#they’re all war criminals what’s stopping them
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I love this so so much it’s so accurate
what sort of music does simon listen to- and what are the others’ opinions on it when they inevitably discover it?
They probably wouldn’t share a playlist
Plus Roach:
#roach one is so accurate#i feel ljke he’s also the type that sings to the beat when he’s active on duty#🎶hey i just met you *pew* and this is crazy *stab* but here’s my number *pow* so call me never#😂#i bet soap likes local rap like any late 90s boy#hearing ghosts music taste would be like#‘what’s this simon ? a soundtrack to your annual knitting club meeting? top 10 beats to sleep to?#and ghost gets offended like ‘at least it’s actual music not just some scottish lad speaking really fast’#nd nobody wants to drive with roach and his hype white girl music#<- op’s tags#they’re just too good#they’re all war criminals what’s stopping them#reblog#repost
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Black Sun
Simon Riley masterlist
Simon Riley/female reader 5.3k words - AO3 Warnings-tags: 18+ MDNI. Dark and twisty. Explicit sex, dubious consent, forced breeding/pregnancy kink, praise kink, size difference, creampie. Simon is insane about you. Panty sniffing/stealing. Obsessive behavior. Possessive Simon Riley. Alcohol. Reader is prescribed/taking muscle relaxers. Toxic but I think it's sweet. Angst, comfort, emotional hurt/comfort. Tags are for your health, not mine. Simon never wanted a divorce.
Simon does not consider himself a common criminal.
A war criminal, perhaps. The things he’s done for the 141 would put him behind bar in over fifty countries, and on death row in at least eight. The things he’s seen alone make him eligible for life in a padded room, and that’s if you don’t count the things that have happened to him.
But he’s never stooped to petty crime like this before. Before this mess. Before you asked for a divorce, insisted he move out, demanded time apart.
There’s a first time for everything, he thinks. First time for a lot of things, actually. The first time he actively tried to avoid the divorce paperwork, first time he let his obsession take him this far, first time he indulged in his darkest fantasies, things he wouldn’t even dare whisper about to Price-
The door welcomes him like it always does, squeak gone from the hinges, greased out by his hands in the middle of the night last week, swinging wide so he can silently step across the threshold… into his house. Into yours.
Riley whines in greeting, lowering himself into a play bow, and Simon kneels to pet him, rubbing his between the ears and under the chin just how he likes, before instructing him back to his bed, to keep watch. He’d maul another man who tried to step foot in here, per his training, but his dad- his dad is okay. His dad is allowed.
It’s not that he’s too far gone to recognize the complete dismantlement of your boundaries, it’s that he doesn’t care. The chilling fear of losing you has seeped deep into his bones, fostering the growth of a plan that he knows is not rational, or right.
He knows what he is doing is wrong, but he cannot stop himself.
You are his. His wife. His life, his person, his reason for it all. You’re the sun and the moon and the stars and everything that makes this miserable fucking existence worth living.
He’ll do anything to keep you.
Anything.
So, it doesn’t feel wrong when he stands in the bedroom at the foot of his bed, watching you sleep, twisted up in the blankets, favoring your one side like your shoulder must have been bothering you before you fell asleep. It concerns him, worries him, this lack of improvement regarding your pain, and he wonders if maybe you should be in physical therapy.
It doesn’t feel wrong, when he traces the curve of your ass, perked up in the sheets, as if you’re waiting for him to strip your ratty little sleep shorts down to your knees and shove his cock to your cervix. He wonders if you’d even wake up if he rubbed his nose across the seam of your cunt. You’ve always been a heavy sleeper, through thunder or commotion, you’d stay sweet with your lashes flush against your cheeks, mouth slightly open in a soft snore.
He leans over you in bed, stroking the back of your head with his hand before pressing a featherlight kiss to your temple, something he knows won’t stir you, not with you how deep you’re dreaming, and certainly not with the muscle relaxer in your system.
He is a stealth operator, after all. It’s not like he hasn’t been watching, observing your new routines, the changes to your schedules and habits that have appeared over these last few months. The muscle relaxers, for example, that were prescribed for the strain in your neck and shoulder, that you’ve been taking once an evening for a week and a half, around six thirty. They’re extended release, usually able to keep you mostly pain free through the night, and he’s grateful to your doctor for insisting upon them. For more reasons than one.
He gives you another light kiss before pulling the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking you in how you like. You get cold in the middle of the night, icicle toes usually wandering across the mattress to seek the space between his thighs for warmth, shocking him into a gasp that would elicit a string of sleepy giggles from your mouth. He makes sure you’re comfortable, before slinking onto the second part of his routine.
The bathroom.
Every night, he holds his breath as the medicine cabinet pops open. He hates the anticipation, the fear of what he could discover, dreads the idea of having to start the clock over or worse, swap them for placebo. You never disappoint him though, and he catalogues the perfectly color-coded rows of birth control pills that haven’t been touched in over a month, not since his last op with wicked desire hearting his belly. What a good girl you are.
Before, he would have told you the opposite. He did, tell you the opposite. He told you were good, so good, for taking your pills, for making sure that you were safe for him, that there wouldn’t be any accidents. Guilt would eat at him each time the two of you had the argument, the ‘discussion’, about having a baby, and you would cry with misery staining your cheeks.
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” He tried to tell you, dozens of times, that he didn’t think he’d be good at it, that he wouldn’t like being gone so much, leaving you at home all the time with a baby.
“I love you, Simon. I want to have a baby, with you. My husband. Is that so wrong?” You would cry, and he could feel the weight of his choice breaking you apart, the pressure cracking beneath his skull.
“You… you don’t understand. I- I can’t.”
It’s not why you asked for a divorce, but it certainly played a part.
Something catches his eye when he turns to leave, a wayward item of clothing hanging haphazardly outside of the hamper.
Your underwear.
He plucks the scrap of blue lace and cotton from the edge and balls it into his fist, bringing it to his nose with a deep inhale. It’s sick, the way he needs you, the way the smell of your dirty panties, the honeyed ambrosia of your musk, makes his mouth water like a juvenile. Before he can change his mind, he shoves them in his pocket. He doesn’t usually take things, too aware of potentially tipping you off, but this; this is something he needs.
“Simon, can we please just… can we please just meet up and at least look at these papers?” It’s early for you to be up, on a Saturday, and he frowns at the screen in contemplation. Before, you’d never be up this early. Before, you would have insisted he stay under the covers with you, would have draped your body over his eagerly to convince him, sweetening him to your side with barely a whisper.
“How many weekends do we even get, anyway? This is your first one home in weeks. Stay in bed with me.” And he would, because of course he would. Because there was no place he’d rather be in those moments, curled up in bed, his nose in your hair, watching the rise and fall of your chest just to be sure it was all real, that it wasn’t some cruel dream that would disappear as soon as he woke up.
“You’ve been home for two weeks and haven’t even looked at them.” He grits his teeth, pressing the hard edge of his phone into his cheek. He can’t be divorced if there’s no signature. But you sound exasperated, stressed, and he’s eager to fix it for you, easily agreeing without too much badgering.
“Alright, sweetheart. Alright. I’ll meet you.”
He cannot believe his luck.
You’re nervous. Your hands flitter about, constantly touching the table, the silverware, your sore shoulder, the manilla envelope before finding the stem of your wine glass and tilting it to your lips, swallowing the alcohol over and over without any kind of hesitation. You must not have taken the muscle relaxer. He's well versed in navigating your emotions, calming you into a relaxed state with a few words or a reassuring touch, and he wants to reach out and take your hand in his, soothe you, tell you that everything is alright but… it would serve no purpose for him tonight. Sorry, sweet girl. He sits at the little two top across from you with his arms crossed, watching his lack of interest in the conversation break you down, little by little, until you’re ordering another glass of wine, and then a third, all while he nurses the same glass of bourbon. The alcohol distracts you, strays you from your course, and you eventually stop trying to try talk about that bloody manilla envelope, leaning to one side a little more than the other in your chair. When you order a shot after dinner is over, he doesn’t protest, just watches your tongue follow the seam of the citrus wedge, dabbing along the spongy white fibers before your teeth dig into the flesh of it, lime juice squirting across your tongue.
He loves you drunk. Loves you sober, loves you tired, or grumpy, or smiling. He loves you anyway he can get you, but sometimes, when you’re like this, your smile sweet like sticky toffee, buzzing and humming, it helps him get away from himself, helps him stay present and lost inside you, swept up in you. It makes him think about the honeymoon, your feet buried in the sand, tucked away in secluded cove, no one around for miles. He fucked you on the beach, fucked you in the ocean, fucked you in someone else’s cabana that day, and you giggled the whole time. Pearly pitched music that wrapped in him the strongest feeling of bliss, skin that tasted like brine and sun, your hand in his on the walk back the hotel, peeking under your wide brim hat every few minutes to press his lips to yours.
“Wan’ one?” He shakes his head, but pulls your hand into his, feeling the warmth of your skin. When you don’t pull away, his blood heats, churning through his veins like fire. “Figured.” You sigh, and then flash him a mischievous, coy grin. Cheeky girl. Think you’re so clever. “Want to get out of here?” You croon, and he smiles indulgently behind the mask. “Lead the way.”
You’re giggly, excited when he bends you over the table, the kitchen table where you used to eat together, breakfast for dinner when he’d come home, waffles and bacon at one in the morning.
You don’t protest when he slides your skirt down your hips and over your ass, thumbs spreading you wide to reveal your glistening cunt, twitching and desperate.
“My poor girl, has it been so long?” He coos, relishing in the way you moan with your lips on the wood. He knows it has, knows you haven’t been with anyone since the last time he fucked you, months and months ago, on the night you asked for the divorce. “Shhh. I’m here now, I’m gonna take care of it.”
“You have to pull out.” You slur, breath hot, fogging against the finish of the table. “Promise.” He grunts something under his breath, nonsense, but you can’t tell the difference, and when he slides inside your scorching cunt, you howl, breath hitching with the stretch.
Bleedin’ Christ. You’re so tight, so wet, soaked enough that it sticks to the curls around the base of his cock. How could he ever give this up?
“That’s it.” He kisses your shoulder, pressing his chest to your back with his weight, pinning you in place, his hands clamping down around your wrists like shackles. “Squeeze me tight, good girl. Show me-“ Show me how you’re going to hold my come in your tight little pussy once I fill you- comes to mind, but he bites his tongue instead, not willing to tip you off too soon.
To have and to hold. In sickness and in health. For better or worse.
I promise to love and cherish you.
Till death does us part.
Till death.
“Simooon.” You sing, hips start to push back with him, fucking yourself onto his cock, chasing him, chasing your pleasure, mouth half open with the little pants and whines that are music to his ears. He keeps you pinned, flat against the table, fingers between your legs, stroking your clit, shoving you closer to your orgasm, delightfully pleased by the way your pussy pulses around him.
“Come on.” He urges, big hand between you and the table, pressing against your lower belly, still tapping away at your clit, indulging in the trembling of your legs.
“Fuck- fuck, Si.” You cry, clenching down around him with your orgasm, voice breaking.
“There it is… what a good girl.” He hisses, keeping his pace, pushing deeper and deeper until he’s notching himself nearly inside your womb. It’s overwhelming for you, he knows, but he doesn’t stop swirling his fingers around your clit, zapping electric pulses through body.
“Nngh Si. Too- ooh it’s- it’s too much.” You wail, a tear on your cheek, and he nods, nosing above your ear.
“I know. You’re doing so good for me, so perfect.” It’s whispered with a groan, hands stroking your hip, keeping your steady, in place. “Just need a little more, just- just a little, I’m gonna-“
“What-” You ask, more with it now that you recognize the edge he’s riding, the roughness in his voice clueing you in to where he is, but he sends you back into orbit, pressing your clit and working you in circles. “Oh, oh.” Your hips rock, and he moves with the momentum, fucking into you faster, grunting the truth as he speeds towards the cliff, desperate to drive the car over the edge, eager to change the course of his life, your life, his marriage.
“Take it.” He spits, wide palm spread across your shoulder. Everything in him tightens, fire spreading through his veins, pressure rising in his body like a fucking tea kettle, about to scream out a whistle. He’s going to breed you, fuck you deep with his come and put a baby inside you, give you what you want, what you’ve always said you wanted, the thing that made you cry in the middle of the night when he refused.
Well, he’s going to give it to you now.
“Fuck- here it comes.” You rock again, half lost to the world, eyes glazed over in pleasure, spasming around his cock with your second orgasm. He slams into you, burying deep and you keen, fingers gripping the edge of the table, his hips flush with yours like a lock.
And he’ll throw away the key.
You blame yourself for the first time.
You blame your nerves. Your lack of self-control. You drank too much, trying to fight the anxiety that was threatening to spill from your mouth by way of your tongue.
