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mockerycrow · 1 year ago

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Emergency Contact (1/2) (Ghost x GN!Reader)

>> emergency contact concept here << PART TWO HERE!!

Summary: Simon is your roommate, and you haven’t seen each other in months, considering Simon’s job. An unfamiliar number pops up on Simon’s phone, and answering it makes his world turn upside down.

A/N: How you two moved in together is very vaguely inspired this ghost fic right here. please give it a read! If you finish the song above, I highly recommend listening to the entire album while reading. i’m not the happiest with this, but i’m happy enough to post!

[WARNINGS: Blood and injury, traumatic events/trauma brought up, gore, little comfort, medical inaccuracies, tbh ooc simon but it’s ok.]

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since he’s been home, since he’s seen you. That’s how long he’s been stuck on base, or thrown into a foreign country to complete some mission, or to gather some intel, or to kill someone, just somewhere, anywhere but with you.

Eight months, thirteen days, and nine hours. That’s how long it’s been since you softly asked him to stay as safe as he can, and to come back alive, and to come back with at least eight fingers. It was a running joke between you two, a way to relieve the terrifying reality of his job; as long as Simon came home alive and with majority of his fingers, he could consider it a job well done. You didn’t know much of his job, of course—only that he’s military, and he’s gone a lot. You already guessed it was a lot of classified stuff, probably down top secret government type of things. That did make you scared, though. You didn’t want the day to come, the day where people in fancy uniforms show up at your doorstep like you’re some widow. The thought of someone informing you of Simon’s death makes your stomach twist.

Eight months is admittedly a long time. Simon.. he missed you, but he’s rather die that verbally admit it, but he sure as hell felt it. He missed the way he could hear you walk through the house, the weight of the floorboards creaking up your feet. Simon missed walking by the bathroom and the air vaguely smelled your shampoo and body wash, a clear indicator you had just taken a shower. Simon missed the way you carelessly have your shoes next to the shoe rack, not even on it, and despite his annoyance of your laziness? He misses it every single time he’s away. He never really realizes the difference of living on base versus being home with you, and he’s comfortable in both environments for completely different reasons. Simon is comfortable with you because you’re safe, you aren’t associated with anyone he has to deal with on a near daily basis. You don’t scan the kitchen to see which household items could be potential bombs in the vicinity like he does. On base, Simon finds comfort in the familiarity of being constantly on alert, the need for a gun to be against his hip—it’s not the best, considering he’s in fight mode majority of the time, but it’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’s.. home, in a way.

You and Simon call at least once every three weeks—it’s not more because you’re both busy, you have your life to tend to while he has to do something like protecting an American Embassy, or sneaking into a compound to retrieve some vital information. You two talk about all kinds of things; you complain about the neighbors for the nth time, or you talk about your job, just something that he hasn’t heard about in a while. Simon.. he’s limited on what he can talk about—what he wants to talk about. It’s a bit difficult, keeping details of his job hidden away from you. He also keeps you hidden away from them; his team. Price vaguely is aware of your existence, but all he knows is your name and your phone number—someone to alert when he eventually would pass away.

It surprised Price when he requested access to his own file to make a change. Simon went for years without anyone in that section, leaving it blank—and then suddenly ‘[Name] [Last Name]’ is written down, along with your phone number. Simon doesn’t want to die somewhere and then you sit at home, dreading the fact that you haven’t received a call from him for over six months. Other than that, no one is aware of your existence and he wants to keep it that way. It keeps you safe, and he doesn’t want the one thing he has going in his life to be taken away from him—not like everything else has been.

No, you and Simon aren’t together. You just are the one constant he cannot allow to die. How you and Simon became close was rather funny, really—before you were roommates, you bumped into each other at the local stores, the bank, even several public spaces like parks and such. You didn’t see him too often and you weren’t aware on why, but you didn’t really wonder why either. By this point, you knew each other for a couple of months. He introduced himself as SR—not Ghost or Simon, but as SR. You didn’t bother to question it because this tall, bulky man seemed like he was trying keep himself as anonymous as possible. Without fail, you always saw him wear dark colored clothing that hid any identifiable markings—tattoos and scars, that kind of thing. He usually has his hood up with a black face mask covering his nose down, but you do know one thing—he has to have bright blonde hair. Why else would his beautiful eyelashes and eyebrows be that bright? It would catch your eye every time you’d see them. Sometimes you would see him with a beanie on and the mask, with his hood down. This wasn’t too often, as it exposed some scarring he has on the back of his neck, as well as his forehead. This also silently lead you to believe he has a tough past of some sort, which is confirmed when you run into him somewhere you never expected to—your therapist’s building. You bumped into him right outside, and you apologized profusely before looking and going silent as you made eye contact.

A silent agreement was made between you two that day, one that you could never put into words. Something in that moment that dragged you two closer together. You had been through some shit in your life, shit that had permanent effect on you, shit that you wanted to work through. It was horribly tiring, but you knew you needed to work through it—so you could live a life you felt was worth living. Simon, was on the other side of the spectrum. He didn’t want this. He never wanted to tell anyone about anything, but Price, Price fucking made him. Simon spends his days and nights plagued with nightmares and memories—he’s woken up in the middle of the night enough times to know that he needs help, but he was so adamant about not talking to anyone about it. But seeing you there? Someone who he hasn’t known for long, someone who had always greeted him with a smile on your face, laughter spilling from your beautiful vocal cords, and someone who doesn’t touch him without permission? It made him so angry and hopeless about this world. Not even you, a stranger who he sees as the best human being he’s known in a while—despite not knowing you for long—could escape from the cruel and sharp jaws of the world. You found out you two accidentally scheduled the same days, so it became an unspoken agreement to wait for the other outside of the building so you can both go in. Even when you weren’t sure when his next appointment would be, you’d be right outside of that building, waiting for him. You would always be right there, and that’s something he quickly learned.

You lost your house to a fire, everything went with the burning embers that raged inside of the 4 walls of your previous home, the structure collapsing in on itself. You had gotten out in time, and you numbly watched the fire roar, the crackling burning it’s memory in your ears. The piercing sound of different sirens were approaching, but all you could do is stand there with your phone in your hand, watching the home you worked so hard for burn to the foundation built years ago. You felt a hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t bother to turn to see who it was. Everything was going so slow, almost like a movie scene in the worst way possible. Your nostrils burned from the smell of burning wood, drywall, and installation. The hand squeezed your shoulder and you slowly looked at who it was—and was him. Simon. His eyebrows were furrowed, eyes ever so slightly panicked and it was obvious he was asking you something, but you didn’t hear him. All you could focus on was that he was here. You blinked rapidly as your eyes began to burn from the smoke and from that choked feeling going from your chest to your throat. “I..” You croak ever so slightly. You couldn’t hold it back—you quickly grabbed onto Simon desperately, letting out a heart-wrenching sob because you just lost everything you owned, every memory, every piece of furniture, everything.. but he was here. He was the only thing was wasn’t crumbling away from your grasp, the only constant. Once you clung to him, Simon’s senses were flooded with you. Fuck, your touch burned, just like everyone’s else’s but he liked—no, loved how it felt. Despite the image of a burning house in his wake making dread bubble in his gut, your sobs and touch were the only thing he could focus on. Simon hesitates for only a second before pulling you into his personal space, his arms wrapping around you and weighing heavily on your body. Neither of you spoke, he just let you scream into his chest and sob, your fists gently banging against his chest—the anger, the sadness, everything was too much. Simon knew exactly how you were feeling, so he didn’t mind the twinges of pain your hands produced. Simon was the one who helped you while you chatted with the paramedics and the police. He was the one who helped you find your words when you had none left to share, the smell of the smoke imprinted on your clothes.

Without question, Simon took you to his house. He did not have another bed set up, so he had you sleep in his room while he slept on his couch. He hated the hollow look your eyes held, the way you were delayed with your answers, the ways your hands shook. Your everlasting smile had dissipated into a wobbly frown and he.. Simon couldn’t handle it. He grabbed you some of his clothes and helped you into his bathroom, quietly telling you to take a shower. He’ll take care of your clothes. Simon left you alone, and you showered for a long time. He didn’t count, but it was over an hour and a half. Simon didn’t say anything about you possibly racking up his bill, how could he when you had just lost everything? He wanted to.. to help you, and he wasn’t sure why. Even when he found himself scrubbing your smoke and tar covered clothes in his kitchen sink, he couldn’t find an exact reason why he wanted to help you. Maybe it’s because you made him feel human when he needed to be, maybe you were the one thing that kept him coming back to this town, the one thing that kept him from completely pulling away from the civilian world. You had found him in a corner like a dog, lips curled back and snarling—sharp teeth clashing together, and without a word, you gave him reasons to trust you. Although they may not be.. normal reasons to the regular eye, but they were enough for Simon.

You’re enough for Simon. He scrubbed your clothes until his arms burned, and then some.

That’s when he found out that you too, were also someone who could not stay asleep for long. When Simon awoke with his adrenaline pumping from the muffled sound of vomiting, he had to calm himself down because he’s safe, and you’re safe, most of all. Simon isn’t sure when he began to think that way, but it’s one of the many things he’s decided to not question—which also new for him. Simon is man who demands answers, yet with you? it’s like everything naturally falls into place, which is why he doesn’t complain when your stay at his house—which you swore would only be until you gathered enough money for an apartment—turned from a two week stay, to Simon carrying in an IKEA bed frame to put and assemble in one of his empty rooms. Many sleepless nights came and went, and each and every one you spent them with each other, sitting by a windowsill together, other times spending it in the backyard and looking at the sky. Sometimes you would wake up first, sometimes it would be him. You somehow always knew when he had woken up from a nightmare, his heart pounding in his ears—until your hands grab his and squeeze, to ground him. You burn him, and he welcomes the tickle of your ever-glowing flame. A year into this arrangement, Simon finally shows you his face and he appreciates that you don’t look at him any different. He usually hates the searching eyes, trying to memorize every inch of his face—but he’s greedy when you do it. When your eyes roam over every scar and acne scar, when you point out his messily cut hair and half-assed shaven stubble, he doesnt get angry. Simon doesn’t feel suffocated by your glances. He doesn’t wear his mask at home anymore, not when you’re there.

Then Simon gets the notice about his three month leave ending soon; and he knows that you need to know about his job. Or at least, the bare minimum you need to know. In reality, it’s how much he wants you to know, but he doesn’t want to admit that. He sits you down one morning, a cup of tea in his hand and he had a mug of your favorite morning drink on the other side of the table he had bought a few weeks you started staying here. Simon explains that he has a job in the military, that he can’t tell you much, but it means he’s going to be gone for weeks, even months at a time. You’re at a loss at first, because who is going to have an extremely positive reaction to “by the way, I work an extremely dangerous job and I can’t tell you anything and I’ll be gone for a while.. Oh yeah, you likely won’t know if I die!”? Despite your initial reaction, you grow to be okay with this situation. Or, we’ll, as okay as you can be with it. You also find out that he was here for way longer than he originally is, due to his boss demanding him to take a break—AKA, “go to therapy you dafty”.

For a little over two years, you two fell into a good rhythm. A call every three weeks, him coming home and you becoming the safest space he’s ever had in his life.

Which is why when his personal cell phone begins to vibrate in his pocket during some fuck-all meeting, his eyebrows furrow. The number is unfamiliar, but the area code is not. Simon quietly excuses himself from the extended round table, taking his call outside of the meeting room. Price’s eyes follow his figure as he exits, noticing it’s his personal cell phone in his hand. Simon answers the call and presses his phone against his masked ear, muttering a low, “Hello?”

A high-pitched, soft yet serious voice filters through the speaker, a woman. “Hi, is this Mr. Riley?”

Simon pauses, and so does his heart. “Who’s asking?”

