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#a friend in need part 2
xwpfan · 9 days
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Finally watching A Friend in Need for the 3rd time in my life, (I usually do my rewatches without watching part 1 & 2) so as usually I have saved watching Soul Possession for the last to ease the pain.
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I've just reached the scene where Gabrielle finds Xena's Chakram, I think I am going to cry again. 😭
Edit: Gabrielle dropped the ashes!
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rendevok · 3 months
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step into the light
what do you see?
my sun,
my stars
shining on me
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hajihiko · 6 months
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Any chance you have more doodles of casual intimacy between the surivors? me and my homies Love that Good Platonic Intimacy rep, never be afraid to kiss/cuddle the homies <3
doodles? No. Hajime being Good With His Hands? I do now!
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stevebabey · 1 year
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no one asked but this is the post that inspired this! thank u immensely for the luv <3 number 1 comment was wondering what steve’s bids were & from his pov, so without further ado...enjoy — part one here!
Begrudgingly, Eddie has to admit that Robin might be right.
It’s impossible not to be looking for the bids since he brought them up to her. Even though Eddie was fully expecting to tell Robin to suck it, maybe even wager what little money he had against this working out, Eddie can’t help but watch for them in every interaction. And fuck, she’s right.
They’re little, but they’re there.
The first one Eddie would’ve missed if he wasn’t looking for it. Actually, that’s a lie; Eddie does miss it, until Robin points it out, the nosy bitch. It’s minuscule and honestly, it just seems like Steve asking his opinion — which friends do all the time! It’s why Eddie brushes right over it.
“Okay, be honest,“ Steve had said, walking and talking as he entered the living room where Robin and Eddie were sprawled across the couches. They were both waiting on him, the three of them set on heading out to the drive-in to catch a film.
Eddie can’t fathom why Steve felt the need to change his outfit for it, but when he returns, he gets it. It’s not quite the usual polo Eddie had grown to like on Steve, this one hanging a little looser, the colour a bit darker than Steve’s usual choice, the sleeves a little shorter — almost midway to a muscle tee.
Steve’s fingers fiddle with the distressed collar of the shirt, smoothing invisible wrinkles and fussing over nothing. He swishes back his floppy hair with a flick of his head. “It’s a new shirt, I know it’s a little different - but what do we think?”
He says we but he’s looking at Eddie.
Eddie, who has taken to trying to reel in his gawp because what the fuck Steve? It’s like he’s well aware of what drives Eddie insane and has specifically leaned into it. Some evil goblin in Eddie’s brain whispers think how good he’d look in your shirt and he squashes it, giving a visible twitch to shut down that train of thought.
From the other couch, Robin clears her throat loudly and smiles sweetly at her best friend. “It looks great, Steve.”
It’s sincere and Steve’s mouth tugs up, nearly a smile but his gaze fast-tracks back to Eddie. Eddie nods in agreement, a bit sluggish from his distracting thoughts and god dammit, the extra exposed skin of Steve’s arms are so not helping. “Yeah, looks... looks good, man.”
Steve smiles, lips pressed together but his shoulders curl in just a bit, deflating just a tad. From where Steve can’t see her, Robin waves her hands wildly and catches Eddie’s attention. He watches as she gestures wildly and it takes a moment to realise what’s she mouthing — ‘A bid! That’s a bid, you idiot!’
Oh fuck, Eddie thinks. Cos it totally was; the question, the focus on Eddie. He doesn’t even think about the logistics of it, of the fact Robin was right, just jumps right into picking up the bid.
“You trying a new style?” Eddie asks and then thanks whatever god invented the whole fake-it-to-you-make-it schtick because he’s feeling so far from casual or confident. “Going metal on me, big boy?”
Eddie just manages to catch the grin that breaks across Steve’s face as he turns away, giving a scoff — it comes out too soft though, giving away his complete lack of annoyance. He pulls that usual Steve Harrington pose, hands sliding onto his hips, and screws his face into some melted smiley-grimace. “Shut up, Munson.”
Eddie grins and goads on the blush that’s beginning on Steve’s neck, a glorious tinged pink colour. “If this shirt is any indication, you’d pull it off just fine.”
Eddie watches the blush climb higher as Steve ignores the comment, his smile still giving him away. He grabs his coat and pats down his jeans — ridiculous tight acid wash jeans that Eddie hates he’s somehow become attracted to — ensuring he has his keys and wallet. Once assured, he looks up at his two friends again, brows raised, and says, “Ready to rock and roll?”
That comment alone has Eddie seriously reconsidering his type in men.
There’s only a brief moment to talk about it when Eddie and Robin cajole Steve into going and getting them both popcorn to get a moment alone. Steve had scoffed, face twitching in the way it did whenever he tried to hold back a bitchy comment, but he still stomped off in the direction of the snack stand.
The moment he’s out of earshot, both voices explode in the back of Eddie’s van.
“What did I say—”
“Jesus H Christ, you were right—”
“Literally how many times do I have—”
“Oh my god, you were right—”
“ —before you realise I’m always—”
“Robin.” He cuts her off, hands landing on her shoulders. Robin eyes them warily, lips still parted from how her rant had been cut off. “Robin, I’m gonna kill you.”
“What?” Robin’s nose scrunches up. “What the hell are you—”
“Oh Christ, I can’t believe- how long have you noticed those bids?” Eddie’s aware he sounds a bit estranged, eyes probably wide and it doesn’t help when he softly shakes Robin back and forth. She lets herself be shaken, hair flying back in forth. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! You are such a bad gay friend!”
Robin smacks his hands off her shoulders with a frown, her freckly face perturbed at Eddie’s outburst. “Dude, it’s not my fault! May I remind you that until very very recently you were seeing someone else? What difference would it have made?”
Eddie waves his hand, disregarding the point with a shake of his head. His unkempt curls cover his face and Eddie sweeps them back in one motion, “What difference would it have made? Oh my, Jesus—“
Whatever long-winded sentence Eddie was about to spit out is lost by the sound of Steve’s approaching footsteps, effectively shutting both of them up.
Eddie flings himself to the other side of the van, putting an unusual amount of distance between Robin and him like they were being caught doing something they shouldn’t.
Robin frowns at him and gestures wildly with her hands in a way that means what the fuck man? Eddie gestures back, though he’s not entirely sure what his fast hand motions are supposed to mean when Steve rounds the door.
He’s got two buckets of popcorn tucked under each arm and Eddie quickly crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits like his stupid hand motions will somehow give him away. 
Steve looks up, stopping just a way from the edge of the van, and looks at the pair of them. His eyes track from Robin still sitting on one of the old cushions and looking two seconds from burying her face in her hands, across to Eddie. He huffs a laugh and kneels on the edge of the van.
“I know he’s gross Robin,” He begins, tone light, as he holds out one of the buckets for Robin to take. “But c’mon, is the distance really necessary?”
Robin snickers as Eddie makes an appalled noise, both of which make Steve smirk. He holds out the other for Eddie to take and Eddie snatches it, glaring at him over the buttery rim for his comment. Then takes a handful and shovels it in because he can’t think of a witty comment to retaliate. Steve crawls into the van and plops himself between them with a content sigh.