And well, didn’t he just look too fucking good, sitting across from you at dinner. Eyes on your lips. Hand dwarfing the rocks glass. Shoulders broader than a door frame. He put on mass since you saw him last, and you spent half the meal trying not to think about stripping his shirt off so you could inspect for new wounds, new scars, new stretch marks.
And didn’t he feel so fucking good too, bending you over the kitchen table, sliding into you from behind with almost no prep, hint of pain making you see stars, just the way you like it. Fucking you like the man you married, like the man you fell in love with. Calling you his good girl and making you come all over his cock like a champ.
You blame him for the second time.
You could blame yourself, for inviting him over- but your intention was clear. Sign the papers. Discuss the house. Be done with it all and close this chapter. Move on with your life, with both your lives.
But he showed up on the wrong day, at the wrong time, with a bottle of your favorite wine, the malbec. The one from your first anniversary, with a large pizza, thin crust with extra cheese (your favorite) and an order of garlic knots.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d eaten or not, figured I’d pick something up, just in case.” He shrugged, and just like that, you were bereft of words, staring at him with nothing coming to mind. Didn’t you say tomorrow? You stood in the door, blinking, Riley whining behind you, already eager to see his dad. “Sweetheart? You feelin’ okay?” His hand was on your arm, warm, thumb rubbing a circle on the inside of your elbow, and even that small amount of contact, that little trickle of concern, sent you into a spiral, muscle relaxer already working its way through your system, slowing your response time, making your brain a little fuzzy. His eyes shimmered in the porchlight, and you nodded, robotically, feet still stuck in the doorway, until he was prompting you to let him inside. “Can I come in then, get this signing business done?”
You ate pizza and drank a glass of wine (frowned upon considering your medication, but one glass couldn’t kill you, right?) out of regular glassware (a sin, if anyone asked your poor mother) as the manilla envelope sat on the coffee table and practically watched the two of you, oozing with judgement.
You’re supposed to be divorcing. Not cozying up on the god damn couch. Weren’t you the one who told him to find a new place to live? Weren’t you the one who said the two of you wanted different things in life, from it? Weren’t you the one did this, pushed him away, shoved him out the door, told him it was all too little, too late?
But when his fingertips drifted to the top of your spine and then over, like he knew exactly where you were tender, you couldn’t stop yourself from melting into his touch, more and more until he had your back against his chest, strong grip on your shoulder, working your taut muscles with expertise.
His fingers dig deep, groan slipping between your teeth, breathy and low, enough that he’s immediately releasing you.
“Did I hurt you?”
“N-no.” You shake your head, which only makes you dizzy. Probably shouldn’t have had that glass of wine. “Feels good.” He chuckles, and tucks you closer, head tipping back into his chest, eyes half closed. “Tweaked something in m’shoulder a few weeks ago.” For some reason, you feel the need to explain it, to tell him. “Went for a slide tackle, ended up halfway under the girl. And she was a lot bigger than me.”
“You still playin’ in that women’s league?”
“Every Sunday.”
You were so relaxed, so pliable, that you didn’t utter a single protest when he leaned you back on the couch like a doll, pulling your leggings down and off your ankles, sliding your panties away to bury his face in your pussy. You didn’t want to protest, or stop, or get up off the couch, even though, somewhere, in the back of your logical mind, you knew what you were doing was stupid. You knew, that doing this once was mistake, but doing it twice was just downright foolish. It’s just sex though. He can still just sign the papers and go. Who hasn’t had a little runaround with their soon to be ex-husband before the final nail is hammered in the coffin? You’ve never been a saint, after all.
“Lift your hips.” He taps your side, and you do, letting him slide a throw pillow under them, plumping it under your ass for good measure. “Good girl.” You beam, woozily, and he chuckles, face cracking into something that’s flooded with light, something happy, the face of the man who used to be your husband, used to love you, want a future with you, not just endless rotations around the world with the 141 and a sometimes wife that he sometimes saw.
“You have to pull out.” There’s backbone to your words, but it’s brittle, and easily breakable. “You didn’t listen last time, and ‘m still mad about it.”
“I’m sorry, sweet girl.” His lips press against your thigh, and then your knee, trailing up to where he’s got your ankle in his hips. “You just feel like fuckin’ heaven.” You huff. “I will this time, promise.” He rubs your thigh, zinging your skin with a small slap, your yelp teetering off into a moan when he presses knuckle deep into your sopping wet cunt.
“This doesn’t change anything.” You don’t know why you say it, why you’re so compelled to draw the line in the sand in this moment, when you could have said it any time before hand. Or, even better, had him sign the papers like you originally planned.
“I know.” He shifts you, pulling his occupied fingers free to rearrange your legs, folding your knees back against your chest, the position combined with the pillow under your hips practically tilting you all the way back, the angle enough to make you a little dizzy. Your hand shoots forward to latch onto his forearm for balance, little whimper sneaking away from you, making his brow crease in concern. “I’ve got you.” He whispers against your cheek, lips ghosting over yours, plucking a sweet kiss from your mouth before there’s heat grazing your opening. He keeps a hand on your knee until he’s pushing inside, thrusting in one fell swoop all the way until he can’t go any further, punching your cervix with the head of his cock, swearing behind a tight jaw. It’s a lot of stretch at this angle, deeper, sharper, and you squirm, adjusting to the pressure of him splitting you open.
“F-fuu-ck.” Your eyes roll back in your head, off somewhere, somewhere not this planet, not this plane of existence where he’s practically in your belly, slick noises bouncing off the walls of your living room, his knees against the pillow, back sloped for enough leverage that he’s practically fucking downwards into you, bent forward with his chest against yours, torso locking you in place, arms around your head like crown. Or a cage. “Si- fuck. It- it hurts.” you babble, gasping into his neck, teeth dangerously close to his shoulder.
“I know, doin’ so good. Almost there.” You start to melt around him, gentled into it, the patting and cooing and kissing sweetening you soft by the passing second. “Easy love, open up for me.” He pants into your mouth, tongue licking in behind your teeth, invading your senses, your very existence, and it’s so much, too much, but you can’t stop. You let yourself get swept away, mind slipping deeper and deeper every time he thumbs your clit, rubbing a circle around the swollen bud, tapping across it just how you like. “Relax, sweetheart, that’s it.” He keeps bringing you closer and closer to coming, playing your body like only a husband could, plucking the strings that make the sweetest melodies, chords vibrating together until you’re clenching down on his cock, spine curling forward, everything inside of you exploding with a blinding, fiery orgasm that has you crying his name, body shaking underneath him with aftershocks. “You’ve been such a good girl for me.” He murmurs into your sweat-soaked temple, cock sliding out just to push all the way deep again, hips grinding against your ass in a circle. “Haven’t you, sweet girl?” You nod, because yes, of course. You’re always good.
“Yeeah.” You squeak, vowels heavy, eyes heavy, head heavy, everything too thick underneath the weight of your orgasm, his cock lodged inside you, the muscle relaxer mixed with the Malbec, the chagrined manilla envelope sitting on the table, a mere two feet from your prone body.
“I know. I know you have.” The muscles in his arm flex, tendons in his neck becoming more defined, and his movements stutter, fucking you in a frantic, desperate way, wild with some sort of chaotic need. “I’m gonna give you a gift for it. For being so good.”
“You- you-“ You mean to say you what? What do you mean? What are you talking about? But you can’t get any of it out, only able to watch him through half shuttered eyes, admiring the slope of his jaw, the white of the scar on his chin, the drip of sweat in his clavicle.
“I love you.” A big hand holds your hip upwards, steady, pinning you to the pillow, pace turning hungry, unrelenting, his forehead pressed to yours as he bottoms out, trying to fuck you as deep as possible, to consume you, to drown in you, shoving you further and further up the couch. It’s erratic, and insane, and so- so Simon, that the tears dripping down your cheeks feel normal, everything feels right in your hazy, fucked out brain. “I love you.” He tells you again, and his jaw clicks in your ear. “I love- fuck, fuck, I’m coming.”
You should have protested. You should have reminded him of his promise. Should have said no, remember, you did this last time. We talked about this. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Couldn’t even get your mouth to work right, too spun out on him, on yourself, on floating on a cloud, high above your life, like choices didn’t have consequences. You were blissed out on your own bad decisions, sleepy in the cocoon of an alternate universe with your hips tilted on a pillow, where your husband was still your husband, and not some absent ghost.
You didn’t even protest when he gathered you together in his arms and carried you upstairs. Didn’t mind that he got one of your make up wipes from the bathroom and cleaned your face, tucked you in, and kissed you goodnight.
You didn’t mind any of it, until you woke up the next morning and faced that manilla envelope.
You told yourself it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter, because in a weeks’, two weeks’ time, he’d be somewhere on the other side of the planet, or hemisphere, or country, somewhere classified, doing god knows what. He’d be gone, and you’d be here, just like always. Just like old times. The sex didn’t matter. It meant nothing. You hardly remembered most it, just clips here and there, the taste of his mouth, the feeling of being so full of him. It didn’t matter, and you repeated those three words in the mirror, four, five times in the morning, intentionally not looking at the gleam of your rings, the wedding band and engagement ring, a fated pair… all alone.
Besides, you could always mail the paperwork. Address it to John. He’d make sure it gets taken care of.
You cringed when you thought about the note you’d have to enclose, the awful acknowledgement of your ineptitude- “Hi John, sorry, but could you have Simon sign these when you get a chance?”
And then, everything changed.
“LT!” Soap shouts over the din of the common room, jerking his head towards the office at the end of the hall. “Price needs ye.”
Price is standing behind his desk, arms across his chest when Simon pushes the door open. His lips quirk, head shaking with a sigh. “You have a phone call.” He motions to the landline, one of the only phones in this entire building, currently off the hook, open line waiting in the air. A phone call? “I’ll give you some privacy.”
When the door shuts, and he’s alone with the phone in his hand, he takes a deep breath, and puts it to his ear. “Hello?” His thumb strokes the silicone wedding band on his ring finger, rubbing it in a circle as he waits for a response. This number is for family members and emergencies, real serious shit, and he’s not-
“Simon?” It’s you. It’s your voice on the other end of the line, wet with tears. His heart stops in his chest, lungs frozen in place, anxiety curling in the pit of his stomach. Your crying always puts him on edge, and it’s worse, with him here, and you alone, everything hanging on the precipice. “Simon? Are you there?”
“I’m here. What’s wrong?” He closes his eyes. Say it. Please. Fucking hell. Please.
“I- I need, I have to tell you something.” You’re still crying, hiccupping with distress, and he wishes desperately that he was there with you, holding you, telling you everything going to be okay to your face, instead of over the phone.
“What is it sweetheart?” He tries to encourage, relaxing back into the chair when you take a deep breath. “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I’m pregnant.” His palm covers the receiver immediately, just in case, and he thumps the top of Price’s desk with his fist, stupid grin stretching his face wide.
“You’re what?” He feigns shock, confusion. “Did you say… you’re pregnant?”
“Yes.” You blubber.
“I thought you were on the pill, sweet girl. I wouldn’t have-“
“I told you to pull out! And I was b-but I stopped taking it, like two months ago. I forgot and after the first time when you were home, after the restaurant I thought, oh well, I had only been off the pill for a month, less than, after being on it for like fifteen years!” You practically shriek in his ear, a mix of sob and hysteria, trying to suck air into your lungs before continuing. “Getting pregnant after being on it for so long just doesn’t happen. It’s almost impossible! So, I d-didn’t worry about it. And then the second time was only like, two nights after that night and I just thought- I thought everything would be fine! I’m s-s-sorry, I’m so sorry.” You’re babbling, gasping, and he rubs his neck.
“Alright, alright. Hey, hey listen,” you’re still crying, voice cracking over the line and his heart breaks for you, guilt swamping him over you being alone. This was not the plan. He was supposed to be home for this part, to be there for you, if it took. “Sweetheart, breathe. You need to breathe.” You struggle through a few deep breaths, nearly wheezing, and he winces each time. It can't be good for you, or the baby, to be stressed like this. “Good girl, that’s it. Nice an’ slow. Good.”
“I'm sorry. I don’t know what to do, but-” You whisper, like you’re telling a secret, and he closes his eyes, imagining you pacing in the kitchen, hand in your hair, on your hip, anxious. He knows you. Knows you better than he knows himself, anyone. Soap, even. He knows, the reason why you’re saying sorry over and over, isn’t because you’re apologizing for getting pregnant, the two of you did that together. Or rather, he did it.
It’s because of what’s coming next.
“I do know that I… I want this baby, Simon. I know you… you don’t want this. That you’ve never wanted it, and that’s okay. I can do this, alone. We’ll still get divor-“
“Stop.” He doesn’t enjoy cutting you off, but he needs to put an end to this talk, this idea that still seems to have a hold on you. “Look, I’ll… I’ll come home. We can talk and, figure out what we’re going to do, okay? You’re not alone sweet girl. I’ll be there.” You’re silent for a moment, a moment that feels too long.
“Okay. You promise?”
