#a microcosm of the plot as a whole

[arthurslesbian]

morgana learns the truth about uther being her father because of merlin??

#the ep with the crystal cave s3e5 #this is the episode that should be titled the beginning of the end omg #a microcosm of the plot as a whole #merlin's downfall and the moment morgana was lost forever #until then all she wanted was to kill uther #which would've made arthur king as much as morgause wanted to install cenred #but it was this ep that made morgana want the throne #merlin could not stand to see arthur in pain so much that he couldn't let morgana die either :( #i see i see #my memory of this ep was faulty #she was never going to kill uther #merlin's actions caused him to bring about the very fate he was working to avoid #if only he'd learned his lesson

[yeyinde]

riptide | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it." His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won His touch is featherlight. But his eyes– His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

(it's like holding a lit cigarette to your pulse.)

part ii of in undertow

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; gendered reader; f!reader; female anatomy; near death experiences, MAJOR spoilers for the game (seriously, if you haven’t played it are saving it for later, or you haven’t finished, maybe don’t read this yet); PINING; cigarettes after sex was listened to on repreat during the making of this; also, i had “THAT’LL DO!” and “AHUEVO” on a loop, y’all. blame that.

notes: whenever someone asks what “doing the most” means, feel free to point them to this. it’s 16K. fullstop. it was only supposed to be smut. this ended up more plot than porn. but i so wanted the pining; the ambiguity, the danger, the drama. (i mean, this has none of that, but i wanted it.)

i told my very Welsh dad i was in love with an English man, and he said how could you do this to me? and that is pretty much all you need to know about Welsh culture. 

Porthmadog hasn't changed much at all since you last washed up on the sandy shores, one hand gripping the strap of your off-duty duffle bag, and the other clenched around your passport. Wound tight. Ready to flee. A constant state of fight or flight. 

The air is heady with the scent of the sea. Algae. Seaweed. Salt. Your lungs burn with the thickness of it. The sulphur sits in your throat, sticking to your larynx. It clicks when you swallow, refusing to budge. It curls behind your teeth when you suck the air in through parted, salt-chapped lips; the taste lingers in that strange microcosm of being both achingly nostalgic, and woefully foreign in the same breath. 

The streets, too, live there: a realm of vague memories flashing by as your feet tap against the cobblestone. Boots heavy with exhaustion, and jet lag. 

You're not ready to face it. Not yet. 

Head bowed, you stare at the quasi-familiar cracks on the sandstone, and wonder how everyone else is fairing right now. An hour after takeoff. Soap would have been dropped off, wouldn't he? Safe and sound in Edinburgh. 

You're both luckier than your American counterparts—the ones who have a full nine hours left to go. 

Bouncing from the Middle East to Europe is a blink. 

Europe to America is a whole ocean. 

You and Soap played rock, paper, scissors for who got to depart first. In the end, you won. Wales was closer, anyway. 

You left them behind with a heaviness that settled in your pericardium, compunction dipping in the valley of your pinched brow. 

A strange feeling leaks from the fissures. 

Ghost didn't depart. 

They didn't stop in England at all. Right to Wales, right to Scotland. America. Mexico. 

You try not to think about your prickly Lieutenant, but he flashes behind your eyelids, anyway. A bonfire in the dead of night. Tendrils of smoke drifting into the midnight blue aether. You're too close to the crackling flame. The heat scorches your skin. 

He, too, sits heavy in your chest. A spooled cluster of questions bereft of answers. An unknown chasm gaping below. What it all means–

You woke up when the interior lights of the jet flickered on a few rows ahead, the jaundiced glow rousing you from your slumber. Your temple rested on something warm. Firm, sturdy. You blinked into existence, the ghost of a breath on your lips; a passing dream now left behind to rot. A world, forever unattainable, dissolving into nothing. Sand on your fingertips.

The world knits back into the cold clutch of reality: you're on a plane, and–

And you find yourself staring at tightly woven black thread. A balaclava. 

Your eyes dart up. 

The pad in his hands bathes him in iridescent light. It casts shadows on his face, in the pocks of his mask, and illuminates the white of the artificial bones. The paint used is tinged blue, brushed with cyan where it meets the black. 

His lidded eyes crest low as he stares at the screen—a profile open on a man named Zyani stares back. Your eyes don't linger too long, pulled, instead, to the man you're leaning against. The coal under his eyes is smudged, nearly eroded away in the inner corners. You wonder if he rubbed them earlier, eyes gritty and heavy, but refusing to close. He won't sleep on the plane. He never does. 

You don't usually, either. 

Why didn't he wake you? Why did he let you stay? 

There is no time for discussion—not on a jet that reeks of testosterone with ears everywhere. It will have to wait; shelved for another time when Gaz isn't snoring a few pews away, and Soap hasn't been glancing at you in intervals since you sat down. 

Bonnie… you can almost hear him say. What are you doin'? 

You can hear the steady breaths he takes, the sound swells through you. 

It's the first time you've seen him so relaxed since–

Where are you going? Loose-limbed, one hand still wrapped around his softening cock, the other settles on the bend where your thigh meets the crease of your hip, fingers ghosting over the knob of your bone. His eyes are half moons. I didn't say I was finished with you yet, pet.

You shudder, a quiet breath leaving your lips. It draws his attention. His shoulder tenses under you. His head tilts just enough for him to slide his gaze from the screen balanced on his thick thighs to your open stare. 

His eyes are liquid. Honeyed words over smouldering charcoal. "Alright?"

Your lungs quiver with your inhale. Outside of the acrid smell of ammunition, ozone, and gunfire, he carries something musky in his scent. Driftwood. Salt—sweat, blood, the sea. It's potent. You breathe him in again, lids lowering. You hold his scent there, nestled in the gummy webbing of your lungs, dripping down your throat. 

Your eyes feel gritty when they slip shut. Anchors pull them down. You nod your head, slow and languid, murmuring your assent in a barely coherent mumble. The drag of his rough fatigues under your cheek, the straps of his tactical vest grinding into your cheekbone. And then—awareness. It startles you back into reality. Your eyes pop open, meeting the black pools above. 

You wish you could chisel open his head, and read whatever it is that might be lingering in those unfathomable depths. His expression is shuddered, hidden by the thick of his mask. Eyes lidded and heavy and narrowed right on you. 

Intense focus. 

Sometimes, the others talk about Ghost like he's a berserker. A wild, untamed beast let loose in the shadows. Even the vilest people pale when they see him—his larger-than-life frame lingering in the background—and it's fear that dances in the cut of their brow, in their shaking glare.

You heard stories, of course. 

Those always paled in comparison to seeing him on the field. 

You got it, then, why no one mocked him. Why even the worst of the worst never bothered with leading him around by the nose. 

He asked a question, and they answered. 

For a long while, you thought it was his heigh. His size. Immense power. Expert precision. 

But no. It's just him. Those eyes. His presence. 

He doesn't just receive attention, he commands it.  

You should move. You're awake, now. There is no reason for such intimacy with your Lieutenant, for a man more distant and unreachable than the sea. 

You should. 

But you don't. 

He's warm milk under your chin. Heat bleeds into your skin from the firm bracket of his body. Ghost smells good—sweat and timbre—and feels even better. You could sleep again like this. Lashes fan down, sleep digs into the back of your eyes. You force them open. 

Your fingers are tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed tight to his chest; there's a note of domesticity in the way he breathes with you, a palpable weight that falls on you like a thick quilt. His muscles jump. Body tense. 

Eyes on you. Always. 

But then they're gone. A flutter. They cut out to the pews, and you follow his gaze. Price wades closer. 

The bubble pops. You're clinging to your Lieutenant like it's a luxury you're allowed. 

Like it's something commonplace. 

There is distance in his eyes when they flicker to you. The molasses hardened into something once again unreachable. A wall now sits between you. 

(Maybe, that conversation will never come, after all.)

You should have known better than to let yourself want.

The air is crisp when you draw it in. The chill hurts your teeth. 

You slip your fingers out from the wedge of his arm and ribs, already mourning the loss of him under your flesh—ticking muscles coiled tight; velvet draped iron. Ghost says nothing when you move, but his gaze is heavy on you when you fold yourself back into your seat. Proper, now. Lieutenant and soldier. You press yourself as far away from him as you can until your arms dig into the plastic around the window, and sit straight—as if you weren't sleeping on his shoulder. 

As if he didn't let you. 

He looks away when Price takes the bench on the opposite side, offers a nod. 

Price echoes it. Flashes a tight smile your way. 

Then his eyes linger. Not on you. Not on Ghost. He rests his pensive gaze on the sliver of space between the two of you. Where Ghost's bulky arm takes several inches of space up on your own seat, flesh glued together, parting only at the elbows. He's too big to get away from. Takes up all the space—

(—in your lungs, in your head, in your—)

Price, mercifully, isn't the type of man to pry. His brows buoy on his head, a fleeting glance sent in Ghost's direction, and then he's all business. Astute leader. Battle-ready even on a sleepy jet.

He clears his throat. "Where are you headed?" 

It's for you. 

Gaz is going to America with the men you'd picked up for this mission. His offer for you to join was swiftly rejected. The invitations from the Mexican operatives, notably Alverez, to come and enjoy the coast were also rejected. 

"Is Soap going home?" You ask, hands fisting into balls on your lap. 

Price's smile is wan. "He is. Not joining Gaz on his American adventure."

"Misadventure, more like." Ghost's dry tone makes your toes curl. 

You can still hear the way he growled out pet.

You huff. "I'm…" 

There is nowhere for you to go. 

—Well. Nowhere else. 

(Your knees ache, chafed and raw. Pebbles dig into your skin.)

"Wales," you murmur. You hear the ruffle of fabric when Ghost dips his head to look at you. "Whatever is easier. I'll take a taxi."

"Right," Price nods. "Get some rest while you're home." 

It sounds like a dismissal. 

Baleen lines fill your periphery when you turn your head. Your gaze sticks to the crease where his chin meets his neck. You can't bring yourself to look up. 

"Better go fight it out with Soap." 

He doesn't stop you when you stand, when you squeeze past him, thighs brushing his knees. 

He says nothing at all when you depart. 

(Don't think about it. Don't get your hopes up—)

The town is silent save your heavy steps on the cobblestone. In the distance, the roar of the ocean crashes along the beige shore. 

Something inside of you begins to crumble. 

(Too late.)

    The woman by the apartment block greets you warmly, but the words are a strange amalgam of vowels and consonants that do not belong together. Her accent sounds English. The words make no sense to you. 

Your bewilderment must show on your face. Her smile dips, a touch of laughter paints her words when she says, in English: 

Sorry, dove. I thought you were Welsh.

It feels a little bit like a slap to the wrist. Naughty child… mind your manners, and speak your tongue. 

"I'm not…," you murmur, chastised despite having done nothing wrong. 

Wales isn't where you came from. Here is not the place of your birth. It's a paradoxical realm: a land where you were taken to as a child, and told welcome home; all memories erased of the other times they said the exact same thing. A taboo, now. Faux pas. A fresh start (for the nth time). Welcome home. 

It's the place you stayed the longest, though. Your developing years from a child to a teenager, to a spiteful preadolescent with too much to prove, and an ocean to live up to. 

(You wonder if the pavement is still stained red.) 

You know Welsh. Have spoken it for years. You came, fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked, and the ladies cooed while they taught you the words. 

But it's buried. They are covered in dust; a forgotten relic. You remember pieces of the greeting, but your lips are no longer used to forming them. Your tongue is too heavy, too foreign. 

You say nothing at all, trailing off into a stifling silence. 

"Right," her brows knot, rheumy eyes regard you warily. "Do you need a hotel—?"

"I live here." 

You bend down, peeling the pristine welcome mat back, and fish out the key you keep tucked away. Years of training echo in the background; a firm voice rings out, one that sounds suspiciously like Ghost's, barking out how that's trouble. You'll come home to a world of hurt if you keep doin' that, soldier.

(You already do.)

You pull your duffle bag up when it slips, and nod at the bemused woman. 

It's not much of a homecoming. 

It never is. 

The flat you own is barren. A bed that feels too comfortable at night for you to ever truly relax on is shoved into the bedroom, a wardrobe with civilian clothes, a shoe rack in the foyer. A kitchen that's always empty. 

You mostly sleep on the worn, old couch where the springs dig into your shoulder blades, and remind you of that night you spent in Sierra Leone, belly full of yabeh. Ghost a hair's length away from you. His gloved hand brushing yours. 

The duffle bag falls to the tiles with a heavy thud. Your passport will go in the safe along with all of your other belongings—clearance badge, certificates, your guns—until the call comes in for your next mission. 

You hope it's soon. That Shepherd and Laswell trudge up some calamity that will take you far away from this place. A long-haul mission. The kind where you go deep into the trenches, and when you surface, it feels like an aeon has passed. 

It's too quiet at night. 

Your home reeks of dust. Disuse. 

You settle on the couch, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend you can't feel his shoulder under your head even now. 

A world away, and you still think of him. 

(Always, always.)

    Shepherd calls you weeks later. A secret mission with the Shadow Company, he tells you. When you ask about the others, his voice is tight. 

Just you, soldier. Just you. 

Breaking up the Task Force isn't unheard of. Ghost does so many secretive missions on his own that meeting people he worked with in the past on a group venture isn't at all a rarity anymore. Price is the same. Soap, sometimes, too. 

There isn't much else to do. 

(You held your phone in your hand each night for those weeks, finger hovering over the CALL button. Two letters— Lt— on the contact screen. His profile picture is a dune of sand.

It never rang. You never called.)

You give your affirmative, and go to the coordinates where his operatives will be waiting for you. 

"Show me what you got," he says, a challenge in his voice. 

Your grin is sharp. "Always, Actual." 

    Phillip Graves meets you with a wide grin on his face. The American flag on his fatigues sticks out against the green. So used to the British flag, you can't stop your eyes from sliding down to it, drawn like a beacon. 

(Maybe, in a bygone era, it, too, might have been home.)

"Welcome aboard, soldier." His eyes flash in the setting sun. Eager. Heavy. You echo it in your own smile. "Let's get these son'of'a'bitches."

    You're back at the bottom. 

The Shadow Operatives stare at you when they think you aren't looking. Low murmurs fill the jet— princess, chick, girl— and you gazed, pointedly, out the window. 

Your hands itch; the phantom scabs prickle. 

It makes you miss 141 more than you thought possible. Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost. They flicker in your mind, and you wonder what they'd do in this situation. 

How would they prove themselves to everyone around them?

(Answer: they wouldn't.) 

The only one who isn't pushing you in a box is Graves. 

"Heard great things about you," his smile crests over his lips. Eyes hungry. Ready for battle. "Can't wait to see what you can do." 

He worked with Ghost a month ago. You find this out when he mentions it offhand. Secret mission with your Lieutenant. Is he always that much of an asshole—?

Actual is in your ear, stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

But it's Ghost you think of. 

(Always, always.)

"He's not an asshole," you say, shrugging. "Just a man who cares too much." 

Almost immediately, you want to swallow the words back down. Stupid. Stupid. You force yourself to remain still, nonchalant. 

(How presumptuous of you to think you know him.)

Military likes to gossip. It'll come back to him somehow. The little rookie who stuck up for him. Who said he cared.

Graves' eyes flicker. "That right?"

You blush. English is gone. The only language in your throat is Welsh. 

(Graves' guffaw echoes in the jet.)

    Graves purses his lips, rolling them from side to side, as you sift through the documents in front of you. He's been pacing the room for the last ten minutes while you meticulously translate each paper in your grasp. Agitation bleeds through the usual warmth in his countenance. 

It's tense. A slaughter. 

His compatriots flank all of the exits; sounds of gunfire resound through the compound. 

The infiltration was easy. 

This—

This is not. 

"So…," he drawls, the thick accent is warm, but his voice is constricted; pinched. "Heard you were the best at sniffing things out. What do you think?"

"It's not—," you pause, eyes skimming the page, squinting at it. 

"What?"

His tone is sharp. Icy. The usual warmth dissipates into a palpable tension; a tight unease. 

The shift is strange. Focus on the mission.

"It's not just Konni in this. They're being backed." 

"That so?" 

You suck in a deep breath. "We should leave. Tell Actual what's going on–"

"Yeah," he intones, crouching down in front of you. His eyes are placid. "We'll do just that."

    It all happens so fast. A clichè, really, but a fitting one. 