“See? Gross.” He teases, shoving his hand into Eddie’s popcorn bucket to grab a handful. Eddie scowls and chews a little faster when the flavour on his tongue seems to register in his brain.
His eyes stare at the popcorn bucket as he chews, then swallows — up the front of the van, the radio that’s tuned into the correct frequency begins playing the opening credits song as the screen changes. Silence sweeps across the drive-in but despite the sudden hush, Eddie has no qualms about breaking it.
“Sweet n’ salty flavour?” He asks Steve, only half attempting a whisper. Robin shushes him instantly, her focus already on the movie that’s beginning. Steve smiles, looking a bit sheepish beneath the glow of the drive-in screen, but he nods.
“I know you like it.” He whispers with a small shrug of his shoulders. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Fuck, Eddie thinks again and hastily feeds himself another handful of popcorn before he says anything majorly stupid in response to that, like: Oh, amazing- have you noticed the big fat crush I have on you as well?
He doesn’t even need to look at Robin to know she’s smiling, smug as ever.
Steve, God bless his oblivious little heart, doesn’t even realise he’s doing it.
Steve likes Eddie. Eddie is— god, Eddie is different but he’s good.
He’s this strange amalgamation of traits that Steve can’t comprehend how they fit together in one body or how Eddie manages to pull it all off completely charmingly.
He’s loud, he says rude things, he’s fucking dorky, and far too sweet on the kids — he likes to tease Steve, and yet somehow, when Eddie calls him ‘pretty boy’, Steve knows he’s not actually making fun of him.
Steve likes Eddie, likes his boyishly endearing charm, likes his touchiness towards Steve that no other boy his age is like, likes his messy curls and his ‘holier than thou’ attitude about metal music even though Steve doesn’t get it, like at all. And fuck, Steve really wants Eddie to like him.
It reminds him faintly of when he first started working alongside Robin at Scoops. That thought tickles in the back of his mind, something along the lines of how he had wanted Robin to like him for other reasons, but he doesn’t delve into it.
To Steve, it’s simple: he just wants Eddie to like him.
After the night at the drive-in, between Eddie acting strangely skittish and Robin giving more amused snorts than usual, Steve knows something is up.
He knows they must have discussed something when they sent him on popcorn duty, the bastards. He tries his best to not feel left out; god knows Robin and he have more than a dozen secrets they’ve sworn not to tell anyone but each other.
Besides, Steve trusts Robin to come and tell him if he really needs to know, even if it does worry him a bit. He bites down his anxious thoughts, even trying for a moment to see if there’s a pattern he’s been missing.
That train of thought gets derailed when Steve recalls instead Eddie’s delightful reaction to his new shirt — that Steve definitely hadn’t bought for that specific reason.
Even though Robin had given him that look when he’d first shown it to her — her bright eyes had narrowed, her smile turning a little more coy, and Steve had felt his ears get a little hotter. She hadn’t said anything though, just suggested that he should wear it tomorrow night when they were going out with Eddie.
God, he was glad she suggested it.
Rewinding over Eddie’s parted lips, the way his brown eyes had drank in the details as they trailed up his body and lingered on his arms— Steve had the sudden thought to flex the muscle, just to elicit some reaction, but it had gone out the window at Eddie’s original dismal reaction.
‘Yeah, looks... looks good, man’. Said all aloof, like he hadn’t really thought it. It was like bursting a balloon hidden behind Steve’s ribs, one he wasn’t even aware was there until it was deflating pathetically, making his shoulders sag.
Then— ‘You trying a new style? Going metal on me, big boy?’ And dammit, it’s like Eddie had clocked exactly what calling him ‘big boy’ had done the first time in the Winnebago.
Eddie had then grinned, done another once over of the new shirt, even as Steve pretended to search for his keys and wallet while saying something snarky to try to cover up the heat crawling up his neck. Yet, Steve found himself smiling too because, fuck yes, Eddie liked it too.
But, apparently, whatever Eddie and Robin had discussed wasn’t considered important enough because Robin never brought it up.
The thought and worry about it melt away in Steve’s mind until the memory of that night is about Eddie’s compliment, about his cat-like grin over the popcorn bucket, and how he had leaned over to whisper every bad joke into Steve’s ear all through the movie.
Some of them had been down-right filthy jokes which Eddie only seemed to enjoy more when Steve screwed his face up and nudged Eddie in the ribs, yet unable to hide his smile.
After the third vulgar joke and subsequent nudge, Steve had chided ‘dude’ with a poorly hidden grin. Eddie, smile all cheeky, had nudged him back with a ‘dude’ of his own.
Which, of course, ensued a nudge competition til Robin had given a shush that librarians all over the world would be jealous of. But Steve didn’t even care because he and Eddie were arm to arm, pressed close together and Eddie…didn’t move. Stayed close, like he wanted the closeness the same way Steve did.
Steve only remembers the strange drive-in moment when Robin brings it up finally, on one interesting Saturday night.
It’s not the usual routine; it’s not very often that the whole group gets together to share drinks and get rowdy.
But it was for Robin’s birthday and she’d been persuasive enough to get even the introverts, like Jonathan, to come along. Though, she was aware he’d probably spend the night on a pool lounger, stoned to high heaven. Whatever floats your boat, she’d said, happy for the company in any form.
There’s enough of them there that it almost resembles some sort of party— and makes Steve try not to think about the last small party he threw here. He can tell Nancy notices it too, eyeing the pool a bit too long in a way he’s very familiar with, then taking a swig of beer.
So, Steve heckles them inside — doing a fantastic mothering impression as he waves the group indoors with a promise of pizza, and that has both Jonathan and Argyle perking up and beginning a fast discussion on the best pizza toppings.
Eddie makes a fuss, because of course he does, and moans terribly when Steve tries to roll him off the pool lounger he’s on. He’s had a bit of a joint and some beer, and Steve’s learned that he gets adorably stubborn after some substances.
“Stevie, this is mean,” he had pouted, gripping the edges of the lounger and staring up at Steve with those big brown eyes. “You telling me I did all that bonding with you for nothing? Can’t even lounge by the pool! I’ve got a couch at homeeeee.”
Steve had sent him an amused look of disbelief, hands on his hips after his first round of flicks against Eddie’s arm were apparently fruitless to get him to move. “Really? Didn’t peg you for a gold-digger, Eds.”
Eddie had snorted at that, one hand coming to slap over his mouth. Steve couldn’t quite hear what he had said but the words pegging and anytime slipped through and Steve thinks he could get the gist of that.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Steve muttered, feeling the tips of his ears turn warm. He didn’t know how Eddie could be such a menace— or why he enjoyed it so much when he was. Steve waved a hand in the direction of the doors, ignoring Eddie’s delighted snickering. “If you go inside now, you can be on music, alright?”
And that had finally got them all indoors, Eddie whooping and skedaddling through the doors in an instant, with a call of ‘no take backsies!’ echoing behind him.