I promise to love and cherish you.
Till death does us part.
Till death.
“I promise.”
#peaches writes#black sun#simon riley#simon riley x reader#🥞 anon#🌵 anon#tw forced pregnancy#tw dark and twisty#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#simon riley x you#tw forced breeding#cod x reader#cod mw2#female reader#simon riley x female reader#Black Sun by Death Cab
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Sum of All 4
Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: mob!Steve Rogers
Part of the mob drabbles au
Summary: you are given an unexpected assignment.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Your legs feel empty, like there’s no blood flowing beneath your waist. You walk beside Rogers, feeling as if you might fall on your face at any time. That’s probably not a good idea seeing as you’ve already knocked out twice within the last hour or two.
He stops and steps ahead of you. He points to a door before he pushes it open, “in here.”
You enter as he waits. For a moment, you worry it could be a sinister trick. That he’ll slam the door and lock you in. But why would he do that? Well, why would he beat a man in the middle of the street?
Thinking of it again, you feel nauseous.
You look around the room. There’s a desk with folders stacked on it. The chair looks like it was manufactured during your great grandfather’s war and the rug can’t be much newer. The curtains are damask and the walls are real hardwood.
���It’s... nice,” you say, “vintage. Looks like the floor’s been refinished.”
“You’re not here to discuss the decor,” he retorts.
“Of course,” you agree as you twiddle your fingers. “What exactly am I here for, er, sir?”
“You’re an accountant.” He states.
“I am.”
He sighs and crosses to the desk. You cautiously follow. You could tip over all over again.
“Sir, do you mind if I sit?” You ask.
He just waves a hand toward the chair. You thank him and gratefully claim the seat. Who knew fainting was so exhausting?
“Man named Warren. I need you to tally it all up. Tell me what you find.” He explains.
“Alright, so I’m balancing his ledger,” you nod.
“Sure,” Rogers sniffs and tucks his hands into his pockets. He backs up and paces across the end of the rug. “You need some water? You gonna check out again?”
“Oh, I have some,” you put your briefcase on the desk and pull out your water bottle. “Thank you. That’s super kind. I can, uh, start on all this.”
He turns back to you, “fine.”
You smile as best you can as his hand runs up his lapel and draws your attention. Again, his knuckles fill you with queasiness. The bruises are the cherry on top of this whole messed up situation.
He pulls his hand back and looks at it. You realise he caught you staring. You clear your throat.
“Looks pretty bad,” he remarks.
“Um, yeah. Pretty bad,” you agree softly. “Look like they’re swelling. Could probably use some ice.”
He examines his hand further and clicks his tongue, “probably.” He drops his arm. “Well, get to work. Don’t got time to waste.”
“Got it,” you assure him and reach for a folder.
He goes and you glance up right as he disappears through the door. He might be gone but your anxiety lingers. These are dangerous men, this is a dangerous place.
While you wouldn’t want an old lady like Geraldine caught up in all of this, why did it have to be you? It’s just like Mr. Brenner to be tangled up with criminals. And now you’re looking through promissory letters and gum wrappers with scribbles on them. This isn’t going to be easy, especially without a computer.
Rogers returns. He sits in the leather armchair near the window. He holds a bundle wrapped in a cloth against his hand. It must be ice.
You pull out a receipt. Half of it is illegible beneath the crimson stain. Little droplets trail over the numbers you can kind of make out. Oh.
“Is that blood?” You ask out loud, then feel yourself plunging forward.
Your head hits the desk. You’re a bit foggy but still awake. You gurgle and push yourself up. You fall stiffly back against the chair and it lurches with your weight.
Rogers appears across the desk from you. You stare at him as you grip the armrest and blow out between your lips. He squints as he comes around to your side.
“Hey, sweetheart, stay with me,” he grabs your chin and you whimper. “Eh, don’t--”
He taps your cheek with his fingers. It’s a gentle gesture. His hand is cold from the ice.
“I’m good,” your murmur. “I just... I’m not a violent person.” You carefully touch his wrist and he lets you go. “Not that I’m saying anything about you. Or what happened earlier. I’m just... look at me, right? Just an accountant.”
He nods.
“You think I overreacted,” he intones.
“I didn’t say... it’s none of my business, right?” You move aside the bloody receipt and wheel closer to the desk. “Numbers are my business.”
He hums, “sure.”
You concentrate, or pretend to, on the folder before you. There’s a lot to sort out, and you mean, more than the clutter. Your mind is racing and you can’t quite decipher anything you’re reading with the fear coursing through you.
“I’ll be back,” he says abruptly as he backs away. “Don't leave this room.”
You don’t need him to give the command. You wouldn’t dare wander around this place on your own. You nod, “I won’t, sir.”
He spins on his heel and struts across the office. You only look up as he gets to the door. He leaves and you lean back in the chair. You can’t let your panic take over. The quicker you get through this, the quicker you can get out of here, and hopefully, never ever come back.
You set yourself straight, fixing your posture, and set to your mission. You might not have the most experience, but you’re determined and you do know what you’re doing. All those places that never replied or sent you those template rejections, they have no idea.
You hunker down, filling the margins in the ledger, row by row. You are enthralled the more you do. It’s like a story unfolding before you. Dates, amounts, locations. Huh, well, this might be some bad news. You really don’t want to be the one to deliver it.
Don’t be too eager. That’s only the first folder. You scratch down another number and flinch as something lands on the desk.
You sit up and stare at the paper bag. Rogers watches you across the desk. Your brows twitch in confusion. He huffs and opens the top of the bag.
“Figured you might not pass out if you eat something,” he takes out a wrapped bagel and holds it out. “Cream cheese, sesame seed.”
“Oh, yum, I mean, thanks,” you accept it. “That’s really... considerate.”
“I can be,” his eyes narrow.
“Of course, I wasn’t saying... anything. Just thank you,” you slowly unwrap the bagel.
He takes out his own and sits in the armchair. You peel back the paper and take a quarter of the bagel. You bite into it, careful not to get any crumbs on the desk.
It might not be the best day, very close to the worst, but you can’t complain for a free meal.
#steve rogers#dark steve rogers#dark!steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#drabble#au#mob au#sum of all#mcu#marvel#avengers#captain america
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prompt fill! someone asked for jason todd and truth serum. this was also supposed to fill the request for "who did this to you?" with phil/jason, but i didn't make it to "who did this to you?" part. sorry! i'm trying to keep these under 1k.
anyway, this one's a bit bleak, but educational. here, jason learns an important life lesson: if you go undercover as a criminal, sometimes people believe you. and phil learns to reorder his interrogation questions.
warnings for drugging people without their consent. the drug in question is a fictional truth serum.
- - -
Using this particular drug on a nonconsenting person is a crime in most of the world. A recent amendment to the Geneva Convention marked its use on prisoners of war as a war crime. There’s a blanket ban on its production and use in the European Union. In the United States, administration by law enforcement personnel was ruled a violation of the Fifth and Eighth Amendments.
But SHIELD is not at war. Nor is it a law enforcement agency. And Phil Coulson is not in territory controlled by the United States or the European Union. The man in SHIELD custody undoubtedly has rights of some kind, but the extent of those rights – and who might be obligated to protect them – is currently unknown.
“It’s messy,” he says, to Fury.
“It’s a mess,” Fury replies. “Clean it up.”
- - -
He’s younger than Phil expected. But he has no right to judge anyone for sending their young to die. After all, he looks older than Natasha, possibly older than Clint.
And Natasha and Clint might be dead. In some ways, SHIELD’s no better.
“Your name, please,” Phil says.
“Jason,” the man says, a slow, sleepy mumble, and then his eyes open, and the panic hits.
Phil’s grown familiar with panic. He’s seen it in civilians and soldiers, in diplomats and dictators. He’s seen it every time he’s encountered this drug.
When it was first developed, early adopters trotted out the old lie: if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear. But everyone has something to hide. Everyone has a secret they would swallow their own tongue to protect, and here’s a substance that takes that choice away, a wonder drug that retains awareness while negating will. A life-saving torture device.
“Fuck you,” the man says, which is far more spirit than most manage.
“Jason,” Phil says, “my agents are missing.”
“Fuck you,” Jason says, again. “That’s what happens.” He’s double-blinking, struggling to focus. Phil’s done this six times. No one's ever managed this level of control. Usually, they’re drooling by now, spilling secrets and saliva into the collar of their shirts.
Something’s wrong.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Phil says. “We must have miscalculated your dosage.”
- - -
Medical reports back half an hour later. There was no miscalculation. The man has a tolerance they assure him should not be possible.
“We gave him a second dose. He should be amenable now,” the doctor says. “If he doesn’t stop breathing.”
Amenable, Phil thinks. He explores the hollow inside him where the horror should’ve been. It’s a terrible thing they’re doing. He knows that.
But his agents are missing.
“Thank you,” he says. And he goes back to work.
- - -
“You know,” Jason tells him, glassy-eyed, barely looking Phil’s direction, “if you ask the wrong questions, I have to kill you."
It’s an interesting threat from a man who cannot lie.
“And what are you afraid you’ll tell me?” Phil asks.
“Identities,” he answers, chest rising slower than a sleeper’s.
“Ah,” Phil says. “Yes, we’ll get to that.”
“Batman,” he adds, unexpectedly. “Nightwing.” He swallows, clumsily. When he breathes in, he chokes. Phil watches him almost drown for a moment and then he reaches across the table and tugs Jason’s head forward so he can breathe.
He barely has the coordination to breathe, but the contact makes him flinch hard enough to shake the table. Phil wonders who made a creature like him.
“Who do you work for?” he asks.
“Nobody.” And then, almost smiling, voice dropping into a guttural growl, “Justice.”
Which could be good news. Killers with a mission are predictable, once you understand their cause. “And who decides justice? Who gives you orders?”
“Nobody.”
Interesting. Most freelancers don’t work at this level, and the ones who do should have extensive SHIELD files. “Who’s been signing your checks lately?”
“Checks,” Jason says, and laughs. “Fucking checks.”
He’s been thoroughly dosed with a drug designed to make him highly suggestible and meekly compliant. Phil’s starting to understand why capturing him was such a costly undertaking.
“Whose money is in your accounts right now?”
Jason makes a noise, some gusty grumble of complaint, and then lists off a dozen or so of the very worst people alive. The most interesting names are the ones Phil doesn’t recognize, but he’ll have to get to those later. The window is short; his time is running out.
A single dose is risky. Some people never fully recover their independence. They’re rendered permanently docile, suffering from a kind of chemical lobotomy that good people across the globe have outlawed. A second dose doubles the odds of permanent damage. After the third, some people won't even breathe without orders.
They’ve given him two already.
“These people who’ve been paying you,” Phil says, “which of them is paying you right now?”
Jason sighs. “Nobody pays me. I stole that money.”
“You---” Phil pauses, looks at his notes. He re-reads the names, marvels at the insanity of stealing from any of them. “You stole from those people?”
“Stole from ‘em,” he says, “killed ‘em. Well, killed some. Gonna kill the others. It’s, you know. A to-do list. I’ve been busy.”
Phil wonders if he’s been wasting his time, if he’s drugged a delusional man. “You don’t steal from people like that before you kill them.”
Jason tilts his head so he can look up him, furrows his brow in something that is almost a coherent expression of disdain. “You never have any fun, huh?”
Phil might be dealing with someone far more dangerous than he’d predicted. “You do this for fun?”
“Yeah,” Jason says. “And for justice.”
Justice, right. Of course. “And who taught you about justice?”
“My dad,” Jason says.
Which is good. Which might be helpful. Truth has its uses, but, in Phil’s experience, leverage gets more accomplished.
“And who,” Phil says, “is your father?”
Jason’s eyes track his direction but don’t quite land. His mouth closes and then opens again. “Batman,” he says.
“Oh,” Phil says. “Shit.”
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Roach probably: I mean, what’s really stopping you from hunting down wanted people like it’s the old west? Why can’t we be vigilante cowboys and hunt them down for sport? 🤠
Ghost: I don't want therapy.
Ghost: I want to hunt Makarov and his people for sport.
#I mean there’s obviously the law but still#they’re all war criminals what’s stopping them#cod mw2#cod mwii#call of duty#soap mactavish#ghost riley#ghostsoap#soapghost#vladimir makarov#simon ghost riley#simon riley
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Can’t stop thinking about this picture lately.
Craig is the only inkling seen and he’s single handedly decimating Octavio and countless Octarians….. because they’re all unarmed. Even Octavio just has wasabi sticks, which aren’t exactly a weapon. The most he’s seen in game using them for anything combat related is holding them up to block the player from shooting him while he’s in the Octobot King. The bamboozler is a charger so it has piercing damage which would make what little good that would do nullified. He’s grabbing Octarians by the tentacles and throwing them to the ground in one hand and shooting with the other. A few Octarians are lying still on the ground, one looking like it’s in a puddle of ink. Craig is killing the octotroopers and looks like he’s trying to do the same to Octavio. I’ve kinda felt like Craig was always the villain even when I was first playing Splatoon 1 (seriously the backstory of militarized inklings forcing Octarians to retreat underground and then attacking them further when they steal a power source even though all the inklings use it for is turf war games?), but coming back to this and seeing that Craig is the only one here with a weapon? Goes crazy. Especially since Side Order revealed Octavio does have a main weapon he used traditionally, the heavy splatling. Definitely nowhere to be seen in this pic tho.