Head turned out the window of the cargo van, deadly missiles being dragged behind. Your mind is full, racing. Nothing makes sense. 

You wish Ghost was here. Price. Soap. They're the ones you use to bounce ideas off of: this is what is happening, this is the missing equation, and this is what I think. 

Good, bonnie. Now, tell us something we don't know. 

And what if the equation is wrong?

Crafty, soldier. How do we prove it? 

And then the world shatters. 

Konni Operates. A gun to your head. Graves yelling in the distance; spitting curses, threats. Actual in your ear— you'll die here, soldier. 

Chaos. Death presses cold metal to your forehead, snapped words in rapid-fire Russian, too fast for you to pick up. 

The only ones that leak through are oozing glee. I'm going to blow your head off.

A dead-end. You think of Gaz—the closest to you in age, passing jokes back and forth; playing Never Have I Ever when the missions lull, the others looking on with amusement. 

Kids these days, they scoff.

Have you seen this video? He asks, dropping into the vacant seat beside you. Ghost looks up. It's a club in London. 

Soap huffing when you ask if he wants to come. Too old for that, bonnie.

You kids have fun, Price says, lips twitching. A rare show of amusement from the man. But I'll have to pass.

What if we went to a pub instead, you geezer? You chuckle. 

Geezer? He nudges Ghost to his left, eyes dry. You've been rubbing off on the kids. 

You meet his stare over the plastic table. Smile turns shy. Wanna come with us, Lt?

He holds it. Halfmoon. Eclipse. Liquid black. Negative, soldier. 

You try not to let the sting of rejection show. It's stupid. Stupid—

Nice one, kid.

Y'did good, bonnie.

Let's show these old boys what us kids can do, yeah?

Their voices echo in your mind. One rings louder than the others. A sharp bark. Gravel shattering. Move, soldier!

You're a dutiful soldier. You never disobey a command from your superior officer. From him.

White-hot pain splits across your temple. The world turns static. You're falling down, down, down—

Waves lap at your body, tugging you out to sea. The briny water fills your throat. 

Stay alert, soldier. The General. Voices. 

"Well, shit." Graves. He sounds distant. Far away. 

You think of Sierra Leone. Your first mission. 

Hiding in a concrete house with no windows, no doors, no cover. Gunfire booming across the landscape, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night. Flickers of yellow-red light pop in the distance. 

You don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Your hands tremble around your rifle. Eyes wavering. 

Warmth against your back. You startle. A gloved hand over your mouth. The brush of a balaclava against your neck. 

"Easy, soldier. They'll see you if you jump." 

They'll see you—

"They dead?" A boot knocks against your calf. 

You go limp. 

"Yeah," Graves. Companion. Comrade. Be careful who you trust, soldier. All you have right now is yourself. Trust your gut; you're on your own. 

Copper on your tongue. You let it pool between your teeth, keeping it held in the space between your lips. It tastes of pennies. You try not to choke.

Sir… you whisper the words against his tactical vest. Feel the shift of his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder. Let's get yabeh after this. 

We're not on holiday, soldier. 

Really? Feels like one. 

You need to get out more. 

Yeah… maybe…

C'mon, now. Stay with me, pet. 

Always… sir. Always…

    You drag him to someplace you'd heard of through your new friends–best yabeh in all of Salone; gotta try the Jollof, too, Sesay insists–and he fits in like a sore thumb. 

You both stand out, really. Foreigners in the middle of a place visited only by locals. Him in his denim trousers, and short-sleeved shirt, tactical vest fixed on his chest; his mask stays on. A ball cap low over his brow. He exudes danger. The rippling musculature of a tiger. The stealth of a panther. 

You—nondescript and tiny beside him. 

There is something to be said about seeing your new Lieutenant in denim. In the custom facemask instead of the full balaclava. 

With the baleen lines missing over his chin and neck, he almost feels too exposed to you. Too vulnerable. Too open. 

You can't stop fixing your gaze on the scant flesh, uncovered, above the collar of his shirt. His arms, bulky, and big, fold over his massive chest. 

He barely fits inside the small booth. 

Your eyes dance. Amusement. A roseate veil shudders over you—a novice, a rookie—and high off of the success of a mission. 

"Sesay says this is the best place in town."

"Sesay says a lot of things, don't he?" 

You blink, fingers tapping against the worn wood of the table. It's hot in Sierra Leone. A wet swelter that brands your skin with white-hot intensity. It's different from the dryness of the Sahara. 

Somehow, his tone is drier than the arid desert you crawled out of. Drier than the burning heat of the massive sun. 

"That he does…," you agree, floundering. 

Was this a mistake? Maybe you shouldn't have come here. What were you thinking? Dragging your superior out for dinner. You flush. It's barely discernable from the blistering sunburn over the bridge of your nose. Unfamiliar with the intense sun that scorches the land. 

You're drowning, now. Wallowing in this limbo of uncertainty. Maybe you should have just come later with Sesay and Abdul. They asked you when you pestered for directions, but you met Ghost's stare from over their shoulders, and hadn't heard a thing of what they were saying once you met him in the middle.

He's a whole head taller than everyone he meets. Massive. The locals' baulk at him: this huge, terrifying being with a skull on his face, cutting through the throng of people like a tank. 

There was so much going on once you started the mission. After the Intel was gathered, and the forces were ready, those long nights spent inside a tent that was barely big enough for yourself let alone the behemoth bulk of your Lieutenant came to an end. It was abrupt. Sudden.

It was just you and him. 

And then it was a sea of people. 

You'd spent the better part of a year pouring over documents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Scorpions and sand, and him. 

The tent was deadly during the day; balmy with a humidity fit for the Amazon. At night, any complaints you might have had about the heat turned into regrets. It was freezing. You could see white clouds of condensation when you breathed out. 

You'd lie next to each other. Grains of sand is the only thing keeping you apart. He was warm—bonfire hot. 

You'll be frustrated, mad. That's normal when you spend so much time with a stranger. You might argue, bicker. But just focus on the mission. This is a test of camaraderie as much as it is endurance. 

It wasn't like that at all. It was—

Seamless. 

His ebb and flow were easy to adjust to. Maybe, it was the fact that you were a neophyte that made it so. Too afraid to let the bundle of frustration rear when this was your first mission. Your first test. 

But—

It wasn't quite like that. You found that you enjoyed his company. His barbed insults spoken in a flat, serious tone often flew over the heads of the men you had to work with, but you grew accustomed to them. Enjoyed them, even. He was—

An enigma. A year later, and you know nothing about Simon Riley, and as much as he'll allow about Ghost. There is distance still, but; 

It wanes. It cracks. Fills with the sharpness of his sarcasm, the stoic dedication to his mission; the grains of sand that stick to his sweat-slicked forehead. The deep hue of red from the mask he refuses to take off. 

You'll suffocate, you quip, eyes glued to the paper in front of you. 

Don't worry about me.

That's a silly thing to say… 

It ain't. You shouldn't. 

Mindless, stupid: well, I do. 

Silence. Brutal and stifling. Then: focus on the mission, Rookie. Not on me. 

You'd hummed noncommittally. It slipped into the back of your head, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of you. 

But it wells, now. When Sesay asks if you want to go with him for dinner, when he tells you how to get there, and what to order. 

Not on me.

Your eyes haven't left his. He holds your stare. 

The chossy wobbles, cracks. Your hand on his arm. C'mon, boss, let's eat. It stays there while you lead him through winding valleys. The heat of his arm—bare, veins ticking under your palm, too burly for you to wrap your whole hand around the thick of him—bleeds into you. You, cold-blooded, leach the warmth from his flesh.

And now—

He doesn't eat when dinner is brought out. Doesn't take his mask off. 

You watch him through the steam that wafts off the Jollof rice, his eyes roaming around the room like clockwork, looking for something that might strike. Hyper-vigilant. Wary. Cold. Distant. 

A puzzle not meant to be put together, but your fingers itch with the urge to try. 

Why did he come, you wonder. Why didn't he say no? 

As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes are on yours. Tendrils of translucent white fog the air between you. His brow pinches. Lids crest. 

It punches the air from your lungs. There is a phantom heat in your palm. Your hands shake around the fufu in your grasp, tightening around the tacky food until it bulges between your fingers. 

The syphoned heat begins to simmer in your belly. 

It bubbles over, blustering through your insides when his head pulls close, chin over the table, and says:

You did good, rookie. Might make a soldier of you, yet. 

You bow your head. "Cachu hwch."

"English, soldier." 

You shake your head. "N-nothing, sir… burnt my tongue."

    You wake up in an empty hospital room. It was early August when you left for Al Mazrah. The calendar on your wall says it's now late September. 

The space in between is a blur. Left in the mud. Graves was taken. Was he okay–

You don't remember anything after the point of passing out in the mud, and waking up—sick from infection, burning from a fever—and finding yourself strapped down on a jet. Medics surround you. 

You'll be okay, you'll be fine–

You'd passed out again. The world slipping away until you felt the heat on your shoulder blades. The scent of yabeh thick in your nose. 

You move, sluggish and heavy, on the rough hospital bed, fingers gripping the sheets below. 

You still feel the grit of sand against your arm. 

Heat in your belly. 

(Cachu hwch, indeed.)

    Shepherd calls you a day later on the phone in your private room. Your prison. The men outside say you're not allowed to leave. It's dangerous. 

"Did good out there, rookie."

"Thanks, Actual," you murmur, hands clenched around the receiver. "Couldn't have done it without your help. Without you." 

You want to ask about Graves. About your team. 

You remember the rapid Russian spat in your ear. And this one? You bite your tongue, body pickling with unease. 

"Rest up, now. My boys will be keeping an eye on you. They'll keep you safe."

      You are discharged at the end of October. 

Hands pressed against the still-healing scar on your temple. They peeled the bandage off yesterday. 

The infection made it worse. It wasn't healing with the sickness you had. You're lucky some local boys found you in the mud when they did. You would have died. 

Laswell finds you outside. Hand against her throat, eyes wide.

She looks like she's seen a ghost. 

You certainly feel like one. 

    The ride to your safehouse is punctuated by a game of catch-up. She tells you about the mission they went on, the one you were exempt from. 

The phone calls from Soap, Gaz make sense now. Straight to voicemail. 

Hey, you skimpin' out on us, yeah? Skippin' duty? Not like you at all. Kinda worried, y'know? Text me somethin'. You know I don't like callin'. Anyway… we're keepin' it together, yeah? But kinda freakin' out. Uhh… anyway—

Not like you to miss one, bonnie. Call me when you can, aye? Want to make sure you're okay. 

Price calls nine times. Leaves no voicemail. 

A single text from Ghost. Wheels up at 16:00. Expect to see you there. 

You didn't get your phone back until today. These were sent at the end of October. 

The clock on your screen reads 2nd November.

"No one knew…," you murmur, hands clenched around the metal. "Why didn't Shepherd—"

"Shepherd said you were sent on recon. Said something happened. He didn't tell the others—just me and Price. Didn't want to distract them from the job." 

"When did you find out?"

"That you were alive?" Her lips thinned, skin paling. "Yesterday." 

"Where are they now?"

"That's confidential." 

A scoff. "Sure. Now, off the record…"

"Mexico." 

Something doesn't feel right at all. It sits like an anvil in your stomach. 

"Laswell…" 

"Get some rest," she says, even. Her eyes are glossy when she stares at you. "We'll keep you updated. I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know you're alive."

    Your phone rings two days later. 

The screen flashes. Lt.

Your hands tremble when you answer it. 

    "It was Shepherd," he admits. 

Your head swims with the admission. Shepherd. Did good out there, rookie. Now, stay good. Stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

"Is he–?"

"No," he grouses, the word a sliver short of being a growl. "He's alive. Graves is dead."

It hits you in the sternum—a punch unlike any other you'd received. Air knocked from your lungs, chest throbbing in agony, you sink down into your bed, fingers gripping the sheets until your knuckles bleach white. 

This shouldn't have happened. 

This is what you do. It's your purpose. It's your job. Your role. You were selected by Shepherd, by Laswell, Price for that, for your ability to gather information, to weed out the moles, the rats. To sniff them out, and puncture holes in their ship until they sank to the bottom, secrets leaking out. 

The words roll out of your mouth before you stop them. 

"I should have been there." 

The tremulous quiver makes you wince. Weakness. You're not weak. You're not—

Ghost won't see it as such, you know this; he doesn't really react to the harsh emotions of others. He carries an unwavering focus, rapt attention to the overarching mission, the end goal; pragmatic, astute on the battlefield, he doesn't flinch. 

It's a toss-up if he'll ever respond. If he does, it's usually with a dry, biting dismissal. Sarcasm with him often rides the line of being too sincere, and too flat. It's not just murky, but opaque. He'll say something—equal parts scathing and wise: it's already done, no sense dwelling on what you can't change. Do better next time. 

The bite in his words hurt; it was enough to make even the most impassive man irritated by the blunt, almost cruel tinge to his tone. 

But it's later when the message will unravel itself. When you're lying alone in your cot, picking over the things he said, and why he said them, and then—

Oh.

Do better next time. 

Right. 

A soft sound. The rush of air being inhaled through clenched teeth.

Then: "I'm glad you weren't." 

Silence. Your heart thunders. I'm glad you weren't.

It could mean a lot of things. A lot of bad things, but:

He thought you were either dead, or missing, or just—gone. You get it:

The last job didn't kill you—the evidence stacks in your head; one conclusion drawn: 

It should have. It was meant to. 

Your brush with death was a footnote. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things. 

They wanted you dead. They failed. 

Soap called you last night, voice tight. You good, bonnie?

Getting there, you joked. Actual had my back. Graves, too. I'm alive because of them.

You choke. 

"You alright?"

It's on the tip of your tongue to say yeah. The usual response. Practised. Easy. Distant. But you think of his words, and your ears ring with the deep husk of his voice. He was honest with you. Open. And that's—

Your words are a rush, dipped in vulnerability. "I don't want to be alone right now." 

Too much. Too honest. 

Too open. 

You flinch. Heart thudding in your throat. 

Ghost makes you feel like an exposed wire. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Raw. 

He says your name—a low, brassy rasp that tickles the back of your neck. It's rare for him to call you by your given name. It's much too intimate. Too—

Well. It's just too much. You want to lean into it, to drape yourself in the rich utterance. Have it whispered into your ear late at night, while he fucks into you the same way he bucked into his hand. 

And in the morning when he first wakes. When he rolls over, body folding over your own. Lips against the shell of your ear. A husky rasp; the word dragged over gravel. 

You want it, want him, in ways that are unattainable. 

Domestic. 

You gasp. "I–um. Thanks," you fumble over your words, head roaring with the realisation that there is more than just attraction in the way your heart flutters in your chest; the downy soft wings of a small bird ruffling its fresh plumage. "I'll… talk later." 

Your name is barked through the phone when you pull it away. It's cut off before he can finish. 

    They video call you from some pub. 

The sight of them together—Gaz, Soap, Price, Laswell, Ghost—makes you smile. 

"Christ, bonnie." Soap's eyes are fixed on the line near your temple. Scabbed. Plum colour. Healing, but not yet there. An inch over, and you'd have been—

You flinch, shrugging. "Could be worse–"

"What happened?" It's a command. You try not to tremble at the bark in Ghost's tone. Perhaps Laswell didn't tell them everything. 

His eyes are wide, the whites cresting over the puddles of black. You can't match his stare. You drop, darting to the clock in the corner. 

It's Laswell who tells them about the mission with the Shadow Company. Graves. Shepherd. 

"...Fuckin', aye." Gaz murmurs. He echoes Ghost's question. "What happened? No one told us anything. We thought— and then Shepherd said you were out for the mission. Not that—that you'd been— " 

It falls silent. They don't know about the mission's end aside from Shepherd's lies. Laswell knows. She was the first face you saw in the hospital. 

Let's talk… 

"We were ambushed," you start, shrugging again. Blasé. Nonchalant. You pretend you can't feel the intensity of Ghost's stare through the screen. "I… they were going to shoot me. I got away. Got a scratch—," a scoff from Soap, a murmur of more than a scratch, aye; you ignore it. "They thought I was dead, so they left me there…"

There is more to it. Graves. The whispers in your head. Them, in your final moments. Agents outside your hospital door. Two inches from death. A day away from rotting. 

You swallow it down. It doesn't matter. It happened and now it's over. 

"Bonnie…," there is something raw in Soap's voice. It pricks your pericardium. 