Inside was much cozier, the whole group a little more connected when squished up on the couches together. Eddie had taken Steve’s word and was jamming a cassette into one of the speakers when Steve made it back inside after scouting around the pool for leftover cans and butts to throw out.
He’s just been thinking about what playful jab he could make at Eddie’s music, like Eddie always did to him when Robin hollered at him from the kitchen.
“Steve!” She’d yelled excitedly and he come to find her quick, brows raised as he entered the kitchen. She was grinning, already a bit jumpy as she got when she had a bit of liquor — but apparently not enough because when Steve saw what she’d called him in for, she’d announced, “Tequila shots!”
Which lead to now. A hazy combination of beer, tequila, and a bit of weed, and Steve is feeling good. Robin had managed to hijack the music not too long ago, with a hiccup of ‘it’s my birthday’ that had Eddie surrendering with a pout.
She’d since put on a bit of everything: some Blondie for Nance, Talking Heads for Jonathan, and some Bowie, just so she and Steve could dance along to ‘Magic Dance’ and she could do all the silly little goblin voices that made them both cackle.
Steve realised at some point that Robin was playing their mixtape, the one she’d made for driving in the morning, and nearly tripped stumbling over to her in his excitement. He grabbed her shoulders, not too hard, and squeezed.
“Is it- is this our mixtape?” Steve asked, words slurring only a bit. Robin gleamed, hair bouncing with her excited nod.
“Yes!” She was already dancing, even though the tape was between songs — because she knew what song was coming. “It’s Springsteen time, Steve!”
Right as the drums to Born to Run filtered out the speaker.
And oh, Steve loves Robin so much. He loves having a best friend that knows his favourite song and gets jittery and excited because she knows it’s about to play— that she put it on this mix for him.
“You’re my best friend!” Steve says, the words bursting out like he can’t control them. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed, just happy, just drunk, and overwhelming happy to be able to have this.
And even though Robin knows this, she still beams, feet dancing along and just begins to sing along with the song, “In the days, we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”
It’s a brazen drunken performance from the both of them. Steve’s chest is heaving after just one chorus that he’s pretty sure he put his whole soul into and he’s so fucking happy —and it feels like pure instinct to seek out Eddie, his eyes scouring the room for him.
Eddie’s leaned up against the wall, hiding his smile behind a can and Steve doesn’t think twice about it— doesn’t think about why he’s so drawn to Eddie, why he wants to include him in this happiness — just extends his hand out and grins.
Eddie sees the bid coming this time.
Part Three.
— 
yes i saw all ur lovely tags and MAYBE cried about it. but thats none of ur business.
@orangeandthefairroadkill @swimmingbirdrunningrock @sadcanadianwinter @phantypurple @omg-elledubs-things @henderdads @farfaras @mixsethaddams @prismandblue @kerlypride @bushbees @legitcookie @temporalcoffin @callmesirkay @beautifully-useless @millyditty @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @ninjapirateunicorns @darkwitchoferie @vi-the-best-you-can @psychosnowfox @desert-fern @scarletzgo @cr0w-culture @softpink-candlelight @livingforfictionalcharacters @makewavesandwar @kozuuji @rhapsodyinalto @eddiethesexy @cassaloopa @lightwoodbanethings @qu33rcommunist @moonlitkilljoy @starkdusk @theysherobinbuckley @sanguineterrain @loganwright @sillysparrow @hotcocoaharrington @eddie-munson-is-my-wife @she-is-tim @steddiehearts @sideblogofthcentury @sidebarre @corrodedcoughin @stevieclaus
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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 7 months
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Cultivator and Lawyer, Elle Woods (& Her spiritual dog Bruiser)!
Part 2 (soon)
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sherrymagic · 5 months
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not P'Jojo saying he had to beg Neo and Mark to stop while shooting their first sex scene on Neo's very first day on set 'cause they are competitive little shits and they just kept going after he called for the cut 😭😭😭
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kirby-the-gorb · 1 year
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girl4music · 6 months
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The kiss of life before it became apart of general CPR was something that was very romantic. It was in many of the fairytale animations that depicted a whirlwind romance. Mostly Disney. And it became a thing that to save your lover’s life you give them a true love’s kiss by passing oxygen into their lungs from your own mouth.
Xena and Gabrielle went above and beyond that. Somehow Gabrielle passing water into an already dead Xena’s mouth seemed so much more romantic. It still floors me all these years later that they got away with this kiss when the network censors would pick up on even the slightest explicitly gay content with them.
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sentientsky · 4 months
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+ a bonus! (post-season 2)
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part 5 (because i have to write a paper and i’m procrastinating). welcome back to “wren makes shitty gomens posts using her real-life actual text messages”
(Part 1)
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uncanny-tranny · 8 months
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Over the years, I've gotten a lot of cis people messaging me about how they should go about dating or courting somebody who's trans, and I always felt like my responses would almost... disappoint them because there isn't this magic secret to dating us.
Cis people, if you want to date us, just date us. We're human beings, we're not wild animals to tame! I promise you can have a healthy relationship with a trans person without needing to feel like the world will end if you mess up.
Trans people who date cis people often want to feel secure in your acceptance of them. You don't have to talk about our transness for hours on end to prove that you accept your loved one. You don't have to put on a display and cabaret about how Much You Accept Us. Just be a person around us, and let us be people, too!
I almost want to disappoint cis people by reminding them of this. Some of the best relationships I've had with cis people have been ones where my transness is acknowledged, sure, but it's acknowledged in the same way that my left-handedness is. It's not a joke to them, it isn't something to be horrified about, but it's also something that they don't objectify me for.
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alienkitty259 · 7 months
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Choose your blonde
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beaulesbian · 2 years
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contrast.
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eerna · 2 months
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am I irrationally scared of cyborgs? yes. will I beat up anyone who dares to be mean to my girl Cinder? even more yes
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puhpandas · 5 months
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Rabbit Burrow
(3,785 words) Part 1 (part 2 found here)
Tony Becker, one year after surviving the attack from GGY, tracks down Gregory post-SB. But he has to get through Vanessa before he can get to Gregory.
Tony likes to think his detective skills are pretty good. So when he swings a leg over the seat of his bike and wheels it near the entrance, he hopes it's the right place.
He'd tracked down Gregory to this apartment complex somewhere in Gale county. It's still in Hurricane, and Tony had been able to reach it with just a bus ride. The apartment is somewhat run-down, but clean enough to where you can tell it's well kept, just old. The air conditioning units he passes on the way to the front door are brand new.
He'd taken the closest bus to Gale county right after school let out. He'd been restless all day up until finally acting on his findings. Tony has been searching for Gregory for a year. Finally finding something and having to wait for his middle school day to end was agonizing. He just hopes his Mom and Grandma wont be too mad at him.
He'd wrestled his bike he'd ridden to school that day discreetly onto the bus and wedged it in-between his legs and the seat in front of him. The air had been humid and thick all day with the signs of a storm, and Tony had seen the dark clouds and heard the thunder peeking over the treeline outside the bus window on the way here. He ducks inside the front door and beats the rain by seconds.