He honestly regrets asking that in the moment—one part of him genuinely wishes he never answered this call, and the other part of him is glad he did. “I’m a nurse from Northern Manchester Community Hospital, you’re written down as [Name]’s emergency contact. They’ve been a victim of a hit and run situation, sir. They’re alive, but they’re in the ICU.” The nausea that suddenly bubbles inside of his guys, the stomach acid mixed with whatever he had eaten previously, threatening to travel up his esophagus, burn every inch and then exit with a horrific sound. Simon’s head began to spin—he’s your emergency contact? A hit and run, you were fucking hit?? By what, a car? A pick-up? A semi? God, Simon has seen the most horrible, gruesome, fucked up shit you would ever see in his entire life, yet he isn’t sure if he can handle the image of you spread out in a hospital bed, with one too many tubes circulating around you. His mind plagues him with intrusive images, ones he never wants to actually see played out. Fuck, his head hurts. It feels like someone is physically shoving a knife into his chest and twisting it, like God is laughing at him and playing with Simon’s pain for his own gain. How could he not think that, especially with everything that has happened to him? His friends, his family? His old CO? The fucking abuse he endured??

It’s like Simon lost his hearing for a moment, because he cannot bare fucking losing you, too. There’s a vague ringing in his ears, almost like there was an explosion and he stood too close. And then suddenly every sound comes rushing back to his eardrums, and everything suddenly everything is so fucking overwhelming. “Mr. Riley?” The nurse calls over the phone, her tone laced with worry. He clears his throat and when he speaks, he sounds wrecked, which he fucking hates. “I.. I’ll come as soon as I can.” Simon hangs up, not giving the nurse a moment to speak. He drops his phone and if he doesn’t sit down, he’s going to fall over like a tree that’s been cut down. Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the way his stomach is screaming and twisting as he puts a hand on the wall, and he crouches down. It’s the first time he doesn’t look around to see if anyone is watching his sudden display of emotion. When he’s suddenly rocked with the feeling of home at work, especially with the news that you’re fucking injured—he’s overwhelmed and twisted all over the place. Simon finds himself stumbling back to his barracks.

Price finds his way to him after Simon never returns to the meeting. He knocks on the door, but his knuckles pause before they can knock against the door for the third time as he discovers the door is open—which is very, very, odd. He slowly opens the door while calling for Ghost, and is met with the sight of Simon shoving some of his clothes and belongings into a duffle bag, as well as his military travel documents. “Ghost?” Price questions, who stopped in his doorway to watch Simon lose his mind while packing. Simon doesn’t respond as he practically rips his phone charger out of the wall and stuffs it into the bag, zipping it up. He slings it over his shoulder and he turns around, pausing when he sees Price. Simon’s eyes tell everything he’s feeling—that something’s happened, something bad, and he needs to leave. Price bites his lip and quietly exhales, his fingers rubbing at his chin. “I’ll approve your leave. Just shoot me a text of how long it needs to be, yeah?”

Simon makes sure to note to send Price a thank you of some sort, because within the next two hours, Simon is boarding a plane, heading for Manchester, wearing some black clothing, a jacket, a black face mask, gloves, and his beanie. The entire time, he could not stop thinking about you—and how you could possibly die before he got there to send off his final goodbyes. Is that something he would actually want to do, though? See you in the hospital, knowing it’ll be the last place you’d ever be alive in? Go home, see how you left the house exactly as you left it? A house, but without his home in it? Simon stares out the airplane window blankly, his hands curled into fists, and his nails would be digging into his palms if he didn’t have gloves on.

He couldn’t lose you. Not like this.

The next part for Simon, it’s a blur again. Got off the plane, got his luggage, provided documentation, blah blah blah—he didn’t give a fuck about any of it. His focus was you. He didn’t bother to stop home to drop his stuff off, he took an Uber straight to the hospital from the airport. It was a fairly expensive Uber too, but he could worry about the costs of everything later. It took another half hour to get there.

His heart began to hammer in his chest as the sight of the hospital’s signs began to pop up on the road, the anxiety taking hold in his stomach and his head begins to hurt again. Simon quietly thanks the driver, tips them, and exits the car with a swiftness once they pull up. Simon walks through the main entrance’s sliding doors, going up to the desk. A woman behind the counter hangs up the phone, murmuring a goodbye, and then she looks at Simon with her pretty blue eyes. “How can I help you, sir?” She murmurs sweetly, noting how anxious he is. She can see the sweat on his brow line. Simon clears his throat, his voice rumbling in his chest when he speaks. It takes everything in him to not yell at this innocent woman and get thrown out. “My.. My name is Mr. Riley, I was called ‘cause my friend is here,” Simon manages to push out. “[Name] [Last Name].” The woman turns to her computer and clicks the couple of buttons and types a couple of words and holy fuck, Simon just wants to go to your wing already—“Ah, yes, I see you’re listed as their emergency contact,” The woman grabs a sticky note and writes with a pink pen your room number and elevator floor, handing it to Simon. He barely gets a “thank you” out before he nearly jogs to the nearby elevator. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283. Fourth floor, room 283—it’s the longest minute long elevator ride in his entire fucking life.

Simon changes face masks whilst facing the wall, and then he finds your room number—and his heart is beating out of his chest. There’s cops standing outside of your room who stop him from entering. Simon’s anger flares up so quickly, he nearly makes a scene until a doctor exits your room. She’s wearing her usual blue scrubs, her coat, and she’s dawning a N95 and some sterile gloves. She’s holding a clipboard. “Mr. Riley?” She questions, holding the clipboard close to her chest. Simon nods without hesitation, and she responds, “I’m sorry, but due to the nature of this case, you’ll have to provide some identification for me and these officers.”

Usually, Simon would hesitate—he gives anyone outside of his team the bare minimum, hell, he only introduced himself as SR until he knew you for a while. This time, he takes out his military ID and shows it to the officers. He ignores their looks of surprise, and ignores the murmurs that come from them. Simon puts his ID away and he holds back the urge to shove them out of the way as he glares down at the doctor on accident. “Come in,” The doctor opens the sliding door and steps into the hospital ICU room with him. Simon follows behind her and he immediately smells the sickening smell only the ICU gives off. There’s a small wall blocking his view from you that he hasn’t past, and he can already hear the machines working. A heart monitor, a ventilator, combined with other machines he doesn’t know too well. The doctor flips through the papers pinned to her clipboard. “They were hit by a vehicle of some sort, the scene suggested they were walking home from the local corner store. [Name] has multiple broken bones and fractures, a punctured lung, a fractured jaw and internal bleeding. They lost a lot of blood at the scene.” Simon doesn’t respond as he slowly walks forward, and he finally lays his eyes on you. It’s.. traumatizing, to say the least. You were never supposed to be in a hospital bed like this, hooked up to machines he can’t even name. He slowly walks over to you, dropping his duffel bag somewhere on the floor. He doesn’t care to look where. Simon barely pays attention to what the doctor is saying—his hands tremble as he stands by your side, his heart thumping harshly in his chest. Fuck.

He drags over one of the chairs next to your bed. Simon takes off one of his gloves slowly, and then he tears the other one off in a frenzy. He feels so unlike himself, so.. different.. human. He reaches over to your hand and his fingers grab your wrist, so gentle as if you’re glass. Simon presses his fingers against your pulse point, counting your heartbeats despite the monitor. The thumping under your skin makes it more.. real. Feeling you, your heartbeat, your warmth and your skin—it’s comforting. Simon clears his throat and fights the urge to vomit once a gain, watching your chest rise and fall, produced by the ventilator.

He moves his hand to intertwine with your fingers and he uses his other hand to feel your pulse. Simon closes his eyes, muttering the beats per minute under his breath.

At least you’re alive—you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re with him. And that’s all he asks for.

tags;; @alwaystired--neversleeping @handsomeunderwear-art @indefenseofkara @kaysav608 @1-is-loneliest-number @rosee-sensuelle @kitty-satan1 @k4marina @rahmown @royalty-purple @bowtruckleninja — if you are not tagged, it’s not allowing me :-)

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billvsgirl · 11 months ago

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the songbird : part one

summary ; reader is a beloved, headstrong singer at a saloon in new mexico. billy is just looking for somewhere to play some poker. it’s a match made in heaven.

warnings ; some heavy insinuation (only above the cut) but aside from that, none yet 👀 i dont know if you can classify this as a slow burn but it is for me because my writing stamina is weak as hell 😇 also i might have accidentally mary sue’d reader but thats my issue

also not beta read (im lazy)

author’s note ; HIII to anyone who’s reading this, i’m sorry in advance, this is my first time writing in a very long while so forgive me. if you have any comments or suggestions please let me know 🙏 i thank @goosita and @billysgun for inspiring me to write for billy (y’all always eat thank you for supplying me with the best billy fics) pls let me know if y’all wanna see more of this series and i’m open to requests !!! okay thats all tyty

—

billy pulled the door closed behind himself ever so carefully, making sure not to alert anyone else who might still be awake in the boarding house.

he turned towards the room to look at you; waiting infront of him expectantly- yet still a bit nervous, akin to a tense game of cards. it was his move now.

you leaned into his touch as he brought a hand up to caress your cheek, stroking gently with his thumb. “my beautiful girl,” he spoke softly, quirking the corners of his lips up into a smile.

“are you sure you’re alright with this, darlin’? we don’t have to.”

but oh, how you so desperately wanted to. because it was him, because it was billy.

he had wandered into your life by chance; a raggedy stray appearing in a saloon on a friday night, just looking to make some cash off of a game of poker.

you were there, too, hidden behind a humble stage curtain. you dusted some lint off of your dress and cleared your throat before donning your guitar and revealing yourself to the bar patrons with a confident, nearly sanguine smile.

“why hello there, everyone! d’ya miss me?”

and you had the instant attention of the majority of the tired souls in the saloon, ears and eyes becoming alert. if there weren’t smiles, there were whistles, cheers, claps- and other things inbetween.

there was no argument amongst the patrons that you were special. you held a strong and awfully charismatic persona when you were up on that stage, performing each weekend. when you had first started singing publicly, give or take a year or so ago, it took time for the people there to pay mind to you- but there was only so much they could do before your cadence, your charm, drew them in. and now, the townsfolk always looked forward to your appearances.

“oh please, don’t flatter me! it’ll all go to my head. how’s ‘bout we get to some songs instead, boys?”

a bit of soft laughter could be heard, dispersed throughout the room, before some more scattered claps- and a low chatter returned within the building while you propped yourself onto the stool at the center of the platform.

“learned this one from my father- i hope y’all enjoy it, an’ feel free to sing along if ya’ know it too.”

you began to strum, and the noise in the room lowered at your command. if anyone wasn’t paying attention before, they were now.

“O bury me not,”

and the raggedy stray finally looked up from his hand of cards, sapphire blue eyes taking in your beauty for the first time.

“on the lone prarie.”

your voice was amber honey flowing over a silver spoon, it was devistatingly sweet on the tongue, and all the more addicting. even the most haughty cowboys couldn’t help but lend an ear to you.

“these words came low, and mournfully

from the pallid lips of the youth who lay

on his dying bed at the close of day.”

of course, it didn’t hurt the fact that you were pretty. anyone would agree. but the men there stopped bothering you with crude requests and comments a long time ago- you’d established that it wouldn’t be tolerated, that you weren’t some woman of the night who’d play into the egos of these dogs who assumed they were above everyone else. and what were they to do?

nevertheless, you were alluring. you had a voice that charmed snakes and tempted songbirds to whistle along. so, eventually, they left you be. and that was the way it was.

“he had wasted and pined ‘til o’er his brow,

death’s shades were slowly gathering now

he thought of home and loved ones nigh

as the cowboys gathered to see him die.”

some of the patrons softly sang along to that folk song, including the one that sat a bit further from the stage, who had laid his cards aside later than the others.

he wasn’t fully aware of the small smile etched across face, but he was aware of the way your dress draped gracefully over your legs, the way your hair flowed freely upon your head, the way your eyelashes batted against your skin each time you blinked, the way your hands held your guitar.

he was well aware that he had not seen a lady like you before.

and well after you finished your set, and you had taken time to sit down at the bar and thank the bartender for your drink, he found it in himself to approach you.

and if you were a bit apprehensive, he took mind of that, and kept a small distance whilst lowering his hat from his head.

“hello, ma’am, how are you doin’ tonight?”

you couldn’t help but soften your hardened expression just a bit at the sight of him; eyes that bore right into your heart and pleaded innocence, even though you had heard the chatter throughout the bar that night;

that he had accumulated bounties, that he was a force not to be reckoned with,

that he was ‘dangerous.’