Left for dead. Abandoned by everyone around you. The ones you trusted the most. Your own team didn't even look. Had no time to mourn, no time to worry. 

You know what they must see; the lines they must be drawing. How they, themselves, currently feel, and what they would do if it were them instead of you. It—

It hurts. 

"I'd have joined you at the pub," you murmur, voice a shaky worble, before he can say anything else. "But–," you lift your head, eyes downcast. A facsimile of a smile flickers. You wonder if it hits the mark. "Maybe next time." 

Price nods in your periphery. "Listen—"

"I'll be ready for Makarov," you interrupt. "I'm… I gotta go, though. Am I — can I be dismissed?" 

"...Yeah, yeah you can."

You hang up without another word. 

In the silence of your flat—in a land more foreign to you than the Sahara—you break. 

    Your night dissolves into a series of firsts in quick succession:

A knock on your door. No one knows that you live here. No one but Laswell when she dropped you off. The rheumy-eyed lady with knobby knuckles who mutters at you in warm Welsh. Words you pretend you can't understand. 

Shepherd, too, because he needed a location to put down on paper. A place to find you if they couldn't get a hold of you.

You think it might be him—back for vengeance—and you hold your pistol in your hands, back pressed flat against the wall. One hand drops the brass doorknob. 

"Who is it?" 

A beat. 

"It's me." A thick baritone—enough, you think, pulse racing, to rattle the door with his voice alone. "It's Simon." 

Simon. Not Ghost—

Right. Off-duty, now. Until you get a lead on Makarov. 

Your Lieutenant knocking on your door at—gritty eyes flicker to the stovetop in the kitchen—quarter to five in the evening is another first. Almost paradoxical, really. 

Gun shoved into the holster, you turn to face the wood. Through the little window above, covered by a paper-thin curtain, you can see the dark shape of him, unmoving, as he stands on your porch. 

There are a number of reasons why he'd be here, but only one makes you yearn. 

You pull the door open, and the sight of him makes you dizzy. Hypoxia. Seasickness. Homesick. 

He's dressed as casually as Simon is capable of. Black hoodie, wet on the hood from the snow that falls in clumps outside. A black beanie on his head. Skull mask flat against the bridge of his nose. Denim. Black boots. 

The coal around his eyes is smudged. A nebula of pale skin through a black oasis. 

"What—?"

"Shepherd." Right. He could have called. Got the Intel from Laswell. His words leave no room for argument when he lets out an amalgam of a snarl, a growl; it's ground to dust when he says: "we need to talk."

"Not—," you don't want him to see the emptiness inside. The vacancy. Militaristically barren. Lonely. "Not here…" 

Shepherd was here, too. Not him, specifically—maybe. You don't know for certain. But his agents, definitely. Polluting the inside.

It's a flimsy excuse. You hear the threadbare conviction in your tone. 

"Shepherd was here," you say, and then wince. "Not now, I mean—"

The words die on your tongue. Ghost— Simon —is smart. Of course he wouldn't think Shepherd was here now. He'd fled. Went into hiding. You shift on your feet. 

He can read you like no one else. 

(You wonder if anyone at all can read him.)

You flounder. "I don't want…not here…"

"Where do you want to go?"

Somewhere stiflingly hot. "Anywhere." 

Simon doesn't press. He never does. His head rolls, tips toward the street. "C'mon, then. Get your stuff."

He reads it on your face, in the things you don't say. It reminds you of Sierra Leone— eat, rookie, you haven't all day; get some sleep, you're dead on your feet; I'll take the first watch— and the memory clots behind your ribs. 

"Okay," you murmur. 

You feel his gaze on your back when you turn around. The door is left open. He doesn't follow. 

    There is a chill in the air when you step outside, bundled up in a knit sweater that does little to stem the frigid sea breeze from cutting through the cracks in the threaded cable. 

It's a cold night in Porthmadog. 

Snow falls in clumps from the indigo-smeared sky, sticking to the cobblestone under your feet. 

Simon says nothing as you walk out of the apartment block. He stays close to you, so close you could inch your elbow out and touch him. The heat from his body is a beacon. You're at war with yourself, struggling not to get pulled into his current, and swept out to sea. 

Despite the closeness, there is a distance in the way he paces. Eyes roaming under the hood, taking in the lights strewn overhead, lingering on the alcoves where someone might hide. 

Having him here feels a little surreal. Porthmadog is off-limits to everyone—it's a place where you come to rot. 

His presence shatters the sense that it doesn't really exist outside of those long nights when you stare up at the ceiling, and want. A metaphysical realm that laps at the cracks inside of you, eroding the thick veneer you cobbled together over the years until it withers away, and you have to patch it up when you get called in for another assignment. 

Intact soldier. Whole. Nile. 

It's a place, now. Real. Tangible. 

Seeing Simon—Ghost, Lt—walk beside you down Lombard Street, footfalls echoing through the winding road, makes something churn in your guts. It sits inside, and feels a little like finality. 

How could you possibly come back to a place you pretend doesn't exist? A place that is just en-route to wherever else you have to go? 

A place you come to because you have nowhere else. 

You can't come back here now that the streets are tainted with the nitroglycerin scent of Simon. A bonfire on the beach. The burning logs doused in kerosene. The miasma will suffocate you. 

It clots inside of your lungs, sticking to the gummy lining when you breathe him in. 

He smells of bourbon. Cigarettes. Carries the scent of everyone else with him—Gaz's cologne: thick vetiver; the sickly sweet tang of Price's cigars; thick metallic: ozone and gasoline that Soap wears after a mission—and you greedily take it in. 

You let it sit, red-hot barbed wire, against your chest. 

Your eyes slip. Illegal. Wrong. They find him, always. Bathed in the streetlight above; flushed yellow. It casts shadows on him, and makes his eyes look lighter. 

A peaking shoal in the middle of the midnight blue ocean. 

He's dangerous. Makes your fingers prickle with want; with the urge to touch.

Makes you greedy. 

Stupid. 

Despite not knowing the area, Simon cuts through the supine street like he's familiar with it already. Maybe, he is. He must have looked at the map on his phone before he got here, eyes locked on the space, the landscape. Mentally cataloguing each hiding spot. 

You follow him—a stranger in your own home—and cross your arms over your chest when the thick chatter carries from inside the shops along the street. Heavy Welsh. Warm milk and honey. 

Salt in your wounds. 

You don't belong here.

The familiar green of the carpet and flooring shop nearly makes you trip, but you steady yourself. Ball your hands into fists by your side, and drop your gaze to the cracked ground below. 

You can feel the moment his gaze shifts, sliding over to you. It bores into your temple; abrasive, and grating. 

Goosebumps erupt over your flesh. You blame it all on the cold—the stutter in your chest, the ache in your lungs, the shiver dancing down your spine. The frigid weather. The icy breeze. 

Another shiver rolls through you, different this time, when you catch sight of the park. 

Your chin hits the pavement. Palms sliding through jagged gravel. Knees splitting. 

Your blood puddles on the grey rocks. 

They crack you open. Nothing spills from the gaping hole. 

"You with me?" 

You blink. The reverie shakes, shudders. The little girl with her chin on the ground warbles. 

Simon stands there, his back to the streetlights. His presence makes the image distort, and bend to fit him inside. It doesn't belong. 

"What's a'matter with you?" 

You flinch at his voice, and peer up at him from under clumpy, wet lashes, heavy with melting snow. 

The words are harsh, but his tone is—

He steps forward, a few paces ahead. You didn't realise you stopped. 

He doesn't come to a halt until there is barely an arm's length of space between you, and seeing him this close to you, his face concealed, blank and empty, has that strange feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach again. 

His lashes are blond. It surprises you. You'd always imagined he had black hair. Black hair, black eyes. 

It's blonde. 

You don't know why it matters, why you can't stop staring at the soft wisps around his lids. They flutter shut, fanning across the smudged ink skin under his eyes. The tips are blond. The bottoms are ash. They're nice, you note, a flavour of that same something blistering through you. 

His lids slide open, the corner tightening as his gaze sharpens, focusing on you. "Y'alright?" He asks again, waiting for an answer. 

You swallow, and it tastes of sand. Gritty, and painful when it slips down your throat. Your voice is a rasp, a shiver above a whisper, when you say, "yeah. "

His eyes tighten again, deeper this time. Something flashes in those polychrome depths. Under the hat, his brow pulls taut together. 

The indent makes your fingers itch, the urge to reach out, to soothe it, is nearly overwhelming. 

"You lyin' to me?" He grumbles, an edge to his voice you can't place. 

"No," you mutter, the words dragged out of you by force. "Just a —a headache." 

He has a look in his eyes that makes you think he knows, somehow. That he can chisel inside your head, and rummage through all the secrets you try to keep. 

Your neck aches from having to tip your chin back so much to even look at him, the 90-degree angle making you feel dizzy. The opposite of vertigo where you sometimes look up at the unending sky yawning overhead and feel that tendril of fear curling around you, admixing the awe, until you feel the urge to dig your fingers into the ground, and hold on. You can't fall up, but in those moments, it almost feels like you might. 

Ghost gives you that same feeling. 

His chin dips low, eyes lidded and heavy. You could almost mistake it for bland disinterest had his jaws not been working, gnashing together in a wordless tick. He says nothing. You watch the bones move. The fabric teeth snap. 

All his focus is centred on the blood-red gash near your temple. The black sutures keeping the split skin together. 

Ghost makes a sound, and you almost mistake it for a growl. Inhumane. Animal. It's pulled from his throat, but bitten off by his teeth before it can take shape. 

You blink up at him, wide and owlish, when he reaches for you. 

His hand is warm even through the glove. The rough fabric grazes your skin when he brushes your hair away with his knuckle. His eyes are fixed on your forehead, hardened, all militaristic concentration as he looks you over. 

"It's—it's fine…" 

"It ain't." 

Gritty sandpaper. Harsh, abrading. 

It's hushed, though. 

Speaking above a whisper feels taboo. This whole thing does, honestly. Illicit, wrong. Ghost shouldn't be lasering his glare on your forehead, searching for a reason to do something about the anger that now brims in those dark depths. His knuckles on your skin feel sacrilegious. Touching you is exempt. Illegal. Off-limits. 

But he does it, anyway. Strips the barriers pitched in front of you both like tissue paper, and holds his four knuckles to your temple, his thumb brushing a hair beneath the irritated skin. Gentle. Soft. 

You didn't think these hands knew how to do something so delicate. That they were made, instead, to break. To crush. To ruin. 

He might, yet: the pad of his finger feels like a brand when it ghosts over the soft curve of your forehead, soothing the phantom hurt, and you think you might just shatter if he doesn't stop touching you like this. Gingerly. Calming. A balm over your aching flesh. 

You'd gotten so used to the pain, the constant throb in your head, that this respite from it feels like bliss. Nirvana wrapped in leather. 

His touch is magnetic. It pulls a sound from deep within your chest, something desperate and wanting, and you can't snap your jaws shut quick enough before it's loose in the atmosphere, and cresting over him. 

Ghost's gentle prods go still. With his thumb pressed into a place that makes liquid heat spume in your vein, you can feel it tremble when your tongue snakes out, gliding over your lower lip. 

Your head swims. Phosphenes dance across the back of your lids, and you struggle to remember when you shut your eyes in the first place. 

They flutter open. 

His stare is fixed on your lips in a total eclipse, honed in on the slow roll of your blood-red tongue as it peeks out from the warm cavern of your mouth. The wet trail left behind is swallowed by his gaze. It flickers up, catching the bloom of heat under your cheeks. The darkened flush makes him rumble; the soft rattle of an engine purring. A frisson passes over his expression, lashes fluttering. 

He's close. Closer than he was before. You can feel the molten heat bleeding into your skin with his proximity. Taste the gunpowder, the ash, and the ichor that clings to him; he smells of war when you breathe him in. Gasoline. Copper. A livewire scent that makes your lungs itch. 

Dangerous. Powerful. Deadly. 

Every synapse in your head misfires, sending off warning signs and sirens to run from the man that reeks of gun oil, and fire; napalm-scented demise with blood-soaked hands meant to ruin. But it only makes you lean in closer until the acrid burn of him corrodes your throat. 

His body is warm, and the heat is stifling. 

You're drunk off the fumes he exudes; reckless and wanting, and in the slurried molasses of your mind, you wonder if this is what it feels like for a gazelle to stand so close to a lion. 

Something cold pools at the base of your spine, making you shiver. A warning—distant, ancient—but the calls of your ancestors are dimmed under the bulk of his shadow. The heavy iron in his gaze rests over you, and you imagine that his body pressed into yours would carry the same heft. 

He's somehow bigger up close, you think. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest and waist; muscular thighs, firm calves. 

He's not Adonis, but you imagine he feels just like marble all the same. 

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

We. He says we, now. It's new. You shudder in his hold. 

"I'm here," you whisper the words, afraid of breaking this strange spell between you. It feels like everything else around you has melted away until only you and he exists on this lonely street that makes you ache. 

"You are…" he rasps; a low hush. Maybe he, too, is afraid of shattering it. "You did good, soldier."

His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won. 

His touch is featherlight. But his eyes–

His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

A million thoughts run through your head, ones that taste like kerosene, and cauterise inside you like a cigarette to your skin. The heat blooms again, but it's not enough—all you can think of is how you wished you had more of him. 

(You wonder if you run your tongue along his skin, kiss that acrid mouth, if he'd taste of napalm.)

Chiselled open, exposed to the air. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding the fumes of your burning need in his lungs. When he exhales, you can taste the smoke in the air. 

His hand drops, fingers sliding down the curve of your face until he meets the plush softness where your chin and cheek meet. The hand he keeps on you is firm. 

His eyes bore into yours. He wants your attention. Demands it. Then, he holds it steady until your mouth drops in a series of short, gasping breaths. 

Your voice is featherlight when you say his name. His real one. Simon. It simmers in the air between you, and the scent of it almost makes his eyes snap shut, shoulders coiling. Tensed. Wanting. His muscles flex, bunching together in tight knots. Clench. Release. Clench. 

It's only when you hear his haggard breath through the nylon, do you realise he's holding himself back from you.

Your belly flutters at the rumble roiling out of his throat. 

Another command falls, deeper, darker, and your spine nearly snaps with how quickly you straighten up when he utters two words. 

"Later, pet." 

It's a promise. A demand. An out. 

His mind made up, decisive and sure, he's now shoving the choice in your hands. Leaving the decision with you for safekeeping.  

Like before, there is only ever one choice. As if you had any other answer for him. 

When you nod, firm and eager, his chest shudders. "Fuckin' Christ–" it's a snarl, full of tension. Excitement.

His hand slides away from your face, and presses into the base of your spine, settling heavily over the curve of your ass. There is pressure, an urgency. 

"C'mon," he rasps, jerking his chin to the end of the park. "Parked over here."

He keeps his hand on you, heavy and hot. A possessive branding as he leads you away from this place. 

When you pass, your eyes drop to the pavement. 

The gravel is clean. Your blood is nowhere to be found. 

Your muscles go lax. You get pulled into his current, shoulder brushing over his chest. 

Simon tightens his hold, and pulls you closer. 

(Dragging you out to open water until you can't see the shoreline anymore.)

    He leads you to a black jeep with tinted windows, and grounds out that it's rental when you press the heel of your palm into your mouth, futilely trying to hide a smile. 

"It's nice," you quip, light and airy. "Very you."

"Just get your ass inside already," he says, pulling the door open for you. "Got a drive ahead of us." 

His hand settles on your waist when you step up on the first rung, heavy. Firm. You want to lean into him. Have him pressed up against you like this for an eternity. 

"Where are we going?" You breathe, shivering from the molten look in his eye. The heat in his chest. 

He tugs you back into him, chin grazing the space between your neck and shoulder. His voice is white-hot in your ear. "My safe house." 

Your eyes flutter. Heat blooms. "Simon—" his name is a whimper on your lips. 

His fingers dig into your hips. "Fuckin' hell, pretty thing. You keep saying my name like that, and we won't make it to Southport." 

There is no lie in the words that are forced out of his throat; inhumane, a growl. You don't want him here —in this town where you moulder. 

Your fingers trail over his wrist. The coarse hair on his arms tickles your skin. 

"Get me out of here."

His eyes sharpen. "Gladly." 

    Two hours and a half hours from Porthmadog to Southport. 