Idk gang I think peepaw may be a war criminal.
#Splatoon#octo expansion#dj octavio#djタコワサ#craig cuttlefish#octoling#inkling#idk gang I think cuttletavio is cooked or way more toxic yaoi than expected#tho my personal take of Craig simping Octavio and Octavio fully hating him lives#mostly bc it’s the funniest interpretation of their dynamic to me
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heyy I'm not sure if you still do headcanons or anything like this and if not that's totally okay!! I was just wondering how loki might react if he was invited to spend the holidays with the reader(or if the readers family came to the compound for the holidays, up to you!) thanks!!ᥫ᭡.
Hey!!! I’m happy to do headcannons! Thank you for requesting! 💚
I kept it all very neutral and vague with using ‘festivities’ instead of ‘Christmas’ terminology because I know not everyone celebrates it. I also kept the family terminology vague and just used ‘your parents’ and not ‘mum and dad’ or whatever because I know not everyone has a nuclear family (me being one of them!) No mentions of pronouns for reader.
Avenger!Loki x Partner!You ‘Meeting The Fam’ Headcannons
Loki knew he shouldn’t have been surprised when you had mentioned him tagging along with you for the holidays to your hometown, to spend the festivities with your family, but he still had that moment of shock at the invitation
At first, he didn’t quite know what to say. Him meeting your family? He, the God of Mischief, the war criminal turned Avenger, the morally grey trickster… Meeting… your very human, and highly likely, definitely ‘normal’ family?
It wasn’t quite self-consciousness he felt, but nerves for sure. If his younger self had seen him now, he would’ve berated him for worrying about what mere mortals would think about him, but these weren’t just any mere mortals, they were your mere mortals, your family
When he didn’t answer straight away, you had insisted he could take a few days to think about it and you wouldn’t be offended if he said no, but Loki quickly shook his head, cutting you off
“No, it isn’t that I don’t want to, it’s just-“ “It’s just…?” “Well… I’m… me.” “Yes… you are you.” “You know what I mean.”
You gave him a small understanding smile at that
But after you had convinced him it would be fine, he agreed, wanting to be there for you, to be with you for the holidays - something that seemed very important to mortals, being with family during such a time
Loki could feel his palms get clammy from apprehension and nerves as you both stood outside your childhood home, bags of gifts in your arms
“Loki, trust me, they’re going to love you.”
When the door opened, Loki swore he felt his heart stop, awaiting the look of disappointment at the fact their child had brought along the God of Mischief
But when he was greeted with smiles and warmth, he blinked in confusion, but before he could even begin to process the warm welcome, he was being ushered inside, your parents fretting about him catching a cold
“Can Gods even get a cold?” One of your parents had asked, making you roll your eyes and shake your head in amusement as you glanced up at Loki
You could see the bewildered look on the God’s face as your parents began to fuss, taking the bags from him and not batting an eyelid at the fact he was in their home, and it made your heart soften with a slight ache
“We were told you don’t like anything too sweet, so I made sure we had enough nuts and fruits and such for you to feast on,” one of your parents had told Loki with a smile and nod, making him raise his brows, glancing at you
“Oh, that’s…” Loki cleared his throat. “Lovely. Thank you.” It sounded a little awkward, but your parents didn’t pay much mind
As the evening went on, Loki had began to relax slightly, quietly watching the new dynamics unfold with a keen eye. He watched the way you interacted with everyone, seeing how at ease and comforted you were at being home. He had to admit, it was infectious
When someone suggested playing a game, Loki’s eyes lit up. Now this was an area he was good at
It was then he began to come out of his shell, although, he wasn’t exactly shy, you could tell he was unsure how to navigate this new realm - the realm of ‘meeting the parents’
Spending time with your family reminded him of past moments with his own, the lighter times, the fonder memories
“See, it’s not so scary is it?” You had teased him later on, Loki giving you a playful glare. “I never said it was ‘scary’.” “No?” “No, I don’t believe those words came from my lips.” “Ah, my mistake. It’s just… when I mentioned it you look like I’d just told you I’d murdered someone and that we had to hide the body…” “Shh, I’m enjoying my nuts.” Of course, you laughed at that
And as he spent the next few days with your family, Loki began to feel a sense of warmth and gratitude for being invited, for being involved and treated as though he wasn’t a God, a Prince, an Avenger with a dark past and morally grey tendencies…
He was just treated as Loki, just as you treated him as such
He even received a gift to open from your parent, which he hadn’t at all expect and felt a little guilty that all he had brought was a bottle of wine (expensive but not particularly thoughtful because he had no clue what to gift them)
It was a simple gift, an cotton scarf in his signature colour, but the thoughtfulness behind it warmed him - a feeling that he was experiencing rather a lot in you and your families company. Of course, he knew you would’ve given your parents some tips on what to get for him, and his heart swelled at that thought
Loki had never really understood the festive season, finding it a commodity and just another way for mortals to send money needlessly… but…
It was safe to say he was beginning to understand now. And he found that he was becoming fond of it
“Maybe… Next year we can do this again?” He had asked you when you were alone, a soft look in his eyes, a glimmer of hope. And of course, you smiled, nodding, happy that Loki seemed happy. “Of course we can. Although, i think they may actually be considering swapping me out so you be their child instead.” You had joked, making Loki chuckle. “Well, who am I to deny such attempts?” You gasped playfully, lightly hitting him on the arm. “Hey!” “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they leave a place for you at the table.”
Loki playfully smirked before wrapping his arms around you, embracing you in a silent thank you for letting him experience it all by your side
#loki x reader#loki headcanons#loki laufeyson x reader#loki imagine#marvel headcanons#Loki mcu#marvel Loki
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I know this has already been said and I’m super late, but Mia as the protag of RE8 would have been so good. The contrast between Mia, the Lords, and Mother Miranda would have been absolutely interesting. I'm shoving everything under a read more because damn I have so many thoughts about Mia.
Lady Dimitrescu is a woman that cannibalizes and drinks the blood of her servants and intruders. On top of that, she tortures before preying on them. She does this willingly and very much derives pleasure from doing so. Lady D’s gothic triplets hunt any poor fool that wanders in. It’s a fun family activity for them just as much as it’s for sustenance.
Do you know what this parallels? The Baker family under Eveline’s control. They patrol the estate and anyone who rejects the “gift” either ends up molded or on the dinner table. This family also partakes in a fucked up version of a family dinner, eating the victims that refused their little girl’s “gift.”
However, a major difference between the Baker and Dimitrescu family is their willingness to participate in these activities. A family of cannibals; one forced while the other relishes in it.
Mia is still very traumatized by her three years in the Baker’s estate. Breaking into the castle to find her daughter would force her back. Hello to all the emotions that come with those memories, the ones Mia has been trying to forget. The harder you try to forget something, the more you think about it. What better way to make Mia acknowledge Dulvey, Louisiana than by forcing her into something so similar?
And while she’s still reeling from remembering her time in captivity, why not push her a bit further down memory lane with House Beneviento? Mia has demonstrated at multiple points in RE7 that she does care about other lives. She lies to Ethan to keep him from getting caught up in her work. She tries to save Alan and crew members of "The Annabelle" (the crew members are a bit more indirect, she mainly focused on Alan) by containing Eveline. After Jack finds her, Mia keeps her distance to keep from infecting them while trying to write a warning. She tries her hardest during RE7 to save Ethan.
Mia’s hallucinations could center on her guilt. The failure to stop Eveline and the lives ruined as a result. How she was always too late to help anyone. Ethan curing her, a criminal, over Zoe, the person helping him. Leaving Zoe behind in the shattered remains of her home and family. Surviving. Visions of Ethan hinting at his “condition” could lure her to the manor. A little nudge to the whole “he was mold the entire time” plot twist without fully giving it away.
Moreau, lacking in self worth and very attached to a woman who doesn’t give him the time a day, yet still he considers her as his mother. Most of his actions are for the attention and validation from his “mother.” No matter what Moreau does, he’ll never have her affection or time. It’s sad, isn’t it? To witness a man try so hard only to be rejected. And isn’t that familiar? Mia once felt compassion for someone with similar traits.
Remember the little girl who considered you her mother? The one that spent three years waiting for you to love her after you promised? The one you had a hand in killing? What makes you think you could ever be a good mother after what you did? Why are you trying so hard to save Rose when you didn’t even extend the same courtesy to Eveline?
Y’all know how Mia’s past is a mystery? Like why she was working for the Connections and how she was even recruited and all that. Heisenberg would be a great way to explore it. A man taken, forced into becoming something else, and stuck in a family he doesn’t want. Mia can relate. He wants to use her daughter as a weapon. She was willing to let another child be used as a weapon. They’re alike, so surely Mia would be willing to side with him.
But Heisenberg is cocky and Mia isn’t the person she was prior/during 7. Even if she was on board with using Eveline as a weapon to end all wars or whatever bullshit the Connections told her, she’s not willing now. Not after what she’s seen and been through. This section could be Heisenberg goading her through the tvs/intercoms about her past to change her mind with Mia remaining steadfast in her refusal.
And then there’s Mother Miranda. Two mothers trying to get their daughters back through vastly different means. Because of the group photo showing Mia and Miranda with Eveline this encounter can go one of two ways.
Miranda and Mia know each other and have worked together before. Whether it be on the E-Series Project (with Mia becoming the caretaker and spending copious amounts of time at the lab) or though some other means at work.
They’ve only briefly met when the Connections were in a hurry to transport Eveline.
Either way, Miranda would compare them. As a mother, Mia must understand what she’s trying to accomplish. Would Mia not do the same as she? Maybe at this point Miranda shows she killed Ethan to demoralize to prevent her from interfering with the ceremony. Tells her she’s too late once again and to give Rose to her because she’ll be the superior mother.
Idk, I guess you could switch to Ethan instead of Chris so he can still have Eveline tell him he’s moldy. But he’s a stubborn man and he forces himself back to weaken Miranda so Mia can kill her. Chris shows up and Ethan does the same thing he did at the end by blowing himself up with Chris forcing Mia (with Rose) on the helicopter. That way the Shadow of Rose DLC can still be about Rose and Ethan.
TLDR; Mia should have been the protagonist because it would have allowed us to explore her character and background more. It was a missed opportunity especially since so much of RE8 centers around mothers. It would have played out better as closing off the Winters Family saga as well since we could have tied the loose ends that came with Mia’s mysterious past.
#resident evil#resident evil village#mia winters#mother miranda#lady dimitrescu#karl heisenberg#donna beneviento#salvatore moreau#ethan winters#eveline re7#my text#mia and zoe are also still infected or moldy like ethan and it feels like it's very much being ignored#because there's a document in the salt mine that says if you've been infected for to long that the cure would kill you#and those 2 are very much still alive so they have to be infected like or in a similar way to ethan#it was for 3 yrs there is no way to undo that shit with a shot or two#not when all their cells would have been infected with mold by then#the line about mia feeling compassion about evie's situation is from the guidebook#and i think moreau would dredge up for those feelings that have long since been buried because of the baker incident#since he's doing similar-ish things to what evie did for a family/love#anyways morally grey characters really interest me so i really just want to know more about mia lol#i also really want to know what happened on the ship#because i don't believe the imprinting protocol alone would make evie that attached to mia as her mom#when she could have had marguerite as her mom like why is mia so special you'd wait 3 years for her to comply??#anyways that's for a whole different post lol
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┊ ➶ 。˚ ° “…US?”
…in which their feelings for you become apparent.
FEATURING: simon “ghost” riley, john “soap” mactavish, & keegan p russ I AM SALIVATING
WARNINGS: suggestive, but nothing nsfw. yet 😇 also so sorry i write k**gan’s name and i just get fucked up. i just can’t behave myself. so i lose my mind a little in his section eek
NOTES: excuse my rather small starting lineup; i’m still new to the game and all of its lore and i’d rather get to know the characters first rather than make horrible headcanons based off of their fanon interpretations. you know, like making a six foot ten war criminal dresses in a fucking executioner’s hood a little uwu baby
— SIMON “GHOST” RILEY.
✧ Everything I see on TikTok regarding this guy makes him seem like a fucking demon in the sheets. I really don’t get that vibe. Especially not at the start of a relationship.
✧ The first time you meet, he thinks you’re attractive. And then he pushes that thought aside, because he’s a soldier. He’s actively at work doing a high-risk, high-stress job. You’re attractive, yes, but he’s not going to pursue you. This is not the right time for that.
