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And I Can Only Think of You (Act II End)
Words: 5.3k Tags: Knight!Ghost x Princess!reader, Keegan x f!oc, knight fights, tournament violence, blood, love confessions(sort of), shitty dads, König being a creepy weirdo, major character injury, no beta we die like [redacted] Summary: Your stage has been set, the player take their places, and suddenly decide to improvise.
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The flags are raised first. Tents follow. Then the knights and their squires, then the arena and brown dirt that will so quickly become darkened with blood. You watch the set up from the castle, content to think through your plans as fences are raised and benches are built. Your mind is made up, wheels in motion, and players taking their places. You have every confidence in Ghost.Â
Perhaps you should have that same confidence in yourself, but⊠one step at a time. Itâs hard to turn around a lifetime of conditioning. You have to remind yourself of your convictions, remind yourself that youâre worth the same confidence you offer your knight. Yet, too often you find yourself hoping this is a terrible dream that Ghost will wake you up from, and youâll find yourself back in the forest with him.Â
Suddenly bandits and assassins seem so much easier to deal with. âThe enemies you knowâ as the saying goes.
Youâll find your confidence when this is all over, when you have proof of your abilities. Until then you have your embroidery.
-
It shouldnât surprise you that your Ghost is popular. Heâs at least a head taller than most of the other knights, standing proudly and directing his subordinates in that lovely deep voice, of course thereâd be women that admired him. You donât know why there needs to be so damn many of them though, especially this early in the morning. Your heart clenches so tightly in your chest you think it might have stopped. You wonder if youâve made a grave mistake, a mistake of the heart that you don't know how to recover from. Until he spots you and his dark eyes lighten with a flash of warmth that may as well melt you.Â
You feel so suddenly like yourself, like that damsel heâs always been so dutiful in his protection of. A princess running from her fatherâs attempt at a marriage arrangement and leaving her slippers with a stranger. Even with that dark cloth over his mouth you know Ghostâs smile by the crinkle of his eyes. You clutch your token close to your chest, something you should have given to Ghost when he'd been taken off your detail. Youâd thought heâd be wearing your colors at least, but the cool flash of his armor holds no green besides the reflection of grass under his feet. You tip your head to look up at him, letting his dark eyes hold your gaze until he reaches to smooth his thumb between your brows.Â
âWhat are you frowning about now?â He asks, the low rumble of his voice warm and teasing. The leather of his glove under the cool steal of his armor only makes you pout more. Heâs always touched you so easily, too easily if the rumors around you two are to be believed, but itâs never warmed your skin like this. Your fingers dig into the token youâd fashioned, nearly crushing the embroidery under the weight of your nerves.
âIâm merely anxious for the tournament.â You tell him, and earn a crease of his eyes, an amused hum.
âHave I ever disobeyed an order from you, my lady?â Ghost asks, his fingers slipping from your forehead to trace your jaw.
âOf course not.â You frown. You feel strangely⊠scolded.
âThen trust me,â He tilts his head, âYou told me to win, and I intend to.â
The cold determination in his eyes washes over you like a chill. Youâve seen those eyes too many times, caught the fury in them as his sword splattered blood over his helm. Itâs the same look heâs held every time heâs saved you from certain doom, and you want nothing more than to give into it, to let him save you once more. What once held your hopes now feels burdensome in your hand. You wish-Â
No, no more wishing. You made a promise to yourself. You're not going to be that scared little princess anymore. You're not going to wait on someone to save you. You're in charge of your own destiny, and if you want something you have to take it for yourself.
âYouâre not wearing my crest,â You change the subject, leaning to inspect his cape, or lack thereof. Ghost huffs.
âNever wouldâve made it out of the barracks if I âad.â Your fatherâs doing youâre sure. Anything to keep Ghost separated from you, unburdened by responsibilities to the throne. Despite his new position as captain of the knights he doesnât wear the royal crest. Disavowed, abandoned by the throne he serves. Ripe for a new king to swoop in and claim him.
âWell,â You nod, reassuring yourself, âitâs a good thing I came around then.â Another satisfied hum from Ghost, approving. It leaves your cheeks burning. You hold up the deep green fabric clutched between your fingers, the long strip embroidered carefully with the curling ivy and white dahlias that make up your personal crest.Â
âJust in the nick of time,â Ghost makes no move to take it, âwas worried one of the other ladies would tuck theirs in my belt first.â Itâs a joke, but it stalls in your brain. His hand drops to his side, fingers tugging at the leather belt looped around his middle. Making room for you to slide the banner in.
âOh,â You stall, beg yourself not to stutter, without finding a single word to stutter on. You glance around at the other knights, house banners and loversâ tokens hang off their belts. It makes sense, capes would get in the way of combat, but something simple like a flag on their beltâŠ
You glance up at Ghost, feel his stare like a two ton weight. Heâs teasing you, youâre sure. The same dry humor that made you throw sticks at him when you made camp. Horrible jokes.Â
You look down at his belt, watch his hand raise out of your view, feel his fingers pluck at the hair peeking out from under your circlet. Your own fingers go to his belt, calling his bluff as you thread your banner over the leather, and tug it into place. He leans to press his lips to the strand heâs pulled free, his shadow makes a chill run up your spine, and you feel the tug at your scalp as you shudder. You try to look busy making the banner lay flat, picking at the forest green until itâs perfectly draped over his belt, your crest on display for all to see.
Your fingers wonât pull away from him. You will them to, but there they stay.Â
âThank you,â Ghost says, his voice a low murmur. You nod. His gloved finger traces over your cheek, tips your head up to meet his eyes. âWhere did my confident lady go?â He teases you.
âWaiting for her father.â You mutter.
Ghost hums, his distaste clear in the tone. You fidget with the banner on his belt, enjoy the nervous flutter in your stomach as his fingers stroke your cheek. You donât know how he does it, how he can be so steadfast. Thereâs never a moment where heâs wavered, never a time youâve questioned his devotion to you. Ever since you met him, youâve known that Ghost was here by his will alone and no one elseâs.Â
Maybe that was why your father hated him. The one man in the kingdom who held no allegiance to the crown. Who never would have taken his commission if he hadnât wanted to. Who told the monarchy ânoâ with as much mirth as he did conviction.
âI have to talk to the priest,â You tell him, hoping mention of your errands will help move you.Â
It doesnât help to move Ghost. His hand stays as it was, the worn leather covering his knuckles skirting over your cheek with painful care.Â
âWhat do I get when I win?â Ghost asks.
When, you remind yourself, not if.
âHopefully whatever you want,â His eyes crease at the edges, warm honey brown making your heart patter, âso start making a list.â
âYes maâam.â
You have to look away from him, your cheeks far too warm to allow for eye contact. It takes his hand from your cheek, gives you the strength to pull your hands from his belt. You canât hang around him all day. Both of you have roles to play, proverbial swords to swing.
âGood luck my lady.â Ghost mumbles. The heat of his hands following you as you hurry back to your retinue.
Your lady-in-waiting smiles at you, takes her hand off your knightâs arm. You note that her familyâs crest decorates his belt with, perhaps, too much interest. Youâd noticed them growing closer, but not that close. Your knight covers the banner with his hand, and you force your eyes from it to smile at your maid.
"You have everything prepared?" You ask her. She nods.
"Of course m'lady." She twists to unhook the pouch she'd brought, producing a scroll for you.
You'd been worried after your letter to Ghost, that she might resent you. You've known your lady-in-waiting since you were a child, but knowing who you could trust was difficult when your father's grip on your life only seemed to tighten. Still, she'd been steadfast in her allegiance to you, and almost excited to help you in your scheming. You're sure you've been too clear in your affections for your knight, clear enough to risk her as well, it's nice knowing she's in your corner. Even if you hadn't thought she'd been there.
Maybe she weighed her options. Though you're not sure how you won if she did.
"Who's with my father?" You ask Keegan. He makes a face, his nose scrunching his mask in distaste.
"Graves."
"Perfect." You take the scroll from your lady-in-waiting and turn to find the announcer.
"I'm sure he'd be chuffed to hear that," Keegan tells you with an almost audible eye roll.
You're sure he would be. Just like you're sure Graves is doing his best to shove his entire head up your father's ass with how much he kisses the damn thing. That man has his eyes on knight captain, and you're sure your father has already let him know that the position will be open shortly.
Not if you have anything to do with it.
You spot the bored looking priest that's been assigned to announce the contest. Impartial in that he seems uninterested in all of it. You couldn't think of a better puppet than one who seems so keen on staying out of the actual event. Who better than someone who won't question changes because they simply do not care?
"Priest," You wave him down, dissatisfied with the placid smile he turns your way as you walk towards him.
"Princess," He greets.
"My father asked me to deliver this," You hold the scroll out to him, he nods once, a slow and steady bowing of his head. You detest it. Your fathers name carries God's weight. "König had some changes he wanted made to the prize." You smile. An explanation that's unasked for, short and sweet for a man that cares only enough not to crush the paper in his hand.
"Of course." The priest agrees. Inept, you think. There's no chance the man checks your switch, even less that he checks with your father about it. You won't be sad to see him go when your father decides to behead him after the tournament.
You nod, the priest bows, you part ways. You count yourself lucky that his ineptitude extends to his desire to pray for you.
Your lady-in-waiting sticks close to your side as you make your way to the sheltered seats reserved for your family. Another point of luck that you're sitting beside your mother. You father is too busy with his attempts to impress König to notice you settling in your chair, though you do see König's eyes flick to greet you. Mad dog he may be, at least he keeps track of his surroundings.
Your stomach ties itself into knots as your parents are plied with wine. You decline your own glass, too nervous to entertain even thoughts of alcohol. You may throw up. Your confidence, or lack thereof, in the priest is waning the longer you wait. Maybe he's peaked at your alterations. Maybe he'll send a page to alert your father. Maybe you'll be locked in your room for good to prevent any further scheming before you're sold to the highest bidder.
The priest takes his place, carried by long divinely purposeful strides, in the center of the arena. If nothing else, at least he's loud.
You tune out most of the drivel he spews. Artfully copied word for word by your lady-in-waiting from the real scroll, you really should ask where she learned such forgery, it's all praises for the king, the day, your god on high. Worthless. Less than worthless. At least the paper holds value, the ink, the time taken, but the words themselves? God. Get to the important part.
"The prize-" The priest screeches, "-which shall be allotted in full to the victor alone, announced to the people by their gracious and loving king, heretofore and forever regarded as the divinely appointed ruler of the land, shall be His Majesty's only daughter's hand in-" The priest stalls, stutters, stares at the parchment and finishes weakly, "-in marriage."
There's silence.
Then chaos.
The knights in their pen turn to you with such pinpoint precision you'd think they'd practiced the movement. You keep your eyes on the priest. Of all the eyes on you, you feel your father's the heaviest. He nails you in place, unable to speak a word over the raucous excitement of the crowd. The crown princess, finally to be married, and to a knight- no, the best night in the land, no less. It's like a fairy tale.
If you can survive it.
Your eyes dart to the pen, to the stoic figure of your knight, his eyes fixed on the priest as well. His hand is clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. Even with all the excitement he stands like a statue, his gaze level. If you didn't know him better you might mistake his stillness for calmness. He's thinking, calculating, weighing his odds. You told him to win, he'd already known what he had to do, but this- this changes things. Chaos is harder to account for.
He turns your way, his eyes dark when they lock onto yours. He gives you a short nod, and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. Ghost turns back to the arena and disappears behind the helm he presses over his head.
You haven't seen it in ages. Burnished steel, the white pattern of a scull pained over the front, and his eyes flashing cold in the shadows. He cuts a fitting picture, your father's nightmare given human form. He has no one to root for now.
You turn your attention back to your family. Your mother hides her shock behind a facade of calm, her eyes fixed on her people with a placid smile. You never had a chance to truly ask her- no matter. Your father hides his contempt well. Practiced at it, you suppose. König has his cheek resting against his hand, his lips curled over his teeth in an approximation of a smile. You've seen monkeys in caravans make that expression, baring their teeth the way their human handler has taught them. Some part of you feels glad to have earned some semblance of his approval, as detestable a man as he may be. At least someone is having fun.
You wonder what human taught him to approximate a smile. You can't imagine his kingdom has many saints, but his handler must be one of them.
You'll try to enjoy yourself as well. After all, you're soon to be betrothed to your knight. You can't think of a better man to hand your future to. Ghost has never let you down, and you can't see him starting now.
That's how the first match goes.
Your knight swings his sword with such practiced precision that it sends his opponent's flying from his grip barely moments into the fight.
Not to be outdone the rival knight lunges for him, and you taste bitterness on your tongue when Ghost brings his sword down hard on his rival's helm. The poor fool is crushed, sent sprawling flat on the ground with the imprint of Ghost's hilt decorating the back of his helm. The cheers are as violent as the match-up as Ghost raises his fist to the crowd, his sword hung lazy at his side. You can almost feel the smug air radiating off of him. Similarly, you can feel your father's ire poisoning the air around you.
You care little for the other matches. Tournaments are only fun when you have someone to root for after all, and when it's your life hanging in the balance you find yourself looking away from the lecherous gazes of the other challenging knights. You can't find it in yourself to feign an interest in their matches.