A lot of time for him to reconsider. For that coldness he wears like a shield, that unbreakable distance, to pitch itself in front of him once more, locking you out. Perhaps, it'll be for good. Maybe—

Your hands ball into fists. Knuckles dig into the plush seat. 

You know what you want. Know what you've wanted since before you stupidly opened your mouth— keeping my seat warm— and he saw it through. 

But what about him? There was no time on the jet for a grand discussion, not when everyone was on top of each other already; not when Soap kept glancing at you, brow drawn tight, as if to ask really, bonnie?  

Memories of Sierra Leone have you in a chokehold. Your purgatory, your limbo, your afterlife; when you were dying, it was all of him. Of the desert. Of the town that felt so warm, so inviting. The people baulked at his size but still ushered you over, offering snacks, and treats. 

So tiny beside him, a woman laughs. You need to eat more. Your man should make you fat and happy. 

You blushed. He's not—

Yes, yes… A wink. A coy grin. He watches from the dirt path as she presses bundled cassava into your hands. He says nothing at all. Your man. You like the sound of it more than you should. 

You know what you want. What you've wanted. 

It puddles inside of you. Droplets leaking through the fissures that have been splintering for years, now. 

A man stands in front of you. Promise me, you'll get him. 

You: young, naïve, nodded. I promise. 

Ghost pulled you aside. He yells—quite often, in fact—but he's ice cold when he says, we don't make promises, rookie. Deadly. Your heart is in your throat when you apologise.

And then the scent of fire. A mission in Mesaieed left you and Gaz trapped. Helpless. Smoke clogging your lungs. Gaz wheezing under the intense blase; the noxious fumes billowing from the smoulder. 

His voice in your ear. We'll get you out of there, rookie. Hang tight. 

That a promise? You gasp, gagging from the black cloud drenching your lungs. Close to death, and cracking jokes. Confident. Assured. Nile crocodile lurking below the surface. 

He isn't there to see your hands shake. You're thankful for it. Stupid, stupid—you want nothing more to impress your Lieutenant. Match him wit-for-wit. Vile joke for vile joke.

It surprises you when his voice filters through the line, one word slurred into your ear: yes. 

Are you a man who keeps his promises? 

Always. That's why I never make them. Close to a fiery death, and his voice crackles again. Why wasn't Jesus born in Liverpool? 

Gaz coughed. Fuck's sake… Lemme die in peace. 

Why, Lt? 

There are no wise men or virgins. 

Funny. I like that one. 

Knew you would. Cover your heads. 

The window above shattered. They saved you—just like they said they would. 

(You realised then that Ghost cared for you, for all his subordinates, more than he let on.)

And now—

There is no turning back. Later, he said. He promised. A man who keeps his promises. 

You think, then, of the look on his face under the streetlamp. Snowfall trickles between you. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes when he said:

"Thought we—fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

The words get lodged in his throat. They're ripped out with a harshness that bludgeons through you. 

You turn to him, taking in his profile as he leans back in the seat, looking out the windshield. 

As if he feels your stare, his eyes cut from the window, and find yours. He holds it until you taste smoke in your throat, until your lip trembles. Then it sinks low to your lap. One hand peels off of the steering wheel.

It feels like an anvil when it rests on your thigh. 

"Almost there," it's a strangled rasp. A promise. 

You nod. Your smile feels flushed when it pulls on your lips. Sunkissed. Warm. Expectant.

Your hand unfurls, fingers aching from the strain of your grip, and you curl them over his wrist. His pulse thuds under your thumb. You stroke it, and wonder what he would say if he knew yours beat the same. 

    The safehouse in Southport is not at all what you were expecting. 

The winding road he drives on leads to a small, modest cabin on the outskirts of the town. Perched away from the rest of civilisation, it sits on its own island. Cut-off from the mainland. 

The distance is something that makes a smile pull on your lips. So fittingly him —your lone wolf leader who only just learned the word we —but the sight of the house makes something gnarl inside of your chest. It's quaint. 

Somehow, you'd expected a flat in the heart of the city. London, perhaps. Somewhere close to the airport, to the UK base used when you needed the closest weapons cache or jet. 

The little abode in the middle of a farm doesn't mesh with the image you'd drawn of your prickly Lieutenant. It's too—

Wholesome. 

"It's temporary," he grouses when he catches your teeth sink into your palm, a wide grin splitting across your face. "I haven't been back here in a long time."

"Is it yours?" You ask, turning to him. The jeep hums, idling. Neither of you makes any move to get out. 

His fingers drum on the wheel. "Grew up here."

"I thought you were from East London."

"No. Moved there, then back here." He offers. 

You nod. You get it. 

"It's nice." You say instead, and it really is. A sprawling farmland with rolling hills in the distance where you know the sun hits in the morning. Where it'll bathe the boscage in ochre. "Peaceful."

"I'd have taken you to London," he grinds the words out from between his molars. "But it's too far." 

Too far. Roughly four hours. 

You've been sitting for nearly three. You shudder, eyes lidded when you turn to him. 

A slow roll of your tongue has his arms flexing, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are stained white. Bleached. 

"Maybe next time." 

A promise. A question. 

The vein in his forearm throbs. "C'mon, let's go." 

    You barely have enough time to pace a few feet into the foyer before it starts. You turn to look at him from over your shoulder—taking in the chimney, the chaise, the distinct lack of anything personal outside of a safe, a lighter on top of the fireplace—and he's suddenly there. Boots off. Hands curled into fists by his side. Head dipped down, and eyes more dangerous than you'd ever seen them. 

That thrill pools—a warning. Run, run.  

He stalks toward you, eyes burning coal. "Are you hungry?"

"No," you shake your head, swallowing thickly. 

A step back. A step forward. They spark when you run. 

"Thirsty?"

"N—no…"

Two steps bring him closer to you. Your back presses flush to the wall next to the fireplace, and he moulds over you like a liquid shadow. Dark, imposing. He's massive. You can't see anything but him. 

Simon rests his forearm against the wall over your head, bending it at the elbow to bring him closer to you. The rough graze of his mask over your cheek has you panting. 

His hand is a brand on your thigh. It slips down, fingers crooking in the fold of your knee, wrenching it up his hip. You gasp, hands grasping the bulk of his biceps when he drags your centre flush over the growing bulge in his pants. 

Your head swims when he growls in your ear. "Is there anything you need to do before I drag you to my bed?" You shake your head slightly, pulse humming in your chest. "Because once I'm inside this pretty cunt, nothing at all will get me out. Understood?" 

Your brain short circuits. A complete whiteout. 

"A—affirmative." You choke, somehow coherent despite the absolute mess in your head. "Sir."

He rumbles. His chest pushes into yours; the sound reverberating through your bones. "Good girl."

    He turned his back to you after he let you inside a modest bedroom, pulling the black sweater over his head. His back exposed—rippling muscles, etches of black from the tattoos—all pale skin wrapped in thick sinew. The sound you make has his shoulders coiling tight. 

"Fuck, pet… I haven't even touched you, yet." 

He turns, the mask slightly lopsided, and his beanie missing. His hair without the full balaclava sends a shock to your system. The newness of discovering something; elation bleeds in. His hair is ashen brown. Lighter than chocolate, darker than caramel. 

You want to sink your fingers into the thick of it. 

Thighs pressed tight together, your greedy eyes take him in. The way his hair—moussed from the hat—falls over his forehead; not cropped to the grain like Soap, and barely centimetres longer than Price. 

He gazes at you. Waiting, maybe. 

Your hands fall to your pants, eager to rid yourself of every barrier between your skin and his. You want him on you— in you. It itches like a sickness. Burns like a fever. 

Your trousers fall. Fingers looped into the hem of your panties. He stops you, then, with his words. 

"I took the mask off for the team."

You falter, bent down to push the panties the rest of the way off, and blink up at him. 

The first thought, of course, is that Gaz saw his face before you. Gaz. The rookie rivalry (playful, carrying the flavour of siblings vying for their approval) makes you burn. 

You swallow the jealousy on your tongue. "Oh…" 

He waits, still. 

"You don't have to…" you want to see him. He's a mosaic; an incomplete piece. You have two halves but the middle is murky. You try to fit them in your head, but the image doesn't line up. 

"Lay back," he ordered, hands dropping to his belt buckle. 

The image of him tugging the leather, veins rippling under the black ink of his burly forearms, feels unholy. It douses you with a want so palpable, your belly quivers with need. 

You don't need foreplay, you think. Not when the sight of him pulling off a belt already has you melting. Has your pussy throbbing, your thighs slick.  

"Damn, Lieutenant…" you mewl, dropping down on the bed, knees pressed taut together to stem the ache. "How are you so—" 

"Simon," he rasps. The belt hangs in his hands. You wonder if he'd tie you up one day with it. Leave you quivering below him, completely at his mercy. 

Or, would he let you use it on him? Let you bind this behemoth to the bed for your pleasure. 

Your toes curl. The thoughts alone are enough to get you off, you think. 

But it's the sight of him, then, standing over you, trousers hanging low on his hips, kept in place only by the thick thigh he slots between your knees, that really makes you shudder. 

"Lay back," he orders again, hand dropping—white-hot, rough—to your shaking knee. His chin lowers, eyes staring at your pussy. "I want to taste you again, pet." 

Fuck. Fuck —

He lowers to his knees, still somehow taller than you, and gazes at you between your bent legs. Dark eyes flashing. Goosebumps prickle along your flesh as he trails his gaze down the length of your body, settling, once again, on your cunt. 

He looks as if he's going to devour you. Eyes wide, whites full, when he pries your legs apart, spreading your cunt for him once more. He hadn't seen you bare like this—beneath him for his own pleasure—and you feel the ghost of his breath on your sex when he leans in close, breathing in deeply. 

"Bloody- fuckin' -hell, pet—" it sounds like a curse when he says it. A choked snarl. "So wet for me, and I haven't even touched you."

His hands are on the outside of your thighs, rough skin grazing the sensitive flesh as he trails them down to the soft flesh beneath your knee. With his thumbs hooked in the bend, pressing sharply into the cartilage, he wrenches them apart, opening you wider for him until your pussy is bared to him completely. 

The groan he makes edges on the equinox of being absolutely filthy and wrecked when he drinks you in. 

"Missed this pretty little cunt." His masked cheek rests on your knee, head cocked as he stares down at you. When he tips his chin, gazing at you, his eyes are blacker than midnight. A pool of ink. Desire brims. 

He hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders, finger looping in the gap between his mask and the skin beside his nose. 

You don't have a chance to see it. Fucking tease —

He dips his head before he tugs it down, and you feel the molten heat of his tongue slipping between your folds. 

Your head falls back on the pillow, toes curling as that greedy mouth devours you once more. The stubble around his chin prickles the skin of your thighs. His grip is so tight, you already see blooms of blue pooling beneath the tips of his fingers. 

The first time wasn't a flute. Simon presses his mouth to your cunt like he can't get enough; lips sealing over your throbbing clit, tongue lapping at you in even, thick strokes that make you see white behind your eyelids. It's good, so good —

He's going to ruin you. 

"Simon—"

You remember those filthy groans rumbling against your slit, and your hand lifts, reaching down to tangle in his locks. A tug—sharp, pointed—makes him pant into your pussy, makes his fingers tighten until you can feel capillaries bursting under his firm hold. Until his short nails make indents in your flesh. 

"Yeah, pet," his voice is molten rock; you throb, aching, from the sound alone. "Just like that…" 

His mouth is on you again, devouring you whole. 

You lift your head, staring down at the black eyes that bore into you, the thick locks of hair spilling out between your fingers, and you break. 

You fall back with a groan, arching your cunt into his eager mouth, desperate for more. More of that liquid bliss that spools in your core, that has you leaking a puddle under his chin. 

His hands shift, sliding down the meat of your thighs until they wriggle under your ass. Your flesh spills between his fingers when he grips you tight, lifting your hips, your cunt, to him. 

Simon helps you buck against him, lets you cant your hips into his face, nearly smothering him with the sopping heat of your centre. When you're mewling, panting, with your head tossed back, and rapture in a quiver of his name spilling from your lips, he shifts. 

His hold changes, and one hand falls back. His lips seal around your aching clit as a finger—long, thick—presses against your entrance. His tongue laves over you when he slowly presses it inside, crooking it to stroke against your fluttering walls. 

The choked sob that leaves your throat is a mangled wreck of pleasure, of want. 

"More," you mewl, but the plea barely has a chance to pass your lips before he's dragging his finger out until only the tip keeps you open. "Please, sir—"

He thrusts it into the last knuckle, groaning against you at the slick, wet sound that it makes. "Fuck, pet. Always so wet for me, aren't you?" 

"Always," you gasp, fingers gripping his hair tight. "Simon, I need more—"

He pulls his finger out; another joins it when you whimper. The stretch feels good. Heat blooms in your belly. You won't last long. Your thighs quiver with each roll of his fingers pushing in as deep as they will go; with each stroke of his tongue over your clit. 

You're going to cum— 

"Simon—"

The coil snaps, pussy clenching on the thick fingers wedged inside of you, hips canting into his eager mouth as he rides you through the spasming pleasuring that ripples through your abdomen. 

"That's it… that's a good girl," he slurs against you. 

It's almost too much when he forces another finger into your throbbing cunt. You keen at the stretch, at the too-full feeling of him splitting your walls. 

"Simon, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You're taking me so well already." 

His voice is liquid sex; the wrecked sound of him makes your toes curl, and your spine arch. You want him inside of you. You want to know if he'd make those same grunts of pleasure with your pussy wrapped around him. 

High of the sudden burst of endorphins, you look down at him—sloppy with your wetness, his face hidden by your cunt—and you tug his hair until he meets your blown-out gaze. 

"Fuck me," you try to demand, but the word comes out as a shaky plea.

"Too tight, pet," he rumbles. "Gotta get you ready for me."

Three fingers buried to the last knuckle, and he says it still isn't enough. 

You'd think him cocky had you not the pleasure of seeing him hard and aching already. Big, fat cock leaking between the seal of his palm. You shiver, head dropping to the pillow. 

It's all you can do but take whatever he gives you—long, thick fingers stretching you out, brushing the gummy walls inside that flutter when his mouth seals over your clit. It feels like an eternity since he pulled you inside the room. 

A tug of your hand makes him groan. You meet his stare, pleading. Breathless. It's too much—

And not enough. 

"I don't care," you slur, drunk and stupid on the way his hot mouth glues to your cunt. "I wanna feel you inside of me for days, sir—"

"Fuck!" 

It's a harsh snarl that makes you whimper. The sound ripped from his chest, and rubbed raw as it was scraped out. His forehead is pressed to your mound, breathing you in once more. 

His head lifts. 

It's dark in the room. You can't really make out the entirety of his features—the familiar long nose, the cut of his jaw. His lips. It's bathed in black, in shadows, but through the glimmer of the washed-out moon that spills inside, you can see the distinct wetness gleaming on his mouth, his chin. 

You whimper, eyes burning with tears of desperation. When he speaks, it's shredded rocks. Gravel. Low and dark.

"You're gonna feel me for weeks, pet." 

It's a dangerous precipice. His voice alone shatters your resolve, and seeing those full, pink lips form the words that will ruin you, it's overwhelming. Your cunt throbs, walls shuddering in pleasure ripped through your being. 

He feels it against his fingers; it makes his eyes flutter. His tongue sweeps out. Eye hooded, half-mast as they take you in. 

He sits back, hands slipping to the crease of your knees. His chin dips. 

"Hold 'em open for me, pet." 

You gasp, belly knotting tight from the command that drips from his drenched, wicked, mouth. Your hand reluctantly falls from the soft locks to do as you're told. The warmth of his skin brushes over your fingers when you take his place, keeping your legs bent, spread, for him. You're on display. Open, wanting. 

His hand, now free, reaches for the bundle of fabric pooled at the base of his neck. The mask is fixed into place again—a needless action, you think, pouting. Gaz saw his face in better lighting. 

(You hope he had the wherewithal to take a picture for you.)

But there is something to be said about how illicit he looks, mouth now concealed from your view until just his eyes are visible. The coal is rubbed off, shadows along the crease, the corner of his nose, under his eyes, but it feels dangerous like this. 

With the mask on, he's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. Fearsome. Men cower from him. His name alone scorches the earth, and makes the underbelly tremble. 

And he's going to be inside of you. Claiming you, taking you. It's a cigarette thrown on a sea of gasoline. Your skin, fervid, begins to blister. 