✧ Things develop after…like, a long ass time. And it’s not sexual in the start. It’s, like…you’re cleaning your gun down after a mission, and you get a clean rag thrown into your lap. You look up into those hollow soulless fucking eyes and Ghost just shrugs, not meeting your gaze but instead just vaguely gesturing at your gun. “Your rag’s dirty. You’re rubbin’ dirt int’a the thing.”
✧ It’s small things like that. Things that are helpful but always laced with a comment that could be considered sort of rude or abrasive. He doesn’t notice; he only realizes that he’s coming off as rude and probably pushing you away after he makes a comment on your form being lazy and Price, sort of quietly laughing, asks why he’s so insistent on snarking on you. He replies that mistakes like yours could get you hurt. Which, they could. But so could everyone else’s, and he doesn’t make comments about them. So…?
✧ Phase two of him trying to…hit on you? Exist with you? Who fucking knows. Anyways, he just stops talking. He’ll still throw you clean rags, but he won’t make a comment about how using a dirty rag is ruining your gun. He’ll still make a point out of sweeping fallen food and shit off of your spot at the table after you eat, but he doesn’t grumble and scoff at you not to waste anymore. He resorts to silent acts of service to the point where it gets annoying. He’s always quiet, but now he’s unnervingly quiet and honestly, is it still him if he doesn’t catch you for random things every now and then?
✧ The silent stage can go on forever, so a catalyst really saves you. The catalyst comes when a new recruit gets a little too aggressive; a small argument about your ability on the field turns into a minor brawl. Aforementioned brawl immediately ends when the recruit dares to put their hands on you and shove you and Ghost, like some six-foot-one demon cast from the pits of hell, appears behind you and gets very up close and personal with them. Asking what the hell they think they’re doing, asking if they think that’s a good way to have a team on the field, et cetera, et cetera. Basically, he makes the recruit feel like absolute shit. Oh, and he doesn’t look at you the entire time.
✧ So, obviously, now you have a weird situation at hand. You’re getting ready to go to sleep and everyone’s sort of looking at you funny, because there’s no reason for a fucking lieutenant to jump in and break up an argument like that—pulling people apart, sure, but not so suddenly and not so aggressively. The recruit hasn’t spoken to you. Ghost hasn’t spoken to you. So, anyways, you pay him a visit.
✧ You go down to say thanks, and for some fucking reason, the guy can’t take a compliment. Or gratitude. He says you were slower than the other recruit, that it’ll get you killed on the field, et cetera. He can’t just shut up and take the thanks.
“I’m telling you, I…I came down here to thank you, of all things. Can you cut the criticism one time and accept it?”
Ghost stiffens. It’s not a thousand-yard stare anymore. It’s just a wide, pissed-off glare. For a long minute, he’s silent. And then…
“Welcome.” His voice is grumpish. “Happy?”
“Sure.” You manage a little smile. It’s sort of funny; he can’t just take your thank you and drop it. “It’s improvement.”
Ghost nods once, albeit stiffly. “Okay.”
“…so, you gonna tell me why you did it?” You ask it as a joke. You aren’t dumb. You know he wants you gone. You’re expecting a harsh “get out” or something of the like. You aren’t expecting an answer.
“Disrespect makes ignorance. Ignorance makes casualties.” Oh. An actual real, reasonable answer. Surprising. Ghost himself seems a little surprised; he blinks owlishly again, and he doesn’t say anything else. He’s just a big guy standing in a little room with a skull mask on.
“Oh.” You swallow. “That’s…rational.”
“Were you expecting irrational?”
“No. I wasn’t expecting anything.” You scoff. “You’re not exactly chatty.”
“I don’t waste words.” Ghost’s eyes narrow. “I’m not dumb.”
“I didn’t call you dumb.” You shrug. “I’m just surprised you gave me an answer that wasn’t bitching at me.”
“I don’t bitch.”
“You do.”
“I’m not a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, recruit. I don’t bitch.”
“Even Price thinks you bitch. At me, at least. All the time.”
✧ Price thinks he bitches at you? And he’d told you? Oh, no, no. Externally, Ghost is stiff and stoic. Internally, Ghost is shitting bricks. Price had told you that? Straight-up told you that? Oh, no. You and Price talk and he comes up in conversation? Oh, no, no, no.
✧ He addresses this with Price, obviously. Storms in all puffed-out and pissy and asks what the hell he’s doing gossiping about his soldiers and Price just sort of laughs him off, asking what he’s talking about and then why he’s so upset that he’s bringing up one of his best men to one of the recruits.
✧ Oh.
✧ Ghost swears up and down it’s not like that. He swears and he bangs the side of his hand on the table and he curses on his own heart that it’s not like that but the whole time Price is laughing because in all of the years that he’s known Simon, not once has Simon broken through Ghost. But now, he has. The stumbling over words, the defensive aggression, the way he’s pacing so furiously—oh, Simon Riley is melting down inside that big mask and it’s equal parts heartbreaking and hilarious.
✧ Cue Price becoming a wingman. Ghost swears he’ll kill him every time he puts you two together to spar or puts you two on cleanup duty or god fucking forbid you’re in the doghouse doing some foul task and Ghost has to watch you. God fucking damn the captain, because he knows Ghost will grumble and complain but with you, he’ll eventually stop that in favor of helping you. And it’s sort of heartwarming for him to do his nightly rounds and it’s all quiet but there’s voices coming out of the kitchen and he can hear Ghost in that gruff, grumbly tone telling you how to mop and you snidely telling him that if you can’t do it right, then maybe he should do it instead. And he objects, of course, and then within ten minutes Price watches Ghost’s shadow come up to yours and he hears the mop change hands.
✧ It takes you a long time to realize that you’re really being assigned to Ghost’s side for every fucking thing you do. It takes you an even longer time to realize that Price tends to pass by you two on occasion, and every time he does, he’s smiling. And it takes you a ridiculously long time to realize that Ghost isn’t always radiating heat; whenever he takes the mop from you or takes the gun you’re cleaning from you, whenever he finishes off a task that you’ve started, it’s not that he’s always that hot. It’s that, under that mask, he’s flushed.
✧ It takes you a very, very long time to realize that the legendary Ghost has taken an actual liking to you.
— JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH.
✧ Thank fucking god this guy is next. Slow burn ass Ghost makes me want to rip my eyes out. Just have passionate angry sex and talk about your feelings after. Christ.
✧ It’s not exactly a secret that the minute you arrived on base, you gained an admirer.
✧ Soap isn’t someone who rarely gets hooked on someone else. The guy’s a walking heart eyes emoji. The difference with you was that it wasn’t the kind of attraction that had him sweet-talking you over drinks that night.
✧ This was different. Rather than chase, Soap wanted to impress — and, well, he tried. He tried his fucking hardest. He tried so hard the other higher-ups noticed. How embarrassing.
✧ Every time you’re in the room, he somehow gets even chattier. His voice drops. If he’s working out, he starts loading weights onto the bar he’s using to an almost comical degree. He loses his fucking mind. It’s like he short circuits. Which is ridiculous, because he’s a fucking soldier. What the fuck is he doing trying to lift five hundred pounds on a Tuesday morning? Why is he freaking the fuck out?
✧ The thing is, right, is you’re not exactly hovering over the guy. You have your own agenda to adhere to and also, it would be really weird if you just started laying praises on him, so you go about your day as regular and poor Soap is left heartbroken and also achy-armed because you literally could not care less that he’s lifting double, triple his body weight.
✧ Literally every higher-up notices. They make jokes about it and he borders on threatening friendly fire. It’s just a little crush. That’s all it is. Yeah. And so when you’re all doing team sparring and you keep winning, he’s just watching you like a lovesick puppy because it’s just a little crush. That’s all.
✧ Price can’t have his soldiers slacking off. Of course not. He can’t have them getting lazy — so he orders Soap to go up against you. Because, you know, he seems out of it and you’re the best of the recruits, so you’ll go against someone better. Yeah. That’s why he calls him out.
✧ God bless the poor guy. He panics for like three seconds and then makes a very thickly-accented taunt about how it’s unfair to you to go up against him. You, of course, in the spirit of good fun, reply to his taunt and tell him to prove it.
✧ He goes into the circle with you. He goes into the circle with you and he fucking falls apart.
You’ve quickly learned that talking is Soap’s weakness. If his mouth is moving, his feet fall behind.
“Get enough sleep last night, MacTavish?” You dodge a flying fist. “You look a little sleepy.”
“Got plenty.” A wry grin crosses his face. “Don’t worry about my beauty sleep.”
“I have reason to. You need it.” You wrinkle your nose. “Bad.”
Soap’s jaw drops slightly, and — there! — he hesitates. Probably out of surprise, but it’s enough. Deftly, you lunge in at his knees, swipe them out, and…hm. Simple. Almost too easy, actually, to pin him.
Soap’s heart is pounding under your hand. His chest is flat against the ground, but you can feel it through his back, which is wild in and of itself. He grunts when his cheek hits the ground; he mumbles something akin to “bloody hell”, but you can’t quite make out the words.
Grinning, you sit back and kick your heel up against his neck, keeping his head pinned down. The cheering you receive mostly comes from recruits who are impressed with your skill.
The minority is higher-ups, exchanging amused glances. They seem awfully humored with the sight of one of their own being pinned so easily by a new recruit. Hmm…
✧ From that point on, Soap somehow manages to watch more of your sparring sessions. He usually just watches, rather than critique; if you ask, he’ll just say you certainly seem to be doing fine. If you ask for help, though, he’ll help you. Christ, he’ll help you. He’ll genuinely spend time assisting you on whatever is troubling you.
✧ Eventually, after a long training day, you decide to ask Soap to join you in the ring. You genuinely just want to see how you stack up to a “better” opponent; you’ve apparently pushed beating him to the side. Or you just want to do it again. He doesn’t think of that, though.
✧ He’ll come in (after teasing you just a bit) and he will spar with you, just giving you advice and pointers mid-action. He’s whipped, but he’s also still a trained soldier. He knows what he’s doing, and once he gets through the brain fog you seem to weigh down onto him, he is genuinely helpful.
✧ Still, after you’re both hot and panting and finished and resting on the sidelines, you have to ask him why he helps you so much. You have to ask if it’s because he thinks you’re lacking, or bad, or if it’s some sort of personal vendetta for that one time in front of the recruits and the higher-ups.
✧ Soap just laughs and, rather awkwardly, rubs at his neck. He avoids eye contact, and he bites his lip, and he tilts his head around before he dares answer you, tone sheepish. “Consider it a, ah, personal interest.”
— KEEGAN P RUSS.
✧ SHITS MYSELF VIOLENTLY. SO SORRY
✧ i love this fucking man so very much and i don’t know jack shit abt him because i need to play ghosts and get the first hand experience like I don’t want to spoil his character but I URRRGHHGGGGG
✧ imma try to do him justice but sorry if im missing on important lore
✧ He’s not as uptight as Ghost, but he’s not as whipped as Soap. He’s somewhere in the middle; he’s aware that you’re attractive but he does push it aside. He’s working. You’re working. He doesn’t have time for that, and it’s also a safety concern. He remembers what they did to Ajax, and god fucking forbid they try to pull that shit with anyone else to use as bait.
✧ When he’s at base, he’s busy. He’s devoted to his work and he doesn’t cut corners to chit-chat. The most social he’ll really get is at dinner; he’s the kind of person who will eat with the group, but rather than talk, he’ll really just listen. he’s me fr fr
✧ Getting to know Keegan is sort of awkward because he’s just not super outgoing. He’s attractive (if your radio is on and you don’t buckle at the knees the first time you hear his sexy deep pantywetting voice over the thing, are you even real?) and he’s got the whole mysterious quiet guy thing down, and yet when you approach him to try and strike up a conversation with a simple question (“So how was your day?”) he’s prone to just looking at you and raising a brow and answering sort of flatly. (“Same as every other one. What, did something happen?”)
✧ Most of your bonding actually occurs when it’s just the two of you. You’ve bumped into him late at night before — sometimes he’s at the range shooting targets and fiddling with a variety of weapons, or sometimes he’s in the kitchen scouring the shelves, or sometimes he’s in the gym working out when nobody is there to bother him and ogle his fine ass fucking body holy shit his thighs. He’s a little easier to talk to at night, actually. Maybe it’s the lack of a crowd, but the first time you stumble into him making himself a pot of fucking tea at damn near midnight, he actually seems friendly.
“What are you making?” For a moment, you panic, thinking that you might’ve just scared the shit out of poor Keegan by speaking so suddenly and from behind where he’s standing beside the sink, a little humming kettle in front of him. His shoulders god his fuckinf shoulders i want to lick them don’t so much as twitch, though — and then you remember the guy’s entire job is stealth and observation. Hell, he probably heard you across camp.
“Tea.” Yeah, he couldn’t sound less concerned. His voice is as low and gravelly as usual; he sounds a little more relaxed, actually, not so brash and shout-y. “Chamomile.”