If your mother is to believed you shouldn't have to.
Rumors of your attachment to Ghost are the very reason he was taken away from you. You're sure the other knights know all too well who you're rooting for. If it weren't clear from the banner on his belt, surely they'd know it from the gossip that floods the castle. It's only their own greed and lust for your crown that gives them any hope at all for taking your hand at the end of the day.
One thing is for sure. You've never seen a tournament so bloody.
The knights fight like rabid dogs. If they cannot disarm their opponent they will attempt to kill him, searching for the breaks in their armor and beating their sword into the bends. Men beat each other with their fists, they batter each other with maces, they claw for every scrape they can achieve until the priest yells for them to stop.
You watch Keegan dodge a particularly deadly blow from a larger knight, his eyes wild with bloodlust. It makes your skin crawl to think such a man might ever force his way into your bed. Your only saving grace is watching your knight swing his sword, twisting with the grace of a dancer to hold his blade against his opponent's throat.
You suppose it's good that Keegan has no dreams of the monarchy, content as he is to pull your lady-in-waiting's banner from his belt and press it to his helm. He could give your Ghost a run for his money.
One of the servants offers you lunch partway through. You bundle bread and sweet meat into your handkerchief, and pass it off to your lady-in-waiting to take to Ghost. You're sure he's resigned himself to hunger, and you'd rather he keep himself in fighting shape.
You smile when you catch your father's eye.
There is something pleasant about going against the man. Not pleasant enough to go so far as killing him, despite König's suggestion, but satisfying nonetheless. Your father has always seemed larger than life, untouchable in his judgement, but now you see him as exactly what he always has been: a man in a fancy hat. A man without half the strength that your Ghost has. A man that could crumble under the weight of a sword.
Your father has strength in his eyes, but straight backs can be broken as easily as hunched ones.
You hear the sickening crunch of yielding bones and catch the way Graves jerks and twists at his opponent's arm under the hollering jeers of onlookers. The man screams out in pain, and your father's knight releases him. Only to plant his foot against the knight's chest and kick him to the ground.
The priest calls the match, and Graves moseys to fetch his sword from where he threw it. He wears your father's --the monarchy's-- crest on his belt.
You look at your father, his smile proud beside your mother's wide eyed horror. He turns to look at you.
âA late entry,â the king tells you, âbut quite impressive, don't you think?â
You don't think. Not on your life would you think your father's pick impressive. Not with the way he saunters towards your stand and leans against the banners. His blue eyes now black, swallowed by his pupils, look you up and down like a hog for slaughter.
âY'know princess,â he smiles, âI always thought you were a pretty thing. Guess now I'll finally get to see you without the big guy staring me down.â
You shouldn't entertain that with a response. You keep your eyes firmly on the priest as he announces, silently, the next match. Your hearing rolls with the crashing of waves, the thrum of your blood circulating and rushing against your brain, trying to find purchase for some new brilliant plan. Trying to find reason against your faith in Ghost. You find nothing but your own affection.
âYou will lose.â You assure Graves. He hums, his smile unwavering. Unnerving. He pushes away from the banner covered fence and pats the knight coming into the area on the shoulder.Â
You won't let him or your father's bastard-airs dissuade you. Ghost has fought twenty men and come out unscathed. He's rescued you from far worse than Graves could throw at him. Besides, the only good Graves has done in his life is give you someone to root against in the tournament.
And root against him you do. When you aren't cheering for your Ghost(and Keegan, bless him) you're cheering on whatever poor soul is stuck facing your father's pick.
With each rung the knights climb towards your hand the matches grow bloodier. Men seem less afraid to go against the rules of combat, more willing to darken the dirt with their opponent's blood. You watch Keegan take a nasty blow to the face before managing to disarm his opponent. When he flips the visor of his helm up you're treated to crimson staining his brow, flooding his eye such that he has to call for a cloth to clear it. Your Ghost too, seems to grow harsher, his goal --your goal-- closer with each victory he achieves.
He batters one opponent with his sword still sheathed, beating the other knight into submission with a singular focus that you so rarely see. Still, he seems to be the only one to avoid spilling unnecessary blood on the field. Your sword raised carefully against your subjects, rot excised with surgical precision.
Graves holds none of the same delicacy.
Yet he turns to be sure you're watching with each man he injures. His hand raised to you --to your father more accurately-- as if to more openly show off his ruthlessness. Even the mutt king seems impressed with him.
"ScheiĂe," König hums, his smile still biting into his fingers, "What is it you English call it?" He asks your father, "Cutting the same clothes?"
"Yes I was rather brash at that age too," Your father agrees, so smug, the bastard.
"Oh no," König's smile, now at least, seems to fill with joy, perhaps he can only do that when faced with someone else's misery, "It is my clothes he cuts from."
It's the first you've seen your father hesitate. His eyes draw to Graves' grin, his helmet tossed and his cheek wearing the blood of his victory. It drags a path over his teeth, and you know you'll see the pink tinge of his spit in your nightmares. It's as if this is the first he's seen his personal guard without the blinders of stopping your betrayal.
And what can your father say? That he hopes Graves isn't? That König is the last kind of king he'd ever want to hand his kingdom over to?
He glances at you.
That he'd want to hand you over to?
He is still your father after all. It's the first time in years you've seen the same concern he held for you as a little girl. The first time you think he's looked at you as something other than a tool for his own political gains. You wonder if he's wondering: Can he really hand his daughter over to a man like König?
To a late entry?
You look away from him, and to the man your father had so cruelly put forth to win you. Not because he thought you were a particularly good match. Not because he had a particular fondness for Graves. But because he hated Ghost. You wonder if his own petty resentment is good enough reason to hand you to a man with blood in his teeth.
All the more reason to cheer for your own men.
You pay little attention to the rest of the matches. You gossip with your lady-in-waiting and do your best to ignore the rest of the world. You only know when Keegan has taken the field again when your friend stops talking. She looks so worried you'd think he was facing the devil himself. Serves you right for ignoring the matches, you suppose. You must have missed the dark lord's summoning.
Turning to the field you do see the problem. He's up against Ghost. If this were any other tournament you might feel bad rooting against the poor fellow, but as it stands you can't find it in yourself to hope Keegan wins. You have neither the desire to marry him, nor the desire to take him from your friend.
It's probably best that he puts up a lackluster fight. His grip is loose when Ghost's sword swings, and much like the knight in the first round Keegan's sword goes flying.
The two men stand facing each other before Keegan lets out a long breath.
"Oh no!" He yells, "Not my sword! God not my sword!" He makes an exaggerated showing of shrugging, "Oh well, I suppose the match is yours."
You snort. It's good that he has his knighthood to fall back on, he certainly has no future in acting if that performance is to be believed. Still, your lady-in-waiting cheers loudly for him as he exits the field. You cheer as well, falling into your friend's laughter even through the nerves that grip your stomach.
You look at the tournament board and watch your crest move to the final round. The tree finally reaching its inevitable conclusion. Ghost is going to win just like you told him to.
Your eyes flick to the other side and land on the royal seal just as Graves is announced in his own semi-final round.
You know in your heart that he'll win with the same understanding that you know fire will burn you and the sea will swallow you whole if you let it. It is a fact that cruelty like his rarely goes punished.
You stand from your seat, you can't watch this match. No matter how short it may be, you can't watch. You can't see that man win again.
You go to find Ghost.
There's a page fussing over him when you make your way to the knight's rest area. You don't recognize them, but you don't spend much time at the training grounds. Ghost spots you immediately and waves off the boy to greet you.
"Go back to your seat," He advises, though there's no push behind his words.
"I wanted to congratulate you." You grin and see his shoulders lower slightly, softening beneath the armor.
"Thank me after, my lady," You can hear the smile in his voice even behind that horrible helm, "I'm only following orders."
"You're following them beautifully." You reach to fix the drape of your banner on his belt, and see him tilt his head in your periphery. His hand raises and he brushes the steel knuckle of his glove against your cheek. Soft despite the cold, unyielding material.
"The other knights think you've fixed the tournament." He mumbles.
"I have," You tip your head back to look at him, trying to find the warm copper of his eyes through the slits in his helm, "I put you in it."
The huff of breath Ghost lets out is as close to laughter as you'll get from him, but it warms you all the same. He turns his head away from you, surveying the field of defeated knights. All men he'll be commanding as king soon, men who must envy and revere him in equal measure. You're sure how it must look to them, but perhaps it's better they think they lost due to some predestination rather than their own inability.
"You should head back," He turns back to you, "No need to hear what your father's man has been saying about you."
Your stomach churns, "What's he saying?"
"Nothing he won't pay for." Again you can hear Ghost's smile, and it settles your nerves. You nod, gathering your strength around you.
"Then I'll be waiting for you," You assure him.
"You'll never have to wait again when this is over."
You push up onto your toes, and press your forehead against his. The bend of his back must be painful under the layers of steel, but you're sure he'd agree it's worth it for a small parting comfort before you turn to hurry to your seat.
You're only too happy to see the field bare when you make it back. Your lady-in-waiting is beaming in a way that makes you think perhaps she paid her own knight a visit.
Your father's crest has been moved to face your own. An inevitability, but one that you find your confidence bolstered on. You have Ghost's assurance, what else could matter?
König leans forward in his seat, his eyes sparking with excitement next to your father. There's a tightness on your father's lips, nerves in his eyes. You've never known him as a man who shows fear, but perhaps that's just because he's never been on the losing side. You're sure to cheer particularly loud when Ghost takes the field once again. Your father doesn't even stand for Graves.
The priest gives his spiel, the knights bow before the king, and you stand to smile at the crowd when the prize is reaffirmed. Your hand in marriage, and the whole kingdom as a result. You're not surprised when the priest nearly runs from the area, not when both knights draw their sword as soon as they raise their heads.
You can't say who swings first, only that the clash of their swords is deafening. Both knights hold the other back before Ghost squares his shoulders and swings again.
Graves deflects.
Ghost swings.
Graves deflects. Swings.
Ghost deflects.
They trade blows that make your ears ring. Their swords swung with such force you can almost see the flex of muscle under their armor. You can see why your father has kept Graves close, he's a talented swordsman, but he isn't Ghost. Graves is fast, following the momentum of his swings. It's flashy compared to Ghost's technical perfection, hollow with wasted movement.
Ghost takes a step back and you watch him switch his grip. In all the years you've known him you've never seen him change hands, but when he twirls the blade you see an ease of movement that seems supernatural. It's enough of a display to make Graves lunge forward.
You remember Ghost telling you once that the only true rule of combat is to win at all costs. That chivalry is for those that can afford a loss. There's no weakness in the way Ghost moves, and you have no doubt in his ability to win.
He side steps Graves' attack, his sword raised to bring the hilt down hard on Graves' shoulder, and stops as his armor's straps pull tight
and snap.
You watch with the rest of the helpless audience as Graves flips his grip and plunges his blade deep into Ghost's side. Slicing the metal clean through through the back of him dark with the sheen of blood spattering onto the dirt like a waterfall.
It's not the cling of swords the rings in your ears as you leap to your feet, but your own shrieking. It follows Ghost to the ground as he settles hard onto one knee. The shouting of the crowd is a deafening cacophony of "Blood! Blood! Blood!"
And your world crumbles into a single point as Ghost's helm tips to stare up at your father's victory.
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Everyone has at least one character whoâs death you ignore and pretend it never happened.
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I was supposed to be doing real work today and instead this happened. She's going to climb him like a tree
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red ochre [1]
part one -> minium || part two -> tbd
pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: you become the unlikely treasure of two vikings who raid your convent looking for gold w.c: 4.3k tags/warnings: religious themes (DLDR), minor suicidal ideation, mention of viking raids (slavery, violence, death), kidnapping, threats, dubcon bathing + touching, mean simon (ish), established goap, reader is underfed and beaten in the convent (corporal punishment), difficult travel, some food description
Near the coast the wind scratches at you when it blows, full of sand and salt.
Once, you'd imagined this as your calling; committed to asceticism, married to God, serving under the abbess. Enclosed, you find yourself stifled more than devoted, pressing your face to the stone barrier that blocks the convent from the outside world.
Isolation, never being quite full, the slow and steady stripping of your identity. This is your life - hollowed out, like meat sucked from a crab, cracked open and used and hollow.
You couldn't have predicted Christ to be such an inconsiderate husband.
"Girl!" the voice is the crack of a whip in empty air. You don't jump, but the hair on your body raises, the welts on your thighs sting.
"Yes, mother?" you put your chin down to your chest, turning, pressing your back to the wall. Demure, submissive, utterly devoid of fight. And still, her grip finds you hard as iron and rough as the rock you'd just been touching, pulling you hard enough to make your shoulder ache back toward the heavy wood doors of the dormitory.
"You shirk your duties again, child? Leave your sisters to pick up your slack?" you didn't mean to, truly. It's only that you ache so deeply you're afraid you might never recover from the feeling.
"Please forgive me, mother, I lost track of time," you murmur. Your uniform is damp from the spray outside, and you relish in the scent and feel of it. Freedom, that's what it is. "Allow me to make up for-"
"Hush!" spit touches your cheek. You don't wipe it away. "You'll finish the tapestry tonight. No matter how long it takes you."