"Can I help you?" The receptionist asks him, giving him a weird look when he steps inside. Shes a lady with long, styled black hair and covered in jewelry. Tony tries not to look too suspicious as he sends her a polite smile, heading to the elevator on the wall to the left. He would also be wary if someone he'd never seen walked into a resident building.
"Just seeing an old friend." He tells her. He presses the button to the third floor and tries to break her gaze by stepping behind the closing doors. The elevator shakes a bit before moving up.
He tries to take a deep breath. Theres some kind of excitement floating around in his chest at the fact that he's done it, but he pushes it down, lowering his expectations.
Despite his theories, he really has no clue what to expect. Theres some sort of worry mixing with the excitement, and all he decides is that if he escaped once, he can do it again.
It both took too long and not fast enough when he finally reaches the third floor. He double checks his crumpled sheet of notebook paper in his hand once, then a second time, something nervous but anticipating thrumming in his veins.
He steps onto the beige carpet of the long hallway, fresh vacuum marks in it, and follows the number plates by each door before coming to a stop near the middle of the hall.
3-05 The plate reads back to him. He quadruple checks his paper again. Its right.
He sighs out deeply, not even realizing he was holding his breath. Despite himself, his brows crease ever so slightly.
He shakes it away, pushing past it. Maybe digging too deep is what got him into trouble before, but its different now. Tony... Tony's learned things during his search for Gregorys location. If there was any point during his investigation that he would call digging too deep, it would have been months earlier from now.
Besides. Tony has always been bad at staving off his curiosity.
He thunks his knuckles on the white wood of the door quickly after that, three times in succession. He kind of bluescreens for a second when he realizes what he just did, then shakes it off. Waiting with wide eyes at the door, watching for a rattling of a doorknob or listening for incoming footsteps.
Nothing. He waits a few more minutes before knocking again, this time a little louder and harder.
Tony perks up when footsteps finally near the door, and his lips part prematurely when the doorknob rattles, not even put-together words yet on his tongue. They fall away immediately when a woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail opens the door, one of those chain locks keeping it open maximum of three inches. "Hello?"
He stutters for a moment, words lost on his tongue, before he clears his throat, putting on a polite smile. "Hi, there." He says. "Um. Who are you?"
"I should be asking you that, kid." The woman raises a brow at him, never opening the door more than the chain lock allows it. She peers at him through the gap, and Tony tries as discreetly as possible to look past her head and shoulder into the apartment itself. "What are you doing here?"
When he looks back, shes still looking at him in a way Tony can only describe as cautious. The light in the hallway on the ceiling is flickering, and it casts split second shadows on the womans face that makes the bags under her eyes that much more prominent and her face that much more intimidating. "Well?"
Tony realizes he hasnt answered, and coughs slighty. "Oh. Sorry." He says, reluctant to continue. "I'm... I'm looking for Gregory."
Tony watches intensely to see if the name rings a bell or catches her attention. Just as he expects, her face twists ever so slightly in recognition. Tony catches something adjacent to panic or fear in her eyes until it's gone not half a second later.
"Who's asking?" She asks eventually, voice carefully even after a what appeared to Tony to be a mini conundrum in her head.
"His friend." He answers honestly. He ducks his head when the woman scrutinizes him, looking almost angry, but restrained enough to not show it. "I mean it," He says earnestly. "he and I... we were best friends. Last year. I came here to look for him."
Her eyes widen ever so slightly at that, and she studies him, eyes flicking back and forth over his face and his clothes and his hair. Tony doesnt miss the way her eyes linger for a millisecond on his scars. Its silent in the hall save for the two looking at eachother, and the buzzing of the flickering light on the ceiling is enough to save him from hearing his own heartbeat.
"Okay." She says eventually, and Tony subconsciously feels himself sag a bit at the relief that he won't turned away right as he was this close. She shuts the door without a word, and all Tony can do is stare at the peeling landlord white paint on the door as the sounds of the woman unlatching the multiple locks on the other side reach his ears. He waits patiently, until she cracks the door open not much wider than it had been with the lock, but just enough to fit his body in. "Come in. But no word to anyone. Got it?"
About what? Tony's about to ask, but then he steps through the door and the words die on his tongue.
"Oh." He says outwardly when Glamrock Freddy Fazbear sits on the couch. His body is adjacent to the patchwork quilt Tony has on his bed that his Grandma made him, and any of the makeup he had been painted with has long since scratched off.
His eyes are shut, and theres two jump cables attached to his ears that are plugged into a portable something. He doesn't so much as twitch when Tony enters the room.
The woman gives him a look after she re-locks only the deadbolt behind him and passes him into the apartment. "Oh." He repeats. "Not a word."
She nods at him, and it's only now that Tony can see the rest of her that isnt just her face. Shes in her twenties, if he had to guess, and she has a white tank top on with some sort of stain near the collar along with Hello Kitty fleece pajama pants. Her socks are mismatched and her nails are painted a purple color that could rival the deep bags under her eyes.
She collapses into an armchair (which hes pretty sure has a mismatched leg attached to it half-hazardously) and only looks at him silently as he steps further into the house, not so discreetly angling his body to get a peek past walls and open doors across the house.
Shes about to speak when Tony does first, "Wheres Greg?" He asks straight up. "Can I see him?"
Her lips twitch, and she just leans further back into the chair. The TV is playing some sort of Spring baking show, and the droning of the host mixes with the pattering of the rain on the window on the wall by the TV.
Anticipation and impatient-ness buzzes under his skin at being right here, and this woman undoubtedly knowing Gregory certainly doesnt help.
She only hesitates for a moment, but Tony can see the influx of thoughts that undoubtedly ran through her mind. She opens her mouth, taking a slow breath, before, "At school."
"He goes to school?" Tony gasps slightly, eyes widening. He moves to the couch, toeing past Freddy Fazbear as to not touch him even with just a brush of his jeans before sitting down, facing her. "What school?"
"He goes to Raindrop." The woman tells him, seemingly not hesitating this time.
It doesn't ring a bell, but it must be a middle school in Gale county. "...I go to Hailstorm." Tony says. "We both did. Or used to."
She stares at him after that, fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. She says nothing, just scrutinizing him, before, "You sure have a lot of cryptic ways of telling me how you used to know Gregory."
He wants to apologize, because it seems like what to do in response to that statement, but for some reason, that feeling in his gut he's learned to trust as his Detective sense tells him that he shouldn't.
Shes still looking at him intensely, and the rain outside pattering on the window somehow feels louder. There's some thunder outside that rumbles the floor, and the lighting casts a shadow on the living room. A few white lines across the coffee table caused by the blinds covering the window.
Her face doesnt so much as twitch, he notices, and she doesn't blink when she looks at him. Her green eyes bore into him, almost glowing in the shadow cast beneath her bangs. It reminds him of how he'd done to her not minutes ago. What he does to people he wants to analyze. To see how they react to something.
That's what shes waiting for, he realizes. He has a feeling that if he doesnt match her cryptic bluntness and instead apologizes and caves that easily, that it will somehow result in her turning him away.
Theres a glint in her eye when he becomes aware of reality again enough to look, and he thinks she somehow just came to the conclusion that Tony figured it out.