“quite alright, thank ya’, can i help you, cowboy?”

you were curious, but you weren’t downright stupid. you’d certainly dealt with worse, and the demeanor of this man begged that he had no distasteful intentions, but there was further convincing to be done for your guard to come down.

“i just wanted to say- you’ve got a real beautiful voice. it was a nice treat after the day i’ve had, ma’am.”

his voice was soft, and he carried himself well, though you could hear notes of nervousness in the way his breath hitched slightly halfway through his speech. you tilted your head a bit, furrowing your brows.

“you’re william bonney, isn’t that right?”

he shifted his stance, breaking eye contact to look down towards the hat he held in his hands. he cleared his throat and looked back up at you with a coy smile.

“yes’m, so you’ve heard- i’ve heard em’ talkin’ about you too, albeit, for much nicer reasons, miss y/n y/l/n.”

and if the way your name rolled off of his tongue made your cheeks a couple of shades pinker than usual, that was your business and nobody else’s.

he was good looking, that couldn’t be denied. good looking in the kind of way that carried much more depth than anyone you’d seen before. good looking in the way of his strikingly blue eyes, his brown hair that curled up at the ends, the button up shirt and pants that complimented his figure perfectly, his strong, yet softened, demeanor.

“so, s’it true? what they say about you?”

“depends what they’re sayin’, ma’am. maybe, maybe not.”

“well, are you as dangerous as they say you are?”

“only when i need to be, ma’am.”

he was definitely a gentleman- that, or he was putting up a real good act. it wasn’t often that you were approached out of genuine, unsolicited interest. but william- who now insisted you instead call him billy, went silent each time you even looked like you wanted to say something.

and on the two of you went, having conversation through the rest of the night. he didn’t let on about a lot of things, he’d gotten used to being a man of few words. he wanted to know everything about you- as much as you were comfortable saying. and to his delight, you had lots to say.

the both of you were a few drinks in by the time you were sat side by side, filling the near empty saloon with laughter.

“and- and then what?” his smile was sickeningly wide.

“well, my mama always told me i should never let a man use me as a doormat, so i grabbed my saddlebag an’ swatted him right in the groin!”

billy chuckled lightly, imagining that scenario before taking another sip of his whiskey.

“serves ‘m right, the men here know less a’ how to treat women than they do knowin’ when’s appropriate to draw a gun.” he huffed out.

you set your elbow on the counter, resting your head on your hand. “i bet your mama’s real proud a’ you, billy. she raised you just as anyone should.”

he held his smile for just a second before moving to look down at his glass. he remained silent for a few moments, and you followed suit, understanding why.

“m’ sorry, i didn’t know-“

“no, it’s alright,” he looked up at you, offering a smile once again. “i hope that she is. i’m always just trying my best to do what’s right- what’s just. sometimes the law doesn’t wanna paint it that way, but i know what i’ve seen and done.”

and you trusted his word. you had let your guard down like this for the first time possibly ever with anyone who wasn’t family. you and this raggedy stray were both different birds, flying far from the flock. having his company was something new, something exciting. and you hungered to know more.

#tom blyth #billy the kid #billy the kid x reader #tom blyth x reader #billy the kid imagine #tbosas #coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #billy the kid smut

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avaf00rd · 10 months ago

Text

Leah Williamson relationship HC

A better fic will be out soon hang tight.

This is a scrap I made.

I would barely classify these as head cannons as they are very long. They are just about your relationship in general☺️

————————————————————————-

-you and Leah were best friends and crazy close when you first joined Arsenal in 2017. When you left to go to Barcelona in 2019 you both felt like a huge part of your lives were missing. When you came back to Arsenal in 2021 you both realised you were in love and started dating

-you always praise Leah for being the most fashionable person you know. You weren’t terrible yourself but you were always getting her to help you with what to wear daily

-whenever you two go to events together Leah will always make sure you get to the after party. Your pretty good at calling it a night often, which means Leah is dragging you for more drinks more often that not

-you, Leah and Alex Scott were sort of a trio. Sure Leah and Alex were a tad closer. But you had all been on multiple trips together

-your the cook of the house. She can’t go much further than toast. She tried to make frozen chicken one time for you both, but it ended up breaking the oven due to a weird setting she turned the oven on to.

-when she did her ACL you were in tears for her. When she walked off, She told you to get a goal for her. You didn’t in the end which made you sick to your stomach. You felt terrible and was just as devastated as Leah.

-your Australian. So bringing Leah over to your home was your favourite thing.

-Christmas in your house was amazing. You both decked out the house completely and danced and sung to Christmas songs all December.

-when buying your first house together. You had the biggest say. You had great taste is properties to buy so you kind of found a flat online and showed Leah. She said yes so you immediately booked an inspection. You got that flat two days later.

-You also bought all the furniture one night when you were both on international break and got it delivered to where Leah was. She was a bit shocked when she FaceTimed you after coming home to 45 delivery boxes.

-your taste in movies was so divergent. She liked the more fantasy movies like lord of the rings and Harry Potter. She also loved horror. Which was terrible for you. You loved romance movies, you’re either making Leah watch that or some stupid documentary you heard of.

-you were a huge dog person. And Leah already owned a dog when you first moved in together, but you had 2. So now it’s a crazy house 24/7.

-you love being together in the kitchen, listening to music and goofing around with a good bottle of wine. You both turn on old love songs and slow dance around the kitchen.

-she made you late to most trainings. Due to her stuffing around in the mornings. It got even worse when she cut her bangs

-one afternoon you were both chatting on how she used to have a fringe as a child. You said she would suit one (but you think she suits anything). So of course 2 weeks later she texts you to let you know she’s going to the hairdresser…

-Leah can be kinky asf. Come on we all know this

-sometimes after dinner you will beg her to play on the piano for you. She’s actually outstanding at it and you’re so proud of her. You will take your wine glass over and sit on the seat next to her while she plays.

-you tried to convince her to get Santa photos with the dogs. Which she very quickly declined.

-you were very good at makeup. You became obsessed with it as a teenage girl. So you find yourself doing Leah’s a lot for nights out and events. Even just doing a big look for fun.

-the girl couldn’t ride a bike to save her life. So you always tried to help teach her . She would somehow always say yes, Even if it was just an excuse to get a good laugh out of you.

-you and your Matilda’s team played in the World Cup and came fourth after being knocked out by her country in the semis. Your heart ached that you couldn’t finish it for your country, but it ached just the same at the fact that your girlfriend couldn’t lead her country to the grand finals like she had always dreamt of.

-every night you slept with your head tucked into the crook of her neck, arms cuddling onto her torso. It was just the best way both of your bodies melted together.

-sometimes she tried to take you on golfing dates. The first time she did, she told you she was good. Like the powerful Leah Williamson would. You were humble and said you would need her help. But when you swung your shot you actually made a great one and it had Leah’s jaw on the floor.

-you both had your first photo shoot together in 2020 just before covid. And you lived very minute of it. Now you have done heaps for brands like Calvin Klein, bikini brands, and more together, you both now being known for your hot couple photo shoots.

-you were both completely clumsy. The worst thing was when Leah and you had to screw a window nail tighter. Don’t ask why. But you apparently weren’t holding it properly. Causing it to fall out the other side of the frame. Completely shattering into the pool.

-though you were always chasing after her for outfit inspiration. You both looked phenomenal wherever you went. You would both be shot on camera court-side of a basketball game, on vacation or at dinner in the best outfits and hair.

-you though she was the hottest girl you had ever seen in your life. You had only had boyfriends who play football in your life before Leah. So you always blamed Leah for being gay.

-her love for country music was one of the things that made you fall in love with her. Along with her charming personality

-you were a striker for arsenal. When you scored in a game, you would do your celebration jump with your fists in the air and always try to look for Leah, to see if it was her arms you could jump into first. And she was always there, screaming at you for your goal with her arms wide open.

-your a bottom most of the time. But sometimes you switch it up and she lives for your dominant side.

-you suffered a severe back injury in 2022 while in Australia. You were scared you would never play again. Leah was on the next plane out to Australia, even though she was told not to. Just so she could sit next to your bed and hold your hand for hours.

-seeing Leah back in training after doing her ACL. With the brightest smile on her face, made your heart melt every time.

#arsenal women #woso #leah williamson x reader #leah williamson imagine #leah williamson #lionesses #wsl #woso x reader #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 2 years ago

Note

Hi!

I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!

I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!

I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.

I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!

'Til it Hurts

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?

Word Count: 12.5k

Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...

A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.

It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.

God, you’d never have friends like that again.

Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.

They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.

Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.

Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.

At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.

A city now filled with killers.

“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”

The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.

Not good.

Shit. Karver, where did you go!?

Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.

If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.

You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.

But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.

Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.

This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.

“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”

Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.

So that was where you came in.

God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.

Mostly because of situations like this.

“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”

Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.

None of this was going to plan.

You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.

Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.

The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.

3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…

Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.

A man, then.

“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”

You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.

With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.

Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.

“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.

A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.

“You’ll never get it out of me-”

“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”

“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”

There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.

You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?

Have they seen murder?

But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.

You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.

“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.

Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.

Your mark has been met.

The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.

“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.

You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.

The Reaper.

Oh, what would they think of you now?

You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.

In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.

Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.

—

The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.

“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.

Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.

“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.

Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”

Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.

“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”

“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”

“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”

“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”

“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”

An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.

Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.

Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.

“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.

“Hm,” their command affirms.

Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.

Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–

“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”

The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.

Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.

“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.

Brows furrow.

Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.

“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.

“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.

Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.

An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.

Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.

“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”

“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.

“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.

Price grunts under his breath.

“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.

Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?

“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”

Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.

Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.

Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.

“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.

“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.

“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.

Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.

“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.

“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”

“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”

“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”

“You’re right. It’s not.”

“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”

“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”

The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.

But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.

“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”

A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.

“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.

The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.

“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”

“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”

Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.

“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”

“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.

Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.

You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.

Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.

Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.

The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.

Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.

“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”

“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.

Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.

“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”

It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.

Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.

The room is more silent than Ghost is.

“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”

The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.

“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.

“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”

The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”

Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.

He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.

But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.

Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.

Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.

You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.

He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.

His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.

“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”

Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.

‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.

Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.

—

You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.

Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”

In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.

Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.

Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.

The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.

And Ghost.

Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.

But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.

Mutt was the worst of them.

Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?

The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.

You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.

What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?

Your ears twitch.

“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”

“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.

“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”

“Sir!”

After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.

Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.

Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.

You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.

Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.

Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.

—

It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.

Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.

There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.

Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.

But there were ups to this constant downward slope.

It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.

“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.

Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.

You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”

Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.

The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.

You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.

Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.

“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”

Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.

Your eyebrows furrow.

He was never mean to me.

There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…

You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.

Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.

No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.

You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.

A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.

Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!

“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”

By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.

“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”

But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.

You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.

“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.

You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.

A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.

If I had known…you frown.

Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.

“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”

The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.

Like blood lining the street.

You force yourself to run faster.

—

You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.

Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.

The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.

But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.

Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?

Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.

But you didn’t look away.

“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.

Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.

“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.

Your Captain scurries after.

“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.

At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.

But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.

You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.

The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.

The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.

‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.

And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.

You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?

“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”

Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.

“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”

You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.

“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.

Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.

“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.

“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”

“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.

‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’

Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?

Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.

“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.

“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.

‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’

You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.

The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.

And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.

—

When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.

Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.

I need new intel. Badly.

About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.

On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.

Your cheeks heat.

He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?

As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.

Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.

Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.

Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?

Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.

What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?

The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.

Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.

A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?

When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.

“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”

“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”

Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?

“Now that’s dark.”

“Never said it wasn’t.”

Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.

There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.

They had died a long time ago.

“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.

Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.

Stop that.

“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”

“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”

“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.

“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”

“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.

What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?

The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.

He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.

She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.

But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.

Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.

Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.

When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.

His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.

“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.

He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.

You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.

What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.

But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.

“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.

“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”

Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”

He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.

“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”

“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.

“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”

“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”

“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.

“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.

He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.

Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.

Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.

At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.

Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.

You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.

Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.

You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.

Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.

“Well, where are we–”

“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.

Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.

Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.

Boxed in.

Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.

One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.

You don’t bother watching him drop.

Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.

But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.

Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.

You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.

“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.

Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.

Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!

“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”

“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”

“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”

“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.

Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.

A wide grin is stuck on you.

Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.

Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…

“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”

He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.

Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.

A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?

“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.

Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.

Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.

“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”

Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.

Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.

Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.

How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.

All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.

“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.

“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?

His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.

There were few people worthy of that.

You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.

You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.

Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.

You’d never had sex before.

And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.

He sighs heavily and follows in silence.

—

When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.

They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.

You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.

You could forget about it. You should.

But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.

If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.

Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!

You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.

Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.

But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.

It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.

But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…

“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”

Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.

Why did they do this to you?

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(sorry that some of these don't work! I have no idea why!)

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madame-fear · 6 months ago

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𐙚 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐈𝐓, 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘.ᐟ

ೀ amira speaks.ᐟ : author has NO idea how strip clubs work so I had to do some research and ask for help,, honourary mention to my love @lady-ashfade for helping me out ♡ also,, this fic was inspired in the song Vegas by Joseline Hernández !! I badly cringed at myself the entire time but hope you guys like it ahhdjfkf rip ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : you are Fran’s favourite stripper; and he’s your favourite client who seems to adore you a bit too much. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 2.4k

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : smut. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : Francisco Romero x Stripper!Reader

WARNING.ᐟ THIS FIC CONTAINS ; Fran being a little bit obsessed with you, him begging to cum inside of you, unprotected sex, P in V, cowgirl position, him being a bit possesive over you, profanity, dirty talk, use of pet names, creampie.— let me know if I forgot about something else!

The blonde haired Argentine was often referred to as your “favourite, most exclusive client”.

The very first moment your sight spotted his presence amidst the large crowd of swooning men in the strip club where you worked, you felt surprised of seeing him. Surprised, because of how much of a sweet angel he seemed— if you saw him outside your work, you would never expect him to be a frequent visitor to strip clubs, or be as filthy as he was. His sweet light green eyes and delicate features were nastily deceptive.

Just like Francisco had grown to become your favourite client, you were his one and only favourite girl. It had quickly became an habit for him to pay you great amounts of money all the time, gift you small things for you to wear or have, often visit you — almost daily —, and the Argentine always had the most gentle, yet dominant treat with you; keeping the perfect balance. He had his ways of spoiling you, there was no denying about it.

Francisco paid extra money for you to give him priority over any other man, and even to spend more time with you. Though, often, you always expected him at the end of your shift; and that way, you would be with no one else after him. You could make him go bankrupt, and he wouldn’t be able to care any less. Most of his paychecks fell right into your hands, or slipped under the waistband of your underwear.

That devotion, and the constant worshipping Fran gave you, was what made you helplessly show more interest over him than over anyone else. The man knew how to make you feel special, as well as he knew the exact things you liked, and disliked.

Ever since his green eyes laid on your own, and his thin, long fingers caressed your skin for the first time, it began existing inside of him the constant struggle between feeling heavy lust, and a fervent adoration for you— hell, Fran had even grown to despise the other men trying to woo you constantly, showering you with their money whenever you pulled out a show on the pole. Could it be classified as a growing obsession? Perhaps. Did you care? Quite the contrary, you appreciated the special attention from him, and in return, you would gladly reciprocate it by serving him in any way he desired.

“Your favourite man is here,” a coworker announced quickly, with a small grin, before disappearing from sight to focus on other clients— letting the blonde haired Argentine enter the private room where you served your own exclusive clients. The mere sight of his — rather tall — presence was more than enough to lift your mood. A toothy grin was immediatly spread widely across your features.

“Hello, sweet bunny.” how come the simple sound of his loving voice was enough to make you melt? Let alone the nicknames Fran graced you with often. The sound of the blaring music coming from the speakers of the strip club became a faint background noise as you could only focus on him at the moment. The rest of your surroundings couldn’t matter less, as you approached closer to him.

“Hope you aren’t too tired for me?” you scoffed at the silly, teasing question. His arms were wrapped around your waist, immediatly pulling you against his body as tightly as possible. Your hands clawed at his clothing, encouraging him to approach the large bed with you. A smile grew wider on the corner of your lips, feeling a growing bulge on his trousers meekly poke your stomach.

How sweet it was, having him all horny and desperately needy for you already.

“I could never be tired for my favourite client.” you said, pulling his clothing towards you. “Actually, I’ve been waiting all day long for you. We shouldn’t be wasting any more time.” a satisfied smirk appeared on his thin rosy lips. Pride filled him almost immediatly at hearing those words spurring from your lips— the entirety of your being made him painfully dread his erection, strained by his pants. “No, we shouldn’t.” he retorted, quietly.

Swiftly, you managed to gently push him against the bed right behind of him. Foreplay was something you both fervently enjoyed, and often engaged in right before fucking as it made the experience more pleasurable; but at the moment, there was no need for any foreplay. There was no denying that you were equally horny for each other, all you needed was to be in the same room together for you to already grow moist and him, to grow hard.

The Argentine’s back rested against the silk sheets of the large bed, his bright green eyes admiring the way you smoothly crawled on top of him. There was no doubt about why so many men swooned right behind of you, despite the jealousy he felt for each one of them— you were such a temptress, and you were quite good at every single little thing you did.

As you leaned closer towards his face, grasping your lips against his own in a teasing manner, allowing your hot breathing to hit against his sensitive skin, you leisurely rubbed yourself against his notoriously growing bulge. The hot fabric of your underwear was moist enough for him to feel it through his still clothed erection with each friction, the same way you could already feel his precum staining his own pants.

“Please let me cum inside of you today,” he muttered in a plea against your lips, “I will pay you even more than the usual, if necessary.”

Involuntarily, his hips moved desperately against your own, as his hands firmly took hold of your waist; groaning quietly as your cunt ached to feel his cock buried inside of you already. A scoff spurred from your lips at his proposal, inevitably feeling a wave of pride at the sight of him desperately begging to fill you with his hot fluids.

“Deal.” you whispered against his lips approvingly, as a sigh of relief hit faintly against your own skin. The idea of it seemed tempting enough— after all, you had to admit the thought of having his cum oozing out of you made your underwear become wetter.

As one o your hands fervidly caressed his chest, you sat properly enough to prepare yourself to ride him. Moving your sight downwards, your hands wasted no time in unbuttoning his trousers, and immediatly lowering them. The sweet sight of his prominent erection brought pure satisfaction to you— teasingly using your fingers to slip them under the waistband of his boxers, and slowly lower them.

“I will never get tired of seeing you so desperate to bury your cock inside of me, gorgeous.” you teased, finally lowering his underwear enough for his erection to be freed from being painfully strained against the clothing, with precum already leaking from the tip. “Don’t tease, please.” he begged, observing how you removed your own panties in the slowest manner possible, only to throw them somewhere across the room and leave them long forgotten.

Widely spreading your legs, you aligned your own aching pussy with his hardened cock. Firmly brushing the entrance of your cunt against his leaking tip, lubricating it slightly with your moistness, your eyes moved their sight towards his own. “Don’t worry, my sweet love. I won’t be teasing much.” you mumbled, gasping softly as his hands held a tight grip on your waist. “I plan on fucking you until I can fully dry out your cock.”

Gently, your hips moved downwards. A groan deeply escaped from your throat as his cock began entering you. His rosy lips were partly open, allowing a satisfied gasp to escape from them as his head was thrown back— fluttering his eyes shut, his hips moved upwards while his hands guided your own to bury himself deeper. The feeling of your inner walls engulfing his own member was something Fran could never get bored of.

“Fuck,” you heard the blonde Argentine muttering. Countless of times you had him fucking you fervently in every corner of the room, in every position you could imagine— yet, every time where Fran fucked you again, it managed to be even better than the last time. Gods, your cunt felt almost like a pool from all the wetness dripping; helping him slide his cock inside you more easily, working as a lubricant.

Another groan spurred helplessly from your lips, reaching all the way down his cock, now throwing your own head back from the overwhleming wave of pleasure you received. The way you took the entirety of his shaft could be considered a grace to the sight. “You are such a fucking whore, aren’t you?” Fran remarked, beginning to slowly slide in, and out of your pussy. “Taking my cock so well, like a good slut.”

As one of his hands kept itself gripping hard from your waist, his other hand moved upwards towards one of your breasts, which moved along your own body while you rode him— lowering part of your bra to expose your tit, he took it into his hand, and began gropping it possesively as his shaft increased the pace in which it penetrated you, occasionally passing his thumb through your nipple to stimulate you further. “But you are my good slut, and no one will ever fuck you as I do.”

With each passing second, his cock began burying itself deeper and faster inside of you, provoking a fleshy sound to be hard across the room, hitting that certain soft spot that made whiny pleas escape from your lips so beautifully. His name was faintly heard under your breath, continously moaning it as your legs began trembling. Francisco knew exactly the spot where you were the most sensitive, and he would endlessly abuse it.

“Fuck—” you growled in between your teeth. Both your hands rested on his chest, seeking some sort of balance, nearly clawing at his remaining clothes, as his slick-coated cock increased the pace in which it slipped in and out of your stimulated pussy. A knot slowly formed on your stomach with the passing of the time, while your body violenty trembled. A proud grin occupied his lips at the sight of you nibbling on your lowr lip, holding back soft grunts and pants.

“Mine, all mine. Right?” he teased in between his panting, using his thumb to lazily caress your hip. “A-All yours,” you replied back weakly, helplessly allowing some slightly high-pitched whines to escape. With each hit that your inner soft spot received, the feeling of the knot increased, tightening on your stomach. This man had the ability of nearly making you melt above him with each one of his words, his groans, moans, and his actions. You were quite privileged, knowing all of his attention could only go to you.

“I-I’m about to cum,” you heard him murmur between his grunts, barely being able to mutter a coherent response due to your own mind fog from the sexual act. You could feel his cock beginning to twitch inside of you as his movements became swifter; your inner walls warmly tightening around his member.

His other hand went back again to taking hold of your hip, and you knew that from the way both hands gripped your hips to move you up and down his cock, you would have some bruises.

A wave of heat tightened your chest as your body became weaker, practically allowing Fran to move you in whichever way pleased him, while your continously dripping slick managed to coat his shaft entirely. His fingernails dug deep on your skin as his hips slightly moved upwards, and his hands forced your body all the way down his cock, keeping you still— feeling the way it violently pulsated inside of you, his cum brought a warm sensation to your stomach.

Throwing your head back as you felt the knot on your stomach abruptly untightening, while his cum simultaneously filled your insides, from your lips spurred a — rather loud — groan, deep from your throat; the same sound the Argentine made as he released his seed in you. You could get used to the pleasant feeling of his fluids staining your inner walls, thank God you had agreed to it.

While his hands firmly continued to hold your hips, allowing his head to fall against the mattress to rest, you remained quietly still on top of him, not getting off just yet. The only sound that filled the room was that of both your panting, trying to catch your breath. Your hands and legs equally trembled, feeling your heart pounding loudly against your chest.

There was no doubt Fran was your favourite client— each time he gave you a visit, you felt exhaustingly pleased. You were left needing for more, almost as if it were impossible for you to want to let him go.

Helplessly, you gently collapsed against his body. Both your arms were lazily wrapped around him, placing your head against his chest. His fluids oozed out of your pussy slowly, sliding through your inner thighs, as his cock remained buried inside of you. With one last heavy pant, his green eyes looked down at you.

One of his hands rested on your back, using his fingertips to trace mindless shapes on your skin, as his other hand went to delicately stroke your hair. “Hope you enjoyed that, mi amor?” he inquired softly, as you kept quietly panting. You scoffed in response— what a silly question, you enjoyed every single one of his frequent visits. The mere thought of not clinging to his side throughout the whole day lately seemed dreadful. “Have I ever not enjoyed anything you do to me?” you retortes playfully, earning a chuckle from him.

A brief moment of silence loomed between the two of you. Your eyes fluttered shut peacefully, enjoying how lovingly his fingers twirled strands of your hair, and caressed your head. A little smile grew back on his lips, before interrupting the silence, looking down at you, resting your gracefully delicate body against his own.

“Would you be up to a second round if I paid you extra, sweet love?”