Desperately, you wish for God to strike you down. If you're there, father. You close your eyes. Please, please kill me now.
He doesn't listen, and the abbess pushes you to supper.
Dark bread, boiled turnips, fish and wine. Average, filling, but you'd hoped for more of the crumbly white cheese from yesterdays supper.
You know not to complain. And truly, you are grateful. With your family, it had been gruel upon gruel, often bear, and rarely flavour. Salt kisses your tongue now, and the wine makes your sore muscles relax.
The monks have it harder; you'd visited them once as a girl with your father to pray, but there was still labour to be done here. Cooking was often your job, as was doing the washing and the tilling for the vegetable garden.
Today sister Colette had assigned you weaving so that you wouldn't be out of practice. The muscles in your back and fingers ached from it already, and dread made your stomach sour to the food you ate at the thought of more work.
Mealtimes were quiet, as required. The other women eat mousily, looking down at their plates and pulling their food apart into small little bites, trying to make it last. Obedience, poverty. How silly it was now that you'd dreamed of this.
"Sister?" a whisper, next to you. Margaret was almost a friend, too pious to really confide in but so kind it was impossible to ignore her. "What were you doing?"
"I felt compelled," you shrug, lips oily from the fish. "I felt confined."
"Oh sister," Margaret pushes her bottom lip out, dark eyebrows pulling up. "You should never feel confined here."
You knew, and yet you did. It was like living in a stone coffin. All the work felt pointless since your heart had strayed from God. Even now, touching Margaret's elbow to comfort her in her worry for you, you're sick to death of even clearing plates.
There was one secret they hadn't found. None of the sisters, not even the abbess, had found your secret booklet.
Paper was more valuable than gold since the church needed so much to copy and produce texts. The writing room at the very top of the convent, where you were so seldomly asked, was full of it and guarded by lock and key.
Over months, you'd scrounged, stealing enough to make a booklet. In it, you felt sustained. Free. Titillated, sometimes, when your hand found its way beneath your soft worn blanket under your shift and you drew indecent drawings of men coming to save you. Of the farmboys from your village.
They were nothing like real art, not so detailed, but they lit inside you a spark of life. Without them, you'd be snuffed out.
Candles line the hallway toward the workroom, where you'll likely spend the rest of the night. It's near the very entrance of the convent, so that visitors may see the sisters hard at work and find reason to donate.
Really, it's a temptation. Those massive doors, ready to open and let you free.
But what could you do, really? If God were a kind man and Christ a good husband, they'd turn you into a horse so that you might run, might feel your hooves beating the earth and the coarse air on your skin.
Regrettably human, you sit to work on the tapestry. Curse the abbess and let the holy father hear your thoughts. This is worse than hell, you think. Your fingers cramp and the chair is hard, flat wood. It's made to be uncomfortable on purpose, everything is. After you finish you only have a thin mattress to look forward to, even thoughts of drawing hunky carpenters doesn't draw you out of the misery that is embroidery in the dark.
Is this string strong enough to hold you, should you hang yourself? You're being dramatic, but you feel you've earned the right.
Footsteps walk down the hall towards you. They're sure, heavy. Maybe sister Catharine, tall and splendid, is coming to release you from torment?
"Hello," you say jovially. Please be sister Catharine.
"Look what we've got here, Ghost," it's a male voice. You freeze. The accent is unfamiliar. Had you missed the visit of a monk, an abbot, a priest? "Darlin' little lass, all by herself."
Shivers overtake you. It hurts to straighten from your hunched position, but you have to do it to see properly.
You come face to face with a skull, towering over you from the doorway.
A scream builds, filling your chest, hanging off the tip of your tongue.
Stopped only by the glint of candlelight against a blade, and the quickness of the another man reaching you.
You shake, all sound stuck in your throat, feeling arms as strong as petrified wood circle your arms and pull you toward the door. The pressure, the scrape of rock against your feet, it's unreal and barely registered against the terror that builds when you look to your left and see the skull, sewn into cloth, with the soft clank of bones hanging from his waist.
His eyes find yours, dead and mellow in the eyesockets, piercing through you. Blood rushes through your ears, deafening you, until you leave the room and reality sets in.
Devils, come to sack the convent.
Who will likely kill you and all your sisters. Even the abbess, with her punishment cane and severe face, doesn't deserve that.
You shriek, finding your voice, twisting like a cat in a bag. Their hands tighten against you, growling orders at you to be still, girl.
It's then that you hear the cries, the crashes. Sounds of chaos, a cacophony of harsh voices and the search of the convent. Some of the women weep, some pray, you scream.
"Hey!" Skull snaps, shaking you hard. "Behave and we won't kill you." You comprehend that, but the animal urge to struggle for your life still has a grip on you.
The other man twists towards you, lips snarling. "Ye want to die, then? I'm not opposed to slitting ye open throat to cunt, if that's what ye prefer."
You still, sag, mouth turning downwards in misery. Sweat sticks to your skin, from fear and exertion.
"Good girl," Skull says.
The nuns have been crowded back into the dining room, cowed and cowering, trembling lambs against the storm of awful armoured men ravaging the sanctity of the space.
Some have already found gold, crosses and busts of saints and reliquaries. The abbess weeps to see the bust of Mother Mary, thrown so roughly to the ground that baby Jesus snaps off.
You watch it all happening, eyes wide, shaking despite yourself. Adrenaline makes your legs cramp in their position, curled, back to back with another sister.
"Cap," a younger man runs up, hands full with an ornate chest. "What'cha think of this one?"
"Lookit this one," the man from earlier is giddy, slapping the young one on the back. He holds St Augustine, gilded in gold and jewels. "Not too shabby, eh, Gaz?"
"Not too shabby at all," Gaz grins back at him, turning towards the third man.
"Good job, boys," he says. He's mustached, tall, steadier and calmer than the rest. A leader, clearly.
It smells of smoke, or blood, but you can't see anyone bleeding.
Maybe that's their natural scent, violence clinging to them cloying like they'd bathed in it before coming.
"Soap," Gaz calls. He's run through the library, tossing shelves to the ground, taking one or two books. Walked through the dormitories, throwing open the chests at the ends of each bed. "Take a look at this one!"
A little booklet. Your booklet, tiny in the hand of the devil.
Anxiety crawls up your spine. There's no way they'd know it was yours, but you're still afraid of another kind of raiding, should they discover your sin.
The men laugh, looking with hungry eyes, glinting, mouths stretched and wet.
Look at the ground, be quiet, be still. You want to survive, you want to draw again and feel the air against your skin. You're scared of these men, huge and muscled as they are.
They wear furs, leather, clinking chainmail, wrapped shoes. Weapons hang by their sides and are clutched firmly in hands, though no nuns nor abbesses have been harmed.
Yet.
"Gold ain't the only treasure, eh?" Soap looks down at you while others use pillowcases for bags, stuffing their bounty inside with loud clangs.
His foot nudges your thigh, and you shift away as much as possible, still looking away, still scared.
Skull comes back. Soap calls him over and calls him Ghost, so you switch the name in your head.
Ghost is big, but he glides through the air.
"See that, Ghost?" Soap nudges him, the way he nudged you. Eyes crazed.
"Mm," Ghost grunts. He hasn't looted, not like the others. Just walked through the halls and gathered one or two other stray nuns shuddering in various corners. "You want 'er?"
You blanch, breath leaving you.
"Can we?" He looks back at you and leans down, thick fingers finding your chin, tilting your face up. "Pretty little hen, so scared, aren't ye?"
"Take 'er."
With Ghosts permission, Soap moves his fingers from your face to the meat of your arms, dragging you up, using your stupor to help him.
"Dinnae worry, hen, we'll take good care of ye," it's not reassuring. You think you feel your knees hitting each other from the force of your shaking. "Awe, don't cry."
Two rivers have sprouted form your eyes, tracking searing hot salt down your cheeks, hands twisting in your habit.
The men regroup. You were right about the mustached man being a leader, and learn his name is Price. He commands them like any armyman you've ever seen, clearly holds a lot of authority.
You're the only nun that's a part of the spoils.
The only one tied with coarse rope around the wrists, chafing, tossed between Soap and Gaz through the convent until you reach those big wooden doors.
Those doors you'd dreamed about opening, those doors that you dread opening now.
"Keep walking," Gaz says. He's mellower than the others, but you'd be a fool to underestimate him.
Or ask him for help.
Reality hasn't set. You're in purgatory, stumbling across the wet grass in just wool socks, growing wetter by the minute from mist and dew. The men hoot and cheer and clank their gold, throwing fists and weapons in the air.
A bloodless victory, unless they change their mind and decide to kill you.
Soap jumps, accidentally pulling you forward in a jerk that brings you to your knees. The tears come back, and the pebbles nearing the beach digging into your knees makes you sob.
"Careful!" Ghost barks. Behind you, he reaches under your armpits and helps you up. His hands are still rough, but he lets go of you quickly to yank the rope out of Soaps hands. It doesn't help that it's still near-pitch outside, not yet morning, hard to see.
"Ach," he rubs a hand behind his head, watching you cry and walk like a deadwoman. "Got a little over-excited, darlin. Forgive me."
"I'll be better to ye, don't worry," he falls in beside you, using a knuckle to brush away your tears.
When you reach the beach, you see a few boats, supplies, but that's all. No camp, nowhere to sleep. Did they jump straight from the boats, marching up the hill to the convent to pillage?
God, they're so big. Warriors. Why just you?
"Right," Price calls them to attention. You're stuck next to Ghost, sniffling, shivering a little, praying mentally for the first time in a long time. Dear God, please help me, please strike these men dead and let me run back up the hill.
You miss what Price says, whispering under your breath with your eyes closed and palms together until Ghost puts his hand on your shoulder and pushes you forward again.
"Walk, then get on the boat," his voice is a growl.
"Dinnae worry," Soap chips in. "We brought meat."
They did - dried fish hangs like your laundry across each boats. The gold is loaded alongside you, stuffed to one side, and you're left trying to avoid the men tossing things in your direction.
Ghost ties your wrists to a wooden loop on the side of the boat.
It was built for this. For prisoners, slaves, taken in conquest.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Price shouts, the men answer. It's loud, a cacophony of voices and waves and the scrape of the boat against the sand.
You're going, going, gone. Floating. Adrift. Tied to the side of a viking ship with nothing but your thick, woolen habit and woolen socks. At least they provide some warmth, the air colder over the water.
Eyes look you up and down, not just from the two that took you. Gaz smiles to himself and punches Soap in the thigh, then they play wrestle.
You wonder what will happen to you- are you being taken as a slave? A prize?
The positive side to your time spend as a nun is that you know how to work, and you know that if something awful happens, you could find a way to meet God early and put yourself down.
Blood rushes in your ears again.
You register from somewhere outside of yourself that you're panicking again, caught wanting to run and having nowhere to do it. Tied down.
A hand touches your nape, and you turn with wild eyes and desperation all over your face to Ghost.
"Take a breath," he says, low enough that only you hear it, firm and commanding. "In and out, girl. Do it."
You do, if only to save yourself passing out. In and out, in and out, you breathe.
"That's it," he leans down, brown eyes finding yours. The skull is bleached yellow, old, but you try to ignore it. "You're alright."
"No I'm not," you shock the both of you by speaking, voice high and wavering. "I'm not, you're going to kill me or worse-"
"You think we'd take you just to kill you?"
"You're a heathen, aren't you?" you gasp again, wiping your face on the fabric of your sleeves. "Sister Catharine says heathens sacrifice virgins. Please don't."
He startles you by laughing, a ragged thing ripped from his chest.
"Not gonna sacrifice you, lamb," his hand squeeze your nape, his thumb rubbing the edge of your jaw where he can reach. "Gonna be a long journey, you'd better settle now."
It's hell. You were mistaken before, and you'd do anything now to go back to embroidery. You'd let the abbess cane you bloody, you'd kneel and pray with the passion of Christ himself if it meant you could come off the boat.
The boat, the men. The godforsaken fish, too-salty, not much better than the biscuits Soap insists on feeding you by hand.
"Your hands are tied, pretty lamb, how are ye gonna feed yourself?" He breaks it up, wiping crumbs from your cheeks.
You hope Ghost will step in, but he doesn't. He watches, a specter, still wearing that mask on his face. You wonder if it's because of you, or if he's just like that. Private, hidden. Intimidating.
"Open wide," Soap seems fond of holding your face, squishing your cheeks and puckering your lips. He's extra zealous since catching a sea-bird, keen on making you taste it.
The thought makes your stomach roil, despite being sick of the fish and biscuits. You turn your face, trying to avoid him, whimpering when he squeezes a little too hard.
"Come on, hen," he leans closer. "Fresh meat is good, no?"
"Johnny", Ghost saves you again, finally. Pulls on Johnny's shirt until he's sitting back on his heels. "Let her be."
"Awe, just wanna giv'er my catch, Si," if a heathenish, kidnapping devil could whine and pout like a child, it would look like this.
Horrific, is what it is. You tuck your face into your elbow and close your eyes.