Then, he tries to sit up a bit straighter, and muster up that same glint mirroring back at him. "You sure have a cryptic way of letting me know you dont trust me."
Her mouth twitches slightly, but its all Tony needs to know he'd guessed correctly.
Its silent for a moment, and the woman grabs the remote on the next arm over and pauses the baking show she'd been watching. She shifts in the red velvet seat, as if getting comfortable, before, "Tell me how you know Gregory, and I'll tell you how I know him."
He has a feeling he isnt getting to Gregory unless he gets through this woman first, so he clears his throat, leaning his forearms on his knees.
"Me and Gregory met early last year at the beginning of the school year." He begins. "Right after summer ended in August. He was the new kid, and he sat at our table at lunch since it was mostly empty. Me and my friend arent the most popular, so there was room to spare."
She waves a hand, signaling him to stop. "Your friend?" She asks. He nods. "How many of there were you?"
"...Just me and E-- my friend." He says. "There were two of us, and when Greg sat at our table, we remembered how he looked a little lost earlier in class and we introduced ourselves. Then we just... clicked, I guess. He would partner with us in creative writing."
"Writing, huh?" She smiles slightly.
"Yeah." He replies. "Then, it was just business as usual for the months afterwards." He pauses, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket he loves so much that reminds him of the trenchcoats big city investigators wear. "Then... I had gotten wrapped up in this mystery."
She shifts, crossing a leg over the over and holding her hands together. "A mystery?"
Tony nods, remembering it like it was yesterday. He thumbs the part of arm where a scar is on his arm that his jacket covers. "The three of us would always go to the arcade in the Pizzaplex." He tells her. "And one day, I noticed high scores that seemed impossible to reach, and I became obsessed with solving who it was who had gotten there."
Tony thinks hes very good at reading people. So he doesn't think it's just his imagination when the woman in front of him goes a little rigid in her seat.
Theres some sort of creases under her eyes, Tony notices, that weren't there before.
"What did you do?" She asks.
Tony has a feeling that she somehow knows already. So he doesnt beat around the bush.
"I solved the mystery, eventually." Tony says. "Because GGY had been Gregory, and he'd invited me to the Pizzaplex and tried to kill me."
She sags a bit, looking somehow infinitely more tired, but no surprise detected. "But you survived."
"Not..." He shakes his head, picking at the skin by his fingernails. "I wouldn't have. If not for Greg saving me."
"Huh?"
"He--" Tony searches for the words, looking at the carpet between his knees and remembering that afternoon in every vivid detail he'd looked over countless times before. "He'd tried to kill me, yeah, but... he was almost fighting himself as he did it. He was like having a fistfight with himself."
He doesn't look up at her, he just keeps remembering how Gregory had gone rigid right before plunging the knife into Tony's gut a second time and stopped himself. How it had looked like somebody yanked Gregory backwards, but it had been his own self throwing his body. Just so he didnt hurt Tony again.
"He looked like he was a malfunctioning robot." He recalls. "He was like, hitting himself, and was making noises like he was fighting something. I was too frozen to move at the time, but then he threw me a really high security pass for the Pizzaplex and told me to run."
Then he had collapsed in front of him, like he was holding himself down. He doesn't tell the woman, though.
He looks back up to see her staring, eyes wide in suprise. She looks deep in thought for all but a few moments before shaking herself out of it. "So what did you do?"
"I ran." Tony says. "He had got me already. He stabbed me in the back, the first time. That was how I knew he was attacking me in the first place. But I ran away with the pass, and I went to a room with a ton of monitors and erased the security footage."
Her eyes blow wide as saucers, that time. "You got stabbed," she begins. "and instead of getting help, you erase the security footage?"
"Yeah." Tony nods. "Greg would have gotten in trouble if I didnt."
She's silent, after that. Tony just keeps picking at the skin on his fingers. "I somehow knew that Gregory didnt deserve to be. He just..." Tony trails off. "He didnt seem..."
"Seem like himself?" She suddenly cuts in, and Tony's eyes widen.
He nods, a small tilt of his head, and the woman sighs. "That's what being mind controlled will do to you."
A year ago, probably longer by now, Tony would have never believed that. He would have never thought something so outlandish that is only ever shown in fiction could be a possibility.
Not that he was wrong, to. Really, anyone in their right mind wouldnt think so. But things have changed since then.
And Tony has seen a lot of things during his search that probably nobody else has. Plus, This woman has been so cryptic up to this point. If she told him this straight up, and it's clear that she knows Gregory...
Suddenly, everything that day seems to make perfect sense. And everything he'd found that he'd filed away into his little mental Gregory crazy wall.
(He'd used to call it evidence wall, like normal people do. But, well, at some point, maybe Tony had thought the things he'd been finding were a bit too crazy to deem as normal.)
Theres been a stretch of silence while Tony had been taking that in, and he only breaks it to say, "Is mind control a topic you're familiar with in this house?"
Her eye twitches, a bit. And now that Tony is looking for it, he notices that same strange sheen on her eyes that Gregory had during their friendship. That weird red tinted film that makes their eyes turn a completely different color when the light hits them right.
Tony doesnt yet understand how the mind control Gregory had been under works, but all he can hope is that there are some side effects.
She stares at him, eyes narrow, and theres another roar of thunder outside the window.
"Who are you?"
"Tony." He answers. "Tony Becker. Ring a bell?"
She hums, and she looks at him in a way where he feels like he's being dissected.
"He didnt remember anything for a while." She says eventually. "But hes been having dreams, lately. Sometimes he talks about two kids he used to be friends with."
"Me and Ellis." Tony's eyes widen. It doesn't even occur to him that he shouldn't share Ellis's name.
"He worries about you." She says. "I've heard him say he hopes you're okay. You and that other kid. You must have been close if he remembers being that good of friends with the two of you."
"We were." Tony replies. Memories of him, Ellis, and Greg going to the Pizzaplex and trying to get the most dunks in the basketball hoops flash in his mind. He thinks about when Gregory would come over to Tony's little run down house that he shares with his Grandma, and they write graphic novels together for the fun of it.
Gregory liked to call them comics before he'd suddenly decided that stuff wasnt cool anymore and stopped coming over. It had been like everything Tony saw him enjoy that wasnt painfully average for a child suddenly didn't mean anything to him anymore.
And then Gregory tried to kill him in a dusty back room.
Everything hed given up seems to make more sense now. It wasnt willingly at all.
"He doesn't remember your names." She speaks up suddenly, ripping Tony out of his thoughts. "But he remembers more and more every time he has a dream. Something reminded him of you one day, I guess. That must have been when it started."
Tony opens his mouth, but the beeping of a digital clock interrupts him. He follows the womans arm as it reaches across the seat to turn it off.
The time reads 5:00pm.
He watches as she looks over at him, and nods to the door. "After school activity." She informs him, getting up out of the seat. His eyes follow her as she moves towards the front door. "I'm his ride."