Moving your head to stare attentively into his light green eyes, you widely grinned back. Then again, what a silly question. How could you ever deny any of his tempting proposals?

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#彡 ꒰ ✒ amira writes ; francisco romero.── ꒱#francisco romero smut #francisco romero x reader #fran romero smut #fran romero x reader #francisco romero fanfic #fran romero fanfic #fran romero x stripper!reader #francisco romero x stripper!reader #stripper!reader #lsdln x reader #lsdln imagine #lsdln smut

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yanchive · 6 months ago

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Alright, since the isekai blurb was well received, I feel a bit more comfortable sharing one of my favorite tropes that I come back to a lot.

I've seen a few of yan!Pop Idol fics before, usually with a reader that's either a fan, a regular person, their manager, or a fellow idol, but I've enjoyed the concept of a reader that's also an artist, but of an entirely different music genre.

Yandere!Pop Idol x Rockstar!Reader

The Yan has been in the public eye since they were a child. They started off as a child model for clothing brands and/or other products targeted towards kids. Had been in commercials, too. They grew a following of being just an adorable sweetheart of their country, and was scouted by an idol agency that took them under their wing, and trained them throughout their childhood, into a world renowned Idol, loved by many.

You started off with more humble beginnings. A delinquent of sorts that spent more time putting effort into learning guitar n drums than your math homework. Filling your notebooks with song lyrics instead of notes. Your weekends and breaks from school were you spending hours in the garage with a couple of friends practicing music until the sun went down.

You dropped out of high school just before graduating to travel with your bandmates to get your name out there. You eventually were picked up by a record label and officially began your career. You were known for your "Don't give a fuck" personality.

Idol Yan was well put together with a perfect image and a fanbase of parasocial fanatics. You were wild with an image of rebellion and a fanbase of edgelord delinquents.

One sung of romance and sensual experiences and another sung of heartbreak and fake friends. You two could not be anymore different. You might as well be on two separate planets.

Now, how would two polarizing artists end up in each others world? I feel like a few scenarios could work. But I've been focusing on the concept of another artist being the middle ground between these two worlds. Its not uncommon for artists of different genres to collab. I can see another artist befriending both Yan Idol and Rockstar reader and separate points in their life that led to you and Yans meeting. You and this unnamed artist met first. You were already in the game by the time you two met and helped them with their career. Eventually due to busy schedules you two don't talk often, and later down the road this artist met Yan Idol and collabed with them.

I see this 3rd artist getting ready to go on tour, and Yan Idol was going to go along due to their collab, but they were in need of opening bands, and you just so happened to have a rare moment of a clear schedule when this tour was to begin. Due to your previous connection, you and the 3rd artist already had a pretty big overlap in fans, so you were a perfect choice as an opener.

To build more on Rockstar and Idol's first impressions, I see Rockstar not being a huge fan of pop. In fact, you'd be pretty critical of it. Your view is that it's not real music that's made with passion and care. it's just cashgrab sound to you. So you're not quite thrilled to be touring with someone you think is only in the music industry for fame and wealth.

While Idol Yan finds you crass and arrogant. You're style is dark and messy, you swear way too much, and your music is so loud and sounds like garbled mess of ear shattering drum beats, screeching guitars and vocals that they cannot possibly classify as "singing". So, the first section of the tour was pretty tense and awkward.

Both of you were mature enough not to be assholes to each other publicly, you usually just avoided each other for the first few shows.

I see Yan Idol's impression of you changing over time. The more they got to see you work both on and off stage, they ended up seeing more sides of you that weren't in tune with your "rockstar" persona. They got to hear some of your more somber songs, the ones that spoke of your personal struggles, and the damage your mental health had actually taken since becoming famous. They got to see how much effort you put into writing your lyrics. How passiomate you were for music. They had a few opportunities to hold conversations with you that were filled with in-depth discussions that showed just how thoughtful and observant you were to the world around you. You were still a bit of a cynical dickwad sometimes, but you were definitely more than just a high school dropout with a bad attitude.

This caused them to drop their negative assumption with you, opening a bit more as they began to develop an interest and fondness for you.

You'd lighten up a bit with them, too, but you never get too close. Your first and only love is music, and you also know your fanbase would definitely make fun of you for getting close to a popstar when you've always been vocal about your dislike of them. You're not as harsh about their taste in music nor their choice of being a pop idol. You learn they also enjoy making their music(and not for fame and wealth reasons. Well, maybe a little bit for fame... They're a bit of an attention whore), even if they don't have nearly as much say in it as you do with your music. But despite this, you choose to keep your relationship strictly cordial.

But that won't stop Yan Idol. They'll find themselves staying up at night watching your live performances, interviews, funny moment compilations, and eventually even fancams. It'll become an addiction. Even after the tour ends, they'll have a routine of constantly checking for updates with your band and music. They'll send you compliments and congratulations on your achievements. They'll find time to hunt you down at award shows for even just a sliver of your time. Even if your interaction was just a passing "hello."

It'll invade their music. You were always making fun of artists making love songs when they've clearly never experienced love, so if they were to ever one day have the courage to confess, surely you'd be impressed that they've now made love songs that were from a genuine place of love, no? God their so pathetic now, trying so hard to impress someone like you.

You're a strange, unhinged bastard with astounding musical talent, and it fascinates them. They envy your freedom and lack of social restraints. They envy how music seems to come so easy to you and the full control you have of it. They envy your ability to be absolutely gorgeous even while screaming obscene, raged-filled lyrics into a microphone 30 minutes into a live set, doused in sweat and water. Fucked up hair and smudged eyeshadow and liner. Your a fucking mess. A fucking, perfect mess. They want you, they want to be you, they want to read articles about you two being seen together, doing anything that'll arouse rumors of a blooming relationship. They want to see fans write fanfics and make fanart of you two. They want to be the music industry's newest, hottest couple with you. Wouldn't that be nice?

[Proofreading, and I realize that I think I went way too harsh on the bashing of pop music, so I want to say that I do not hate pop music for any pop fans out there lmao. I got my fair share of pop music that I enjoy. I'm simply more of a rock genre enjoyer myself. I wrote this shit off the top of my head, recalling old fucken... daydream plots, so if it reads like shit we'll blame it on that lmao. Bon appetite, my dudes.]

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere scenarios #yandere imagine #yandere idol #yandere x gn reader #help im not a writer like i used to be #this shit hard its so much easier to daydream D:

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inception30daychallenge · 5 months ago

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Inception 30 Day Challenge 2024: Get inspired, share your hot takes and win prizes!

Create a post, whether it be text, art, music, or any other media, using these 31 items as prompts. Feel free to participate in as many or as few of them as you want!

Copy the prompt into the body of the post somewhere and tag your posts with @inception30daychallenge, #inceptiversary, and #inception30daychallenge. Your posts will be reblogged on this blog for everyone to appreciate!

You earn one entry for every prompt you answer before 11:59 PM EDT on July 31. We’ll hold a raffle then to determine our prize winner(s)! More info can be found in our FAQ.

Prompts below the cut, or at this Google Doc link!

Day 01: Your favourite thing about the movie.

Day 02: Classify each character according to the Alignment Chart. (For more details on what each box means)

Day 03: A post-canon headcanon.

Day 04: Arthur’s secret phobia.

Day 05: Your favourite line in the movie.

Day 06: A fic rec!

Day 07: If you had to change a scene from the movie to have a musical number, which scene would it be?

Day 08: What songs/artists are on Eames’ main playlist?

Day 09: Which character has the most annoying habit on the job and what is it?

Day 10: A headcanon about your favourite character.

Day 11: Mal’s favourite fairytale.

Day 12: Your favourite setting in the movie.

Day 13: A fanart rec! (note: please do not repost art from tumblr artists! just reblog it and tag @inception30daychallenge so we can see it.)

Day 14: What skills would you bring to a dreamshare team?

Day 15: Cobb’s greatest parenting strength and weakness.

Day 16: Inception Day! Make anything Inception-related! Take a photo, write a poem, make a meme, sing a tune, whatever you want!

Day 17: How did the team spend the rest of the week on the first dream level?

Day 18: What building or monument does Ariadne wish she designed?

Day 19: Your favourite bit of fanon.

Day 20: Another type of rec! (meta, podfic, fanvid, edit, meme, blog, whatever!)

Day 21: What would you want to use dreamshare technology for?

Day 22: What skill does Robert wish he had?

Day 23: If you had to be stuck on a deserted island with an Inception character, who would you choose?

Day 24: A headcanon about your favourite friendship or relationship.

Day 25: When Saito was a child, what did he want to be when he grew up?

Day 26: Which summer Olympic sport would each character compete in?

Day 27: A self-rec! (anything from art to a funny Tumblr post you made!)

Day 28: What piece of media would you want to see in a crossover with Inception?

Day 29: Something Yusuf keeps hidden in his desk.

Day 30: If the characters were all in a band, what instruments/roles would they play?

Day 31: A letter to Inception fandom.

#inception #inceptiversary #inceptiversary2024 #inception30daychallenge #admin #2024

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twiceasfrustrating · 11 months ago

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Fem!MC and grim dancing under the rain?

They're having a nice walk outside in the street at night. They didn't see the rain coming so they went inside a store so they don't get wet, but there's a violinist in the street (under a bus stop or smth so they don't get wet too XD) and MC gets the sudden idea of dancing with grim under the rain

Content: Grim x F!MC, fluff A/N: I know Grim has a name. I know what it is. I am tentatively leaving it out of this fic in case some people don't know it. Also, as someone who played the violin, OMG! NEVER PLAY IN THE RAIN! The moisture is a killer on your instrument.

"Why would you want to do that?" Grim -- Mr. Name Classified himself -- asked as he looked out from under the awning over the store's front door.

Somewhere in the distance, The pitter patter of rain drops hitting the cotton overhead echoed like memories of jumping in puddles up to your ankles in childhood. The warmth seeping out of the shop door radiated across your face and down your arms, the touch only cool compared to where you were holding Grim's pale hand.

"What? Is the big bad grim reaper afraid of a little water?" She teased as she pulled at his hand. "Are you secretly a cat? I hate to tell you this, but I don't think I can support more than one pet."

Somewhere in the distance, the fine-tuned strings of a violin played a familiar song. The violinist stood under the overhang of a nearby restaurant's outdoor seating, their case set open in front of them to accept any donations from those forced into shelter with them.

Grim balked at her accusation. "I'm clearly not an animal. I just don't want to get wet."

"You're already wet." A consequence of being caught unawares by the sudden storm.

"I'm damp!" Which was distinctly different from being drenched completely through.

"Well, let's change that." She gave one last tug to finally drag him into the pouring rain.

She gasped between giggles as water soaked through her clothes in a matter of seconds. Grim frowned deeply, but a faint blush was visible under the long, white hair suddenly matted to his face. His clothes sagged as they were weighed down.

She tried not to laugh given his expression, but it was too hard. "You look ridiculous."

"So do you, Sunshine." He tried to brush the raindrops from her eyelashes with his gloved hands, but it proved to be a futile task as more gathered where the others had been.

"Sunshine?" She questioned. "I'm in less trouble than I thought." By now, she expected to be his Nightmare.

"You're shining even brighter than usual."

Heat flowed to her face, embarrassment clear as day to any who looked their way -- and some strangers were definitely staring at the couple standing in the rain.

He looked at her with confusion in his red eyes at her sudden silence. "Are you alright?"

She turned her face away to try and hide her expression. "You say sweet things sometimes."

"But I was telling the truth. It's so dark that you're shining brighter than usual."

"Shh." She held her finger up to his lips. "Don't ruin the moment. I'm suddenly feel soft." You linked your fingers between his and stared into his eyes. "Would you like to dance?"

He pushed his hair out of his face with his free hand. He still looked upset about being dragged into the rain, but it was more of a pout than a scowl.

He put the hand that had just brushed his hair aside on her hip and began to sway gently to the sound of music in the distance. "I would."

#mine #a date with death #anon #fluff

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99tech99 · 4 months ago

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A/N: Again, scene from a longer fic. Reader is with Thrawn and Krennic is jealous, but, much like little boys on the playground who pull girls’ pigtails, Krennic has no idea what to do with his emotions.