“Sergeant Russ drinks chamomile tea?” You laugh a little, sort of tentatively. You two aren’t strangers, but you’ve only had a few conversations…if you can call brief exchanges conversations, of course.
“…yeah?” Keegan actually sounds confused; it’s dark in the kitchen, but you can make out the outline of his head turning over his shoulder. “What, you got a problem with that?”
“No. No, sir. No problem.” You shrug. “I just didn’t peg you to be the chamomile tea type.”
“Didn’t you?” The short scoffish bark Keegan lets out is a brief laugh. “What did you peg me for?”
“Dunno. Black, I guess.”
“Are you calling me boring?”
“No.”
Keegan hums in response to that. He busies himself with pouring his tea and thank fucking god your eyes have adjusted to the dim light in here because god, his fucking hip to waist ratio under that gear is something wicked and you let your conversation slip. You’re in here for a snack, but you don’t want to bother—
“You come in here for somethin’ other than staring?” Oh. Good. This is the Keegan you’d expected after hearing him sass half of his team on comms. You can hear the edge of a grin in his voice; there’s a shuffle as he turns around and then a wooden groan as he leans against the counter. A short second later, you hear the almost exaggerated slurp of tea.
“Crackers. I’m hungry.”
A wooden scrubbing sound. He’s moved over, presumably to let you open the cabinet housing boxes of sort of dry, not particularly good crackers. He doesn’t say a word; he just keeps drinking his tea and pretends to ignore you as you make your way over, crouching down to fumble for a bag of crackers. Pretend, because you can feel that he’s watching you. His presence on the field is invisible; his gaze in the kitchen is not. Still, he doesn’t bother you; he lets you get your crackers and retire to the edge of the counter across from him to snack, and he doesn’t say a word.
“Are you always so quiet?” You gesture vaguely at the slight shape of him. “Is it just part of the job?”
Keegan laughs, more to himself than in response to you. “Sure.”
✧ He is, generally, pretty quiet. His usual demeanor is laid-back and observant; if he’s not under stress, though, and you start talking to him, he’ll respond almost always with something mildly sarcastic. You come to learn that he isn’t actually boring. He’s got a quick sense of occasionally-dark humor. Sometimes he laughs at his own jokes—usually after he’s started to walk away from you. He’s fiercely protective of the Ghosts and any recruits training near or with them. He also doesn’t seem to mind you.
✧ You’d hesitate to say you two were friends — it always seemed like there was something in between you, though you couldn’t name what — but you were friendly, and it was nice.
✧ During group dinners, he’d stand against the wall behind you. Or across from you, though usually doing that meant that he’d make a game out of trying to get you to squirm under his constant staring. He’d run into you late-night in the kitchen and make casual, not uncomfortable, small talk. Hell, at one point he offered you a drink post-training and made a sort of point to always offer you one whenever you had returned to base and were lingering around in the later hours.
✧ After a particularly long day, you find him in the kitchen, just drinking straight from the bottle. He offers you the thing — he seems more than a little tipsy, but when you decline (he’s been drinking directly from it, and…the fuck does army hygiene look like?) he sort of half-laughs and says, sarcastically, “What d’you look so horrified for? Too good to share a bottle, princess?” and then he immediately excused himself afterward.
✧ You know that saying, “drunk words are sober thoughts”? Yeah. Yeah.
✧ i need the fatty part of keegans thigh in my mouth right now i need to bite it i need to bite it and go rrrrrahrhrahrah like a fucking rabid dog
#cod smut#cod x reader#call of duty smut#cod ghost#simon ghost riley#ghost x reader#cod soap#john soap mactavish#soap x reader#cod keegan#keegan p russ#keegan x reader#IIIII NEED HIS HANDS IN MY MOUTH#IIIII NEED KEEGANS HANDS IN MY MOUTH NEEEEOWWW
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i have since been informed that the screenshots of that conversation were fabricated. i apologize, it turns out that an english translator was used and the source was proven to be false. nonetheless, this changes nothing about the situation.
i hope we all have an understanding that this is not a kpop issue, but a women’s rights issue. as previously stated in my original post; men, no matter where they’re from, what family they come from, who their friends are, they are not immune to being misogynistic, vile human beings. the people closest to us could be hiding the worst secret imaginable. men, having mothers, sisters and daughters, does not stop them from committing heinous crimes against women. it doesn’t matter that they have a strong female presence around, they could still turn out to be anti-women and do it all wrong. it only takes another brainwashed woman hater to turn the rest into one of them.
i also would like to point out that this is not the time to start fan wars, because this is not about kpop or us fans, or who you stan or don’t stan. this isn’t a “gotcha” moment, for you to blame fans for supporting him when nobody knew. it’s not the time to promote your faves or post shit with, ‘my faves would never’. that’s what everyone says/thinks until your fave DOES. it’s insulting to the victims, making jokes out of this. and let’s not blame women for supporting bgs, bc saying things like “good thing i only stan ggs” is not making anyone look good, not you, and not your faves. the blaming women for enjoying things is crazy, bc how are we not going to assume that the people we’re supporting are decent human beings at the very least? that’s the bare minimum, for you to expect someone to be a kind, normal human being who treats people with respect, as everyone should. there will always be terrible people in this world, but we can’t blame anyone but the criminal themselves.
i would love to stop posting about this, bc it is getting to be a lot, and is very overwhelming, but i want to keep voicing the issue at hand. korean women have desperately been trying to reach out to international media and gain our attention in the states, so that we can help them spread the word about what has been going on and what they are being subjected to. it’s sickening to look at the evidence of these vile people hurting innocent women and minors of all ages, but if it means we keep this relevant for as long as possible, then i will keep posting on every social media platform to amplify their voices. please continue to share, and spread as much (credible) information for these victims as you can. they are being singled out and targeted for speaking up, and we need to be their voice from across the world.
please please take care of yourselves, take breaks if you need to. just sharing things does a lot, and supporting the people around you who at any point have been in a situation like this, does more than you know.
❗️EDIT: if you would like to learn more about the situation in general on what goes on in sk involving these chat rooms, i recommend watching stephanie soo’s videos on her ‘rotten mango’ youtube channel about this. i will warn you, topics are very heavy and can be triggering, so watch at your own discretion. and listen to her trigger warnings. here is a screenshot of what you can search to find them.
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#121
The barrel of the supervillain’s weapon turns a bright white as it charges. The villain is ready for this—they’ve planned it, they’ve imagined it, they know that this has to be the thing that redeems them.
The supervillain laughs as he turns to face the weapon towards them. The heroes never really believed they’d changed. Why would they? A villain once is a villain for life. Whispers followed them, hard glares burned into their back, the odd ‘accidental’ shove followed by laughter that could’ve been as cruel as a villain’s.
The supervillain says something, but they’re not listening. Well. The villain’s about to show those stupid heroes what change looks like. They’ll die here, the hostages will have that extra time to escape, and the heroes will finally see the villain as one of them. As a person.
The villain closes their eyes. The machine in front of them whirs excitedly. This is it. This is it.
Something hard collides with their side, sending them crashing to the pavement. No! their mind shrieks. Gravel digs into any bit of skin it can find, the sharp ache of future bruises under their clothes. Painful, but not as much as this was meant to be.
The supervillain grunts in frustration as the villain risks opening their eyes. A hefty crater is smouldering in the concrete where they were just standing, puffing smoke into the air like a grim image of what they’d have ended up as—ash, at best. They can’t move; somehow, seeing the destruction that could’ve so easily been them is paralysing.
“Oh, god,” someone says from behind them. “You’re not dead, are you?”
The villain finally notices the tight hold around them and manages to wriggle out of it. “Wh—” They push away from the hero, incensed. “What are you doing?”
The hero lugs themself to their feet. “Making sure you don’t die?”
The villain follows them up, ignoring the hero’s hand held out to them, as the supervillain tuts irritably. “Heroes cannot save you, [Villain],” he calls with a cold smile. “You really think you are anything more than a stain to scrub out to them?”
The villain lurches back towards to supervillain, the hero grappling for them and missing. “Then give them something they’ll physically have to scrub out of this road!”
The hero appears next to them, their hand around their arm. “[Villain], stop.”
The villain shrugs their hand off, but it’s back immediately. “Go away, [Hero]. Let me do this.”
The supervillain’s weapon lights up. “No,” the hero snaps stubbornly. “Why are you so set on this? What is dying really going to do?”
Whirring hums in the air again. The barrel turns that heavenly white. “Because maybe then you’ll see me a little more as a person and less as a mindless criminal.” They shove the hero away. “There’s hostages, you know. Go be a hero and help them.”
“The other heroes have that sorted,” the hero says coolly, “because I’m a bit busy trying to save someone else right now.”
The villain doesn’t get a chance to pull away from the hero this time. Their hand tightens on the villain’s arm, and before they can react they’re pushed to the side and out of harm’s way a second time.
“Stop!” the villain cries, their voice barely a rasp. “You think I’m blind? You think I can’t see that all of you would rather I was dead?”
“Maybe a few of the nastier guys, sure. They don’t like anyone,” the hero says sharply, “but I promise you, [Villain], not everyone wants you dead.”
The supervillain’s weapon clicks. The villain recognises the sound; a reload, a brief respite in the war. The hero pulls the two of them behind a slab of upturned road, out of the weapon’s line of sight. Not that it wouldn’t blow this thing to smithereens if the supervillain wanted it to.
“You are a fool to think the heroes will ever think of you as one of them,” he says with a grim smirk. Another click, another bolt in. “But if you do not want to accept that, I am happy to erase the thought from your mind.”
“I need this,” the villain snaps. The hero’s still clinging to their arm. “Let go of me.”
“No you don’t,” the hero says shortly. “You need redemption.”
“This is redemption.”
“No it’s not.” The hero’s hold on them tightens, almost painfully. “This is sacrifice. For nothing.”
“I’m— I’m buying time, the hostages—”
“You realise,” the hero cuts in, “you can buy more time if you don’t keel over.”
The villain stares at them. The supervillain’s weapon clicks one final time. “Come out, [Villain],” he says brightly. “Let us relieve the heroes of their moral duties. I’m sure they’ll thank you for it.”
“Dying doesn’t fix anything,” the hero says lowly. “Don’t make amends by avoiding what you’ve done. Surviving—living with your mistakes—is the biggest atonement you can make.”
“Come on, [Villain],” the supervillain says again. The smile is audible in his voice; coy, knowing, confident. “I’ll make it nice and easy for you, I promise.”
The villain’s stare has long stopped focusing on the hero. They’re well beyond looking at anything. “Okay,” they say weakly. “Okay.”
When the shot of the supervillain’s machine crushes their hiding spot to pieces, the two of them are long gone.
#creative writing#writblr#writers on tumblr#writing#writing community#heroes and villains#hero x villain#BOOK IS DONE (again)#i added some new scenes to make it a stand alone and it now has an extra 8k words#pros: word count is closer to normal fantasy. i didnt really want a sequel. its kept me busy#cons: i gotta do more beta reads aughhhhhhh#i love the betas ive had so far but god. the mortifying ordeal of being known as well as actually finding people interested???#pain and suffering on planet earth
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Simon 'Ghost' Riley Sfw alphabet
CW: mentions of torture and trauma
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
Simon is a man who was tortured for 2 years straight. He finds it extremely hard to be affectionate, especially when his torturers try and find the important people to him so they can kill them.
He trys but just know that the lack of affection doesn't mean their isn't any affection. Simon loves you and that's why he's distant. That's the way he shows you he cares.
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
If you weren't in 141 he would have never tolerated you. He wouldn't even have acknowledged you.
While in the task force everyone became trauma bonded to each other. It's messy but it worked for everyone.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
He loves cuddling but he can't admit it. He craves physical affection but is terrified by it. It's hard for him to allow himself to be touched, but when he does He goes feral over kisses and hugs.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
The military has conditioned this man to be clean and tidy, He is never messy or unkepted. He has no problem cleaning your space as well as his own, and he can cook but prefer not too.
With the settling down part...he will have a really hard time integrating back into society. His a war criminal and coming back home after being in constant life or death is not easy. You might have to convince him so go to a military/veteran's shelter to try and make the transition better.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
It's a cold ending. If he has to end the relationship he will distant himself emotionally before doing so. It's honestly brutal...
F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
If he gets to the point where he's thinking about marriage he's as good as yours. But to get to that point it's a long and slow ride. It will take a few years to get him to actually propose but he'll be think about it for all these years.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
He's extremely gentle with you, just not at frist. It will take a few months but eventually he'll treat you like a newborn kitten rather then a cold blooded soldier.
Emotionally he'll try his best to let you in but you have to be gentle with him frist. If you let him in first he'll let you in.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
He loves them, he just won't say it. Simon is always touching you in some way. Holding hands, Arm around you, brushing up against you. He loves it. He turns it down in public but you bet your ass he's as close as he can be.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
Takes him a good long while to say it but will show you he cares instead. He gives you gifts and does acts of service. You now have many little wood carvings and knives.