Tony's eyes widen at the implications. "So I just--"
"Stay here." She tells him. She grabs a flannel off of the small coat rack by the front door and slips it on, sliding some Adidas sandals on top of her socks and reaching in the pocket of the coat to grab car keys. She pulls them out, and Tony notices that theres a keychain of a white rabbit dangling from the key ring.
The breath is suddenly stolen from his lungs, and he bolts off of the couch, a buzzing under his skin. "You're bringing him?"
She nods to Freddy Fazbear. "If you can wait." She smiles at him, and it's the first time Tony has seen her smile, instead of the carefully kept nonchalant-ness. "He'll wake up pretty soon once he's done charging. So you won't be completely alone."
Tony doesnt know what to say to that. Thousands of words spawned from the thousands of thoughts hes had about finding and tracking down Gregory are on the tip of his tongue, but he only gets any out when the woman begins to leave the house.
"Wait!" Tony reaches out a hand. She turns around, a brow raised. The door is still slightly ajar, and the sound of heavy rain reaches his ears. "What's your name?"
She smiles a bit at the question. "Vanessa."
"Vanessa," He asks, oddly desperate. "Dont tell him I'm here." He swallows. "I want to see him remember me."
Vanessa tilts her head, but nods after a moment. "Sure, kid."
She smiles one last time on her way out, and says, "Tony Becker."
The sound of the rain outside disperses when the door shuts and locks, and Tony doesnt move for a long while. He just stares at the landlord white door, electricity under his skin and something floaty in his stomach.
Greg. He thinks in his mind when he finally rips himself away and looks around some more, seeing a door propped slightly open down the hall with a bed and a desk with pencils and paper strewn all about. He doesn't dare go in, but stares at what he can see. Its been a while.
The silence is numbing, when he can only hear the faint whirring of Freddy Fazbear on the couch next to him and the rain on the window, he plants himself on the couch cushion next to the animatronic, grabbing the remote and resuming the baking show Vanessa had been watching.
He doesn't listen to a word. He just trembles with anticipation and bobs his leg up and down as he stares at a random corner of the screen.
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crispywizardtale · 7 months
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boxofthings · 4 months
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bshsjsksk I've never written smut before so I hope this doesnt read as awkward lmao. (I kinda struggled halfway through so I'm sorry if the quality all of a sudden goes down the drain 🥲 i wrote this very late into the night)
Enjoy!
Read on AO3
NSFW below the cut!
---
The post-mission adrenaline crash hits them hard. As soon as the team had returned to base, a hushed scatter of dragging feet had set the tone of their night.
For Ghost, he's high-strung, left on edge from today's most recent failures. He thinks he can still hear gunfire in the background of the night, and if he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, he sees the poignant look of fear as the person he reaches for is just a little bit too out of grasp, and their screams etch jagged scars into his brain. 
There's a tension in his bones that vibrates through his nerves, begging for reprieve, and he needs it gone—right now.
That's what makes him seek out the sergeant, finding him lounged against the corridor walls and hurriedly yanking the other into Ghost's quarters, pressing his body up against the door with rough hands and a stormy mind.
The sergeant doesn't protest, only reciprocates with the same ferocity as his lieutenant, filling the quiet with their two desperate breaths and lewd whispers.
"I need you," Ghost had groaned, face buried in the crook of Roach's neck, sinking deep reds onto marred but soft skin. Roach's breath had hitched, and the fingers latched tightly onto the lieutenant had only dug deeper. 
It was all the confirmation Ghost needed before he begins stripping the younger out of his gear. Fast and desperate, like two teenagers at risk of getting caught by their parents, and technically, that wasn't too far from the truth.
His hands move mechanically, and there's a despondency that begins to fizzle into his head as he unclasps each and every clip on Roach's armour till he's just in his standard shirt and pants. There's a heavy cloud over his head that pushes him into that ugly, uncaring side of himself—the part of him that tries to make all the good things in his life meaningless, detached. 
He feels the roughness behind his actions as his hands roam free over the sergeant's body. He feels like he's in a trance, familiar and lifeless, as his mind only chases for the ultimate pleasure that only serves to temporarily halt his turmoil. 
This means nothing, he tells himself.
He expects the same in return—secretly begs for it in his mind so that this can all be just another vapid memory added to the list of casual hook-ups. But when Roach goes to take off his clothing, it's slow and gentle, unlike Ghost's brazen want. Roach moves like they have all the time in the world like this means something—represents more than what their activity depicts on the surface level. And Ghost—he feels disquieted. 
The sergeant is methodical when he takes off Ghost's vest, pausing every so often to look at him and smile. Ghost's heart stutters and the greys in his head recede just a little more.
When it's just his undershirt and pants left, Roach gives him a soft push backwards, seating him down on the edge of his bed.
Ghost's eyes never leave Roach, watching closely like a hawk as the other climbs atop him and firmly grasps his chin, tilting it upwards.
"You think too much," he signs lightly. And before Ghost can respond, confident lips meet his own unprepared ones, and his disordered mind goes quiet.
With his balaclava rolled up to his nose, Roach holds the sides of his face as they kiss like longtime lovers, and there's a fierce burn in his chest that ignites hotter the longer they're connected.
When Roach pulls away, Ghost chases after him, high on the feel of the other's touch. His hands come up to encircle Roach's waist, keeping him firmly close and fervid against himself.
The sergeant's hands come to hold his face again, except instead of leaning in, he stares. His piercing green strikes Ghost immobile, but he recognizes what that look on the other's face means—he's picking him apart, trying to gauge what's going on in Ghost's head.
Ghost tries to avert his gaze, doing so by surging up, trying to capture Roach's lips once again, but Roach sees the action for what it is and pulls away, keeping his hold strong on Ghost. It forces him to look directly at the other.
"Are you ok?" he whispers, and it's soft—so gentle that a hard wall inside of him cracks just a little. Roach's face conveys one of searching concern, and Ghost feels pinned, flayed open at the mercy of those eyes.
He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head stiffly as his hands dig deeper into Roach's hips.
"I just-" he croaks, "I just need you."
Roach's eyes narrow, and Ghost lets a sliver of vulnerability slip through the cracks—just a tiny push. "Please," he whispers, and he can see in real-time how Roach's expression falls, a sad smile pulling meekly onto his mouth, and he nods.
Ghost kisses him—hard. This is familiar. If he's in control, he can't let those lingering terrors plague his thoughts. The sooner he can get this going, the sooner he can distract himself. He thrusts up into Roach, feeling the heat of the other on top of him, and the younger groans into the kiss as the two grind against each other, needy and fervent.
Hands push down squarely on his chest until he's forced to lay back. When he looks forward to Roach, the other smiles warmly and begins to work at his zipper. 
"Let me take care of you." 
And it takes everything in Ghost not to crumble at those words.
Roach palms at his erection, still confined in his boxers, and Ghost wants to kick him.
"Stop teasing."
He's met with a cheeky grin. "Stop teasing?" the other signs demurely. "You mean like this?" 
A warm hand suddenly grasps his length, and Ghost's breath hitches, making the humour in Roach's gaze grow.
"Oh, piss off you-"
The hand tightens, stroking confidently up and down, melting the words on Ghost's tongue immediately. 
Bastard.