Also, I feel like this ends sort of abruptly. I know what the next scene is, and I’ve written a chunk of it, but idk, I feel like it should be separate. If you have any thoughts one way or the other, lmk!

WARNINGS: toxic Krennic (is that a warning tho? or a siren song?), angsty Krennic, jealous Krennic, toxic Krennic, manipulative Krennic, lying Krennic, slutty thots Krennic, did i mention Krennic is low key toxic?

2.5k words under cut. (is this the longest scene i’ve posted so far??)

He had forgotten to put away the carved relief. Krennic kicked himself mentally. A single glance at one kriffing piece of artwork and Thrawn would think he knew everything there was to know about a person. In anticipation of this obnoxious habit, Krennic had put away his modest collection of art before the dinner party. All but one. Naturally Thrawn was drawn to it immediately like a…fucking blue moth to a flame. Krennic was too irritated even to think of a more insulting remark.

It wasn’t even valuable, not by Krennic’s definition anyway. He wasn’t even sure what planet it was from. It was just an ancient raised carving of a battle. Krennic had merely appreciated the detail in the weaponry.

And there you were next to him. The two of you were clearly discussing the relief. You were resplendent in a backless red gown. Your hair was in soft curls, gathered in front of one shoulder as not to obscure any sight of your bare skin. Krennic hoped the front of your dress plunged as deeply as the back. To his absolute fury and acute embarrassment he felt a tightness in the front of his pants. He struggled to get a mental grip on himself.

Thrawn leaned down slightly, saying something to you in a low voice Krennic couldn’t hear. The delicate bangles on your arm sparkled brilliantly as you reached up to gently touch his shoulder. You turned to him, laughing, a dazzling smile lighting your profile. Thrawn smiled. Krennic hadn’t even been aware Chiss were physically capable of smiling. You stood on tiptoe, tilting your face toward Thrawn’s. He bent toward you a bit more, giving you a brief but tender kiss. That does it, Krennic decided.

“Admiral,” Krennic said coming up on your left side. “Enjoying the art show?”

You both turned to Krennic. Thrawn might be oblivious, but you knew he was interrupting on purpose. His eyes briefly flicked up and down your body. The front of your dress did not disappoint. It plunged practically to your naval and the floral embroidery over the sheer fabric left very little to the imagination.

“Art?” Thrawn repeated in his velvet tone. He glanced around Krennic’s opulent apartment. “I would be very much surprised to see anything here that might be classified as art.”

You scoffed and quickly took a sip of your wine to try to cover.

Krennic clenched his left hand so tightly you could hear his knuckles crack. “It’s a pity you seemed to have missed your calling as an art critic, Admiral. Will you excuse us?” Without waiting for an answer he steered you away by your elbow.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked bitterly.

“Yes,” you said genuinely. “I honestly would have never guessed it, but you’re an excellent host. I’m always impressed whenever you entertain.”

He was taken aback by the sincerity of your compliment. He had wanted to take out his temper on you. Though, upon any thought at all, Krennic realized that would backfire, driving you straight back into Thrawn’s arms.

“What did you need, Krennic?” you asked without any of your signature impatience or sarcasm.

How did you always manage to catch him off guard? He assumed you would be annoyed with him for taking you away from Thrawn. But for once you were keeping your tongue in check, and he had no idea how to respond. Could Thrawn possibly make you that happy?

“I have a critical update on Project Stardust,” he invented quickly.

“Ooh!” Your eyes grew wide. “But I don’t have my datapad or anything at the moment. How urgent is it? Shall we go to your study?”

“No, no, it can wait until afterwards. I just didn’t want you and Thrawn to uh—slip out before I had a chance to speak with you. Go, enjoy your evening. Everyone should be gone by midnight. We can talk then.”

“Oh,” You glanced back at Thrawn. Your earrings caught the light as you turned your head. They matched your bracelets. Krennic wondered if your jewelry was yet another gift from Thrawn.

“Unless your recreational plans take precedent,” he said sarcastically.

You let out a small sigh. “No, it’s just…The Chimera is deploying tomorrow. But alright. We’ll talk later.” You forced a smile back onto your face as you walked back to Thrawn.

Krennic watched for Thrawn’s reaction when you told him you wouldn’t be able to go home with him that evening.

Thrawn smiled again and shook his head as he replied to you. Perhaps, Krennic thought sarcastically, he was reassuring you he didn’t mind your sudden work obligations. You still looked concerned. He kissed your forehead. Thrawn briefly made eye contact with Krennic over your head as the two of you turned to join the rest of the guests. As usual, his face was inscrutable.

Krennic had succeeded in ruining Thrawn’s evening, possibly even putting a damper on his whole deployment, Krennic thought hopefully. Now, however, he was faced with the issue of fabricating some complication with Stardust. He pondered this in the back of his mind as he turned on his signature charm the rest of the evening.

By the time you and Thrawn were the last people left, he still hadn’t created a Stardust problem. Krennic busied himself at the bar pouring himself a glass of whiskey and took a sip. He didn’t feel like watching Thrawn tongue fuck you goodbye. He heard the door close. He looked up.

“Alright,” you said, striding toward him. You were smiling. It was happy, sincere. Krennic’s stomach lurched. Then he realized it wasn’t for him, it was lingering from Thrawn.

He finished the glass.

That dress. Always you and your dresses. Why did Thrawn allow you to parade your tits around like that? Krennic hoped you weren’t wearing anything underneath. Fuck. Maybe the whiskey wasn’t such a a good idea. He poured a second glass and downed it.

You raised your eyebrows. “Aren’t we supposed to be working?”

Krennic poured yet another two fingers and slid the glass along the counter to you. You hesitated, then picked it up. Gingerly you smelled the amber liquid and wrinkled your nose. You looked at Krennic. He had an amused expression on his face.

“Try it,” he instructed.

“Aren’t we supposed to be working?” you repeated.

“My project, my home, my rules,” Krennic replied lightly.

You had already had a few glasses of wine. But you raised the glass to your lips and took a sip. You coughed and choked. “That is absolutely awful!” you gasped. “It’s still burning!”

Krennic laughed. “I suppose it is an acquired taste.”

“If I hadn’t just watched you drink a glass yourself, I’d think you were trying to poison me!” you said, laughing too.

You slid the glass back across the counter.

Krennic gave you an appraising look. Without saying a word, he turned to the bar and selected a crystal champagne glass rimmed with gold. He bent down and extracted a bottle from the back of his wine cooler. He uncorked it expertly and filled the flute. This time he handed it directly to you.

The champagne was clear and seemed to emit a soft golden glow.

“It’s too pretty to drink,” you commented, holding the glass up to admire the bubbles dancing inside, glittering as they caught the light.

Krennic laughed. “It’s ten thousand credits a bottle, you better drink it.”

Your eyes grew huge. “Ten thousand…??”

Krennic extended his tumbler. “To the most expensive drink you’ve ever had?” You laughed again and gently touched your glass to his. “By far. Cheers.”

You took a sip. You looked at Krennic in delight. “This is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted!”

“It’s strong,” he cautioned as you eagerly took another sip.

“Then you better hurry up and tell me the update with Stardust while I can still think clearly,” you said, a hint of your usual impatience back in your voice.

Shit.

“I’ll get my datapad,” he said and retreated to the study. He quickly copied a segment of data onto a new data card. Careful to isolate only the files he had extracted, Krennic typed in a kill code.

He sighed dramatically as he brought the datapad to the counter. “Erso messaged me earlier. There was some kind of fatal systems error at Eadu. Significant portions of the weapons calculation data were wiped.”

“Kriff! Krennic this is not an update, this is a karking disaster!”

“I know, I know. Fortunately, however, Erso was able to restore the majority from memory and his own personal files. But I think this particular equation, you had done a lot of work on.” He handed you the datapad.

You set down the champagne. “Yes, this looks familiar.” Krennic studied your face as you scrolled. “I remember doing significant work on this, but I don’t remember what final numbers yielded the proper results.” You looked at him with a pained expression. “I’m sure I can duplicate this, it will just take a while.”

Krennic almost felt bad but his guilt quickly evaporated.

You shook your hair behind you, extending your back in a graceful arch. You twisted your hair into a knot, up and out of the way. “Go get another datapad. I’ll work on the equation and you run the sims,” you instructed.

Krennic realized his mouth was slightly open and closed it. “How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Your hair…?” He would never be able to explain why, but watching you put your hair up so effortlessly was one of the most mesmerizing things he had ever witnessed.

You gave him a coy smile. “Secret,” you said mischievously. “Now go get me another datapad.”

He complied. He studied your profile as you kept reworking the equation. For about an hour the two of you worked. Every now and then, especially after an unsuccessful simulation, you continued to sip from your glass. You didn’t seem to notice Krennic had refilled it.

By now your hair was slowly coming undone. It hung in gentle tendrils around your face. Without thinking, he raised his hand, tucking a strand behind your ear. You looked at him in surprise. He took a step closer. Slowly he tilted you chin up kiss you. You didn’t pull away. He pressed his lips to yours. To his immeasurable elation, you were kissing him back, hard. Without breaking apart, his hands on your waist, he led you to one of the long, low couches in the sitting room. Your hands were wandering up his arms, on his chest, unbuttoning his pants. He sank onto the couch, pulling you with him so that he was between your thighs. He needed to be inside you so badly…

“Krennic!”

He was jerked back to reality.

“What?” he asked.

It was clear he hadn’t been paying attention to a word you had said. Genuine concern flickered across your face. “Are you alright? You’ve been acting very odd the entire evening.”

He didn’t know how to answer you. No, he wasn’t alright. He was never alright when he was with you. He had never met anyone so insolent and alluring. He never knew if he wanted to strangle you or kiss you. The only easy thing he could count on was the consistent contempt you had shown for him. Except tonight…

You were still waiting for his answer.

“Just thinking…We need to look into the error at Eadu. Erso said it was an internal systems error, but we shouldn’t rule out sabotage or an external hacking attempt.”

Your eyes widened at the thought. “Oh, that didn’t occur to me! Yes, it is imperative Galen investigate that.”

Suddenly you gasped. “I think I got it!” you exclaimed. You recited the specs for Krennic to input. He ran the simulation. It was successful.

You looked at him with a look of pure joy on your face. Then, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, like you had done it a thousand times before, you held his face in your hand and kissed him.

Krennic was absolutely stunned.

You were still smiling for a fraction of a second before you realized what had happened. It was clear you had shocked even yourself. For a moment you stood frozen, your mouth open in a perfect O.

“I’m sorry!” you exclaimed, your face rapidly growing pink. “I didn’t mean—I don’t know—The champagne—“ He had never seen you look so much as uncomfortable, let alone embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” you repeated.

Hastily, you turned to leave. Krennic grabbed your hand. His dwarfed yours by comparison. He traced a soft circle on the back of your hand with his thumb. You raised your gaze to meet his. He could see your rapid pulse in your neck.

He took a step closer. “Don’t be.” His husky voice held a low, rich quality. His eyes searched your face, flickering to your lips.

You stood rooted to the spot. Krennic caught the scent of your perfume. It was intoxicating. For a long moment the two of you just stood there, waiting, even hoping, for the other to do something.

Suddenly you jumped slightly. “Thrawn—“ you started abruptly.

“Of course.” Krennic released your hand and attempted to assume a casual air. “I’ll call a Death Trooper to escort you home. Or wherever,” he added through gritted teeth. “Good night, Senator.”

“Good night, Krennic.”

Once you had closed the door, it took all of what little self-restraint Krennic possessed not to hurl his whiskey across the room. He could have had you. There was no reason for Thrawn to expect you home tonight. You were torn. You were drunk. You were standing there waiting for him to do something. You would have given yourself to him, he was sure of it, and yet he let you walk out the door.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Forgetting he was holding the tumbler, he slammed his fist on the counter. It shattered, slicing deeply into his palm. A stream of expletives exploded from his mouth. He tied a napkin around his hand to try to stem the flow of blood.