When you look up, it's ink-blot eyes in a sea of white. Red tendrils in the corners; rivers of ichor.

If he keeps looking at you like that, like you're a feast for him, you might go a little crazy, a little delirious. 

Simon stares for a moment longer, hand dipping below the bed to grasp himself in his hand. A grunt at the touch, a flutter of his lashes, and then he moves. Coiled muscle; rippling flesh. He looms above you like a Cimmerian god—drenched in tenebrose, mask soaked from your slick—his haunting eyes gazing at you like you're an offering meant to be savoured. 

His thighs—thicker than the tree trunks in the distance—slot beneath yours, and the sheer width of them makes you dizzy. The bulk is bigger than your head. Simon must notice the way you're drooling over them, knuckles white as you stare, open and hungry, wanting, as he takes a small amount of mercy on you. He shifts until the bulk of it is pressed taut to your core. 

Your back arches, legs trembling. Fuck—

You want to ride his thighs. Want him to perch you on his massive lap, and have those molten eyes fixed on you as you use him to get yourself off. 

You could do it, you think, mind blanking out; that soporific pleasure slurring all logic from taking root until a gossamer spools inside, filled with want. With greed. 

"Wanna ride you…" you slur, wrecked on the notion alone. "Your thighs. They're so big, Simon, fuck— you're so big—"

"I like that idea, pet," he rasps, thigh notching closer to your throbbing cunt, smearing slick all over the coarse hair that covers his flesh. "Wanna see you desperate for it." 

"I am…" you whine, breathless. "I want you so bad, I can't stand it…"

His hands fall, bracketing his burly arms beside your head until the absurd heft of him fills your vision. The muscles in his core pull taut; veins in his arms pulse. 

He told you to keep your legs spread, but your fingers itch with the need to touch him. To feel him against your palm. 

His cock hangs, daunting and thick, between his legs, head brushing your belly. Prespend smears over your skin; warm, tacky. You want a taste—

When you tell him as much, chin tipped backwards to whisper the words into his neck, he shudders above you. His cock twitches, spits more prespend on you. You want him to cum on your face, you gasp, words liquid, slurred. You're not entirely sure they're in English. You don't think you have the capacity to think beyond want, want, want—

"Yeah?" He rasps, elbow bending as he drops to his forearm. It brings his chest flush to yours. The dark smattering of hair rubs against your nipples. His face is a constellation: white jowls, black eyes. The look alone makes you smoulder. "Don't worry about me, pet." 

You're shaking your head, but the protests die on your tongue when his hips slip between your thighs, prying you further apart. Completely spread beneath the bulk of his body, you crumble.

He knocks your hands away, a low murmur of his approval slipping past those sinful lips for listening to him, as if there was ever a choice, and he notches your knees against his hips, pressing himself closer to your core. 

Finally free, your hands spring down to grab him, gripping his bicep in a vice just to feel the way it jumps under your fingers, and the other flat against his heated chest. His pulse thunders against your palm. 

"Gonna give it to you, now." 

You wanted it— ached for it—but as he feeds his thick cock into your pussy, you wonder if maybe you'd been a little overconfident before. That, perhaps, he was right. 

It's swallowed down, smothered with a whimper. His stupidly fat cock will not break you. 

"That's it, pet," he slurs, mask pressed tight to your ear. "Take it… C'mon, now." 

He pulls back, widening your thighs, and then pushing them up until you're nearly folding in half beneath him. The movement jostles his cock, and it nudges something inside of you that makes you spasm around him. 

"Fuckin' hell…" he groans, sinking in deeper. His eyes are fixed on the spot where he stretches you taut. Skin raw; cunt pushed to the mettle. "Almost there… look'it your pretty cunt take my cock…"

The air is punched from your lungs when he pushes in deeper, when the blunt head batters up behind your belly button. He knocks against your cervix, and the deep ache has tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. 

"Go on, pretty thing," he husks in your ear, words drenched in pleasure. Your fingers dig into the bulk of his body, crescent moons embedded into his skin.

He bludgeons into something inside of you that has you see stars—galaxies burst behind your eyelids, and heat, supernova hot, burns low in your belly. It burns at the place where his cocks ruts into you so deeply that you can feel him in your sternum, almost taste him in your throat. It liquefies your body. You melt into a conduit under him; a receptacle that leaches pleasure from the stretch of his cock inside you. 

Your body slackens. There is a give; something breaks. And he's suddenly deeper than you knew existed, than you ever thought possible. You feel him almost knocking against the cap of your womb. Each persistent jerk has your pussy clenching around him, milking him, trying to get him deeper. 

As if that was possible. As if there was any room left inside of you for him to claim. 

You're stuffed to the brim; overflowing with him. You can't take anymore. 

You sob brokenly when his hips pull back until only the mushroom head of his cock splits your aching, raw cunt open. The seam of you flutters around him, as if begging to be filled again. 

He grunts, a hoarse, low noise dredged from the depths of his chest when he shifts, his cock spearing back into you.

It nearly makes you scream. Your nails rake over his flesh, desperate to find purchase amid a crumbly chossy that threatens to send you plummeting down a precipice, hurtling you toward an unknown abyss. 

"Easy, now," he commands, the bark of his voice bitten between clenched teeth. "You're gonna make me cum before I've gotten my fill of this cunt, pet."

"Want it," you slur, babbling on the liquid bliss roaring through your veins. "Want you to fill me up, Simon."

A snarl of your name is the only warning you get before his cock is battering against your gummy walls, blunt head jarring into that little place inside of you that has phosphenes filling your vision, has your lungs aching with hypoxia. Head dizzy, chest shuddering with each breath. You can't get enough of it. Of the heady scent of him, the sun-drenched heat. 

Simon is normally so controlled, constrained, and you find yourself fracturing into pieces as his ironclad resolve seems to shatter with each squeeze of your cunt. It's a dizzying feeling to reduce your cold-hearted Lieutenant into a rutting beast, spoiling himself with each tight clench of your soft insides against his thick, hard cock. 

Your eyes open, wet lashes flutter and stick to the crease of your eyelid, and you find the way his brow is pinched tight together as he burrows himself deep within you, until the taste of salt is heavy on your tongue, absolutely breathtaking. It's enough to get you hooked. Enough to make such an utter mess of you, that you don't know how you'll recover from this. 

It's an intense feeling having him seated so deeply within you. Edging deliriously along that equinox of unfathomable bliss, and the sharp, distinct too much—too full quiver of pain. It's a pinch within your guts, a deep throb that follows the unending plume of pleasure so blistering as it batters into you, that you almost find yourself getting swept away by the sheer thrill of it all. Mindless, driven stupid by the way he takes, the way he ruins. 

(You don't ever want him to stop.)

It's one thing to have his mouth on you, but another thing entirely to see how he breaks when he's inside of you. It's addicting. A powerful high that renders everything else static. 

Pleasure, red-hot and dizzily intense, lacerates through your core, spooling at the base of your spine. It fills your limbs with molten bliss until nothing remains except the way he pounds inside of you, filling you over and over again with every inch he has to offer. You think you might just go insane if you don't have him. If you don't get to feel the delicious drag of his cockhead rubbing against your pulsating walls. 

Your hands slide over his skin. The muscles clenching under the pads of your fingers as you drag them up, over his arm, his biceps, his broad shoulders. 

The bulk of his back makes your fingers itch. You sink them into the corded muscles, clinging to him as Simon drags you to that hazy place where euphoria clots inside of your veins, and the heat you syphoned from him bubbles, frothing over. 

It's pulled taut—an elastic band that stretches well past the breaking point, and makes your fingers sting when it snaps. You convulse beneath him, sobbing out barely coherent words that sound like a quivering war cry of his name, of how good he feels, and how you're mad with the taste of him nestled so deeply within you. 

Your nails digging into his skin, his name on your lips like a gospel, the molten clench of you around—it all congeals together until he's snarling in your ear, a raspy grunt that makes your toes curl, that has you seeing nirvana once more. It's your name—somewhere in the mess of his growl, his groan—that is pulled out from him, and pierces you deep, makes your core tremble at the ragged sound of it, broken and hoarse. 

He throbs like a heartbeat, cock pulsing as he sputters out a thick pool of cum. It's almost too much; your pussy is overstuffed, forced to take both the heaviness of his cock, and molten spume that fills you to the brim. It leaks out from around the plug of him, pushed to the base until not even an inch remains, and you feel it gathering under you. 

You want a taste of it. It swells inside, fills you deep, and you wonder if he'd let you lick it off of him. 

You murmur it into his drenched chest, more slurred words that only vaguely sound English. Maybe it's the tone of your voice—ruined and raw, and drunk of the taste of him—that punctures through, but it hits the mark. Simon buries his head into your neck with another gravelled rasp of your name that sticks to his throat, breaking over the vowels. His softening cock twitches within you. 

Words, or sentiment, whispered into the crackling atmosphere that smells of sex and kerosene, and goes straight to his groin. 

"Cheeky little—," he starts, a husking grumble, but you squeeze your sore, aching sex around him, fluttering like a soft heartbeat, and it dies with a groan. 

The victory doesn't last long. Your raw, abused cunt aches from overstimulation, a throbbing sting from your tender flesh making you wince. You're too keyed up. A ragdoll against the shoreline, caught in the current that batters your body until you feel like one massive contusion. 

Fucking Simon feels like surviving a war. It feels like clawing your way out of the trenches, tasting the heavy, gunmetal tang of acrid artillery fire in the air, and standing victorious. Brutalised, dazed, and numb from the beating, but full of the banquet of victory. 

He keeps you under him, still buried to the hilt, and pants into your neck. Flushed with exertion, his chest red and drenched in sweat, you slip your hands through the mess of him, and find purchase where the knob of his spine protrudes from his flesh. 

Simon's head rises. His eyes—quivering, glossy ink—lidded and sleepy with pleasure, and that tangible post-sex haze that permeates the air, find yours. 

Sweat drips down his forehead, over his brow, his temple. It's swallowed by the fabric of his mask, lopsided on his cheeks. Red peaks over the black horizon. A deep flush the same bloodied hue as his chest.

(You wonder if it tastes like ichor.)

His eyes shudder, body trembling from the ripple of it. 

"Fuck me, pet…" 

You tip your heavy, mushy head back, and grin. Big, and wide. The smile of elation. Of success. "I already did."

He huffs, heavy and full, through his nose. "Bloody hell—" in response to your tease, he grinds his cock against your aching walls. 

Your breath is sucked in through clenched teeth; a breathy, high-pitched whimper. 

"Mae hi wedi cachi arna i…"

"English, pet."

Your ankles try to link at the base of his spine, body drawn like a bow. "Your cock ruined me." 

His eyes are rapacious, tainted with the fervour of conquest. 

"It was meant to." The smoke in his timbre makes your toes curl. Your lungs smoulder with the heat of it. 

    Simon has you seeing nirvana again, and again before the light outside crests through the thin curtains.

He rolls you under him, ankles hooked on his shoulders, and makes you watch as his cock spears deep inside of your well-fucked cunt. 

Eyes on us, soldier. Don't you dare look away. 

On your knees, head nearly smothered by the pillow, he covers you with the entirety of his bulk until everything around you is pitch black with the shadow he casts. He looms over you, chest pressed against your back, and fucks you slow, and deep. The position almost has you blacking out from the depths he reaches like this, and the burn of the stretch as your pussy pulls taut against his cock. 

You can take it. This pretty cunt was made for my cock, pet. 

Your favourite is being lowered onto him. Chests pressed together. You bury your hand in his damp hair, your face in his neck, and sink your teeth into the column of his throat until the salt of his skin nearly drowns you. 

Fuckin' hell…

(In response, his hand brands the cheeks of your ass with the perfect impression of his massive palms.)

He lays back with you barely lucid, aching, sprawled on top of him, and runs his hands down your spine, husking in your ear about how good you've been for him, how pretty you look blissed out from his cock. 

His words are mercury in your head. 

"...wanna be good for you, Simon," you murmur into his collarbones. 

He shudders under you. 

    His chest is slick with sweat when you rest your head on it, pulse thudding under your palm. His arm around your waist is an anchor, locking you tight to his side. 

You'd woken up to the sun bleeding through the window, the room thick with the balmy swelter of sex. Ashes in your throat, salt on your tongue. Simon's heat burrows into your marrow. 

There is a lot to be said, you think. Words that you were too cowardly to admit when in the soft, dazed atmosphere of the plane. 

Only one thing buoys to the forefront. The only things you'd been clutching at this whole time. Life on the line, and all you could think of was the dunes outside of your tent. The searing heat on your back. 

(Not on me.)

(Always, always.)

"...Since Sierra Leone," you confess into his flesh, mouth pressed against the side of his pectoral. His ashen chest hair tickles your nose. 

Simon tenses under you. The soft strokes of his fingers–bare, warm–on your hip still. 

You wonder if you misread things. If you made a mistake. Your mouth parts on his flesh. The briny taste of his skin is sharp on your tongue. 

You won't apologise. The words are there, the confession lingering in the air like opaque tendrils of smoke. It's in his hands now. This little thing that flutters within your chest, tucked away for safekeeping since he turned to you, eyes dark and narrow, and said you did good, rookie. 

His fingers coil over you, tightening against your flesh. 

"Everything…" he rasps. Everything. It's pulled out of him; rolled over barbed wire. 

Confused, you raise your head, brows knitting together. Everything—

A total eclipse. The ocean in the dead of night. Endless, unfathomable pools of black. The current threatens to drag you under to those depths that shudder in front of you. 

The words die on your tongue, ashes in the back of your throat. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? So, what do you have to lose, soldier? 

A smile splits across your face; a sun dawning over the beige spalls that seem to never end. 

It tastes of the sea when you press your lips to his. You feel sand under your fingers, his pulse on your palm. 

—Price calls it, has known since Mesaieed. He'd bet on Gaz, maybe even Soap. It never crosses his mind to think of Simon. 

—But thinking about it now, it was obvious from the start. 

("Sierra Leone. Wanna take Gaz with you–"

"No. I'll take the rookie.")

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley fanfic #simon riley #Simon Ghost Riley #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw2 spoilers #cod spoilers #simon riley cod

[maxwell-grant]

I’ve been diving a bit back into Batman 66 for research, and this is the cliffhanger from the very first episode. As such:

Jesus Christ

For context: Batman had his drink spiked by one of Riddler's goons at a bar he was investigating in, and he realized this just in time to call Robin to his aid, but Robin was tranquilized and kidnapped by the Riddler's gang just as he left the car. The scene above is what happens almost directly after Batman does the Batusi, and together they kinda form a microcosm for the whole show: That it is super silly and played for laughs and done with tongue-in-cheek irony, but when you’re a kid or just suspend your disbelief more easily, this is all extremely real and serious, there’s hardly much that funny or campy about the plot here

Adam West is so good here, drugged and despairing and worried bad enough that his composure is gone. The scene is funny in one way, because it’s drunk Batman handing the keys to the Batmobile to the police because he’s too sloshed to drive, but it’s also fucking horrible, because he’s just been roofied and has to stand by as his partner / son is taken by very, very bad people who want to do very bad things to him and he’s completely helpless to do anything about it. I don’t think even the movies (outside of maybe The Batman’s scenes with Falcone) ever got this dark

Frank Gorshin is so fucking good here, so goddamn creepy. The episode itself pivots hard tone-wise to get to this cliffhanger and most of Riddler’s scenes beforehand were all fairly comedic, with him trying to destroy the Batmobile or handing Batman the lawsuit, but he ping-pongs masterfully between affable conversational charm laced with uncurable arrogance, smug satisfaction and high-pitched manic giggling that causes his whole body to spasm and bend and curdle like the laugh is going to leave his body, and then he just as frequently punctuates those with ice-cold homicidal whispering with not one bit of humor in it whatsoever, and he shuffles these three multiple times per scene or even dialogue

I wanted to more personally confirm the stuff people have said about his performance, that he was the only villain in the show who conveyed genuine, chilling menace (not sure if he’s the only one as of yet), that he was the blueprint that 70s-onwards Joker ripped everything from, and yeah, forget just the Joker, he feels like a baseline for so much of modern film supervillains on a scale maybe only matched by Heath Ledger’s Joker (that I can think of right now)

Batman really doesn’t break composure in this show that much and that’s part of the charm, which helps make these two first episodes and his desperation with Robin more notable. I know there’s one major scene in the movie where he goes berserk around the villains to protect his date, but I’m liking how this matches something that's a fairly consistent pattern with Batman media, from the early comics to this show to the cartoons even all the way to The Batman, which is The Riddler’s ability to fucking piss off Batman to the point his composure evaporates and he goes berserk with violence.