It's been a while since they've done this. Missions have become more frequent and dire as the war rages on, and Ghost hasn't gotten a chance to get laid—to expel the stress.
He wants to say that's the reason why his stomach swoops so violently as the sergeant slowly takes him into his mouth, gaze never leaving Ghost's as he swallows him deeper.
God, he can't deny it; Roach knows how to take him apart. His eyes make Ghost feel like pinned-down prey as he sensually swirls his tongue around the tip.
His hand reaches to grasp at Roach's hair, keeping the sergeant in place, but Roach only dips lower, expertly sucking him off at a rhythmic pace that punches deep groans out of Ghost.
He bucks his hips upwards as Roach meets him halfway, setting an exhilarating pace that forces Ghost to concentrate on not finishing right into the sergeant's mouth. He wants this night to last.
He pulls Roach off his cock, leaving a string of saliva that Ghost immediately swipes across the other's lips. It makes the heat inside of him grow.
"Get on the bed."
Roach wastes zero time obeying, laying across the same spot that Ghost had previously occupied.
Shedding his cargos, he grabs the lube on the bedside table, fully seating himself between Roach's now bare legs as he drenches his fingers.
As he circles Roach's entrance, he leans forward, waiting for the exact moment the other's mouth hangs open as his finger breaches into heat, capturing lips in a hungry kiss, and Roach leans into it enthusiastically. 
He adds another digit, awaiting for the stuttered breathing that will follow, and he curls his fingers, watching closely as Roach's back arches off the bed like a puppet.
The other scoffs, locks of hair falling in front of his eyes. Ghost wants to brush them away.
"Now, who's teasing."
A smile pulls at his face as he adds a third, and he revels in knowing that he's the one wringing those noises, those expressions out of Roach—revels in knowing he's the only one who knows how to make the other feel this good.
When Ghost pulls out, moving to lube himself up, Roach's hands come to press on his shoulders, a leg coming up to hook around his middle, effectively flipping their positions in a swift and practiced maneuver.
With Roach on top, he can see the smugness that paints his features, a nimble hand caressing up his torso to sit at his chest.
"I said I'd take care of you," Roach leans down to whisper low in his ear before Ghost can protest, and a shiver runs down his spine, pooling arousal at the base of his cock.
The sergeant takes him in hand and, just like before, never moves his sights from the lieutenant's face as he guides the head of his cock to his entrance, sinking slowly down until Ghost is fully sheathed inside of him.
Their combined groans mingle together into heavy breaths. 
Ghost's hands climb to grip hard at Roach's hips. A choked moan threatens to spill once the sergeant begins moving, his heat all-encapsulating and enticing.
He sits up so he can better hold Roach in his lap, roaming hands gripping tight on the back of the sergeant's shirt. He pushes his hips upwards, setting a brutal pace and eliciting a series of gasps that only encourage him to move faster.
He wants to lose himself in this. Be buried inside this warmth forever, anything to take him away from the battles he'll be thrown back into once he leaves this room.
He scrunches his eyes shut, trying to focus only on the building pressure below. But despite his efforts, the storm cloud slowly creeps back into the cracks of his brain, along with the distant screams that follow with it. Eyes too young to display such fear watch him from the depths of his mind, and suddenly, Ghost can't get it out.
Two taps to his shoulder.
His eyes fling open, thrusts halting immediately. 
The concern is back, more intense than before.
"What's wrong?"
Ghost inhales, taking in how genuinely worried the sergeant looks—how quickly he had noticed Ghost's inner turmoil.
"I-" he swallows, words weighing like bricks in his throat.
He doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to even spare a grain of space in his mind for images that will spiral him deep into disruption. It's why he'd even sought out the sergeant in the first place. This was just supposed to be another meaningless fuck.
But a part of him knew it wasn't going to be so easy, not with Roach. Not with someone who takes one glance at him, mask and all, and immediately knows which weak points to aim for to leave him an exposed, vulnerable mess.
He supposes he should've known this would happen—wonders if, deep in his subconscious, he had hoped for something more to come out of this.
Fingers gently grasp his hand, lifting it slowly, hesitantly, as if Ghost would run at the slightest hint of comfort.
Soft lips come to kiss at his knuckles, one by one, and it's so—kind. The contrast between Roach's lips and the scars that run down Ghost's hand feels undeserving, like such good things are ought to be for people like him.
"When people grow up in ugly homes, they can only assume everything in the world is ugly, including themselves."
It was something Roach had said to him offhandedly after a particular deployment. Although back then, Ghost hadn't understood where it came from. 
He'd thought it had something to do with the mission they had just returned from. One that—similarly to today's—had left the task force a shaken crowd of solemn faces.
He remembers it clear as day. He and Roach had been the first at the scene, gazing upon the aftermath of what could only be described as a brutal execution—one that left an innocent family limp at their feet, like bloody ragdolls.
The sole survivor, a boy no older than twelve, had sat at the centre of it all, looking no more alive than the ashen bodies surrounding his small frame.
It was a disturbingly familiar sight, and Ghost had left that mission quieter than usual.
Now, though, he thinks he knows why Roach had said it. It's for the same reason why Ghost was thinking of such a phrase at a time like this—for comfort, reassurance.
Roach had recognized then how that mission had messed with Ghost's head, just as he recognized how today's mission had messed with him further.
Ghost takes a deep breath, calming the violent sea in his mind. 
"Sorry," he breathes out, looking Roach square in the eyes with what he hopes is a genuine, small smile. "Just all up in my head."
Roach's thumb swipes back and forth at the palm of Ghost's hand—a grounding sensation despite how miniscule it is. A small smile reflects back on his face, a wisp of a concession.
We'll talk about this after.
Ghost rolls them over so that Roach is now under him. By the look of exasperation, the other had probably been expecting this. 
"This is a two-way tango, bug. Let me return the favour."
There's enthusiasm in the arms that drape around his neck, and Ghost begins to pick up where they left off.
With Roach laid under him, Ghost's fingers crawl up his stomach to lift off the other's shirt, exposing him fully to the lieutenant. In response, Roach tugs at Ghost's own shirt, a challenging glint in his eye that Ghost readily accepts, leaving the two fully bare for each other.
Ghost is gentler this time when he pushes back in, making sure not to be as rough as he was before. Roach takes him in easily, whining softly as Ghost's hips snap to hit that sweet spot. It shouldn't affect him how well they fit together, and not just in bed, but in a warzone, too.
He tries not to let his thoughts wander again, and instead, thinks of Roach—Roach and how he's splayed underneath him, how his touches feel like they burn the skin off his flesh, how even without a voice, his words stick in Ghost's mind like unwilling tattoos.
-- -- --
"You think all these terrible things that have happened to you define who you are. They don't."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you."
In the haze of pleasurable bliss, a thought weighs sudden and heart-stuttering. 
I love him.
He loves him.