The throbbing pain sobered him a little. Maybe it was better this way. With more time and Thrawn gone, he could make it seem like it was your idea. You had kissed him after all. Well, it was hardly a proper kiss, but still, it had been you. He was still fuming but some of his anger was slipping away. Yes, this was definitely better. He honestly didn’t know what Thrawn would do if Thrawn thought he took advantage of you when you were drunk. He had the sudden mental image of the Chimera descending on his loft apartment, weapons blazing.

While he was brooding, Krennic suddenly became aware you had left your comm on the counter. A deliciously wicked thought crossed his mind. Making a mental note of exactly where it had been left, he picked it up and extracted the data card from inside.

Turning it over in his fingers he considered. Surely you had sent Thrawn a few…discreet messages to tide him over while he was away. He had behaved himself tonight. He deserved something, if he wasn’t impaling you on his cock at this precise moment.

Perhaps this night wouldn’t be quite a total loss after all, he thought.

The Dress

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cricketnationrise · 6 months ago

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Oooh I'd LOVE a ficlet!! Have been loving your fics <3

[Congrats on the followers, bud! Same name on AO3]

a time stamp - 5:25

a location - coffee shop

a character - Alex or Henry

a song title/lyric for vibes - enchanted by tswif: The playful conversation starts Counter all your quick remarks

HELLO AND THANK YOU FOR THIS PROMPT 💜 I freaking love this song and this scene basically popped into my head fully formed so I'm so glad to be finally getting to it!

read the rest of the ficlets here

❤️🤍💙❤️🤍💙

5:25am, coffee shop

One fine day, Henry won’t have to get up before the sun has even risen. But until that magical day, Henry stops by Brews & Books for his first Earl Grey of the day with a for-fun novel while he waits in line. It may be before six in the morning, but the small, family-run shop is already packed.

A quiet, but emphatic “fuck me” catches Henry’s attention, but it’s the thump, slide, and contact of a heavy book with his foot that pulls him completely out of his novel. He glances down to see some sort of textbook and stoops to pick it up, fingers brushing with a strange spark as someone else reaches for it at the same time. Henry glances up to find the single most attractive man he’s ever seen.

His dark circles rival Henry’s own, but the combination of a riot of dark curls, warm brown skin, and eyes like molten chocolate knock the breath from Henry’s lungs.

“Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart.” Henry wants to wrap himself in the man’s accent. Normally, the stranger’s beauty would have Henry clamming up, but there’s something so welcoming in the exhausted smile flashed his way that makes Henry practically bloom.

“Not to worry, love. I wouldn’t expect much from anyone before being caffeinated.” Henry stands and reaches down to help the man up after him.

“Two problems with that,” he says, ruefully as he accepts the help and straightens up with his textbook. “One, this will be my second cup already.” Henry’s eyebrow raises of its own accord. “I know, I know, I have a problem, but consider this: it keeps me functional.”

The man’s hand is still in his. It’s warm, despite the bite of the early morning air. Henry doesn’t let go either.

“You said there were two problems?” Henry asks, proud when his voice comes out even and a touch teasing rather than stuttering from an abundance of gay pining.

“Right! The other problem is that I’m this clumsy all the fucking time. My sister and her girlfriend have decided to classify my clumsiness as an ‘outlier of nature,’” the man says with a truly devastating grin.

Henry can’t help a little huff of laughter at that. “I’m well versed in the despairing older sister department.”

“Did yours treat you like a personal dress up doll, or is that just me?”

“Constantly. I tried to get out of it exactly once growing up and Bea turned on the waterworks so quickly I thought she was auditioning for a hose pipe. It did guilt me into letting her do it though.”

“Dios mío, if June had any ability to cry on command she would have pulled the same shit, I’m sure.”

Their shared laughter draws the man’s attention to their still-joined hands. He pulls away at last—not that Henry would have minded holding his hand for the rest of the day—the hint of a blush showing up on his cheeks.

“I—ah, sor—”

“Next!”

The call interrupts the unwanted apology. Henry sends a rueful look behind him as he goes to order. The man shrugs, a smile tinged with what Henry’s romantic heart hopes is disappointment at their conversation getting cut short. He orders quickly and asks after Linda’s children as she punches in his order. Henry’s about to pay when a brilliant idea strikes.

“Linda, I’d like to pay for the man with the curly hair behind me.”

“A little pay it forward moment?”

“Something like that. May I borrow your sharpie?”

She grins wickedly. “Oh I see, go right ahead, honey.”

Writing quickly while Linda runs his card, Henry prints his number and a note: I don’t usually do this, but it seems you’re an outlier in more ways than one. Dinner tonight? - Henry.

By the time he’s done and collected back his card, his tea is ready at the end of the counter. He picks it up and turns back to see the stranger watching him, a sort of wistful look on his face. Henry can feel himself blushing, but lets himself look back at the man who upended his morning. The man’s face splits into a blinding grin and if Henry didn’t know any better he’d say the sun rose just to shine on his curls. Henry salutes the man with his tea before backing out of the shop and off towards his classes. He barely makes two blocks before his phone buzzes with a series of texts. Henry beams down at his phone as he reads.

Unknown Number: holy shit that was smooth i bet i can be an outlier in a BUNCH of different ways actually 😉 (i’m saying yes to dinner in case that wasn’t clear) i’m Alex by the way it was fucking enchanting to meet you Henry can’t wait for tonight

#cricket writes #enablelove #ficlet fest 500 #rwrb #meet cute #unrepentant fluff

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dewitty1 · 8 months ago

Text

He Comes Like a Thunderstorm

korlaena @korlaena

Explicit Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: M/M Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Relationship: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Ginny Weasley, Original Muggle Character(s) Additional Tags: Enemies to Lovers, Fuckbuddies, Creature Fic, Incubus Draco Malfoy, Dragonologist Harry Potter, Hate Sex, Rough Sex, Casual Sex, Manhandling, Dirty Talk, Choking, Spanking, Overstimulation, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, Dom Harry Potter, Switching, Lots of Sex, Past Sexual Assault, past sexual dysfunction, Mentions of Past Abuse From Dursleys and Lucius, Smoking, Drinking, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Jealousy , Accidental Bonding, Misunderstandings, Panic Attack, False Accusations, Angst with a Happy Ending Language: English Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 Published: 2021-12-01 Completed: 2021-11-30 Words: 140,147

Summary:

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?

(੭ˊ͈ ꒵ˋ͈)੭*⁺˚. * ･｡ﾟ☆

Excerpt:

The moment was weighty with meaning. There was an uncharacteristically skittish look in Draco’s eyes as the song played softly between them, reciting the last few months of Harry’s life in verse as if it had been written about him.

It had to have meaning, yet Harry filled with nerves as each bar of music rolled on. After months of denying and pushing down his feelings while trying not to read into anything Draco did, it was a terrifying bridge to cross.

The curve of Draco’s neck caught his eye. His jugular was visibly pulsing with the same rapid, nervous beat drumming in Harry’s. It settled his swimming stomach to see evidence that he felt the lyrics as sharply as Harry.

Harry gathered his courage and pulled them closer, leaning forward and dropping his eyes to Draco’s lips. He stopped well before they would touch, looking to Draco’s shadowed eyes with a question.

A trail of magic followed Draco’s hand as it slid up Harry’s arm, landing behind his shoulder. Draco pulled Harry closer as he leaned the rest of the way in. The warm light from the fireplace below threw his face into soft shadows, and the air was charged with anticipation.

Draco’s warm breath ghosted over his lips, and his nose softly bumped Harry’s. Within a second that stretched on like an eternity, they breathed in that same electric excitement buzzing in the air between them. Then Draco’s warm lips pressed to Harry’s.

His body flashed hot and cold. His heart felt like it was gearing up to jump out of his chest, and perhaps his fluttering stomach would fly off with it. He shut his eyes tight against the physical and emotional whirlwind happening inside him.

The kiss was like none other. Harry didn’t know how to classify it. He thought he’d felt the heights of pleasure with Draco, but he was wrong. They’d done nearly everything else they wanted with each other, checking off kinks and curiosities like marking off points of interest on a map during a road trip.

A single press of Draco’s soft lips to his, a curl of his hair tickling Harry’s temple, and their feet tangled together had his heart swelling and breaking through all his carefully erected barriers. Affection burst out like a caged animal feeling the sun on its skin for the first time.

A quiet whine rose up his throat, unintentional and unstoppable as his body shivered with surges of magic and his head swam with hope.

“Harry,” Draco breathed against his lips, soft and trembling with need. In it Harry heard everything he’d been unwilling to hear.

Harry pulled him closer and pressed another kiss to his lips, then another and another. Draco rolled half on top of him, his hands moving like he couldn’t decide which part of Harry he wanted to hold onto—clinging to his shoulders, squeezing his waist, gripping his hair, then finally holding his face in both hands so he could keep him in place as he laid kiss upon kiss on him.

Harry slipped his arms around him and hugged around his waist, squeezing their bodies together. Fingers dug into hot flesh and magic flared under his skin, hot and cold and right.

Draco pushed his tongue into Harry’s mouth, and he couldn’t have held back his moan if he wanted to. Draco moaned back as their tongues twisted together and lips opened and closed against each other, sucking and biting and tasting each other in the one way they’d never permitted themselves before.

Harry rolled fully onto his back, pulling Draco the rest of the way on top of him, filling his senses entirely with Draco. He was everywhere—the weight on his body, the magic under his skin, the sweet scent in his nose, and the taste on his lips. Harry felt drunk on him.

They kissed, and they kissed, then they kissed some more.

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#He Comes Like a Thunderstorm #korlaena #Drarry #Drarry fic rec #Fic rec #hp fic rec #draco Malfoy #Harry potter #Drarry fanfiction #Harry potter fanfiction #Fandom Trumps Hate 2020 #hp #drarry squad #Drarry fanfic #hp fanfic #Carey's bookmark Fic recs #Carey's personal Bookmarks

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levi-venn · 10 months ago

Text

The First Toothpick

Chapter 1: The Kid

Gen Fic - Mentor/Protege

Characters: Cad Bane, Jango Fett, Crosshair (the kid).

Summary: Cad Bane teaches Crosshair how to be a sniper. The kid picks up some other habits as a result.

Chapters: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 |

Available on AO3 here

Cad Bane will do any job...for a price.

But, there was a time when he’d do anything for Jango Fett for free.

Those days are long gone.

The last time Cad saw Jango was on Nar Shaddaa; some seedy dive cantina where blaster bolts and blood flowed as freely as the cheap liquor.

It was over their second pitcher of shitty beer that Jango told Cad he was leaving bounty hunting, the greater galaxy, leaving everything behind.

He said something about a classified government assignment with a big payout.

All Cad heard was that Jango was leaving him behind.

“Kraytspit, boss,” Cad snarled, shoving an index into that armored chest. “You taught me ‘Fuck the Establishment’ and now what, you’re joinin' some government program? Just like that? Fuck you." And then Cad said words that Jango taught him, "And fuck The Man."

The argument got heated. Glass shattered. Fists brandished. Blasters were never drawn, but a spattering of Cad and Jango’s blood was added to the cantina’s décor.

That was years ago, but it wasn’t ancient history.

Not to Cad.

Now Jango’s got the balls to send me a message after all this time? Using words like “personal favor” and “old friend"?

Cad should’ve told him to swallow a cactus.

Instead he set a course for Kamino.

You’re gettin’ soft, nerfpoke, he chided himself. Then again, never did have a clear head where Jango was concerned, did ya?

The Justifier’s ramp clanged against the disc platform outside the Kaminoan Facility and the knot in Cad’s stomach tightened. He wasn't ready to see Jango again, no matter how quickly he punched those coordinates in. Yet, there he was, a dark silhouette at the end of the bridge.

Waiting for him.

The storm roared its unwelcoming song as he approached his former mentor. With every step, raging winds threatened to toss him into the inky, frothing ocean below like an angry gambler swiping a losing hand off a sabacc table. He clicked his heels, activating the magnetic sensors on his boots and he pale-knuckled the wide brim of his hat and walked across the bridge.

His swagger never wavered.

It never does.

Cad gritted his fangs as the barrage of rain needled his skin anywhere his duster and hat couldn’t protect. Jango, meanwhile, was bone dry, leaning against the wall under the lip of the facility's domed roof, arms folded across his armored chest. His helmet obscured his face, but Cad could feel the sly smile behind that reflective T-visor. He always did give Cad shit for not handling the cold too well.