You've been doing that most of the journey, closing your eyes and breathing deeply like Ghost taught you. Or Simon, what you've heard Johnny calling him.
Dread sneaks in every once in a while, wakes you up from fitful sleeps or seizes your ability to speak. Nobody else has spoken to you, not even Gaz who keeps glancing at you. Nobody but Simon and Johnny.
"Here," Simon says. You look up.
In his hand, an apple. Your eyes go wide, prickling, and you look even further up to him.
His eyes reveal nothing. Brown, flat.
"For me?" you ask.
"You see me offering it to anyone else?" from the corner of your eye, Soap is staring at you, smiling.
"I can have it?" an apple. You could dance. Days and days of travel after living in the same town and then the same convent to taken by force on a boar. An apple.
"Take it before I give it to Johnny," he grunts.
Suddenly, you feel a kinship with Eve.
Seasickness luckily doesn't affect you, and the melancholy is kept at bay by the apple. You think of it when you think you can't take anymore, remembering it's sweetness.
Simon becomes the safest person, and often if you feel scared your eyes find him.
When a minor storm rocks the boat, pelting rain, waves beating against the front, you tuck yourself close to his side and let Johnny take your hands into his.
Too easy to lean into them, to accept Johnny wiping your face gently with a cloth and eat fresh fish from Simons fingers. You're exhausted, and Simon doesn't push.
He just remains steadfast against chaos, even when Johnny fights with another one of the men and he has to pull them apart by their shirts.
"Si'down!" he barks, the loudest you've ever heard him. It makes you flinch, hiding again, until he sits heavily down beside you and you scoot as close as possible again.
"Not the smartest, are you?" he looks down. That hurts. You're just scared, is all. "Doesn't matter who's there, you'd cling right to them, wouldn't you?"
No, you want to say. But you just hide your face in your arms and cry again. You want to tell him the apple was special, that you know nobody else has one or got one, but you don't.
Your heart beats hard against your ribcage, that dread coming back again, feeling heavy and small under the weight of your predicament and his judgment.
"He didnae mean it," Johnny croons. He strokes your hair away from your face, thumbs finding your tense brows and smoothing them out. "We know you're a good girl. S'why we took ye."
You sniffle. The rocking of the boat has become both maddening and soothing.
You wonder when this journey will end.
Your clothes are stiff with salt, wetted and dried and re-wetted. Your skin itches, wrists burning, welts unhealed from before when the abbess has caught you sneaking mead.
She had accused you of indulgence, of trying to get drunk. Truthfully, you'd just liked the taste of honey and missed it.
Nuns didn't eat honey, at least not there. Cheese and wine were already over the top, God forbid anyone ate anything sweet. That's why you loved the apple, had held each bite long on your tongue, letting the sugars sit there a moment to savor them.
"Hey," someone nudges you, bringing you out of your half-sleep. Easier to be less conscious, less aware, trying not to feel your anguish and your physical pain. "Come on, get up. We're here."
"Hmm?" You're so tired, hissing and whimpering when your wrists are jostled.
Untied. They're being untired. Your head lifts too quickly, making you dizzy. Gaz is squatting in front of you, holding your leash.
"You awake?" he squints, tilting his head. "You look rough, sorry 'bout that. You good to stand?"
Too many questions. You're forced to lean on him heavily to try to stand. He's as solid as the others, just leaner. Kinder, honestly, as he mostly carries you off the longboat.
Muscles like a new foal, you take a seat on the soft wet sand and slump onto a crate. It's a struggle to walk on solid ground.
Men move around you, dumping and lifting and talking. Less excited than the last time they were on the beach, but there's still a buzz aflutter.
"Can I bring'er up?" Johnny is looking at you, his hand on Simon's forearm. Their affection is the quiet kind, something you only noticed the last couple days of the journey. Small touches, murmurs.
"Go ahead," Simon touches him back, moving towards Price when Johnny comes towards you.
"Awe, lamb," he coos, hauling you up with an arm around his shoulder. His other arm goes to hold your waist, squeezing. "Dinnae worry, I'll get ye in a bath soon 'nough."
He's not lying - after a painful, difficult walk, you make it to a wooden cabin. Looking around, there are a few of similar make, a little town.
"Go on in then, sweet hen," he pushes you just enough for you to shuffle your feet in the door.
Modest wooden furniture greets you, a one-room house with a large bed, fireplace, and table. The rest is beyond you once you spot the tub.
"Sit, let me get it ready for ye."
You nearly fall asleep, or maybe you do, because when you open your eyes Johnny has steaming water filled to halfway in the tub, wooden slats fragrant. He's crumbling a dried flower in as well, humming to himself.
"Alright, s'ready," he helps you up again. Modesty is forgotten, you're too tired and weary to care when he slips the woolen habit off and leaves you in a plain shift, finally untying your wrists. "Pretty girl." He says it under his breath, like he can't help it.
The water is better than the apple. You hiss when it touches your wounds, your sore muscles.
You're tired to your marrow, could weep about it, eyes still opening and closing. Around you, Johnny searches through various bags and chests until he finds a bar of soap.
The soap is better than the water.
"Feels good?" he whispers, dipping his hands in and lathering up. How he's up and about, you have no idea. Even his hands near your bare breasts don't phase you - that's how wiped you are.
"S'good," you mumble. "Thought I ws'gonna die."
"We wouldn't've let that happen, sweet girl. Too precious, our treasure," a kiss, on your shoulder. He rubs the soap on your skin, your arms and down to your fingers, washing them each one by one.
"N'ver want to do that again," and then, because you forget he's your captor. "Please."
The attention is soft, patient. The soap washes away salt and dirt and sweat, even tears when he wipes your face with a rag. This is a second baptism, a better one, with gentle hands massaging your scalp and the barest brush against your nipples.
"Sit up," he pushes you forward, rinses your hair, washes your back while you're there.
The rag swipes over your cunt when he gets there, once, twice, eyes boring into you. Your exhaustion mutes the squeeze of anxiety in your chest, closing your eyes to avoid his gaze.
"Right, all done," he helps you back out and into a long, thin shift.
The bed is soft, so soft, covered in furs and actually stuffed enough to cradle your body. You sink into it immediately, just barely registering the door opening again.
"She asleep?" It's Simon, carrying luggage.
"Aye," Johnny says. You hear them kiss, wondering if they think you're asleep. "Anything else?"
"No," he's gruff, to-the-point. Drops bags in the corner with a clank and a chest by the door with a thud. "She give you trouble?"
"Sweet as a lamb, our girl," he sounds proud.
You open your eyes, one last attempt at self-preservation, and see them looking down at you.
Simon swipes a thumb over your cheek, under your eye, still wearing the skull.
"It's alright, go to sleep," he murmurs. Johnny leans his head on Simons shoulder. "Perfect girl, knew we did good takin' you."
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I always feel like that bitch whenever a fanfic writer i follow and get inspo from likes my post. Itâs like winning an Emmy.
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Simple Math / Part Seventeen
Simple Math masterlist
Ghost/Soap/female reader - AO3 - 4K words Tags: 18+ mdni. nurse!reader. PTSD, references and descriptions of domestic violence , grooming, manipulation, pregnancy. Simon's back story. Trauma. Bun opens up a bit more. Domesticity, feelings of anxiety, self doubt. Simon is a nervous dad. Emotional confessions.
âItâs Beth.â Simon wipes the countertop, chasing little dirty fingerprints with a wet cloth, before fixing a hesitant set of eyes on yours.
âThatâs pretty⊠I like it.â Thereâs something odd about his expression, something haunted almost, a deep, dark well filled to the brim with rancid, stagnant water. You sense it immediately. âWhatâs wrong?â
He motions to the chair and slides your mug into your waiting hands. âSit.â
âSimon?â
âIt was my sister in lawâs name. My brotherâs wife.â Was. Your throat goes dry, muscles tensing.
âWas?â He pulls your fingers into his, cradled in the palm of his hand, thumb rubbing circles into your skin, over and over on a loop. A mechanism of comfort, connection. A thread stitch into the fabric between your heart and his.
âThey died, sweetheart. My family⊠I lost them.â Grief, a shared experience you know now, froths in the pit of your heart. You tremble, he holds you steady, though it should be the other way around.
âWhat⊠what happened?â He sighs, dragging your palm to his lips.
âLetâs sit down on the couch.â
He holds you as he talks, diaphragm rumbling against your ear. Youâre laid on his chest, unable to see his face, watch his expressions, but for this, you donât feel the urge to dissect each one.
Youâre content against him. Listening. Mourning.
Thereâs a swath of silence afterwards, and then he clears his throat. âSo, I was dead. Dead until I met Johnny, I think. And then everything changed.â Johnnyâs words from weeks and weeks ago make more sense, Simonâs actions and reactions rapidly gaining clarity. âWhen we found you, I saw it, the look in your eyes. It was the same one that used to haunt my motherâs.â
âYou saved her.â He burrows his face in your neck and shakes his head.
âI did what I could to piece them back together. Helped get Tommy clean and on his feet, got rid of the old man for good, but the damage⊠the way she suffered, it was irreversible. The best I could do was be there as much as often as possible.â You comb through his hair, short strands of silk like Pennyâs, and hold him close. âI promised myself, when I met Johnny, when we fell in love, Iâd do better by my own family. For him, and then by Penny. And now you. Promised I wouldnât become him.â Your heart clenches, squeezing in on itself. âViolence may have been a part of my job, but it wasnât a part of me.â His fingers dance along your spine until they reach your chin, tilting you back to meet his gaze. âDo you understand?â
âYes.â You whisper, leaning into his touch. He doesnât need to ask for your trust, he already has it.
âJohnny thinks Iâve got a bit of a savior complex now, but I want you to know⊠thatâs not what this is, bunny.â
âI know,â you clear your throat, fighting through the thick of emotion building there, accumulating in heaps, âI know that.â Â
âBut we do need to talk about him, you know that?â Darkness creeps along the wispy, dream-like cocoon the two of you built on the couch, and you push it away, try to banish it, basking in the comfort of his arms instead.
âI canât, I⊠right now it feels like Iâm in a dream where nothing hurts and nothing can scare me or hurt me, and I donât-â
âYouâre not in a dream, bunny. Thatâs your reality. This is real. Nothing can, or will, hurt you, scare you. No one will ever touch you again.â
âI need more time. Please.â Simon sighs, but doesnât push, and the two of you lay there, together, suspended in comforting silence. For another moment, your world is a dream. A safe, beautiful dream, where happy endings are real, where love stretches on for eternity, unconditional, limitless, unbreakable.
Youâre so different now, stark changes shocking to the girl you once knew, the one who doubled back on her routes to and from work, the one that walked everywhere with her hackles up. Little pieces of black rot now turned a blinding white, a brilliant beam seeking to shine on the whole of your life.
Itâs a dream.
One you wonât easily surrender.
âI was really young.â It comes during a lapse in conversation, practically a blurt, an interruption pushing heat to your cheeks. Expelled from your mind, your body without choice, cracks appearing in the preservation that youâve so defiantly clung to. You have to tell them, eventually. You have to break it all apart, let them see. Johnnyâs mouth opens, and Simonâs hand darts to his wrist faster than a snake could strike, a clear signal. Donât speak. âObviously now, looking back on it, I realize I was groomed, or I guess, easily influenced. He was older, and I graduated early, started college early. I was in my second year when I turned eighteen. My mom,â the lump in your throat nearly chokes you until you swallow it down, âmy mom busted her ass for me. I went to college on scholarships and her hard work.â Metal clanks against ceramic, forks settling on the edges of plates. âAnyway, everyone always thought I was a know-it-all and pretty awkward. We werenât officially like, together right away but it was pretty serious from the day I met him. Eventually⊠he started to change me. Change my goals. He even manipulated my career path.â
âWhat did you go to school for?â Simon asks casually, head tilted.
âBioscience. I wanted to be a doctor, so I thought it would transition well for med school. Thought I could become a surgeon.â You were a girl then; you know that now. NaĂŻve, misguided by a hand that sought to control you, not love you as you hoped. Itâs embarrassing, baring this, showing these broken bits and pieces to them, shattered shards of a mirror never glued back together.
âWhat happened?â
âHe did.â Johnny squeezes your hand. âMade it to pre-med but ended up leaving and starting a nursing program instead. Itâs what he wanted, and by then, I couldnât say no.â
âBut ye didnae want it, to be a nurse.â
âNo. I didnât. I love my job now, of course, and Iâm happy in it, but originally, I wanted something else. He tricked me, in all honesty. Showed me something that wasnât real, reeled me in, and then revealed his true colors.â You shudder. âThe first time⊠the first time it happened, I shook it off, forgave him. I-â the memory is still so strong, it stuns you. The blood from your busted lip is fresh on your tongue, sting on the side of your face turning to a blooming ache.
âBunny?â Johnnyâs grip moves to your elbow, strong, but not too tight. An anchor. You shake your head.
âSorry.â
âYeâre alright, ye can stop if-â
âNo, I⊠I want to share these things with you. It feels like Iâm supposed to, like you should know me⊠like this.â
âWe already know you, sweetheart. Donât push yourself.â Simonâs tone is serious, and you nod.