But When he does finally come around to saying the L word he can't stop saying it. Everything will start or end with an 'I love you'.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
Very jealous guy. He has a fear of you leaving him or you having to leaving him. He will do anything he can to not let that happen, so he tends to be a bit grumpy around other guys.
When walking around town or at a bar he stands right behind you you whole time. He's you big scary dog and he loves it.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
His kisses are actually pretty soft and gentle yet extremely passionate. He takes his time and savors the kiss.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
He's decent around children but he's not a fan. He can handle them for a few hours but not a full day.
He doesn't want kids of his own but if you do you might be able to convince him. He just prefer peace and quiet and your company
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
He usually wakes up first and just watches you sleep. When you guys frist started sleeping in the same bed he just watched you all night.
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
His anxiety was through the roof. Not only from the gentle Intimacy but from his deep fear that someone wants to hurt you to hurt him. Eventually he'll start sleeping soundly with you in his arms.
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
He'll open up about small things after a few months but the deeper stuff will come by later in the relationship.
It will take him months to take off his mask infront of you. And even then it's no fully, it's just up to his nose and nothing more. This is him testing the waters. It's best of you Don't say any good and especially bad. Say nothing and eventually you'll see his whole face.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
He's one of the most patient lovers. He might act mad but he actually isn't. If he knows you're trying and learning he'll be 1000x more patient.
If you need time opening up about something just take your time. He can wait as long as you need. But I'll have you note that this Patience is only for you. No one else gets to make mistakes around him.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
He remembers everything. Every detail, every date, every interest, every story, every step. He's an extremely observant man, he has to be. Simon makes notes of everything you do and say.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
It's actually really simple. You were watching some T.V show while he laid on your stomach. You just ran your fingers through his hair gently in silence. It was very calm and peace and he had no bad thoughts or weights holding him down. He just laid on you and wondered if this is what his life could be. If everything went smoothly from that point on, would it also be like this? Would it always be so peaceful? He's never felt more connected to you.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
He's extremely protective, He physically and emotionally can't not be. Be tortured for two year straight and then some is terrifying. And knowing these people are targeting his support system/loved ones makes him 100x more aggressive about safety. Anytime your in public he feels like he has to come with you. Even for small walks or getting the mail. He feels like the moment he looks away you'll be taken.
He forces himself to accompany you when outside. It's fills him with pride when others start to associate you with him. Like I said, scary dog privileges.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
He definitely makes an effort when it comes to date or gifts. Out of 10 I'd say 7/10. He wants you to know he loves you without doing anything to big or to out there.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
He's aggressively protective of you. This has caused him to get into fights that could have been avoided. He won't let people approach you unless you told him able someone's presents before hand.
Simon forces himself to go without food for days at a time. And yes, it is a habit. He doesn't even know he's starving himself until he finally eats again.
Locks himself away when have a PTSD episode. He gets very violent and tends to hurt people. He has only ever once hit you and it was during an episode you did even know he was having. Ever since he refuses to allow you near him when he's suffering. And because his last therapist was murdered he refuses to see another one ever again.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
Not at all. He makes sure his mask is on and that's about it. If his mask is off however....it's best not to say anything.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
Yes, absolutely. He hates not knowing if you're okay or in danger. If and when he or you has to leave for work he has a panic attack. He can't handle not being there to protect or aid you.
It even worse when you're apart for long periods of time. His reaction doesn't stop at mentality. He develops aches and tremors and they get more aggressive the longer you're away. His body can't handle the level of distress he's in that he shuts down.
When you guys come back together he doesn't let go of you. Touching, smelling, seeing, and hearing you is healing. He is firm on the belief that you are the best medicine.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
When he started get serious with you Simon went out and bought some nice expensive cologne. He made sure he knew what kind of smells you like and went off of that. When he found one he liked and thought you would too he bought it. When he wore it he didn't say anything. But when you comment on it he internally freaks out.
If you liked it he went out and bought two more. If you didn't he went back to the drawing board. This is his way of letting you silently know he loves you.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
Some one clingy. Wanting to spend time with him is one thing, Never giving him space is another. And this is extremely important in the early stages of your relationship.
If he feels like he can't step away from you he'll run instead.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)
...Simon rarly sleeps...and I mean it! Two year of torture is a long time. Sleeping is vulnerable, the ability to sleep and feel safe is a wild concept to him. He won't sleep until his body forcefully put him to sleep. This will take awhile as the PTSD Extends this limit.
If you insist he'll go to bed with you, but he'll be up all night just watching over you. If he can't feel safe he'll make sure you are.
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Maybe the way to have saved the world was to stay in the 1960s at the end of season 2. After the last battle, the Hargreeves all slip away and live quiet lives. Yes, they’re wanted criminals… but it’s also prior to a lot of technology that would make them easy to track. They could skip town, change their names, lay low.
What real reason is there to go back to 2019? Five believes that if they go back, the original apocalypse will not happen, but there’s no basis for that other than the Handler’s word, and the Handler is untrustworthy. The Commission wants them to go back, since they don’t belong in the 1960s, but they just defeated the Commission in battle. They’ve already mucked up the timeline, anyway - they met Hargreeves before any of them were born and told him things he wouldn’t have known, otherwise. They’ve also caused several national incidents. Going back to 2019 will NOT bring them back to the 2019 they knew. Five, of all people, should know that (and it always bothered me that he didn’t, and that everyone was shocked to find a new reality in season 3). They’ve changed history. It’s too late.
So, why not exist in this timeline? I think it would be hard for Allison, who would have to give up on the possibility of ever seeing Claire again. But this time, she would have Ray with her. This time, she would be able to mourn safely, and wouldn’t spiral.
Luther would find a new job, move on from his unhealthy fixation with Allison, come to care for her in a normal brotherly way and love Ray as his brother in law. Maybe he and Diego would live together as chaotic roommates.
Diego would get twitchy trying not to do things that draw attention to himself. Maybe he’d be a vigilante again. Maybe he’d be a small town cop. But when Lila comes back (and she will come back, there’s no reason she couldn’t try her trick with Stan in the 1960s), they work things out and build a life together.
Klaus would struggle for a while, absolutely. No Ben. No Dave. Freshly relapsed. But he would come out of it, too. Maybe Diego would help him, like he does in the first season. Or Allison would, like she does in the fourth. But he won’t be alone again. Perhaps Dave survives the war - don’t we see him join a different military branch at the end of the season? Perhaps Klaus changes the timeline just enough that he lives. Perhaps they meet again, by chance. Perhaps they hit it off.
Or perhaps not. Maybe that’s too much of a paradox (if Dave joins a different branch and never meets Klaus and lives, then how can Klaus have met him and lost him and gone back to warn him?). That wouldn’t stop Klaus from meeting another nice young man and living together as “roommates.” He still remembers his relationship with Dave. That’s real, that matters, he mourns it. But he moves on and he’s happy.
Five retires. Sure, he’s twitchy for awhile. Still waiting for the other shoe to drop. But finally he relaxes, puts on the retiree hat he does in season 3. Goes fishing and road tripping. Jumps in to see his family whenever he wants. He and Lila hate each other, but they agree not to kill each other for Diego’s sake. Hate eventually morphs into begrudging respect.
Ben is gone. It’s tragic. But he saves Vanya, and he crosses over. He’s at peace.
Vanya, Sissy, and Harlan would run away together. Vanya would become Viktor, making them all the more difficult to track. They would realize Harlan has powers, but it wouldn’t ruin his life with Viktor there to help him manage. He’d also help him cope with the guilt of having caused the death of his abusive father - who knows more about destruction and guilt than Viktor Hargreeves? Maybe Viktor would even remove the powers, and let Harlan be a normal little boy who grows up to be an ordinary man.
Now for the fun part. Since Harlan isn’t out of control in this reality, he’s not going to accidentally kill the mothers. So, all seven Umbrellas will still be born. Now what? Five is adamant that they don’t meet each other, but when have the others ever listened to Five?
The real question… will Reginald Hargreeves adopt the Umbrellas, or will he adopt the Sparrows? If he adopts the Sparrows, there’s the difficulty of watching another superhero team (plus Ben! A Ben who looks just like their brother!) go through their traumatic childhood. Plus wondering how their other childhood selves are doing out there. But if Reginald adopts the Umbrellas… oh boy. Now the clock is ticking on another apocalypse.
Imagine the Umbrellas, old now, trying to stop their younger selves from causing an apocalypse. When do they intervene? Do they try to stop Five from leaving? Save Ben? Tell little Vanya that she has powers? Threaten Reginald into being a better father? Or is it Leonard they try to stop? Or each other - does Viktor talk down Vanya, does Luther talk down Luther, etc.? Is this now another potential paradox - for if they prevent the apocalypse, then these versions of themselves won’t jump back in time, so how are they now here and elderly and preventing the apocalypse?
Anyway. This would be fascinating to me. And I’d like it more than whatever season 4 was.
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Oh bloody hell! Here, in Elden Ring fandom, I feel completely lost and furious.
I am not new to FromSoftware games. I enjoy death. I enjoy defeat. I am getting fucking excited when characters I love suffer, when I have no choice but to give them death. Damn, those games are full of despair, loss, guilt, they’re build on situations when you (or someone else) have no other choice but to become a murderer, and sometimes murder is a mercy. Well, mostly it is.
So, you see, those games are dark, and most of characters we love are involved into terrible things. Still, we love them. And you know why? Because they have their reasons to do so.
And I just can’t understand, what one certain kind of people are doing here and when did this shit start?
“I know he’s a war criminal, I know that his past is not an excuse for him, but I still love him…”
Why the fuck are you writing this?
Firstly, why the fuck you are searching for damn excuses for you being a fan of some characters?
Secondly, why the fuck you are telling me that “his past is not an excuse”?
Sometimes yes, it’s not. But sometimes it certainly is. Yes, I am talking about Messmer.
Marika being a horrible mother, betraying, abandoning him, is not an excuse for him to commit genocide, BUT the things Hornesent did and kept on doing to her people is a fucking excuse for him to burn all of them into the ashes, and I will never understand those of you, who tell me otherwise.
Like, guys, just how you imagine it?
Your people, your kind, damn, your very home, everyone who was around your mother, around you for the whole of your youth are getting fucking slaughtered just for being them. They die a horrible death in front of your eyes, and your mother could be just next. Do you know how it feels when you understand that every day could be last day for your family, your beloved ones, your village? Do you know how it fucking feels when all around you die?
I tell you: you will never forgive this. When you see this massacre with your own eyes, when you know you or your mother are the ones to die next, you will do everything you can for it to happen NEVER FUCKING AGAIN.
When you see your people mutilated just for who they are, all you can think about is revenge and the most horrible death for ones who done this to you and your kind. In this situation you don’t need excuses to take the spear, impale and burn them all, enjoying their screams, cuz they simply deserve this.
It’s kinda popular nowadays to believe that every conflict or war have both sides being wrong, but you know, in real wars there is always one side who starts that goddamn war. And mostly this side is, you know, wrong. In case of Messmer this side is Hornesents. Marika and Messmer are ones being attacked in the first place, and they have their right to answer this aggression and stop this damn genocide of their people ones and forever. Isn’t it just… obvious, no?
I don’t get it. Why are you trying to be so… kind and allforgiving? Why are you trying to understand both sides when there’s simply nothing to understand? Finally, why the fuck are you trying to judge characters of those games from the position of modern western society and so? Even nowadays, right fucking now, there are people fighting for their home, encircled by enemies, with their families lost for months in the depth of nowhere. They have been fighting for their very existence for centuries. We have been. Will you tell those people to forgive, forget and “both sides are always wrong in every war”?
Oh, I forgot, it’s Tumblr, so you will. Of course you will. Ban me right now. I am full of grief and desire your hatred.
This post wasn’t only about Elden Ring.
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For #phreread2023 week 5, @laukisimp and I collaborated to analyze Hecate’s prophecy in Episode 69 “Moon Maiden” and decipher what it tells us about Lauren’s character development.
When Lauren visits the circus for the first time, she is pulled aside by Hecate (the fortuneteller) for a tarot reading. Lauren draws five cards: the two of swords, the five of cups, the tower, the ten of swords, and death. These cards foretell events that will take place over the next two seasons—and we believe the clues in Hecate’s words can be decoded to pinpoint specific moments in Lauren’s character growth arc, leading up to the moment she’s kidnapped in 158.
The two of swords represents the confusion we face when forced to make a difficult choice. Blindfolded, the woman cannot see the problem clearly and thus cannot find a solution. Throughout S2 and S3, we see that Lauren avoids facing hard truths. She knows that the people around her could be Phantom Scythe, but doesn’t want to believe it can be anyone close to her. She knows Kieran likely can tell her something about the kidnapped kids—about what happened to Dylan—but she’s too afraid to ask. She needs to remove the blindfold and allow herself to seek the answers to these questions. She needs to choose a path: continue to blindly chase the Phantom Scythe in her quest for revenge, or move on and live for the future?