#batman #batman 66 #adam west #frank gorshin #the riddler #riddler #robin #burt ward

[somerandomdudelmao]

i was writing this all out in the tags of one of your recent updates (part 9 of 'donatello') when i realized i might as well just send it to you directly before i hit tag limit. (i hope you don't mind haha) this recent comic really reminded me of a concept that i've seen in your work that i haven't seen commented on a lot (though i could be wrong.)

casey jr and donatello's relationship as you've portrayed it is interesting in a number of ways. one i've been thinking about recently is the aspect of physical touch, and how you use that to represent the underlying themes/ideas behind their dynamic (and the story as a whole).

in the series, donnie is generally the least physical of his brothers, in that he prefers to be the one to initiate contact. (as a fellow autistic, i relate to this on a visceral level /lighthearted.) however, in your portrayal, this rule bends for casey's sake.

you've been setting up casey to follow in donatello's metaphorical footsteps for a while now, with this coming to fruition (to an extent) in recent storylines.

but going back a bit further. there's this major theme of... i guess i would call it 'responsibility?' that has been weaved through the story from... basically, day one.

in the first comic, his conversation with f!leo following leo's brief foray as a nugget (one of my favorite lines from this series overall is "...and leo-nugget." amazing, genuinely), casey admits to him that it was scary being responsible for someone that could get hurt so easily.

in one of the following chapters, we see the question asked: 'but who is there to save you?' (this chapter being a bit of a microcosm of the theme/story as a whole haha.)

though it was a chapter i had originally assumed was just for funsies and angst opportunities, i now realize i was wrong (though, i don't know exactly how intentional you were being with all of this, so i could be missing the mark here.) it actually sets up his arc rather nicely -- with casey being the one to save donatello when he was injured/knocked unconcious.

now, bringing this all back around to the original intent of this ask: how physical touch is used to represent their narrative dynamic (is that a thing? 'narrative dynamic'? am i just making shit up right now? whatever its fine /rehtorical)

taking everything in account, i want to return to a specific moment that really struck me in the comics leading up to donatello's death. it's the time where the resistance is being attacked, and donnie, despite being sick, goes out and uhhh... extirpates the problem (its always fun to see donnie go apeshit with dangerous weaponry /positive.)

during his dramatic reveal and attack, casey is by his side, clutching onto him not to cling, but to physically support him (at least, that's how i think that moment was supposed to be interpreted? i could be totally wrong here.)

i can't help but feel this is emblematic of the larger themes at play here-- i.e., casey's arc in relation to donatello.

i can't help but find it interesting how donatello, backbone of the resistance--

(despite his soft shell... which is why him no longer wearing his battle shell when he got sick was actually symbolic foreshadowing of-- *sound of gunshots*)

[editors note: i'm gonna stop myself right there, before this goes from ungodly long to "will break your dash and ask box if allowed to continue further"]

-- and certified plot mechanic (oh, so that's why he named it convenient plot-twist serum... finally, the mystery has been solved /joking /lighthearted), who is a very independent/self-sufficient character, allows casey jr to subvert his rules with casual touch. enough so, that when he is so weak that he can barely stand, he trusts casey jr to keep him upright.

out of everyone, he trusts casey.

casey jr, who, at the very beginning of the comic, saved donatello's life, physically carrying him back to the base. and casey jr, the one who, now, has rescued donatello from a fate worse than death, only to once again bring him back to safety.

(...can you tell i'm a little bit obsessed with your comic? lmao)

[also to note those most recent panels: a return to the "norm," with casey clinging to donatello's side, also providing a nice parallel. i know it's because he is very much reunited with his uncle who has been dead for two years, but c'mon. let me have this /joking.)]

anyway, i hope this made sense, and if you did manage to get through my pretentious (and probably somewhat far-fetched) rambles about the "symbolic narrative significance of touch" in a fanwork about the teenage mutant ninja turtles (/lighthearted), may i just say: i am in love with your work, and can only aspire to tell a story as engaging, heartfelt, and clever as the one you have woven.

you are a blessing to this fandom, and i am so excited to see where you go with this story.

I have to say that I didn't specifically do the mental planning for all of this. Most of this theme is simply because I do what I feel will be right. It's more of an intuitive desire than a prescribed plan, so it was pretty surprising to me to see this thought actually being formulated haha

Thank you:>

[charcubed]

Individually and together, Loki and Mobius personify Chaos + Order. Their relationship and love is the balance the TVA needs.

Victor is talking about the temporal loom, AND this is related to Loki and Mobius' relationship.

Yes, Loki is chaos and Mobius is order... except they each have a little of both principles in themselves because of each others' positive influence.

They've grown together, they've changed each other, and that's why they're the key to saving everyone and everything.

It can never be only chaos or only order. It's about both.

The TVA was only order, initially.

And when He Who Remains wanted it run by Loki and Sylvie, it was "pure chaos" – as Mobius predicted when deriding the idea of them together, which is partially why they are fundamentally incompatible.

Neither was sustainable, and neither can be the TVA's future.

(A few days ago I was talking about chaos and order and said "in episode 6 they’re gonna be back at the citadel, and it’ll include Mobius, and Loki’s gonna pick up his dagger in a lokius context, and they’re gonna commit to co-running the TVA (maybe with B-15) and also kiss. Meet in peace at the end of time for order + chaos, let’s GO" so you can imagine how thrilled I was by these themes making a blatant return in this episode lmao)

This is spelled out here too, of course:

Ravonna personifies only order, while Sylvie personifies only chaos. Hence why they've been at odds from the start, which kickstarted this whole thing when Sylvie was taken by the TVA.

But...

"All that matters is order versus chaos" isn't true.

"When will you learn that none of your words mean a thing?" isn't TRUE.

Mobius' words were the catalyst for Loki to change – hence the framing during that line – and the ways they personify order and chaos as a result is in a partnership rather than in a battle.

The equal relationship and love between Mobius and Loki is ACTUALLY all that matters in the end.

As a bonus, this episode even provided a pitch-perfect microcosm of evidence that, per usual, Mobius' words mean everything. They're vital.

^^^^ This is what happened in the show at large, but condensed.

Loki was ready to do something rash, like maybe killing Victor Timely. He was panicking. Mobius talked him down, and Loki immediately saw sense and they began to work together to help instead of harm.

Loki, changed by Mobius, then stands in front of Sylvie and tries to keep her from killing.

He tries to get her to stop and think. She doesn't listen and he cannot change her.

It's EXACTLY what happened in the season 1 finale. And it happens on a wheel. 🌀

What actually changes Sylvie and gets her to listen is Sylvie seeing herself in Victor, which I LOVE.

All Sylvie wants is free will. Victor asks her for that. If she kills him – "prunes him" for being a Variant – she'd be no better than the old TVA.

So... one last thought (for this post, at least):

Mobius' slow, deliberate, cerebral approach – coupled with his words – is what Loki needs.

But Mobius needs him just as much for many reasons, including the fact that sometimes Loki sees the obvious that Mobius DOES miss :)

Chaos and order in harmony.

This is a love story, as always.

And now that love story is explicitly irrevocably tied even more to the plot.

---

My Loki metas on Tumblr are under the tag “chars loki posts.”

#loki spoilers #lokius meta #loki meta #lokius #loki series #loki show #loki #mobius #chars loki posts

[crooked-wasteland]

Okay, but like, what even is this writing?

Vivienne Madrano has the dreaded affliction of having too many characters, followed by too many ideas. And the logical narrative to link everything together to actually tell a story doesn't seem to be a high priority for her.

For starters, the main plot of the story is supposed to be the relationship between Stolas and Blitz, but every decision that has been made throughout the show has worked to decrease the interest in this plot and relationship. Let's just start at the beginning. The major interest was Blitz being an Imp while Stolas is a prince of the Ars Goetia.

The status discrepancy and how these two individuals came to be in contact was a long-standing source of intrigue that the show seemed very aware of. The first episode (actually the pilot) established a hostile relationship between the two, mainly on Blitz's side, as he was the one who obviously had the weaker position in the deal. If he refuses to sleep with Stolas, he loses the book. He loses the book. He loses his entire business. The pilot also estaished that the business was Blitz's chosen family and thus was an emotional point for his character.

Regardless of the problematic blackmail-ish pretense to the whole thing, it's a good launch pad. It would be interesting watching Stolas fall into true feelings for Blitz, or for Blitz to become aware of his own soft power within the dynamic and how much control he actually has over Stolas through his emotions. However, we never see Stolas fall in love. From LooLoo Land to Ozzie's, the relationship just is changed every time we see it. Even with the suggestions made in the bad trip sequence of Truth Seekers, we never have any actual understanding of how Blitz feels on the relationship. Is he afraid? Trapped? Does he ever realize his own strength in the dynamic? Is he resentful? It never actually settles in what the relationship actually is.

Instead, Madrano does what I think has to be the worst form of storytelling I have ever seen. Rather than watching the characters grow and become more complex, we are sent back in time to justify the relationship by contrivance. Somehow, being friends for a day over two decades prior is all the justification we need. It rewrites the earlier dynamic of Stolas using Blitz because he can to having it be that Blitz was Stolas' childhood crush. That this crush was so strong it persevered through deception, distance, and time for Stolas to immediately beg Blitz to have his way with him at his wedding anniversary party.

The complexity and intrigue on how this relationship was supposed to work was stripped of all depth and relevance. There is no journey for this relationship to take actually because they got along so well that one day, a quarter of a century ago, that their compatibility is all but assured to the viewers. There is nowhere for the relationship to actually go now, making it unnecessary to the plot while also being the primary focus of the plot.

It is a beyond fascinating faux pas that hasn't just derailed the main plot, but appears repeatedly as microcosms of everything wrong with the shows past, present, and future.

The upcoming episode has been rather highly anticipated on Twitter. However, there is an inevitable looming disappointment that hangs over the episode and thus the show at large. As it has yet to be released, this is solely speculation, but I am fairly confident in this assessment due to the trends thus far.

To be frank, this episode exists on the foundation of misunderstanding the narrative purpose of a character, namely Fizzarolli. Madrano suffers from the amateur affliction of over-creation mixed with under-exploration. While not every character needs an explicit purpose outside of expanding the world, a character to closely entwined with your main lead needs a very clear reason to being involved with the plot.

And that's where I feel this episode will crash and burn. There is no purpose to the existence of Fizzarolli. He did not need to exist for Blitz to have an unsuccessful performance career or his resentment to those who have success and fame. It adds nothing to the main character or their life.

Narratively speaking, it would make sense if Fizzarolli existed as a former or slighted love interest to Blitz who then can be used, not as a foil, but as a mirror for Blitz to be forced to contend. Because the point would then be to have Fizzarolli be the living embodiment of all of Blitz's past mistakes that he must reconcile before he and Stolas can be happy and grow their relationship.

Except, as previously mentioned, that is not a factor in the plot. The childhood friends trope between Blitz and Stolas makes this narrative unnecessary. Blitz and Stolas just are, and their conflicts are external threats (Octavia, Stella, Striker), not internal reflections of their worst tendencies. They are not at odds within themselves so much as they just seem to level up and change after every major emotional beat.

Less an MMO where you need to work for that next number through time and dedication to the world and character and more akin to those click bait ads where the most mundane change can completely alter their present self. It's unfulfilled.

Additionally, instead of focusing on the main cast, Madrano insists on reaching above her ability. To treat a minor side character as a main character is an event that is earned by first proving you understand your main characters, which has not been achieved. So, instead of experiencing the same story from the alternative perspective, it feels like a wholly new beginning unrelated to the previous concept. It feels unfinished on a narrative standpoint because the question remains, why is this story important to tell.

That's a very lean way of structuring any story, but lean is worlds better than what we are currently being fed. Bones and fat do not a hearty meal make. Learn to stand before we walk. Madrano hasn't learned quite how to crawl narratively speaking.

In Seeing Stars, the conflict between Stolas and Octavia is identical to Season 1's LooLoo Land. The one way it attempts to make up for the spiritual rerun is by trying to add a parallel secondary plot between Blitz and Loona. However, the problem between Stolas and Octavia is resolved with a simple "Whoops, I forgot" while Blitz and Loona never share a word about their problems. Rather, the episode justifies Loona's abuse of Blitz and misbehavior in general by basically saying "She's had a hard childhood". Showing a brief glimpse into said childhood for Blitz to feel guilty for attempting to set any kind of boundary and claim ownership of being the problem when, in reality he isn't the one in the wrong.

Loona is never given the opportunity to talk about herself either. Instead, she is the preaching mouthpiece for Madrano and Co to talk about how great these characters are without actually seeing any of them do those great things. Loona never speaks on herself and how insecure she feels or how she can't help but need to push Blitz's envelope constantly to feel any kind of security, waiting for him to abandon her like everyone else.

None of this is explored, instead implying that this understanding of the characters should be derived from engaging with their pasts rather than their present selves. We are not encouraged to want our characters to actively change, but to instead "remember the good times." We are not challenged to grow and adapt with age and experience, but instead should be allowed to remain the same and not be responsible for how our actions affect others.

The entire approach to character growth and complexity is antithetical to the mere definition of "Maturity".

#helluva boss critical #helluva boss criticism #helluva boss critique #vivienne medrano #vivziepop #this isnt how writing works #characters need growth

[bonefall]

whats your take on the “palebird not caring about talltail leaving” scene? i always thought it was WEIRD, like yes she was a little distant because she was blatantly depressed, but not to the point where she would straight up not care about her first son leaving potentially forever?? it feels like one of those scenes the writers put in to make the The Woman look bad so the Bad Dad isnt aaaasssss bad.

I feel like many of my problems with it come from the end of TR being a mess. It sets up a ton of plot threads and either goes somewhere strange with them or drops them completely.

Palebird's is one of the ones that just gets dropped.

On one hand, I'm glad that Palebird isn't demonized, but they don't seem to know what to do with her. She's cold towards Tallkit and increasingly short and snippy as he gets older, reacts in a way that's pointed out as aloof and uncaring when he leaves and when he comes back, and Talltail takes it like betrayal when she moves on with a new mate... and then they just don't really have a thesis for that.

In the end, Talltail never stops and teases out his feelings on her, they never show a conversation where some characters talk about why she acts that way, Tallkit's upbringing isn't contrasted with his halfsib's upbringings... their last talk is actually about Shrewclaw and the kits his wife's going to give birth to. Talltail's BULLY.

This book that shows an abusive father and a nasty little jackass redeems both of these boys, making a sharp 180 to say they Weren't So Bad, but has barely any interest in Palebird. When she gives Tallstar one of his 9 lives, it's laughably short;

That's it. That's the resolution. She doesn't even act happy to see him return, they have a conversation about Talltail's bully, and then after she's dead he's like, "I'll never doubt she loves me ever again."

Like, ok? All right?? Did we just miss the falling action or did Ms. Hunter not feel like it that day?

In general I have so many feelings about Tallstar's Revenge... I can't say I HATE it because it is fun to read, and I like a lot of the things it lays down, but I can't LOVE it for how every step forward it feel like 2 steps back. And the differences in the narrative's sympathy towards Sandgorse (emotionally abusive and committing child endangerment because his son is disappointing him) vs his wife Palebird (completely unsupported while displaying a near textbook case of PPD) are like a tiny little microcosm of the problems in WC.

Sandgorse gets a whole journey dedicated towards finding out he was actually a hero who gave his life saving Sparrow, abuse forgotten, but Palebird... exists, and Talltail's mad she had new kids until he's suddenly not.

So in a nutshell, my take is that this soup is bland and watery. Look at all these complicated potential feelings they just cast out the window so they can talk about Shrewclaw the Bully and his Very Sad Death.

There's much better individual examples of how the narrative tends to treat their male and female characters (which is why I compare Sparkpelt and Crookedstar more than I compare Crookedstar and Palebird), but Palebird's a good place to talk about the pervasive disinterest that WC has in its girls. And how much of a waste it is.