âItâs embarrassing, looking back on it and realizing how bad it was, how bad I let it get. How I let him cut me off from everyone, change my career, squash me like a bug.â You laugh, but itâs empty.
âYe did nothinâ wrong,â Johnnyâs lips press together, muscles in his jaw straining, âwas never yer fault.â You donât answer, just trace the woodgrain of the table, texture moving beneath your fingers. The conversation is draining you, leeching light away like a horizon swallowing the last of the sun.
âHeâs rich. Like, fuck you money rich. Rich like make problems go away rich, and his jobâŠâ your head shakes again. Itâs the most youâve ever said, heavy buried secrets finally dug up, resurrected, the truth trembles through your bones. âHe has resources. Has chased me across the globe more than once. My only saving grace is that when he has to work, he has to work, and itâs usually for long chunks of time.â
âI know youâve said youâre not really sure, but did he ever tell you what his job entails?â
âHeâs in the military. Some sort of security work, department of defense, or something. He never really talked about it.â Johnny shifts in his seat, antsy, and you shrug. âHe kept that part of his life very, very private. There was even a room in the house that was always locked.â Your head is heavy, lead upon your shoulders, and Johnny tucks his arm around you, pulling you into his chest.
âI know this is hard bun, but yeâre so brave for us. Lettinâ us know ye this way. Iâm proud of ye.â He murmurs, lips to your forehead, and you fully relax, wrapping around his middle.
âIâm tired.â You whisper, eyes closing, and he rubs your back.
âLetâs get ye to bed then.â
âYour child is too big for me to carry!â You announce, hand on your hip, little backpack straps looped around your arm. Simon closes the door behind you, chuckling, and Penny plops onto the floor. She goes to a nursery day program now a few days a week, something that was a contentious subject in the house for far too long, opinions and arguments ping ponging over your head until the decision was finally made.
âItâs not safe.â
âYe cannae keep âer locked up here forever, love.â
âWhy not?â Simon bounced Penny against his chest, unimpressed look on both their faces, so alike you almost busted out laughing.
âBecause sheâs a child. She needs to be wâother children, not just us.â Johnny brings his free hand to his lips, squeezing Simonâs wrist. âI know yeâre scared.â Simonâs not the only one whoâs scared, you thought. Phillip lurked at the edge of your mind, worry that he might find Penny plagued you, even though they both assured that wasnât their main concern.
âSheâs too little.â
âSimon. We agreed on this,â Johnny gives him a sharp look, âdo yer research, find the best one. Ye know this needs to happen, for her. She needs to make friends, learn how to interact with kids her own age. Ye know this.â
âFine.â
âShe cannae be, not mâwee lamb.â
âShe is.â You rub your shoulder. âSheesh.â Pennyâs stomach gurgles at your feet, and Simon grimaces.
âThereâs a bug goinâ around the kids, teacher told me today.â
âNot surprising. Nurseries are little petri dishes.â You straighten your back, rolling your shoulder, and wince.
âHurts?â Simonâs thumb digs into the soft spot there, and your lashes flutter.
âMaybe ye need a hot bath,â Johnny suggests, and Simon ushers the two of you up the stairs.
âIâve got Pen. Go relax.â
âThis is nice.â Johnny soaps your back, lavender and vanilla steam swirling around in the bathroom as you lean against him, his chest to your back.
âAye.â The cloth drags across your chest, teasing your nipples, and you revel in his touch, soaking in every second he gives you, the brush of his cheek against yours, his lips on your neck. âLike havinâ ye all to myself sometimes.â You blink.
âDoes it bother you? When weâre not all together?â
âNo. Ye have a relationship witâ me, and witâ Simon, and we have a relationship all together. No one is the same. I like it.â
âMe too.â You settle again, loose and tender in the bath, soaped hands running up and down your back, kneading your shoulders, releasing the tension coiled in your bones. You groan.
âFeel good then?â
âYeah.â He presses a hand over your heart with a deep breath, before he takes another.
And then one more.
âWhatâs wro-â
âI love ye bun. Wholly. Think âve loved ye since the day I opened my eyes to ye leaning over the bed in hospital.â You turn, twisting to face him, and he dabs your nose with his thumb. âI dinnae have any expectations of ye, or yer feelings, but I had to be honest. I had to tell ye.â The confession fights its way forward, begging to be let out, to be freed.
Tell him. Tell him the truth. Tell him you love them, that theyâre your light, that theyâve chased the darkness away and replaced it with the sun.
You canât.
Instead, you rest your forehead against his, syncing your breathing, sharing the moment, holding onto him so tight in case he slips away.
âI canât say it.â You whisper, and he nods. âBut that doesnât mean⊠it doesnât mean itâs not there. Iâm just⊠I donât know if Iâm ready.â
âAnâ thatâs okay. Iâll wait, Iâll wait for ye as long as ye need.â Thereâs no pressure, no demands, just Johnny and his arms, his understanding and patience, his love.
You blink back tears and crash your lips to his. âThank you.â
Your stomach is what wakes you. Â
Something it in is burning, tossing bile around, the sensation strong enough your lips curl, and you try to draw a deep breath through your nose.
You wriggle, trying to pull free from where youâre tangled up in Simon and Johnny, carefully and slow, hoping to avoid waking them though you know even in their dreams, they sleep with one eye open.
 Still, you manage to make it to the bathroom before feet are padding across the carpet on your heels.
You sink to your knees in front of the toilet, stomach bubbling, sending the scorching remnants of dinner up your throat.
The door clicks open. âNo, get out. I donât want you to see-â you gag again, tap turning on at the sink, a cold washcloth folding over your neck.
âShhh,â Simon murmurs, rubbing your back, âget it all out.â
âOh god,â another wave swells, and your muscles tense, body expelling bits of bile and not much else.
âThatâs the way, good girl.â
âThis is gross.â You gasp. âYou should go back to bed.â
âIâve seen way worse than you puking, sweetheart.â
âShe alright?â Johnny half yells from the bedroom and you groan. The guilt of him having to maneuver himself out of bed, still not one hundred percent healthy, still not back to full strength, draws a shiver from your spine.
âIâm fine, donât come in here!â Your stomach pitches, fingers tightening against your thighs, but nothing comes up, again and again, until everything settles and youâre breathing deeply, steady, back straight.
âLetâs get you some water.â Thereâs no point in arguing with him. Heâs going to do what he wants to do when it comes to taking care of you, you know that now. Itâs painfully clear as he tries to help you drink from the glass, and then puts toothpaste on your toothbrush.
âIâm fine.â You assure weakly, but he only watches you, concerned.
âThink itâs the nursery bug?â
âProbably.â You sag, energy drained completely, and he steadies you, cupping your cheek. His touch is cool, and you lean into it, savoring the reprieve it brings against your throbbing temples.
âWant to go back to bed?â
âWhat if I throw up again?â He presses a kiss to your forehead.
âIâll jusâ clean it up.â
âCan I ask you a question?â You glance up at the timid mouse of a nurse, brand new, fingers clutched around a tablet like sheâs drowning and itâs her life vest.
âWhatâs up?â
âCan you⊠can you look at these orders for me?â She looks terrified, and it tells you everything you need to know. Sheâs probably caught a mistake.
Baby nurses begin their careers in a delicate position. Theyâre overwhelmed, fresh off a whirlwind of orientation, overloaded with policy and procedure, and depending on their preceptor, either somewhat prepared or completely lost. Pitting a baby nurse against a provider, even a first-year resident, is like sending a lamb in to confront a lion. The result is usually tears.
She hands you the tablet and you spot it immediately. Incorrect dosage.
âGood catch.â You reassure, coaxing a small smile, and she nods.
âWhat do I do?â
âWe go find the provider and clarify the dosage.â Youâre not going to leave it up to her, alone, hang her out to dry and probably get run over by whatever moron ordered it in the first place, who happens to be-
Marshall.
Your eyes couldnât roll any harder. âThe pharmacy is also very on top of seeing errors like this, but itâs good youâve noticed too, for the patient and yourself. Liability for things like this can be very tricky.â She nods again, trailing behind you, brand new squeaky sneakers echoing your own steps.
You canât stop the sigh that escapes you when you find him, leaned up against a wall, arms crossed, smirking, cocking his head at your companion. âWhatâs up?â
âCan you take a look at this for me?â You purposefully zoom in on the meds tab, practically painting a bullseye around his error. He scoffs, defensive immediately, dismissive, before he takes a closer look, jaw clenched.
âThatâs my mistake.â You blink. Marshall rarely ever takes responsibility so gracefully. Your eyebrow lifts.
âCare to fix it?â
âOf course.â His agreement is punctuated with a smile, though itâs off kilter.
âYou can go,â you nod to the nurse, âgood job.â Her eyes dart between you and Marshall, and without another word, scampers off.
âSheâs new?â His usual interest in new nurses is less enthusiastic than ever.
You hate Marshall. Heâs a scumbag. But heâs also been your coworker since day one, and you canât help yourself. âWhatâs up with you?â Â
âWhat do you mean?â
âYouâve never owned up to a mistake that quickly, and you didnât even make some smart-ass remark. Or berate her. Or give me an attitude.â He winces.
âItâs nothing.â But it doesnât seem like nothing. It seems like something is wrong, like heâs sad, or depressed, and try as you might, your bleeding heart canât walk away.
âWhatâs wrong.â You phrase a statement, a demand, instead of a question, and he blows a frustrated breath.
âItâs⊠Iâm seeing someone.â Your eyes go wide.
âWho?â Please donât say a nurse, please donât say a nurse, please-
âAnna. From radiology.â
âOh my god. The cupcake girl?â Anna was a fan favorite. Not only was she kind, but she was also quick with her reads, and baked cupcakes for the entire floor almost once a month. As far as radiologists go, she was better than most.
âYeah.â
âOkayâŠâ
âI really like her but⊠sheâs always been aware of my reputation and is trying to take it slow. Too slow.â You could lecture him with a million reasons why sheâs in the right, but it doesnât seem like heâs got the resolve to handle it.
âWhat do you mean?â
âSheâs dragging her feet. Doesnât want to hang out more than once a week, rarely stays the night. Iâve been to her place a handful of times, but thatâs it.â
âHow long has it been?â
âTwo months.â You laugh.
âThatâs it?â
âItâs a long time for me!â You hold your hands up in surrender.
âOkay, okay, but seriously. Two months is no time at all. Have you discussed the⊠reluctance with her?â He seems uneasy, and for the first time, youâre not sure if you enjoy watching him squirm.
âYeah. She says sheâs happy, but isnât trying to jump into anything,â his air quotes carry a whiff of the condescending asshole you know too well. This conversation couldnât be timelier, and you think back to what you told Johnny the other night.
âJust because sheâs taking it slow doesnât mean her feelings for you arenât there. You have to respect that. If sheâs still putting up with you after two months, Iâd bet sheâs just being cautious. Getting hurt sucks.â He nods thoughtfully. âGive her the time sheâs asking for, and donât give up.â
Donât give up.
The sentiment twists a knife lodged deep in your heart. Is that what will happen to you? Will they give up? Get tired of waiting for you to spill all your secrets, get tired of waiting for you to take the final step? To tell them you love them?
Get tired of waiting for you to let them use your real name?
âI didnât expect her, didnât expect to feel this way.â The mask comes down, revealing a hopelessly lovesick heart, the depth of it shining in his eyes.
âI donât think anyone ever does expect it. Thatâs the surprising thing about love, I guess.â You sway, a palm pressed to the wall as your hand flattens over your stomach.
âYou alright?â Marshallâs voice is far away as you breathe through your nose, trying to fend off the nausea tightening your throat.
âSorry, Iâve been a bit under the weather. Think Iâve got a bug or something.â Your stomach roils in warning, and you barely grit out an apology before dashing away.
Just in time to toss your breakfast up in the toilet.
âIâm fine.â
âI heard you in the toilet. You didnât sound fine, and you shouldnât be working if youâre sick.â Your manager shakes her head like sheâs disappointed, and you glare. You both know if you had called this morning talking about a stomach bug, she would have told you to suck it up unless you were actively vomiting.
âLook around. Do you see an excess of nurses on the floor?â
âWeâll manage. Or call someone in.â You shake your head.
âWeâre already way past policy ratios.â You bite your tongue when safe nearly slips out, not wanting to piss her off. Thatâs the unionâs job.
âAt least go sit down or something. Take a break. Come back in twenty minutes and let me know how you feel.â
Your closet is cozy, and for once during the day, unoccupied. The nausea has subsided, for now, and you shoot a text to the guys, asking about Penny. If you feel like this, you canât imagine how she feels.
You curl up and imagine youâre home instead, maybe in bed with a sleeve of crackers and some soda, warm chest at your back, a hand stroking over your hip. Maybe youâd have some soup, maybe the three of you would watch a movie after Pen went down for bed. You start to drift in the domestic fantasy, sleeping curling itself like a blanket over your shoulders, until youâre startled by the vibration of your phone, foot kicking forward in a jolt against a shelf.
A box falls to the floor.
HCG strips.
You stare at it for a long time, numbers and dates and weeks mashing together, calculations getting lost in the fray.
