at me as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. Without a word, he flicked the lighter, the flame briefly illuminating the sharp angles of his face, the outline of his balaclava, and the faint glint of his eyes staring straight ahead. Then, he offered the cigarette to me, a silent invitation.

I hesitated for only a second, the instinct to refuse warring with the need for something, anything, to pull me out of my spiraling thoughts. I took the cigarette, our fingers brushing for the briefest of moments. I brought it to my lips, inhaling slowly, feeling the burn in my lungs. It wasn't the same as the sharp sting of adrenaline, but it was something—something that could fill the space between the chaos in my mind.

We stood there in silence, the world continuing on around us while we shared that smoke. The air was thick, not with words, but with something else—something unspoken that clung to both of us. His presence was suffocating, but not in a way that made me want to flee. No, there was a strange sense of comfort in the quiet, the understanding that neither of us needed to say anything to know what the other was thinking. We were soldiers. We both knew how to be silent.

The cigarette passed between us, each pull deepening the silence that stretched between us. The burn in my chest from the smoke was nothing compared to the ache that had been there all evening, lingering since I stepped into this world, a world that wasn't quite mine, and maybe never would be.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Ghost spoke. His voice was steady—too steady. It was almost monotone, without a hint of anything that could be construed as emotion. "You'll be a good asset."

I could feel the weight of those words settle over me. Not a compliment. Not a critique. Just... fact. Cold, hard fact. And yet, there was something in it that made me tense all over again. Something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the way he said it, like he already knew everything about me, like he could see the pieces I hadn't yet figured out. Maybe it was the implication that, in this world, there was no room for doubt. You either were or you weren't. And there was no time for anything else.

I nodded, but I couldn't shake the chill that had crept up my spine. "Thanks."

The air between us thickened again, and I could hear the hum of the streetlights above, the occasional car passing by in the distance. But it was almost like the world had fallen away—just the two of us, standing there, with nothing left but the burning tip of the cigarette that eventually flickered out in the night.

Before I could respond further, the door to the pub slammed open, and Laswell stormed out, her expression grim. "We just got intel on his movements."

Ghost snuffed out the cigarette under his boot and looked over at me, his eyes unreadable as ever. The others were already filing out, their faces hardened, all business now. I stood there, my stomach sinking. "Who the hell are y'all talkin' about?"

No one said a word as we headed back to the van. Whatever this was began to settle on all of us. Finally, Price took a final drag of his cigar before clipping the ashed end.

"Ivankov."

71 notes · View notes