#Tallstar's Revenge is one of those books that I WANT to like. There's so many things in it that are appealing to me #but they can't bring them together #It's like an itch you can't reach. Scratching it would be so satisfying... but you can't. You can't get it. #In the Wise Words of one of my favorite critics; The discussion of misogyny and bad writing are not NOT related #It's not a CAUSE of the bad writing but it's like this terrible symptom. Because a lot of bad writing comes from thoughtlessness #And when you're thoughtless to interesting potential conflicts or don't really have a conclusion in mind (or at LEAST a vague roadmap) #then you end up just. missing things like this #warrior cats analysis

[that-ari-blogger]

Stray Gods vs Change, Part 2

Why does Stray Gods keep mentioning family?

That was a genuine question, I'm not sure what the answer is. This post is going to be my thoughts and I'd really appreciate some discussion in response because again, I'm not quite sure.

SPOILERS BELOW

So, to say that Stray Gods mentions family dynamics several times is an understatement. Persephone, Orpheus, Hermes, the whole deal with the Idols list goes on. And there is a distinct repetition that comes up. Most of these dynamics are dysfunctional.

The Idol family is the obvious one. The myths of the Greek Gods can be summarised by one main quote from Disney's Hercules, of all films.

Essentially, the Greek Deities are one massive family tree. It doesn't have the healthiest of dynamics (to put it mildly), but they coexist. In Stray Gods, there is a notable absence of Hera and Zeus, the two parent figures of the Olympians. Dameter is also deceased, and her direct daughter is one of the main characters. As a result, the Idols feel directionless, there is no closure there. On a similar note, Apollo's sister is missing as well. Essentially, they feel like a shattered family.

Athena has become the mother figure, although she's not good at it. She's a sister trying to be a parent and you can tell by her demeanor. She's overcompensating and antagonistic and a lot of elder siblings in real life who have been through similar experiences show similar characteristics.

On a different note, Persephone has killed Hades, for understandable reasons. It's a horrifically abusive relationship that ended in bloodshed.

Similarly, Hermes makes a passing reference that i noticed when asked how they knew the old Hermes.

This keeps coming up.

But then we get three relationships I thought were interesting. Grace and Freddie, Asterion and Hecate, and Aphrodite and Eros.

Grace and Freddie are close. Historians will say they were the best of friends. Even if you don't romance Freddie, the two are family. Best friends who live together, etc. If you do romance Freddie, you get an Orpheus plot to bring her back to life, literally meeting the previous Orpheus as you go. But where Orpheus failed his quest because of a lack of trust, you can succeed, or not, I'm not gonna tell you how to save Freddie.

Then we have Asterion and Hecate. First of all, I didn't consent to have my freestyling singing capability so perfectly replicated by my sweet minotaur boy, and Summerfall will be hearing from my lawyers. On a serious note, this relationship is so wholesome and I love it, if you make it work in the story. They are proof that there can be a healthy relationship in this weird world.

Finally, we come to my favourite moment of the entire musical. I've already gone into detail on the Ritual as a song in a different post, so go check that one out (I crave validation from the internet people). But the challenge here is can you soothe this broken family here? Can this work? If you choose the green path, Eros gives a fantastic verse.

"Mother, I've stood by your side, now I no longer see, the purpose of love, when it tears at the centre of me. My arrows are rusty, forget the bow, and I won't be begging you not to go. But when you're away, you leave us a broken home..."

My arrows are rusty, forget the bow. Is a phenomenal metaphor for a loss of purpose, but I would like to focus on the last two lines. When you're away, you leave us a broken home, and you leave me alone. The characters here are aware they are falling apart and they are desperate to try and reconnect, and if you play your cards right, you can help. You don't "fix their relationship", you just give it a nudge. You don't repair the scars in this family, but you convince them to talk to each other.

That, my friends, is a microcosm of the entire plot of the story. Can you fix this broken family? No. But you can get them to talk to each other and convince them to try.

The story goes out of its way to say that some relationships cannot be salvaged. Some families are too far separated for that, but in this situation, you can give people who are hurting a nudge towards peace.

So, why does this musical keep bringing up family? And what does that have to do with the title of this post?

Well, because it is a story about change, and how to move on into a different world. Grace quits college before the story begins and doesn't know what to do, and the Idols have no idea how to navigate the new world.

The theme that the story presents (in my most humble of opinions) is this: "for things to get better, you have to be willing to change." You have to step out of your comfort zone to find the love of your life. You need to change direction and start running together instead of away to find peace with your family. And, you have to take the lessons you have learned and become someone more mature, not necessarily someone different, but someone who is capable of adapting to a wild world.

Part 1

#rants #greek mythology #stray gods #stray gods grace #grace x freddie #stray gods: the roleplaying musical

[rallamajoop]

The RE4 Remake and Luis Serra Navarro

I have a gazillion thoughts about the new RE4 remake, and a dozen different aspects I kind of want to talk about. But you’ve got to start somewhere, so let’s talk Luis.

I doubt it’d be controversial to call Luis “easily the most interesting new character introduced in this game.” We’ve got complex and questionable motivations, a bunch of plot-relevant backstory, and a bonus-serve of extra random details about his childhood – much of which is very easy to miss, and rewards you for paying attention. By the end of this game, I’m pretty sure I know more about Luis than I do about Leon, and I still have questions. He’s not just one of my favourite parts of this new game, he’s a perfectly little microcosm of all the ways the remake has reworked awkward aspects of the original – mostly for the better, but not without creating new problems in the process.

But to get into all that, let’s start back with the original Luis from 2004.

So, for context, I haven’t actually played the original RE4. Since getting into the franchise, I’ve been consuming past canon instalments mostly by the lazy strategy of watching cutscene compilations on youtube. I am fully aware of the important place RE4 has in gaming history, the way it defined 3rd-person-shooter over-the-shoulder-gaming (or, to use my preferred term, lookit-the-booty-shooty). I have watched Jacob Geller wax rhapsodic about multiple different versions of this game.

But for all that people remember about the original RE4, the plot rarely seems to be more than a footnote. And for my own money, all I can tell you is that either this is just not a gaming experience well-served being experienced through the youtube-only medium (hardly the stuff of serious critique), or me and the original RE4 just aren’t clicking somewhere. I’m all for campy horror (see everything I’ve ever written about the Hammer films just to begin with), but RE4’s sense of humour largely leaves me cold. And Luis is – again – a pretty good demonstration of the kind of record-scratch moments that made it so hard to get into.

You can find a compilation of all Luis' cutscenes here, for reference. Like the remake, Leon first finds Luis tied up and gagged in a village house – apparently the only un-infected person in the vicinity. His first act on being un-gagged is to ask for a cigarette – a decent little character-moment. Luis claims to be a former cop from Madrid, who quit because he felt his work went unappreciated. Given Luis’ general demeanour, it wouldn’t be surprising to learn he was actually let go for taking bribes or something, but that’s more of a vibe. When Leon admits he was a cop back in Raccoon City, Luis claims he ‘might have seen a sample of the virus in a lab at the department’, and… hang on, Madrid PD has T-Virus samples lying around? The hell? Where’s this going?

But we don’t find out, because the conversation is interrupted, and Luis makes a break for it.

As in the remake, Luis’ next scene is to show up for the cabin siege scene, where he backs up Leon with a handgun. Cool, that tracks with the whole ‘former cop’ backstory.

Luis gets two further appearances, though the first mostly consists of him running up to say “I’ve got something for you guys! What… oh, shit, I must have dropped it,” and going away again, and it’s exactly as awkward as it sounds. But he does at least establish that the ‘something’ is a plagas-suppressant, as he knows Leon and Ashley are infected, and wants to help.

His final scene has him return with the suppressant, only to be stabbed in the back and killed by Saddler. As he lies dying, he admits he was really a researcher working for the Los Illuminados all along, only lately turned traitor – and we’ve officially hit our record-scratch moment.

So what was all that stuff about being a cop? Luis has good reason to lie about being a researcher, but ‘unemployed former cop’ is a heckuva cover story for a scientist, and what was that about Madrid PD having T-Virus samples? Luis-the-researcher might well have seen the virus somewhere, but why bring it up at all?

More than anything, these feel like leftover artifacts of a character who’s been substantially reworked somewhere in development, just without actually rewriting the start of the script to match. Luis’ story, like so much of this game, feels badly in need of a second draft.

Luis goes on to get something of an afterlife in collectable documents, and another scene in Ada’s DLC campaign. He’s still trying to get a plaga sample to her in this version, and he’s still responsible for the lab that cures Leon and Ashley of their infections. Ada's commentary on his character is interesting, and documents suggest he had a grandfather who used to hunt in the region, but he doesn’t get much more backstory.

Regardless, nearly 20 years later, Luis has finally got his second draft, and there’s a lot here that’s improved. (Have a new cutscene compilation link for reference.)

To begin with, any talk about being a cop is gone (an easy win). We find out he’s a researcher much earlier too – Leon is a lot less trusting of Luis this time, and calls in for a background check. He’s informed Luis used to work for Umbrella, and reacts as you’d expect. The cabin siege scene still goes off in similar fashion (though this time, Luis doesn’t feel it necessary to comment on Ashley’s tits the moment he meets her – another definite improvement).

This time though, Ashley starts coughing up blood immediately after they escape, and Luis’ offer to help remove the parasites happens right after the cabin siege, rather than being left for some awkward whoops-I-dropped-it moment later. The new scene actually finishes with the very same exchange (“Why are you helping us?”/ “It just makes me feel better”) – but this version, similarly, feels so much better. A+ revision work so far.

The remake also spells out Luis’ deal with Ada sooner too – her first proper scene in this version is her first contact with Luis. Again, Luis’ story ends in the castle with a stab in the back, and the stolen sample he was carrying being reclaimed by one of the villains (Krauser, this time, since Saddler apparently likes to delegate more in this version). But in between, things get a little odd.

Having already offered to help them, Luis contacts Leon by radio a couple of times during the castle chapters – firstly to say he’s waiting for Leon and Ashley in the courtyard. But Luis isn’t in the courtyard. His next message claims that he ran into trouble, and he’s had to retreat to the ballroom. But he’s not in the ballroom either. No further calls happen, nor does Leon react to his absence in either location.

Leon finally runs into him, apparently by chance, after being thrown down a hole and wandering for some time through tunnels deep under the castle. How did Luis end up down there too? No idea.

I’m glad he does though, because the following chapter you spend with Luis as your cabin-siege-style partner is a very good time. Though Leon is still distrustful and Luis still evasive, they exchange some great banter and generally make a good team. We encounter Luis’ love for Don Quixote, he admits he was working for Los Illuminados… and then Krauser stabs him, and Leon lights one last cigarette for him before he dies. It’s touching and very well done (not to mention dense with slashy subtext, if you want to take it that way).

Exploring Luis’ lab during the game’s final chapter adds some nice details too – equipment pilfered from Umbrella, an old photo with his colleagues, and naturally, text documents everywhere. But it’s his email logs with “A.W.” (Ada, obviously) that will most reward anyone paying attention – particularly the line you still remember the code phrase?

In this version, ‘got a smoke?’ is still almost the first thing Luis says to Leon. But you might notice it’s also the first thing he says to Ada. And this time, we’ve got a whole new explanation as to why.

Admittedly, the execution is still a bit lacking. Luis calls Ada by her first name just a few lines after using his ‘code phrase’, and seems to know her well enough not to need a code phrase, so what's going on here? If Luis knew Ada herself was going to meet him, why try his code phrase out on Leon? Alternately, if he suspected Ada might have sent someone like Leon instead of coming in person, how did he know it was her when they met? Maybe we could still have used another draft. But it’s a otherwise a fun little easter egg to recontextualise something from the original in a creative way.

Much more has been added to Luis’ backstory hidden in documents from the village. You can find photos of 'a boy with his grandfather', an old diary left behind by said grandfather – and if you’re paying really close attention, a label on another copy of that photo naming the pair ‘Navarro’ – Luis’ last name. You might also notice that the boy in the story has Luis’ fixation on Don Quixote (another character trait added by the remake).

But young Luis’ story ends in tragedy, the conclusion picked up elsewhere in the village elder’s records: the grandfather is bitten by a wolf, begins experiencing what seem to be known symptoms, and tells the village elder "you know what to do." The old man is killed, and his cabin and everything in it burned to the ground so the infection can’t spread.

Now, the idea the village has been quietly dealing with plaga-infected wolves for generations despite the fact that the plaga were supposedly sealed under the castle until recently has problems of its own, but that’s a bit beyond scope. The more relevant problem is the idea that Luis comes from the same village where all the action takes place – why? What does this add to the story? With Luis’ new Umbrella-Europe-backstory, making the village his birthplace seems like little more than meaningless coincidence, thrown in without anyone thinking it through.

But there is one intriguing possibility buried in the subtext of Luis’ story, and it’s an angle I’d love to see explored.

The village records end with the scene of a young Luis watching in silence as his childhood home burns to the ground, his only family still inside, then walking away, never to be seen again. Now, suppose that’s the very moment that inspired him to go into medical research, driven to understand infectious agents like the one that took his grandfather’s life, that the people he grew up with only knew to treat with medieval superstition. Suppose that’s what made him seek out shady employers like Umbrella, the only outfits with the interest and funding to delve into that area. The drive to find cures, to find proof that what happened to his grandfather didn’t have to be treated like a ritual witch-burning could’ve fuelled a lot of denial in Luis about where the funding was coming from. And after Umbrella’s collapse, you can only imagine how he might jump at the chance to work on the same parasites that had infected that wolf from so long ago.

If that was the intent, though (and damn do I want it to be), I honestly think it’s a little too buried in layers of subtext to carry. I can only hope maybe we’ll be seeing more of Luis in DLC to come – in Ada’s Separate Ways, if not his own – that might expand on those parts of his history a little more explicitly. Or at least cover what he was actually up to all that time he keeps messaging Leon from different parts of the castle (did he genuinely run into trouble? Was Ada pushing him to keep Leon moving for her own purposes? How did he wind up down in the mines?)

The notion of Luis as a village native still has its problems though. The house you find him in seems to be the same one he grew up in – it’s a cabin by the lake, his grandfather’s diary and photo is there, etc. Only those old village records spell out very clearly that that cabin burned to the ground as part of a major character moment. Which is it, game? You can’t have it both ways.

Even if we ignore that awkward ‘burned to the ground’ detail, are we to take it the ganados caught Luis in his old house and left him tied him up in his own cellar? Wouldn’t they move a prisoner like him? Speaking of which, was that one guy banging on the floor supposed to be hammering the hatch shut? Why? Was Luis being left down there to die? Don’t they still need to question him about that sample he stole? This stuff does not stand up to scrutiny.

And the idea of Luis as a native still doesn’t completely work for me, because shouldn’t there have been some clue in the way he talks about the place? Chief Mendez is a man Luis knew from his childhood – when Luis sees him coming in a cutscene, his reaction betrays no more familiarity than ‘not this guy’. In that cabin siege scene, surely there must be faces in that crowd he’s firing on that he recognises. And fuck, how do you come back to the place you grew up, find its residents reduced to zombie slaves, and think, “sure, I could work for these people…”?

I do realise expecting this level of humanity out of characters in a Resident Evil game might be a little much, but this stuff throws me. It builds the impression the Luis who grew up in the village is a character that exists only in text files, largely independent from the cutscene-Luis of the rest of the game. When you expect your audience to notice minor details like a surname on a photo in order to put together a main character’s backstory, you’re demanding they pay close attention. And once you’ve demanded that much investment, it’s worth keeping track of whether the cabin by the lake was supposed to be burned down or not, why Luis should be able to call Ada by name but treat Mendez like a stranger, and other such confusing detail. And Luis’ story is still positively logical and consistent compared to that of Chief Mendez himself, or anything much else in the game’s lore.

Luis is genuinely one of my favourite parts of the remake – he’s complicated, interesting, and fun. But trying to make sense of him could be a more rewarding experience. Many things are improved from the original, but for my money, they could still have stood to go for a third draft.

#Luis Serra Navarro #Resident Evil 4 #Resident Evil 4 Remake #Resident Evil #meta #character analysis

[mokkkki]

david before goliath

this is in no way a hot take because i feel like david has been analyzed to death, and rightfully so - not only is it a gorgeous piece of art, its incredibly biologically accurate, with the tendons of the extensor digitorum in the hand, the superficial veins within the extremities and neck, the extensor hallucis of the foot, and the insertion of the sternocleidomastoid muscle onto the manubrium, featuring visible muscle striations - but i really want to reiterate the brilliance of the way that david is portrayed.

the story of david is biblical. a young shepherd is chosen by the prophet samuel to face goliath, a giant, and defeats him with a precise shot armed with sticks and a slingshot-type device (clutched in his right hand). this is also a microcosm of humanity as a whole. we face opponents much bigger and stronger than us, but it is not their strength that beats us, but rather, our intelligence that beats them.

while typical portrayals of david show him triumphant the moment after his victory, here we see a man in intense concentration, plotting the playing field, finding a loophole. he has this tense, coiled energy in his frame, especially with the slight twist in his torso, which gives a dynamic feel and intensifies his youth. we see him young, small, and swallowing back his fear - we see him humanized and open, in a way that biblical figures of that time so rarely were.