Youâre notâŠ
No.
Ridiculous. Not even possible. Youâre on the pill. Religiously.
You have the nursery bug that Pen brought home. Get a grip.
StillâŠ
You use the fifth-floor bathroom, one of the only single occupant toilets in the whole damn hospital, nausea now coming from a completely different source.
The timer on your phone is incredibly slow, or maybe itâs just time itself, the world turning in slow motion, every second elongated into turbulent silence, too many thoughts, too many feelings, too much of everything to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Fear.
Anxiety.
Panic.
Sadness.
Grief.
Itâs grief that is the strongest. Grief for something that Phillip stole, mourning for something that was once so close, so real, and then gone in an instant.
If you close your eyes, you can still feel his boot in your stomach. The press of a steel toe, jammed beneath your ribs, wild, deranged eyes staring down at you in a rage.
But-
Buried so, so far beneath the crushing weight of it all, there is a bright little pocket of sunshine. A small little sliver of light, beams of hope stretching for the sky, warmth spilling over until your hands tremble with the conflict warring inside you.
Nothing has changed, but everything could.
The timer goes off with a shrill chime, and you lean over the sink to where the small strip sits on top of a cup.
A bold pink line.
And then another, more faint, but certainly there. A simple equation, one plus one equals two. Simple math.
Tangible. Present.
Pregnant.
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Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least thatâs what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.
It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, youâre hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks.Â
As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.
Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all.Â
Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap
Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.
Chapters containing smut are marked with a *
Updates are posted on the weekends, either Saturday or Sunday PST
This fic can also be found on my Ao3 -> HERE
I will no longer be using a taglist for this fic, please follow THIS BLOG and turn on notifications
NAVIGATION PAGE CRCB DIRECTORY
Part 1 - The Omega
Chapter 1 - The Introduction Chapter 2 - Adjustments Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful Chapter 5 - What I Want *
Part 2 - The Bond
Chapter 6 - One Step Closer * Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost Chapter 9 - Save Me Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*
Part 3 - The First Heat
Chapter 11 - It's Coming Chapter 12 - Fire In My Veins* Chapter 13 - Piece Me Back Together* Chapter 14 - The Aftermath*
Part 4 - The New Normal
Chapter 15: Bonnie* Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes * Chapter 17: Alone Chapter 18: Don't Let Me Go Chapter 19: Daddy Issues Chapter 20: The New Normal * Chapter 21: Crime and Punishment * Chapter 22: I Won't Be Gentle
Part 5 - A Pack of Five
Chapter 23: Regrets Chapter 24: The Last First Time * Chapter 25: Animals * Chapter 26: Fuck * Chapter 27: Drown In It * Chapter 28: Two Is Company, Three Is A Party * Chapter 29: There's Something Wrong With My Omega
Part 6 - The Tragedy
Chapter 30: Butterfly's Wings Chapter 31: Forced Proximity Chapter 32: The Tragedy Chapter 33: Ghosts of the Past Chapter 34: The Whole Truth
Part 7 - The Aftermath
Chapter 35: Threads
Title card made by the beautiful @141wh0re
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I'm not super interested in a tough as nails, head held high, strong backboned reader. I'm already that bitch in real life. Give me the anxious, crying mess who needs her entire existence taken care of instead.
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Above the Ruins |Â Eight
Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
masterlist
In a world devastated by chaos and the threat of the undead, two destinies intertwine in an unexpected way. Ghost, a hardened ex-military man haunted by the horrors of war, encounters [reader], a lost and desolate young woman. With his experience and determination, Ghost decides to help her, and together they embark on a dangerous journey in search of a refugee center.
notes:Â English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.
Seven - Nine
"Damn it. Swim, Sergeant!" Ghost shouted, starting to swim against the current.
I let go of his arm and also began to try swimming. The river was wide, and the shore seemed far away. The current pulled us more and more. The thoughts of giving up and letting the water take me were overwhelming. My arms ached along with my legs, my lungs burned from lack of air, and my skin trembled, craving warmth.
It felt like an endless battle we werenât going to win. We were just meters from the waterfall, and not knowing its height terrified me. The sound of rushing water was loud, and I wondered how we hadnât heard it sooner.
Ghost and Soap were fighting just as hard as I was. Soap was farther ahead, with a look of total panic when his body disappeared, being sucked by the water that fell into God knows where. With a scream, I was pulled under shortly after.
The fall felt infinite, and my heart was on fire. My body didnât hurt, but my mind did. It was a constant thought of âI donât want to die.â
The thoughts stopped when my body hit the water, the fall snapping me out of the trance. Startled, I saw a larger body falling beside me, and I quickly swam upwards, realizing it was Ghost next to me, while Soap was farther ahead, with a pained expression.
"Are you guys okay?" I asked, breathing heavily.
"My ankle hurts, I think I hit a rock when I fell," Soap said.
I swam towards him, helping him to the surface and guiding him to rest on the riverbank where we had fallen. Ghost emerged shortly after, throwing his backpack on the ground and approaching us.
"Let me see," he said, kneeling beside us and removing Soapâs boot. "It's swelling. Probably a sprain, weâll need to immobilize it."
"I think we have bandages in the backpack," I said, opening Ghost's pack, where weâd stored the first aid supplies. "Theyâre wet, but they'll work."
"Help me hereâŠ" I held Soapâs leg as he groaned in pain. The larger man firmly wrapped the bandage around Soap's ankle, tying a tight knot.
"Damn it. This is going to be a problem," Soap said, trying to stand and groaning in pain.
"Nothing we havenât handled before. [Name], I hate to say this, but youâll have to lead the way. Take point, Sergeant."
This was my chance.
"Sure, Lieutenant."
I headed into the forest, with Ghost helping Soap to walk behind me. We moved in silence, listening carefully to every little sound. The tension was high, and the desire to prove myself even higher.
"We'll keep going in this direction until we find a good spot to camp. We're not far from the city, but Soap needs to rest," Ghost said quietly, and I nodded.
After a while of walking, I spotted a slightly flatter area, with few roots on the ground and some leaves.
"Good spot!" Ghost praised, helping Soap sit near a tree.
"What a shitty situation," Soap said, frustrated with himself.
"Relax, Soap. Try to rest as much as you can, Ghost and I will handle the rest."
"Sure, maâam," he said, laughing as he leaned against the tree.
Ghost and I started setting up the camp and preparing our lunch.
Unfortunately, the river wasnât what weâd hoped, and Soap's situation slowed us down since the plan was to reach the next city before nightfall. But I knew there was no point in being pessimistic about the situation; things happen as they need to happen. Maybe this happened for a reason? Maybe if we had arrived earlier in the city, things would have been worse. I tried to see the bright side of it all. There was no use being pessimistic in these circumstances, and in the reality we lived in, we were constantly doomed to danger, and sooner or later, this was bound to happen.
While Ghost opened the soup cans, I started hanging up our wet belongings.
"Soap, give me your jacket, please. Iâll hang our clothes to dry."
"Thanks, [Name]," he said, handing me his jacket.
Seeing what I was doing, Ghost quickly removed his jacket and handed it to me. I smiled at him, noticing his eyes narrowing under the mask.
The sun was still warm, but it didnât seem like nightfall would take long. I hung our jackets and the things that got wet in the backpack on a nearby tree, with the sun shining directly on them.
"[Name], your food," Ghost handed it to me, and I saw that Soap was already eating.
We ate in silence, with only the sounds of birds and the warmth of the sun, which was perfect after a river 'bath.'
"We need to be careful. Itâs going to be hard crossing the city with Soap like this, and waiting for his ankle to heal is risky. Our food wonât last."
"So, what are we going to do?" I asked, looking at him. Soap was also looking at him.
"The same thing we did to get here. Youâll go ahead. Very carefully, understood?" he said, emphasizing the "very carefully."
"Sure, Lieutenant," I said, laughing, finding his concern endearing.
"[Name]! Iâm serious!" he said sternly. "There will be many more of them in the city. Soap and I will be compromised. Youâre good, but youâre still inexperienced. They could catch us off guardâŠ"
"They wonât, Ghost. Iâll be careful."
"Good."
â§Ë°â
We rested until nightfall, Soap half-asleep against the tree, and I leaned against Ghost as he fiddled with my hand, noticing every detail. We stayed mostly quiet, just enjoying the peace.
After everything dried, we packed everything back into our backpacks, and at night we took turns sleeping.
The next day, I woke up feeling the sun on my face. I opened my eyes, noticing Ghost was already up.
"Good morning!" I said, getting up.
"Good morning!" he replied, walking towards me, hugging me, and kissing my forehead over the mask. I smiled at his gesture.
"I donât think I ever asked about your family," I said to Ghost as I started helping him break down the camp.
"It was a⊠difficult family. A lot happened. I had a younger brother, we lived with my mom and dad. My dad was a drunk who beat the three of us," he said with empty eyes, and I instantly regretted asking. "When I turned 17, he passed away, and when I became an adult, I joined the army. My brother got married and now has a kid," it seemed like a sensitive topic for him.
"Where were they when this happened?"
"His wife and kid were at home, he was at work. I havenât heard from them since. As for my mom, she became one of them."
"My God⊠Iâm so sorry," I said, getting closer to him.
"Itâs hard. I just wanted her to have a good life. After I started earning my own money, I tried to give her everything she never had: love, a comfortable life, a little house just the way she wanted and deserved⊠I hope it was enough to make up for the hell she went through with my dad."
"Iâm sure it was, Ghost. She must have been so proud of you."
"I hope so⊠Anyway, what about you? Do you know where yours was?"
"No. In fact, I never knew."
"What do you mean?"
"I was left by my mother for adoption as soon as I was born. I never met her."
"So, you lived in an orphanage?"
"Yes. I lived there my whole life until I became of age. After that, I was practically kicked out. Luckily, I passed the university entrance exam and got a 100% scholarship. I stayed in the dorms until all this happened."
"That must have been hard."
"It was very lonely. I couldnât make many friends."
"You didnât feel like you belonged there, did you?" he said as if reading me.
"Exactly. It was weird. It seemed like everyone had plans for the end of the year, for the holidays, for the weekend, except me," I said as we packed the last of the camp, with only Soap's things left, as he still slept with his mouth slightly open.
"I know a bit of what that feels like," he said, seeming not to want to continue the subject.
â§Ë°â
After waking Soap up, Ghost adjusted his bandages and helped him stand.
"Hereâs the map," he said, handing it to me and helping me put on my backpack. "We need to move faster today. We must reach the city before nightfall to have time to find shelter."
"Alright."
Ghost helped Soap with his backpack and supported him as they started walking."
#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley x you#simon 'ghost' riley x reader#ghost cod#ghost x reader#cod ghost x reader#simon ghost riley#cod fanfic#cod x reader#ghost x you#simon riley x y/n
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Hello! May I request an angsty toji fic where reader finds out she's pregnant (post megumi) and she knows toji doesn't want anymore children so she just kinda leaves with little to no explanation? Maybe just a small note saying things aren't working out. It's up to you if it will be a hurt/comfort. Idk you don't have to do this request I don't want to overload you! I seriously love your writing. The way you right the character just warms my heart. I especially love ur hiding an Injury fic it was SO SO SO GOOD. đ©¶đ€đ€
âpromiseâ
toji fushiguro x reader
Synopsis: see above
to sum it up: you think itâs better to run away than to be the one to get hurt
WC: 5,668
Warning(s): angst, suggestive themes, yelling, pregnancy, mentions of abortion
You stare down at the plastic tube clutched in your trembling hands in awe, eyes blown with shocked grief as you peer closer to get a better look, as though those two bright pink lines could have been a trick of your vision.
Unfortunately, however, your vision remains just as crystal clear as it always has been. As you stand in your cramped apartment bathroom, illuminated by a flickering fluorescent gaze shining down from above, horror befalls you.
Youâre pregnant.
You should have known sooner when you began feeling queasy every morning, taking trips to either your or Tojiâs toilet to hurl out the contents of whatever swam inside your stomach. You always tried to be silent if Toji was around, for he slept like a dog that could not be woken even if a meteor struck earth, and you had been remarkably exhausted. You arenât even sure if there is a word to describe how sluggish your entire mind and body had been feeling, but you wanted to rule out the very obvious answer to your problems before exploring it.
You begin to panic, your heart pounding in your ears and throat and every inch of your body you could feel the pulse, eyes blurry over the positive test. Youâre conflicted. You donât know how to feel. On the one hand, you would have been jumping for joy to learn that you are starting a new life with your boyfriend, to step into a new chapter of your lives and to provide his children with another sibling.
But hell, the celebration is far too naive and implausible to be had. The sage eyed man has told you time and time again that he does not wish to have anymore kids, that the ones he has are enough and he is not equipped financially or mentally to care for another brat. In honor of those wishes, youâre on the pill, and consequently, Toji has taken the opportunity to plow his load inside of you time after time after time.
And you really, truly should have known that with Tojiâs uniquely abled body, what was meant to serve as a barrier and a means of contraception did not work.
You feel like throwing up. What would Toji say? What would he do? What are you supposed to do? Should you tell him, fill him in on whatâs going on to risk rejection and abandonment, a nasty habit that Toji had to work to rid himself of when he met you? Would he even care? Would he listen?