And it's more than just the sex. It's the way those brown curls splay out on the bed like a halo—the same curls he'd run his fingers through countless times during leisure hours. It's the kiss-swollen lips that smile warmly at him every morning at breakfast. It's the strong arms currently wrapped around his neck that aid him in battle with their assured grip and expertise and the fingers that softly grasp Ghost's own when they have fleeting moments of tenderness on the battlefield. It's the way that when Ghost looks at the man before him, there's a part of him deep down that knows what this is, a part of him that thinks of green eyes and gentle smiles, and he wants.
He stares down at Roach, beautiful and wrecked and gazes at the scars that embroider his person. Ghost traces his fingers softly on the large gash decorating the left hip. An ugly knife wound, he remembers. He helped stitch that one. The mark beside that one—a bullet not fully penetrated, but Ghost had been there when the shot had hit its mark, and it had terrified him at that moment.
The arms around him release, and then hands come to rest delicately on his face. Green eyes watch him, glassy from their intimate activity but strong in their tender gaze.
This is so much different than his usual hook-ups—the rough, quick-fucks he'd indulge himself in over the years as a way of forcing out the accumulative tension from his stressful lifestyle. But when he's with Roach, it's gentle, it's slow, and, dare he say it, loving. Ghost can't help himself as his hips slow to a stop, and his eyes move towards Roach's face.
His hand grabs recklessly at his mask, pulling it off with a haste he hasn't felt in a long time.
Roach's eyes widen. His partner's desperate pants have halted as well, and he looks straight up at Ghost, gaze shocked with an underlayer of hope.
"I love you."
Ghost feels nervous in his own skin, uncharted emotion rubbing hotly inside his chest, foreign and wild. But Gary inches his face closer, and immediately, those biting fears dissipate, leaving his mind completely once Gary pulls their lips together in a tender kiss. 
It's the sweetest he's ever had. Completely unlike the past frustratingly-charged snogs he'd shared with past willing fucks.
When they break apart, Gary looks high, pupils blown wide, and lips a swollen red. Ghost suspects he doesn't look much different. 
"I love you, Simon," he whispers, awed.
And the sharp zing of warmth shoots straight down to his groin, where they're still connected, and he groans. 
The legs wrapped around his middle squeeze tighter, and Ghost understands, picking up where he left off and speeding up his pace once more.
Roach's head falls back, eyes squeezed shut as Ghost drives them closer to the edge. 
His heart stutters as he watches Roach closely. He wants this, he wants more, he wants—
A hand on his heart.
"You think too much."
Ghost exhales, watching Roach closely, watching every minute change in expression. He notices how his breathing hitches when Ghost hits that sweet spot, notices how the other likes it when Ghost strokes his hair, notices how his nose scrunches up when he's concentrating on something hard. 
It's not just sex. He knows all the little details about Roach without even having to look. Like when the other taps his pencil on his right thigh but only on the right, like when Roach drinks hot tea and always blows twice before taking a sip, like how there are calluses on his index and middle finger on his dominant hand from writing in his journal, and one on his left index from handling his gun.
I'm thinking about you.
But Ghost doesn't say it out loud; only aims to show what his mind yearns to spill.
He intertwines his hand with Roach's and kisses him feverishly as his hips pull sweet gasps out of Roach's mouth.
He's getting close. Ghost can feel it as Roach clenches tighter around him, and it takes everything in him not to let go right now.
No, he wants to watch Roach spill over the edge first; wants to watch the other fall into the pleasurable bliss brought by Ghost's own doing.
"Come for me, bug," he whispers lowly, and he knows that's all it'll take.
There's a final, strangled whimper before the other spasms and arches beneath him, eyes rolling back as he rides through his orgasm, shaky breaths filling the silence of the room. Ghost drinks in every bit of the sight before him, fuelling his own chase towards the end.
A hand roams his face. The affection on Roach's face is so overwhelming it gives him butterflies.
"Beautiful," Roach mouths.
And Ghost groans as his own orgasm overtakes him, unloading into Roach. Their collective moans are cut short when Roach goes in for one more kiss as Ghost basks in the aftermath of his climax.
This could have never been a casual hook-up, not with Roach. Even with all the past times they've done this, it'd only served to make Ghost hungrier each time for something more. 
It was just unfortunate a mental spiral was what pushed him to spit it out.
Now, as the two of them lay together in bed, Roach softly carding fingers through Ghost's hair, he can only think of what a fool he was for assuming he could prolong those hidden desires in his chest. 
"Do you want to talk about it?"
They'd hastily cleaned up the mess they'd made and thrown on simple clothes, with Roach borrowing one of Ghost's shirts.
It feels oddly domestic, and despite his earlier confession, Ghost can't help but feel scared. 
"Sorry," he swallows, "if I hurt you earlier."
He's deflecting—just a little bit. He knows they have to talk about it, but he wants to sit inside this safe threshold just a little longer.
Beside him, Roach shakes his head.
"You didn't hurt me," he reassures, letting a minute grin slip through, "it's not like you haven't been rougher in the past."
Ghost huffs, his own lips betraying amusement, but he averts Roach's eyes and looks to the ceiling.
He can't keep holding it all in; feels like he at least owes it to Roach—attentive and caring, Roach—what was bothering him.
"It was the girl."
It's not a question, so Roach must've been sure that was it. 
As usual, he was right.
"I was so close." He was. He was right there at the edge of the window. If he'd just been a little quicker–
"It's not your fault, Simon."
He can't help but sigh. He knows that. But there's a part of him, the irrational shadow of himself that looks suspiciously like a little boy, curses him for his incompetence. 
And it's not just the blame; it's the principle of his role as a soldier. If he can't save one little girl, what good is he? 
To serve and protect. If he can't even do that for a stranger, how does he expect to do it for the people he cares about?
In the dim light, he can just make out the grim line of Roach's mouth.
There's nothing the other can really say to make this all better. Regardless of everything, Ghost’s mind will always remain a wasteland of accusatory what-ifs. But-
"I...I meant what I said, though. Earlier."
And even with the sombre fog set over his mind, Roach's smile still manages to make it all just a little more bearable.
"Me, too."
He's scared. There's another reason why his failure today hit him so viscerally. When he stares back at Roach, he feels the phantom fear that imprints like a shadow behind his eyelids, with green eyes that fall into an abyss Ghost isn't fast enough to reach for.
It could be him one day that you don't catch, his ugly thoughts say.
But before he can further fuel those anxieties, Roach pulls him close, resting Ghost's head under his chin.
"You think too much," he mutters, running his fingers through Ghost's hair.
Ghost sighs, closing his eyes and leaning further into the embrace. He feels—safe.
Trust Roach to soften the blows of everything horrible in his life. 
There are more things to say, more things they need to establish with this newfound step in their relationship, more fears that Ghost needs to acknowledge head-on.
But for now, he's happy to stay like this, in the arms of someone he knows he can trust.
Tomorrow, they’ll leave the safety of this room and be thrown back into the uncertainty of their fragile lives; however, the other side of his door no longer feels so daunting, not when he has this.
As his mind drifts slowly away into the lulling arms of sleep, he feels Roach hold him tighter.
"One day," Roach begins to whisper, and it's soft—wishful-sounding, "I hope you'll be able to accept that you're more than just your shortcomings, like how I see you."
For the first of many nights, his mind is at peace.
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