In fact, Cad didn’t know what a “season” was when he left - escaped - the temperate climate of Duro. Didn’t take him long to figure out he kriffin’ hated “monsoon season” and “winter” the most.

“Long time,” Cad said, refusing to stammer as the icy wind clung to his bones.

“Didn’t have to be. You know that,” Jango said, the soft, stern tone apparent through the vocoder. “I told you then I wanted you to join me here.”

“And I told you where to stick it. Whole point of being a freelancer is the ‘free’ part, Fett. What kind of life are you living here?”

“I didn’t ask you here to lecture me on what freedom is, Cad. You’re here for a job.”

“What’s the catch?” Cad asked.

“No catch. You’re the best and that’s what I need.”

Cad smirked. “Flattery don’t work so well on me.”

“No? That’s funny, used to be the only way I could get you to do anything.” Jango removed his helmet, and that disarming grin unraveled the knot in Cad’s gut far too quickly. “Times have changed, I guess.”

“A lot’s changed,” Cad said, stubbornly.

That kriffin’ charismatic smile hasn't changed, has it? It could still ask Cad to do anything. If Jango jumped into a Sarlaac Pit, Cad would do a swan dive right after him.

But those days are over…weren’t they?

Jango punched the control panel beside him and the door opened to a brightly lit corridor. Cad refused to hurry as he walked into the facility, shaking off the rain from his hat and duster with an annoyed scoff.

“Nice digs,” he said, popping a toothpick in his mouth. “Blinding white is really your color.”

“Hey, thanks,” Jango said, not taking the bait. “I keep telling the Kaminoans to add a few potted plants, maybe a Max Reebo poster or two, but they never listen.”

Despite Cad’s desire to keep his head down as the intense lights assaulted his retinas, he still stole glances at his former mentor as they walked.

Mentor…

...Former starsdamn hero…

...Jango got old.

Cad hated the way humans aged, always wearing their mortality on their sleeves. Wrinkled skin, graying hair, even their voices waned and cracked like a mud puddle drying in the summer sun. Jango only had a few laugh lines, crow's feet, a little silver in his hair, but to Cad it was broadcasted that Jango was getting old.

...and so was he.

Still, none of these aged additions bothered him nearly as much as the change in Jango’s eyes.

They glittered with warmth. With happiness. Comfort.

“You look tired,” Cad mumbled the lie.

Fuck him for being happy without Cad.

“You worried about me, Bane?” Jango teased.

“Just saying, if you’re here to beg me to rescue you, we’re going the wrong way.” He jerked his long thumb behind him. “Ship’s that way.”

“Believe it or not, I’m good here.”

“Sure,” Cad sneered. “You always did talk about retiring in a sterile medical facility surrounded by violent storms.”

“I have a son, Cad,” Jango said, in an infuriatingly light tone.

Cad froze. The toothpick broke in two between his fanged teeth. He spat it out onto the pristine floor. “The fuck are you talking about?”

“The Kaminoans here contracted me for a classified assignment. I told them I wouldn’t do it for less than a krayt-sized hoard of credits and a son created with my DNA.”

Cad shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re raising a little you, then?”

Jango shook his head. “I don’t see it that way. Boba does seem to have the best parts of me, but it’s not by design. He’s just a genuinely good kid. I don’t know how that’s possible. I was a little hellion.”

So was Cad. He wasn't that much younger than Jango when the Mando took him under his wing, but Cad felt like a bumbling kid and twice as stubborn as a reek.

“Cad, you gotta relax or you’ll miss your target every time,” Jango says. It was the fifth time he said this. It was the tenth bottle Cad had missed.

Jango’s tone never changes, though. Always a little gruff. Always a little gentle. Unwaveringly insistent.

"I’m calm, boss!” The duros snarled, his hat sinking slightly over bulbous red eyes.

“Oh yeah.” Jango snorted. “You sound real calm.” He placed a warm hand on Cad’s bony shoulder. “It’s okay to be nervous. And I’m not just talking about here and now, shooting bottles off a fence. I’m talking about life in general. It’s okay to be scared. Just don’t let your brain dictate what those hands are going to do.” Jango tapped his temple, then held up a calm hand. “Screaming mind. Cool hand. You master that and you’ll be unstoppable. Now take a deep breath, aim, exhale, and squeeze that trigger.”

“Maybe you just needed a patient mentor,” Cad mumbled.

“I heard your old boss was really patient,” Jango said.

Cad’s heart sank and he gave a little shrug, something he hadn’t done since before he added the “Bane” to his name.

“I missed you, too, Cad.”

“Fuck you,” Cad grumbled, but there was no bite to the words.

Jango led Cad through a complex labyrinth that was damn impossible to navigate.

“Is there anything you can tell me about what you’re doing here?” Cad asked, feeling like he’s walking through the gullet of some angelic serpent. “Kaminoans are cloners, I know that much. So…they’re cloning you? A lot?”

“Yes,” Jango said.

“And they grew you a son.”

“Yes.”

Cad rankled. “How many of ‘you’ are they making?”

“That’s classified.”

“Are they making mercenaries?”

Jango thought for a moment. “More organized than that.”

“Soldiers, then. For who?”

“That’s classified.”

“You’re really okay with them using your face, and your everything, to make soldiers?”

“Like I said, the pay is insane and I have a son.” Jango flashed him a smirk. “If you join me here, I’ll tell you everything in excruciating detail, including why I wanted to stay.”

“Never,” Cad growled, gut twisting again.

Jango’s easy smile slid off his face, his eyes lingering as if only now he realized Cad would never change his mind.

Cad couldn’t bear looking at Jango like this. “Just tell me about the job.”

“Alright.”

Jango pressed a control panel in an alcove Cad hadn’t noticed moments before. The wall slid open to an observation deck overlooking an artificial combat zone made to look like a war-torn village. Plenty of places to hide, plenty more blind spots. Dangerous and advantageous for a sniper that knew what they were doing.

“The facility has designed a squad of experimental clones, trained to be elite combatants. One of them is designed to be a sniper. I want you to train him.”

In the center of the village was a lone tower. Combat droids were starting to swarm around it.

“You can’t train him yourself? You’re the one who taught me how to shoot.” Cad noticed a silhouette move around atop the tower, a sniper blaster rifle peeking its muzzle out like the snout of a curious creature, then withdrawing again. No shot was fired.

Hesitation.

Not good.

“I did, but we both know you can shoot rings around me when it comes to a sniper blaster rifle. I wouldn’t trust this assignment to anyone but you.”

“I ain’t a teacher,” Cad pressed.

“He doesn’t need one. He needs…” Jango thought for a moment. “A role-model.”

Cad laughed and popped another toothpick in his mouth. “Oh yeah, I’m a real upstanding citizen.”

“See? I knew I could count on you.”

Cad rolled his eyes. “So who is this grunt?”

“CT-9904.”

Cad frowned. "That ain’t a name.”

“It’s his designation. It’s what they use here.”

Cad lifted the brim of his hat, watching the blaster rifle peek out again and fire a blast.

A droid went down.

The muzzle poked out another hole.

Two blaster bolts fired, two droids fall.

Every shot fired found it's mark, but it wasn't enough to thin out the herd of droids.

“He’s got a good eye, but he’s taking too long to take those shots,” Cad observed.

“Remind you of anyone?” Jango asked.

“Take the shot, Cad.”

“I will! I just need to-”

An air horn blared beside Cad’s ear. The blaster bolt hit the tree, several feet above the target.

“What the fuck, boss?!”

Jango tossed the air horn cheekily in the air. “Stop hesitating. Take the shot or don’t, but this lollygagging isn't going to save your skin on a hunt.”

“Fine…just stop firing that damn airhorn.”

“Alright, alright. Here," Jango tucked the air horn in his belt and held up his empty hands. "I’m done with it. Take the shot whenever you’re ready.”

Cad lined his shot up again. But…

…What if he misses?

What if he’ll never be good at this? Not like Jango.

Jango was perf-

The airhorn bellows overhead. Cad nearly drops the rifle.

“Jango!!”

“C’mon, do you think your bounty will stop firing at you if you ask nicely? Work through the distractions. Ignore the voice filling your head with thoughts of failure. We’re out here until you land ten hits on that target. This is non-negotiable. And you better hurry, that storm’s getting closer by the minute.”

Cad’s rifle shook, already feeling the bitter wind attacking his senses.

“You got this, Cad…” Jango said, nudging Jango’s elbows, gently reminding him to keep them close to his body. “...I wouldn’t be teaching you if I didn’t believe in your greatness.”

CT-9904 managed to take down a dozen droid, but two dozen more were climbing the tower. The blaster rifle’s muzzle poked in and out of the slits in the tower too quickly to be effective. He was panicking.

Jango pressed a button on the control panel.

“Simulation Over .” The droids powered down, falling off the tower into heaps on the tile floor.

“CT-9904,” Jango called through the comm. “Report to Control.”

Cad braced himself to see a copy of Jango emerge from the tower. Would he act like Jango? Would he have Jango’s memories? Jango knew Cad better than any humanoid alive...would this clone, too?

The answer came in a resounding "No" in the shape of a skinny kid with a shock of white hair dressed in a blue and red jumpsuit. He slid down the ladder, hopping lightly over the droid bodies, and bounding towards the lift.

“Dank farrik, Jango. You’re making kid soldiers here?”

“It’s more complicated than that,” Jango replied.

“Complicated how?”

“I bet you can get what I'm going to say”

“Classified. Right.”

The door slid open and the kid peeked in before entering the room, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the Duros.

Despite being Duros, Cad had spent most of his adult life around a variety of humanoids, most of them human. Cad could’ve picked this kid out of a lineup as Jango’s spawn, but…he didn’t look like a copy.

Experimental clones…right.

“CT-9904 is part of a special operation of elite warriors. He’s our finest sniper.”

“The best sniper in the facility,” the kid said, with a voice surprisingly raspy, like he smoked a pack of deathsticks before coming up here. The kid's sarcasm came through loud and clear though, like he had heard others call him the best sniper in the facility.

Doesn't mean he believes it himself.

The kid kept his eyes lowered, one fist clenched, the other white knuckling the strap of his sniper rifle, a version of the 773 Firepuncher augmented to accommodate for this scrawny child.

None of this felt right.

But this was a job, and…it was at Jango’s request.

“You’re welcome to any training room here. Any weapons you need are at your disposal. Droids too.”

Cad shook his head. “No.”

The kid and Jango both looked up at Cad with the same confusion.

“No?” Jango asked.

“Not going to train him here. You want me to show him the ropes, he’s gotta have a taste of what the galaxy is like out there.”

“He can’t leave the facility.”

The kid looked up at Jango, his eyes wide and round, maybe out of fear...

Or maybe he's hoping to get out and see the galaxy for a change.

“Says who?” Cad challenged.

“Says…uh...fuck…I don’t know, Cad. He’s property of the facility.”

Cad rankled.

Property? Who the fuck is Jango anymore?

Cad took his toothpick out to point at Jango emphatically. “Those are my terms, take ‘em or find yourself another sniper with skills as good as mine.” He flicked the toothpick against Jango's armor. It plinked musically before hitting the ground. “Good luck with that," he sneered.

The kid was now looking up at Cad with those large, owl-like eyes, but they were joined by a sneer of his own.

Jango sighed. “Fine. You’ll be compensated for any credits you spend, just…don’t take him to the Canto Bight race tracks, okay? I want daily reports. You return him when I say it's time to come back.”

"You have my word," Cad said. And he meant it.

The kid looked up at Jango. “Can I say bye to Tech first?”

Jango ignored the request. “Thanks for doing this, Cad.”

“I’m doing it for the credits.”

Jango sighed. “Don’t hold back on him. He can handle whatever you throw at him.”

“You never pulled punches,” Cad said, dryly. “Don’t reckon I would either.”

“I can handle it,” the raspy kid echoed, throwing Cad a dangerous look unlike worn by Jango's face.

But Cad knew that look all too well: The look of a frightened predator.

#the bad batch #star wars the clone wars #clone wars #cad bane #jango fett #bad batch crosshair #The First Toothpick

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