You know Toji to be a very tough man, despite the softened interior he attempts to hide in othersâ company that is only displayed for you and for his kids. If he has always been adamant about one thing, itâs been to never have kids again, to focus on where he fucked up before and to pour his attention into the little family heâs grown, the one that he has now.
His voice echoes through your head like the gong of a church bell striking upon the earâs of a sinner.
âHell, I already got my hands full tryna get Megumi through his teenage years. What the hell is another child gonna do for us?â
âThat shitâs fuckinâ expensive. Not to mention, Iâd have to baby proof the house again. Thatâs another expense.â
âIf I was capable of givinâ you yâer own, I would, doll. But I ainât cut out for it. You know that.â
You donât even know why he would stress the matter so often. You suppose heâs caught the way your eyes linger on a mother tossing their giggling baby up and down into the air, innocent pools of joy beaming down at her each time it reaches the air and lands in her secure hold. Or maybe heâs seen the way you care so deeply for Tojiâs kids as though they are your own, despite telling you when you first got involved with each other that he did not expect you to step into their lives in anyway - and yet, you have done that and more. You know how the kids must struggle each day with the trauma of losing their mother so early on, and you never wanted them to think that you were trying to step in as her replacement, but you love them so clearly, as much as you love the man who created them.
Which leads you to your next concern. How would the kids react?
Itâs one thing for you, as their fatherâs girlfriend, to wander into their lives and help navigate them their teenage hood alongside the dark haired man, but to introduce an entire other child only leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
They may be crushed. They me turn to hate you, to despise how you have contaminated the life they have worked so hard to rebuild after numerous tragedies. And would Toji agree with them? Would he turn his nose up to you, that scowl of his melting over his harsh features as he shuns you just as he shunned every other woman who came after his wife and before you. Would he leave you? Would he kick you out of the world that has become your own because you failed to live up to your promise, though it technically isnât your fault that you are pregnant now but it feels as though it is?
You can not stand the thought, of the man you love turning his once loving gaze stone upon the sight of you, of him pushing you further away, permanently, in the same manner that he tried to when he realized that he was falling in love with you, of watching Megumi and Tsumiki turn their backs to you as though the past four years of your lives had never happened, banning you from their acceptance forever more.
Tears well in your gaze, interfering with your vision. This can not be happening, you think to yourself, everything has been going so well, and now this? This is going to ruin your relationship with Toji for good. Even if you were not in a committed relationship with him, you assume that the idea of any woman getting impregnated by Toji would have been thrown away. You would be thrown away, just like all the others who gave Toji their bodies but not their hearts.
Not the way you have.
Your heart clenches thinking of just how much you love Toji and the kids, of how you would be willing to lay down your own life for the sake of them as Toji swears that he would for you all in return. Even so, despite the commitment to you that a man who swore never to be committed to accustomed, this would be going too far.
âŠYouâre not even sure if he would love you anymore.
Now that youâre pregnant with his child, a child he never meant to have with you, you assume you will mean nothing to him any longer. In his eyes, you will simply become the slut that he took a chance on by a whim, carrying something he would never call his own. You believe the old Toji will resurface, the one who claimed not to care, the one who shoved women out of his bedroom before the sun rose in the sky, the one who often failed to remember to pick his kids up from school, the one who would no longer meet you at eye level but look down upon you, frown upon you for being so clumsy.
You know Toji is the one who did this, but this still feels like it is your doing. Like somehow, you trapped him and he now has no choice but to break free from the steel cage you have barred around him with your conception.
Your fingers clutch over the plastic, your eyes scrunching closed to release a fresh set of tears that cascade over your cheeks and onto the test. You can feel yourself mourning your relationship already, you can feel it slipping through your fingers, see it fading in the distance until it becomes nothing but a bittersweet memory that you can not determine as reality or a figment of your imagination any longer.
You tilt your head, bringing the test to your forehead as you think, grieve, cry. You mull over your options; you could hide this from Toji, get an abortion and never think of it again or you could tell Toji and lose him forever.
You open your bleary eyes, lashes decked with dewy tears, as another idea dawns upon you. You could leave, leave before Toji and the kids have a chance to leave you.
Itâs a cruel thought, you think, especially abandoning those children without any proper explanation for them, but what else are you meant to do? Youâd be doing them all a favor if anything by taking your leave without them having to be plagued by the knowledge of your unplanned pregnancy, of what they may view as a scheme to destroy their family in your new babyâs wake.
The thought kills you to even entertain. You had promised those kids that you werenât going anywhere, that youâd stay with them for as long as they allowed you⊠but this is different. This is not what any of you had in your cards, how you believed your futures to go. Toji wants simplicity at home while he works through chaos through his occupation. He wants security, warmth, safety for you, Megumi, Tsumiki, and no one else. He would never welcome another child. You believe heâd be caught dead before approving of your pregnancy.
And therefore, you know what you have to do.
After taking a few more tests to ensure that the readings are accurate, which they are, you pledge to walk away. You pledge to leave the only man youâve ever truly loved, the strongest family youâve known, and the slim possibility that despite Tojiâs wishes, he may accept you.
But you donât want to take that chance and risk the humiliation and unplanned heartbreak. Youâd much rather take matters into your own hands, and plan the shattering of your soul yourself.
You donât sleep all night, for youâre too busy drafting about twenty different letters to Toji. Crumpled loosleaf paper litters the floor beside your bed as you try to think of how to best write down everything you want to say. You go through pages and pages until you are finally satisfied with the result, and the next morning, you slip the envelope into his mail slot and prepare to pack your life away.
It is late Sunday morning when Toji rises from his slumber. The first thing he does is lean over the sheets and drape his arm toward his nightstand to read your daily good morning text - only he finds there isnât one. With pinched brows, he takes his phone to unlock it and visit your contact. Nothing.
The time reads 12:35 pm. Normally, youâre up and at it or even banging down his door by then to wake him. Maybe youâre just sleeping in?
He goes to give your cell a call, but nothing. Not only that, but your phone is also on do not disturb mode. His gut immediately swells with the suspicion that something is wrong. The dark haired assassin supposes heâs going to pay you a visit this afternoon as soon as he checks on the kids to ensure that they are alright.
His bedroom door opens with a creak, and he calls out to the teens gruffly through a yawn. When they donât respond, heâs truly growing concerned.
He rounds the corner to prepare to head for their rooms when he finds Tsumiki and Megumi at the dining table. His brows furrow, his pace slowing as he takes in their faces. Tsumikiâs lips are pressed together tightly and the muscles in her face are scrunched as though she is about to cry, while Megumi stares ahead with empty eyes and a hardened exterior.
Toji frowns with quirked brows, approaching his kids. âWhatâs wrong with you two?â
His brunette daughter looks up at him with glassy eyes and wrinkled chin, lashes fluttering while Megumi does not bother to look at his father. Instead, he brings Tojiâs attention to a torn envelope and a thick packet of papers pressed beneath the sixteen year oldâs palm. Wordlessly, Megumi slides it toward him, brows slanting.
Toji, perplexed, looks between the papers and his childrenâs troubled faces. What is this letter? Overdue taxes? An eviction notice? That canât be possible, because you had ensured that Toji and the kidsâ place was secure long ago.
He crunches the papers in his hands and picks them up to read. The first thing that catches his eye is your scribbling handwriting, and the following words that send his heart plummeting to his ass:
This isnât working out.
Toji whips his head up, baffled, and when he meets Megumiâs gaze again, his eyes are ablaze with resentment.
âWhat the hell did you do?â he growls.
The green eyed man is not even thinking before heâs dialing Shiuâs number, asking him to watch the kids for the next hour or so, and running out of the apartment after throwing rather unconvincing words of assurance over his shoulder to his kids, who are still with disbelief - Tsumiki with devastation and Megumi with rage, for surely his father pushed you away.
Toji does not bother finding a ride, electing to run to your place which is only a few blocks away. You two were just discussing moving in with one another, combining households, and this is what you spring onto him? Not even for him to stumble across first, but his kids who look up to you and love you like their own mother?
Oh, heâs fuming, a rush of emotions taking over his mind as it fuels his speed. The letter you wrote is still crunched in his fist, whipping through the air as he makes his way to you.
Dear Toji,
This is not working out.
But before you rampage and get angry with me, please let me explain. Let me explain how much I love you, how much those kids mean to me, and how every day I wake up I want to be greeted by all of your smiling faces. For the rest of time, forever. You are undoubtedly the only man for me, and I truly believe that. I know you may think Iâm bullshitting because of how the beginning of this letter contradicts what im saying now, but itâs true. I have never loved another person the way I love you, and while it scared me at first when you were so stubborn and full of anger that you misdirected onto me, I stayed and I waited and I helped you and Iâve loved you through every single moment, ever week, every month, and every year. You brought purpose back into my life, and I can picture you scoffing because youâd say the same, but I mean it. You, Tsumiki, and Megumi are the best things that have ever happened to me. I love you all so much.
But in this case, that love is not enough.
I hate to be doing this to you, to the kids, but I have no other choice. Things arenât going the way they used to, and itâs not your fault but mine. Iâm the reason. And it is tearing me apart to know that and simultaneously know what I have to do in order to keep you and the kids happy. Stable. I wish I could explain to you more why I am doing this, but I canât. Not just because I am dying to picture you reading this, but because I truly can not say. I do not want to ruin you guysâ image of me. While I think thatâs a selfish thing to say because who knows how me leaving is going to hurt you all, you would not understand even if you knew the reason behind this.
By the time you are done reading this, I will be gone. Iâm going away because as long as I am not with you all, I canât stay here anymore. I am staying with my mother while I get my travel plans arranged, because I know how you worry when you do not know where I am or if im safe. I should be gone by Friday.
Please do not come see me. I have made my decision, and you will only be hurting us more by trying to stop me. I wonât be stopped.
Kiss and hug and apologize to Megumi and Tsumiki for me. I hope you find someone who fills the role of their mother, someone who knows how Megumi likes to do his homework in the silence of his room with no music or anything, completely isolated so he can focus. Someone who knows how to fix Tsumikiâs eggs properly - to add extra butter to the sides when you fry them so the edges get crispier. Someone who wonât try to feed Gumiâa demidogs because he hates when people assume they can coddle up to them upon first introduction. Someone who cares for the wholly the way I do and always will.
And you. I know how stubborn you are. I know how angry you probably are at me right now, and I will miss that about you, but please do not let that interfere with the possibility of falling in love again. Beneath the layers of grit, standoffishness, and indifference, you are a man with a big heart. For me. For your kids. For those you love and seek to protect.
You say you arenât a good man, and while that may be true to you, you are an amazing partner and youâve already become an amazing parent. Iâve seen you grow, and I am so in love with you and so proud of you. I know youâll be okay without me. It maybe take some time, but youâll adjust to whatâs best. I promise.
With all the love that could possibly be harbored in this world, you are everything to me and that is why I have to go. I wish you every happiness this planet can offer you, and I know that without me, you can begin to find joy again.
Love,
Your doll
You had believed to time this perfectly, for you know that Toji usually does not wake until one, so soon as you are finishing up packing, you are trudging down the stairs to the leasing office to inform them that you will be moving.
You push open the door to the first floor, the breeze hitting you gently, and you round the corner only to be blocked by the last person you wanted to run into during this time.
Your eyes widen as you look up, the burly figure you have grown oh so familiar with over the years heaving as though enraged, ivy eyes crowding over slim pupils as Toji glares down at you, an image of indescribable fury.
Your heart drops and your words die in your throat. âT-Toji?â you whisper, horrified of an outburst. You are rattled by fear, having been so unprepared to walk into this. You did not put it past him to chase you down. But you figured that youâd be at your parents by the time he woke. Then, you could have at least told them to tell him off at the door.
But no. Instead, here he is, six feet and then some of bulking mass as he takes quick, deep breaths that expand the entirety of his chest.
You shift. âWhat are you doing here-â
âWhat the fuck is this?â
Toji swiftly, yet aggressively, lifts the papers in his hands, now damaged by his travels and his grip, shaking it firmly with the question. You gulp, lowering your eyes.
âToji, I told you not to comeâŠâ
âDonât you fucking dare,â he swears firmly, and you jump, looking to see if anyone is around to hear you, as the two of you are standing outside your complex.
âWe shouldnât be- letâs just go inside,â you go to grab his arm, but he tears it away. He stares at you as though you have burned him, singed the heart in his chest from the inside out, and he is so unforgiving. So unforgiving before he hears directly from your mouth what this is about.
âIâm not doinâ shit until you tell me what the fuck this is, (Y/n),â he demands, his hand moving the papers about passionately with his speech, and you feel your heart hammering again. This is not how things were supposed to go. You are not supposed to be seeing him right now. âCause I refuse- I fuckinâ refuse to believe that youâre breaking up with me.â
Your eyes gloss over as you look down at your feet, unsure of what to do or how to handle this confrontation. You canât do this. You canât, itâs too much. Itâs too hard.
ââŠI am,â you mumble.