The five of cups explains why she can’t make that choice: she’s too focused on the loss of her childhood friend, her perceived failure to save him and the others at Allendale (and in losing her rank, putting her even further from figuring out what happened), and the disappointment and guilt that she feels over what happened in her past. She is unable to let go and forgive herself, and thus, she cannot see the two standing cups: new opportunities and potential. She has the potential to help save Kieran, and the opportunity to do a lot of good for everyone who’s caught up in this war between the royals and the Phantom Scythe. In the episodes just prior to this, Lauren and Kieran visit Greychapel and discuss how poor the conditions are. Kieran states that while they’re trying to stop the terrorists in the Phantom Scythe, the revolution must happen. It’s possible that the “new opportunity” is Lauren joining Kieran in helping bring about this revolution.
In episode 75, titled Tumbling Tower, Sandman reveals that Lauren’s parents were apostles. This knowledge shakes her entire belief system. She thought that the Phantom Schythe was made up of monsters, and yet her parents were founding members. There is also a literal tower in this story—one that Sandman is currently locked in, as he’s writing Lauren a letter. Is it possible that there are more revelations to come? Ones that will bring Lauren’s existing goal, based on false premises, crashing down?
The destruction of the tower is necessary to clear out old mistruths and make way for something new. But how she handles that course of action depends on her reaction to the betrayal. The ten of swords: someone has stabbed her in the back. But it’s important to note that the sword series in tarot tells the story of a person who attempts to use the swords for faulty reasons, makes mistakes, tries to run from them, and ultimately suffers the pain of being stabbed by them. The story of someone who allows themselves to fall victim to that internal pressure. The swords are a weapon, and can have potential for destruction or good, depending on how they are wielded.
In episode 156, Lauren discovers that March has been lying to them. He’s led her coworkers into an ambush and Lauren herself is being pursued by PS members. Lauren didn’t want to consider that March might be PS; she dismissed Kieran’s questioning of March in episode 146, misinterpreting his statements about his family and the true criminals of Ardhalis.
In episode 158 she is pursued, chased into a warehouse where all of her anxieties and fears overwhelm her. She has been continually plagued by the guilt she feels about Allendale, and now she adds to that the losses that she fears are yet to come (images of a deceased Kieran, Kym, and Will coming to her mind). She is unable to wield the swords because of her continued avoidance of the truth. Blindfolded, she doesn’t want to face her suspicions about Dylan, and doesn't want to consider March as the betrayer. So she spirals, and all of her anxieties take over. They paralyze her in that warehouse, leading to her being knocked out and kidnapped. The title of Episode 158, Seething Sword, tells us that she has been dealt that final blow.
But like the death card, the end of one thing means a new beginning for another. She must learn to wield the swords instead of letting her trauma weigh her down. It’s a symbolic death, not a literal one. The old Lauren, the part of her that was driven by guilt and shame, needs to be buried so the new Lauren, freed of those shackles she’s carried for ten years, can instead look to the future.
And what might we see in the future? We know that Lauren is at a crossroads. The two of swords signifies that two equal and opposing forces are at war, and she is caught in the middle. She has been stuck between the PS and the government of Ardhalis. She wants to take down the PS, but she is increasingly finding that the APD isn’t the paragon of justice she thought it was. Similarly, the PS isn’t entirely evil; though their methods are, their goal is relatable. We believe that Lauren will choose her own path. She won’t side with either, and will instead forge her own way forward, alongside Kieran. Perhaps she will choose to forgo her detective rank and become a fugitive with Kieran—especially if his identity ends up becoming compromised. Perhaps she will support a revolution of the poor and mistreated against the royals who keep them in the dirt.
“He” is closer to her, more similar than she thinks. We believe this is a reference to the leader. She thinks he is hidden in the shadows, but it’s very likely that the leader is someone close to her, given the clues about her parents, the Snapdragon, and how the leader kept her alive all these years. Like Lauren, the leader has also lost people close to him and seeks revenge—against the royals for the massacre of the Snapdragon, for burying those truths along with their bodies.
Hecate mentions enemies, plural, and it’s true that Lauren has many enemies now. Not only those in the Phantom Scythe, but even within the APD, for what she’s doing as Lune. She needs to question those around her more: Stefan, Dakan, March—these people have all lied to her in the past, and yet she is too clouded by her intense focus on the Phantom Scythe to consider those around her. She must remove the blindfold, and it starts with letting go of the past.
Lauren’s obsession with Dylan is holding her back. She needs to accept the truth—that Dylan is dead, and there’s nothing else she can do for him. But that doesn’t mean all hope is lost. She can make a difference in Kieran’s life. She can save him from his cursed fate to kill and kill until he himself perishes. She can help him take down the leader. But in order to do this, she might have to set her privileged life aside. Only when she stops focusing on the past can she create a new future.
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hi hi! i saw your drarry recs and i love a lot of them! if you dont mind, can you recommend some of your fav drarry angst fanfictions with good endings? something emotional because im in a mood for that hahah. i went through the angst tagged ones and most of them aren't.. heart wrenching enough..? thank you in advance btw ^^
I have a Angst with a Happy Ending list, I'll add more here!
Close Behind by @oflights (134k)
To rescue Draco from the Underworld, Harry has to look forward. Unfortunately, Draco has to look back.
you’ve got the antidote for me by Kandakicksass (20k)
When Harry Potter unintentionally severs their soulbond before it can fully form, Draco Malfoy resigns himself to a slow death and decides not to burden Harry with a soulmate he’s made it very clear he doesn’t want.
The Beauty of Thestrals and Other Unseen Things by @writcraft (63k)
Harry has terrific friends, an amazing girlfriend and his job as Head Auror enables him to work on challenging cases and Ministry reform. He just wishes he could work out why he’s been so out of sorts. When Draco Malfoy is arrested for gross indecency, Harry’s comfortable life begins to unravel. He’s forced to decide if it’s worth risking everything for love in a world where following his heart is a criminal offence.
Nor All That Glisters by @sweet-s0rr0w (110k)
Lonely and frustrated on house arrest, with no prospects for the future, Draco begins brewing Felix Felicis in an attempt to improve his lot. Just in the short term, of course. He isn’t a total idiot.
But before long he finds himself with a thriving business, a nice flat, some actual (albeit irritatingly Gryffindor) friends, and a very satisfying sex life. What’s more, no-one is hexing him in the street. And Harry Potter is single, and gorgeous, and giving Draco decidedly interested looks.
Stop taking the Felix? You must be joking…
If Memory Serves by @dictacontrion (30k)
Maybe Draco wants to forget. Maybe it’s wrong to make him remember.
The Stars Have Courage by @fantalfart (85k)
Draco waited five long years to watch his husband wake up from a coma. He’s not ready to meet a Harry with no memory of anything that happened after he died at The Battle of Hogwarts, twelve years ago.
Telling the Bees by @cibeewastaken (31k)
Scorpius’ body was found in Hogwarts one early morning.
It'll Come Back by @vukovich (15k)
Draco Malfoy wakes up in the Thickey ward not remembering anything except that the Auror in front of him is his husband. But he's not. A tale of owning up to who you used to be.
Everything That Happens is From Now On by @thusspoketrish (42k)
After surviving a brutal assault, Draco tries to navigate the tumultuous waters of his mind and embrace a bit of love and trust in his life. After all, the smallest steps forward can begin to heal the most fractured of souls.
Us, in Lieu by @tepre (29k)
Teddy needs help and Harry needs funding. Draco sits in the other room and plays the piano.
you, a violent desire by @alpha-exodus (47k)
The Amortentia was an accident—but only the first time.
He Comes Like a Thunderstorm by @korlaena (140k)
Draco is doing his best to balance the life he wants to live and the life he’s forced to live. He’s nearing the tail-end of a long, post-war probation when Harry Potter crashes back into his life with all the grace of a charging Erumpent, breaking through his carefully constructed rules and routine. Caught up in a whirlwind of sex and lust, Potter unwittingly shows Draco that his life as an Incubus doesn’t have to be as lonely and unfulfilling as he thought, but how long can it last?
An Emerald In The Sky by @corvuscrowned (6k)
The hardest part about shagging an Unspeakable is that they’re not allowed to speak of anything. All Draco knows is that Harry works in Time. Harry works in Time, and while he’s out there in all of that time, it is as unforgiving to him as it is to anyone. Somewhere along the way, Draco realizes he's been thinking in lines, when he should have been thinking in circles.
Nobody's Ever Died Of A Broken Heart by Frayach (10k)
Harry staggers under a burden of grief, trying both to remember and to forget
There are only two good facts about Harry and Draco's disastrous marriage: it had been relatively short, and they had managed to produce a very lovely child. However, if they don't work together, they just might lose him.
Palace of Eternity by @gracerene (27k)
It had been twelve years, five months, and six days since the last time Harry had laid eyes upon Draco.
Loverboys by @corvuscrowned (84k)
As post-war violence and tensions rise, it seems as if there’s no hope to unify the wizarding world. Except, maybe, a manufactured relationship between resident Saviour Harry Potter and known purveyor of the Dark Arts Draco Malfoy. (The fact that they detest each other is beside the point.) But as Draco’s unrelenting mind games begin to wear him down, Harry has to remind himself that it’s all fake. The relationship is fake. The affection is fake. The pet names, the romance — even the engagement photos are fake. But there’s something in Draco’s kiss that might just be real.
Black Holes and Revelations by @femmequixotic (38k)
What was meant to be an unexpected one-off in the loo of a Camden bar turns into something rather different, much to Harry and Draco's surprise.
Tell Me a Secret by alexmeg (86k)
In which the bond is rooted in their emotions, everything goes even more wrong, and Harry is certain that he and Draco could never feel what the curse wants them to feel for each other. Until Harry does.
Now My Neck Is Open Wide (begging for a fist around it) by LadySlytherin (75k)
Six months post-war, Harry meets Grayson Wenke, a famousv Quidditch player. Harry believes he's found the love of his life, and a Happily Ever After ending suitable for the storybooks. When Grayson slowly goes from Prince Charming to a monster behind closed doors, Harry finds himself trapped, and alone, and fearing for his life. When Harry realizes he's pregnant, the opportunity for escape - and a real Happily Ever After - presents itself as none other than Draco Malfoy. The only question is if Harry is brave enough to take a chance, and strong enough to heal.
The Crane Lord of Gringotts by @vukovich (31k)
Harry is fine. Being an Auror is fine. Living with Ginny is fine. It's all fine. But it used to be a lot better.
Vis-à-Vis-à-Vis by @vukovich (49k)
Harry's assignment was simple. Close out Draco Malfoy's missing persons case so he can be declared dead. But who's making withdrawals from Malfoy's vaults? How is a death omen-turned-Unspeakable involved? Is an organization known as the Moirai to blame? Harry brushes it off until he can't. Until The Prophet is flooded with sightings of dead people. Until Robards throws himself on his sword. Until Ron turns on his own family. Until Harry scarcely trusts his own reflection in the mirror and trusts the stranger in his bed even less. Until all that stands between war and peace is Harry, a name plate, a stadium of murderers, and Draco Malfoy. God save the Ministry.
In His Nature by create_serenity (20k)
Harry agreed to have sex with Draco once a month in order to keep him alive, what he didn’t agree to was Draco popping up all over the place and disrupting his life in more ways than one.
Blood and Fire by @lqtraintracks (44k)
Harry has spent the last twelve years in Romania, not returning to England as often as he knows he should. It's complicated. But when Ginny asks him to be her best man and help her plan her wedding, he can't say no. Having a reckoning with his choices, with himself, won't be easy. To say nothing of seeing Draco again.
9 ½ Days by @magpiefngrl (69k)
After the events at the Manor, Harry and Draco find themselves stranded in the countryside with a broken wand and Death Eaters on their tail. This is the story of an uneasy truce, featuring faerie forests, seaside caves, Romani camps, kind old ladies, and a shared bed in an attic.
Or how two boys fell in love in the midst of a bloody coup.
Consequences of Redemption by bobbirose (120k)
When Draco makes an impromptu decision to rescue Harry Potter from Malfoy Manor, the two find themselves completely alone and facing the looming climax of the war against Voldemort. Harry must start from the beginning with Draco--and starting over has more consequences than either of them anticipated.
Both Hands by @sweet-s0rr0w (10k)
It’s been over a decade since Draco packed up his belongings and left, and Harry’s doing just fine. Really, he is. So when he spots the For Sale sign outside their old flat, he doesn’t think twice about arranging a viewing. Curiosity is only natural, right? And what harm can come from a quick trip down memory lane?
#drarry#drarry fic recs#drarry reclist#drarry fic rec#fic recs#draco malfoy#harry potter#drarry fics#drarry fic#my recs
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