Toji steps forward, leaning down to get a peek of your face, his expression so angry that it worries you. âWhat?â
âI said⊠I am.â
âUh uh, you better say that shit with your chest if you can write a whole damn letter about it,â he growls, fucking further as you continue to turn away. âLook at me,â he barks, and you cringe.
âToji, donât yell at me!â you shout back.
âWhat else doâya want me to do, huh?â he throws his hands up. âHow else do you expect me to react to this bullshit?! Youâre leavinâ me? After everythinâ we been through, after everythinâ you and the kidsâve been through, youâre leavin? Are you fuckinâ serious?â
He takes a swift glance at the papers, the very sight sending him into a spiral, before heâs heatedly looking back down at you.
âI donât buy this shit for one second. No. Youâre not leavinâ. Not in this world, or the next.â
âI am, Toji, the quicker you accept that, the easier itâll be for everyone!â
âEasy?â he winces as though the prospect pains him. âYou call this shit easy? You call up and tryinâ to abandon me easy? You call the kids waking up to your letter and reading it at the table before I saw it easy?â
Your face falls. ââŠwhat?â
âYeah. You fuckinâ heard me,â he sneers. âMegumi and Tsumiki read this shit first. First thing in the morning, they see a letter about how the woman they love is leavinâ âem, just like their mom did, and for what?â
You close your eyes, his words stinging you as they cut through. âDonât say that.â
âWhy not? Itâs true, ainât it? Yâer leavinâ us, (Y/n), and you didnât even have the decency to say why!â
Guilt crowds you, like a blanket of darkness consuming you from overhead, and as Toji stands before you completely torn apart by your letter, you see the fear in his eyes, the sadness, the unspoken plea for you not to go.
You try your best to keep your composure as you turn away again. âI told you, I canât tell you.â
âFuck that,â he lifts the letter and tosses it to the ground with a thud. You gasp, watching it slam to the concrete pavement.
âToji!â you exclaim.
âYou think you can just leave without me cominâ to hunt you down and see your face so I can figure out what the hell is goinâ on? You must not know me at all.â
âWhy do you always have to be so aggressive about everything?!â
âOf all fuckinâ things, (Y/n), I think I got a right to be aggressive about this. You were gonna leave without sayinâ goodbye!â he tosses his arm out to the side with the exclamation, brows twisting and teeth bearing. âIs that what our relationship means tâya? You think you can just toss us aside?â
âThatâs not what Iâm doing,â you beg, a lump forming in your throat as the two of you stand face to face, arguing without a car about who will see you.
âThen tell me,â he shouts. âCause youâre not givinâ me shit to go off of!â
âI told you already, I canât,â your lips quiver.
âThen our relationship is nothing to you.â
âNo, Toji.â
âClearly it ainât, cause Iâd think itâd be worth an explanation if youâre runninâ away!â you frown and shake your head, turning to walk back into the complex when Toji cuts you off, moving in your way. âYou donât think I know you? You donât think I see it all over your face that somethinâs got you scared, and yâre takinâ off because of it? You think I donât know what that looks like, (Y/n)? I did that shit. I did it all the damn time before I met you, and hell, I tried to run then but you wouldnât let me, so what the hell makes you think Iâm gonna let you now?â
âThis is different,â you say shortly, afraid to reveal the tremble of your voice to the man before you. You keep your gaze down as you try to go around him again, but to no avail. He steps in your path. âStop!â
âI ainât stoppinâ,â he says gravely, keeping his eyes to yours though you try to avoid contact with them. âNot until you spit it out. Iâll be damned if I got another broken home cause yâre fuckinâ scared.â
âI said stop!â you try to find some bass in your voice, but against your will, it falters when you yell. Toji eyes you carefully, reaching his hand out to grip your shoulder and steady you into place.
You scoff, attempting to pull away, but itâs no use. The dark haired man is everywhere, keeping you from walking away.
âYou talk to me like the grown ass woman you are,â he tells you sternly, stepping in. âYou use that voice I know you have, and donât you ever let me catch you writinâ a letter to me about how you wanna break up instead of cominâ to talk to me. Yâunderstand?â
You exhale shakily, lips pressing together and brows curling. âI canât.â
âYâre still not tellinâ me why you think that.â
âBecause I canât, Toji. I canât tell you. Itâll- itâll fuck up everything!â you break, and Toji feels the pit in his stomach shift as he looks over your aggrieved expression, depicting the same exact things he feels.
â(Y/n),â he calls your name firmly, the sound of it on his tongue only inspiring the urge to cry more. You continue to shake your head though Toji isnât exactly speaking, and his green eyes wander you with frustrated concern. âYâscared of what Iâll do if you tell me?â
You freeze, slowly peeling your eyes to look at his, his face tense with grief. You stare at him for a moment, mouth gaping like a fish as all of your insecurities that talked you toward this ledge run through your mind once more.
âDonât look surprised,â he says. âI know you like the back of my hand, and I know that you knew Iâd be over here to stop ya.â
Your frown deepens, and this time as you look at him, you see every second of your future that you were quick to stomp dow. You see the unbridled, unfiltered love he holds for you as well as the blood curdling fear of letting you go.
âYou have to understand,â you whimper. âI know how youâll react, I- I canât do this to you. You have to let me go.â
âWhat the hell could be so horrifyinâ in that head of yours to make you think that I wonât stick with ya through hell and high water?â he grits out, searching your swollen hues of (e/c) hesitation. âYouâd do the same for me.â
âI know, but-â
âThereâs nothinâ else to say. I ainât leavinâ until you spill, and when you do, yâre cominâ with me.â
You look at him, pained. Itâs a trap, you think. If Toji only knew, heâd be running for the hills instead of trying to track you down.
âOut with it, now.â
You canât. You canât tell him. Heâll leave you, heâll reject you, heâll turn you away, heâll never let you see the kids again.
â(Y/n)!â
âIâm pregnant!â
The earth seems to freeze and time seems to slow. You scrunch your eyes, anticipating the worst to come as Toji takes in your words, his tensed expression melting slowly.
You donât open your eyes to see his reaction. You keep your head ducked and your fists closed as the white noise of nature flutters into relevance. Youâre trembling, terrified, and Toji can not move but instead proceeds to stare at you, stunned.
His words about not wanting any more kids run through your mind again as you await his response, and the suspense kills you as you do. You can feel his grip on your shoulder slacken before tightening again, and you are terrified.
Heâs going to leave you.
You are quick to step away when the sentiment arises once more, Tojiâs hand falling from you arm. âIâm sorry,â you whisper, still unable to look at him. âIâm sorry, I know that you donât want any more kids. I know, an I thought we were being careful, but- I took five tests. Theyâre all positive.â
âYouâre pregnant?â he echoes, and you still. You knew it. You knew this would happen.
âI told you, Toji,â you exhale. âI told you that I couldnât tell you, and now everythingâs a mess.â
He twitches. âHold on-â
âDonât tell me all of a sudden you want kids,â you snap. âI know how strongly you feel about it.â
âSo instead of talkinâ to me, you were gonna leave? Knocked up? That doesnât make any sense.â
âWhat other choice do I have?!â you cry. âYou donât want more kids, and if I kept it, it would only be a nuisance to you. And Megumi and Tsumiki?â
He scrunches his face. âWhat about âem?â
âHow do you think theyâd feel if the woman youâre dating after their mother died surprised them with a new baby? Theyâd be crushed!â you say shakily as salty tears well in your eyes again. âI canât overstep your boundaries. I just canât. Itâs easier for me to go.â
âAnd do what, (Y/n)? Raise a kid on your own without any help?â
âI canât bare you leaving me!â you suddenly confess, tear striking past your cheek.
Toji examines you and frowns. âWhat are yâtalkinâ about? Youâre tryinâ to leave me!â
âSo I can prevent the inevitable from happening,â you huff. âIâm okay with it. Iâve made peace with everything. Thatâs why you need to just let me go-â
âAfter everythinâ, you think Iâd throw you away because youâre pregnant with my kid?â Toji says incredulously. You falter, for you had been so sure of his reaction before. âYou think that low of me?â
âNo, but I want you to have what you want.â
âWhat I want is you, you fuckinâ idiot,â he hisses. âAll I ever wanted was you, and I canât fuckinâ believe youâre tryinâ to take that away from me.â
You furrow your brows, confused. ââŠYouâre not mad?â
âGirl, Iâm livid,â he scowls. âNot about the damn kid, but because you assumed what I would say before cominâ to me.â
âToji, you have to understand that I was trying to look out for you.â
âThereâs not lookinâ out for me or those kids or makinâ them happy if youâre gone, (Y/n),â he bites. âWho thâfuck put that idea in your head?â
You stammer, tears proceeding to flow down your face as you reel in the reality of the situation. âI⊠I just thought-â
âI donât wanna hear it.â
Before you can respond, his hand is gripping your wrist and heâs tugging you toward him into his chest. You shake when you fall into him, listening to the pace of his heart rapidly beating against your ear as he breaths quickly against you. Large palms smooth over your head and down to your waist as he holds you tightly, and you notice how desperate his grip is. Heâs holding you like heâs afraid youâll disappear, as though youâll fly away if his hold is not tight enough.
He tucks his head into your neck, fingers grasping into your shirt, and suddenly the animosity of the moment prior is gone. Youâre still trembling, leading Toji to hold you tighter to him.
âCanât believe you tried to leave,â he murmurs into your hair. âChrist, (Y/n) youâre tryinâ to gimme a heart attack. The fuck is goinâ on with you.â
âIâm sorry,â you mumble into his chest, looking off sadly. âI thought youâd be upset about it. I didnât want you to know.â
âI should know about any and every single thing thatâs goinâ on with you, yâhear me? This ainât no exception.â
A weight flutters from your shoulders as you sink into Tojiâs head, silent tears streaming for the life you almost sacrificed. âWhat are we gonna do?â
âI dunno,â he mumbles. âBut weâll figure it out. As a team. Alright?â
You nod meekly. âOkay.â
He groans, pressing himself impossibly further to you. âThat letter⊠fuck, donât do that shit. Donât fuckinâ scare me like that. Without you, I ainât shit- pregnant or not. And those kids would adore another sibling if you were bringing it into this world. Donât say that shit about them again either. They need ya. We need ya.â
âIâm sorry,â you whine again, Tojiâs hand stroking over your back soothingly.
âItâs okay,â he grumbles. âWeâll figure it out.â
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Disclaimer: THIS is a personal opinion of mine so attack me all you want, Iâm just going to block you anyways so try it đ
So like yesterday I was talking to a friend about the current state of fanfics online and we fell down a rabbit hole that basically led to one conclusion: YALL HAVE PORN ADDICTIONS!!! Now woah, woah hold your horses before you point your pitchforks at me, hear me out. Reading smut every single day isnât normal, like Iâm so sorry to be the one to tell yall this but itâs not normal, like I donât know. Itâs the same way with watching porn every single day, itâs not normal. People tend to think itâs okay because theyâre reading it, but that doesnât make it any better. I know some of yall get off to it and look thatâs okay but like when it becomes a daily thingâŠ. I donât knowâŠ. Me personally I donât get off to smut, I mean I appreciate a smut here and there specifically with an actual plot in the fanfic, but yeah Iâm not getting off to it everyday or at all for that matter.
He put his cock in her, he slammed into her, he spat in her mouth, blah, blah, blah itâs all the same thinggg. Even when they like change the au into an office setting, college setting or whatever, itâs still SOO BORINGGG. Some people donât even do that they just jump right to the sex like damn girl, what happened to hello? How are you?
Now am I shaming you all for liking smutâŠ.no, but I am pointing out the fact that many of you potentially probably have porn addictions. Now do I care that many of you may have porn addictions ehh, no but at the same time yeah because I wish yall would write something else other than Gojo, Geto, Eren, Nanami, Toji or whoever the fuck dicking Y/n down on a random ass Saturday night. I really do miss the golden era of fanfics back when Wattpad didnât have ads. We used to be so greatâŠ..đ
Also Iâm just salty I canât find fanfics that I like, woe is me
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my favorite version of ghost is when the author describes him having a fucked up face, broken nose improperly set, chipped and missing teeth, scars everywhere, cleft lip, acne+acne scars. grabby hands. gimme
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Go to therapy or read another fan fiction of your favorite fictional character?
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"141 x reader" *excludes gaz* PLS I'M SO TIRED OF Y'ALL FORGETTING THAT GAZ EXISTS AND THAT KĂNIG ISN'T A MEMBER OF TF141 FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP REPLACING GAZ WITH KĂNIG IT'S PISSING ME OFF
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Had to do Toji's version. (â äșșâ *â ÂŽâ ââ ïœâ )â ïœĄâ *ïŸâ +
@brainfizz 's request
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Above the Ruins | masterlist
Simon Ghost Riley x fem!reader
In a world devastated by chaos and the threat of the undead, two destinies intertwine in an unexpected way. Ghost, a hardened ex-military man haunted by the horrors of war, encounters [reader], a lost and desolate young woman. With his experience and determination, Ghost decides to help her, and together they embark on a dangerous journey in search of a refugee center.
notes:Â English is not my first language, and I initially wrote this fanfic in Portuguese. With the help of online resources, I rewrote it in English.
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Eight
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