#david #michaelangelo #sculpture #renaissance #renaissance art #statue #the bible #theology #christianity #abrahamic religions #samuel #prophet #goliath

[70-percent-water]

HOT NEW EGO AU INBOUND

I wanna spit ball about my Paranormal Investigator AU I'm cooking up for Who Killed Markiplier, because the concept has been taking up real estate in my brain for DAYS.

Baseline it's a rework of WKM that focuses on the mechanics and history of Markiplier Manor, and the magic system that builds the strange microcosm the place exists in.

For consistency sake, the DA, playing the investigator themselves, was a middle man hired by Damien after a good year of increasingly concerning behavior from Mark following his divorce. Keeping the DAs role as the outsider of the group in tact giving me room to explore differing character dynamics.

The start of the plot is really just a beat for beat retelling of the poker night shenanigans with more detail, until the DA strikes out from the party to start their investigation after noticing Mark just kinda disappeared after his welcome speech.

It's going to lead up to the angle of Mark himself not being influenced by the manor entity, but BEING, the entity himself.

Throw in a few chapters about the DA exploring the place as increasingly spooky shit starts happening until Mark eventually catches their ass and its a whole back and forth.

There will be incredible violence, but also a bucket full of manipulation and gaslighting from the old romantic himself.

Also to keep the tone similar to cannon I'm gonna whole subplot about the others noticing the DA vanished and going on a search in which the house just becomes utter nonsense to confuse them.

Also, gotta be shamelessly self indulgent by hamfisting in the toxic abomination of a relationship that is Actting Attorney, you can't have monster shit without some ungodly occurrences afoot.

No idea if it's gonna be an ongoing story with no set end or if I'm gonna do it more like a novel but eeeeeh, yeah.

#wkm #markiplier egos #markiplier lore #wkm da #wkm actor mark #acting attorney #AU

[bornetoblood]

Moon Divorce Essay

2004 words about why I think Laurence the First Vicar and Gehrman the First Hunter are married

Sorry about this.

We’ll begin with the concept that Laurence and Gehrman are integral to the overall plot of Bloodborne and interlinked so that it is impossible to speak of one while disregarding the other. The Healing Chruch (thus all of its actions, subsects and influences) likely wouldn’t have formed without both of them. Similarly, the creation of The Hunter’s Dream relies on the two’s pact with the Moon Presence. As is its perpetuation reliant solely on one’s belief in the other. Through this lens, the relationship between the First Vicar and Hunter can be seen as the basis for every aspect of Bloodborne’s plot- a throughline to the game's events. They- when taken as a whole- act as a microcosm for Bloodborne’s themes of violence, ambition, and how both cause a loss of humanity. The game, at least in part, hinges on the lengths that they will go to uphold promises they’ve made to each other.

Through Laurence’s link to Byrgenwerth and Gehrman’s connection to the Orphan of Kos- as well as his appearance in the Old Hunter’s trailer within the Fishing Hamlet- we can infer that they are both in some way connected to the massacre and the desecration of Kos’ corpse. This is of course supported by the implication that they are both somehow haunted by it as Laurence (or at least his consciousness) is trapped within the nightmare and Gehrman experiences distressing dreams. The creation of The Hunter’s Nightmare and the discovery of the Old Blood can be interpreted as the inciting events of the game’s plot within Yharnam- or at least mostly removed from the Pthumarians. Both of these events set the immediate framework for the Good Hunter’s night in Yharnam and both of them revolve around these two characters. 

The discovery of the Blood led directly to the founding of the Healing Church and- as Master Willem describes it- Laurence’s “betrayal” of Byrgenwerth. This is most likely about Laurence’s departure from the college due to his conflicting ideals with the Provost. Willem however (albeit in cut dialogue) refers to a similar “betrayal” by Gehrman, implying that they departed together or in ways that are at least viewed the same by Willem. There is more legitimacy in the speculation that they were working together, however. The Old Hunter’s Workshop is located within the grounds of the Church and Ludwig’s hunters are referred to as a sort of replacement for Gehrman’s lot. This presents the hunters and the Chruch as linked from their conception. Gehrman and his Workshop Hunters’ worked secretly to dispose of what few beasts sprang up around Yharnam and Laurence’s Church enjoyed a safe environment to grow. 

Another way in which Gehrman and Laurence (as a collective) shape the world of Bloodborne is through the Hunter’s Dream. “Laurence and his associates beckoned the Nameless Moon Presence” as a note in the Lecture Hall states. One of these “associates” is clearly Gehrman, as his connection to the Dream is undeniable. He acts as the caretaker and mentor to its hunters ad infinitum. The Hunter’s Dream is the backbone of Bloodborne’s gameplay- a loop of violence, death, and rebirth until obstacles are overcome. Once again, Laurence and Gehrman’s actions as a collective are integral.

Solidifying the two’s connection to both the Dream and each other is the game’s music. Both Laurence and Gehrman’s boss themes borrow melodies from Flora’s (although it is very hard to hear in Laurence’s).

Yet their connection to the Dream goes deeper than structure. Its creation (and the subsequent fallout) is the centre of their interconnection. There is a cut conversation that proceeds as follows:

Laurence: So you’re intent on hunting beasts? Even if they are men? Gehrman: Yes, the hunt must go on. It’s all that keeps us human, now. Laurence: But why must you… Gehrman: Farewell Laurence. I await the realisation of your ‘ministration.’ Laurence: Indeed, Gehrman. It won’t be long. We can infer that this is about the creation of the Dream as it is a farewell. Laurence is checking that Gehrman is alright with continuing the hunt and Gehrman confirms and promises he’ll wait for him. The “realisation of ‘ministration’” is most likely ascension through the Old Blood. As the description for the Communion Rune states: “ministration is, of course, the pursuit of communion.” This communion is the goal of all the scholars- to become Great Ones and have audience with them. Laurence’s tone in this interaction is almost mournful; it seems like he’s about the talk Gehrman out of going through with it before trailing off. Laurence’s hesitancy towards both the hunt and continued use of the blood is implied to worsen as the scourge continues. Gehrman, however, is convinced of the legitimacy of communion and the need for the hunt. This conviction he would apparently retain.

The amount of time that has passed between the formation of the Dream and the events of the game is unclear, yet what is apparent is that time’s effect on Gehrman. He is miserable in this “Nightmare” as he calls it, asking “Oh, Laurence... what's taking you so long... I've grown too old for this, of little use now, I'm afraid…” while muttering in his sleep. It appears that Gehrman’s primary concern is not his own misery, but the fact he is no longer “of use” due to his inability to hunt. This sentiment appears two more times in cut dialogue, generally in reference to Laurence. He doesn’t mention being an asset to the Hunt or the Healing Church- only the Vicar. Gehrman sees his role in the Dream as directly linked to Laurence.

There is another implication within cut dialogue concerning this. Gehrman mentions that he cannot leave the dream because of a “promise” he made to a “dear friend”. Not only does this show that Gehrman knows that death will free him from this “nightmare” but that he refuses to do so for Laurence’s sake. Despite the toll time and the Dream has clearly taken on him he seems adamant in the fact that Laurence will succeed and save him. Gehrman places faith in his friend which borders on unreasonable. His purpose in the Dream and his decision to remain trapped hinges on this faith. Although this can be viewed as a result of the deification of Laurence by the Healing Church, this isn’t the only example of this unwavering devotion Gehrman exhibits towards him. If Gehrman did indeed leave Byrgenwerth at Laurence’s behest (as previously theorised) it even seems to predate the Church’s existence.

Gehrman’s devotion seeps into every aspect of his time in the Dream: his purpose, his imprisonment, and even his death. When Gehrman is killed, the voice line that he says has an extension in cut dialogue: “What? Looking to free me? Then I graciously accept. Forgive me, Laurence, I could not wait... The night, and the dream, were long…”We can assume that the “freedom” the player is granting to Gehrman here is death. Therefore, Gehrman is apologising to the Vicar with his dying breath. For not making good on their promise, despite his desire to do so. Overall, Gehrman’s cut dialogue presents a conflict between his commitment to seeing Laurence again and the turmoil caused by staying within the Dream. Although seemingly, Gehrman willingly dies at the hand of the Good Hunter in this instance, that isn’t what happens within the game. Gehrman fights the player as a way to protect them from his fate, but also to continue in his belief that Laurence will come for him. He doesn’t die willingly, despite the relief it brings him. Yet, Gehrman’s dedication isn’t as one-sided as it appears at first glance. Laurence dies in his pursuit of ascension, dragging Yharnam down with him, and it is plausible to assume that this was fueled by this “promise” the two made (along with, of course, the general devotion the Byrgenwerth scholars have to goal).

The interaction between Laurence and Gehrman in cut dialogue is, presumably, a flashback- Gehrman sounds younger and Laurence is no older than he does in his conversation with Master Willem. Therefore, we can assume that this cutscene likely would have been triggered by another instance of Laurence’s skull (possibly the one in The Hunter’s Nightmare). Therefore, the two memories Laurence retained despite his beasthood were the Adage- which his going against led to the Hunt and the progressive unravelling of Yharnam- and his promise to Gehrman, that “It won’t be long”. This puts the two events at a similar level of importance within the Vicar’s mind- the value with which he considered Gehrman is evident to place him on the same importance as the “sacred” moto of the Chruch.

There is also something to be said regarding Laurence’s punishment within the Hunter’s Nightmare being his memory loss. Having one of his last memories be his promise to Gehrman as the representation of that punishment solidifies its importance.

Furthermore, if we take the theory that Laurence is the Bloodletting Beast found within the Chalice Dungeons -supported by its title of ‘Founder Beast’ in Japanese, the notable loss of its head, and the theme of bloodletting and corruption of the blood it shares with Laurence- it can be inferred that the Vicar died trying to reach Queen Yharnam and her child. This was either for the goal of ascension or the repeated summoning of The Moon Presence. What is particularly interesting is the implication that the Beast continued to venture deeper into the Chalices despite being fully transformed (and full of bugs). This may be due to the Beast’s embrace, its “gentle” form of beasthood may aid in the retention of memory. This is conveyed visually also: the Suspicious Beggar, Bloodletting Beast, and player all adopt more ape-like features in their transformation with their -assumed- use of the rune. This acts as a visual tie back to their humanity. With both of these points in mind, it can be argued that Laurence (despite his beasthood and loss of memory) continued to fight his way towards Mergo because he had to fulfil his promise to Gehrman, mirroring his devotion. Despite his failure to protect his- and Yharnam’s- humanity, Laurence’s fielty to the First Hunter appears to live on past it.

Laurence dies in an attempt to uphold his promise and Gehrman stays alive in an effort to do the same.

This shared devotion is explored further in an earlier draft of the game. Gehrman has this passage of cut dialogue:

Laurence, the end is not far away, now. Every last dream will burn out, and Flora will return from the moon. As for us, the time has come to honour our vows. Hunters are needed no longer. You and I shall fight to the death, and she will consume the victor. The way we've always said we'd end it, you recall. Oh, Laurence. Of course, you remember.

There is an obvious connotation of marriage with “vows” being used to refer to a promise between the two. Yet the more homoerotic insinuation comes with the fact that this promise was a fight to the death for the sake of ascension. The deep trust and shared goal that such an act has to have. They clearly care about each other more than they do anyone else yet they believe that sacrificing that connection for the sake of the greater good is worth it. It is delightfully tragic. 

Of course, this explicit and mutual dedication does not require a romantic connection, but with Bloodborne’s deep themes of queerness (unintentional they may be) and Gehrman’s repeated yearning for Laurence’s return, I don’t believe it to be unfounded. They are the reason for the Dream’s existence and perpetuation and, with it, the Hunt itself. The Scourge is created and fought against by the two of them and their factions. They embody the Healing Church’s hypocrisy and the cyclical violence it creates. Yet they also present an unwavering devotion towards each other that transcends death, perpetual entrapment and lots of werewolves. I adore them for that. Thank you for reading this whole thing! Absolute delight! You can have all my blood. Go on. Take it!

#the rat speaks #bloodborne #long post #gehrman the first hunter #laurence the first vicar #essay #WAY TOO LONG #moon divorce #once again i may just be incorrect here uuh #had fun though!! #this was for me #may upload this to a03 for ease of access at some point

[henrysglock]

James' Working Master List

My Bullshit Theories:

Mother Is God In The Eyes Of A Child (Mothergate origins, Vecna’s mother imagery)

Psycho Killer, Qu'est-ce Que C'est? (Neither Henry Nor Vecna Are Psychopaths: An In-Depth Behavioral Analysis)

A Night of Monologues (Splicing together the released 4.07 script and the transcript of One’s filmed monologue. Spoiler: They’re two halves of a whole speech)

Shattered Mirrors and Cracked Walls (An analysis of Henry’s dematerialization scene, the aftermath, and a determination that we’re being shown all 4 timelines interchangeably in the NINA version of the 1979 HNL Massacre)

One Does Not Simply Lose A Gate (The 2nd part of the 1979 massacre aftermath and proof that a timeline exists where Henry/Edward did nothing wrong)

Where Is All The Blood Coming From? (A comparison between the NINA massacre's smeared blood and the carnage resulting from democreature attacks)

A Tale Of Two Vecnas (An analysis of Vecna's scorching in Dimension-X, which shows us two distinct and physically different men)

Pick A Damn Jumpsuit! (Matching up the Dimension-X jumpsuits to NINA massacre jumpsuits)

Barnes And NO!! Where Did He Go!! (A write up on the discrepancies in One’s appearance, tattoo, and color grading in the closet scene as evidence of his disappearance from the plot)

Why Do You, As The Big Bad, Have No Lines Or Powers? (Vecna’s physical form in the UD has no dialogue and doesn’t use psionic powers: evidence and theories)

So Which Is It: Night or Day? (Discrepancies in time-labeling in the released 4.07 script and how they might link to El’s 1983 escape)

Plinko Power! (NINA's plinko game as a microcosm of timeline theory and Henry's time-based powers)

The Mystery of the Move-In Date (Physically speaking, there’s no possible way that the Creels moved in in 1959)

Our Lord and Savior…Vecna? (Why Vecna/001 is God, Based On Analysis Of ST4, The Bible, And Other Supporting Media)

The First Shadow: Who Knew Whom in 1959 (Why Certain Character Were Removed From Hawkins Prior To ST4)

Proto-HeIIcheer: Who Did George and Betty Become? (Why Patty Newby and Allen Munson may be the pairing to watch for in The First Shadow, rather than Patty and Henry)

Fics:

Paper Faces — POTO x ST fusion fic (Complete)

ptolemaea (blessed be the children) — Henry’s fix-it fic (3/?)

Spider Fact, Anyone? — 1959 RPG-style ST minific

Featured Art:

Creel Siblings Outfit Swap

Creelarke Aesthetic Board

Featured Edits:

NYMPHOLOGY (ft. HNL)

The Colors of ST4 (ft. Le Monde)

Henry Creel: Brainless Borzoi

Art:

TUNNEL VISION (ft. Henry Creel)

Edits:

Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve (ft. Henry Creel)

Left-Brain, Right-Brain (ft. Henry and Edward Creel)

House of Leaves (Mini-Library):

House of Leaves Initial Analysis

House of Leaves Excerpts

Creel Files:

Henry Files:

Rebuke of Apologism Claims

A Note on Script Analysis

Our First Impression of Henry Sets Him Up For Failure

The Seagull

Stand By Me

The Divine Comedy

Henry and Edward, Jekyll and Hyde

Young Henry, Adult Henry, and the Rabbit Scene

Multiple Henries: Screenshots and Brenner Comparison

Perspective On The Length of Henry's Imprisonment

Vecna as the Villain: Defining Stranger Things' Narrative

I, Tonya and Perspective-Based Truth

Henry's Unseen Costumes

Kate Trefry and The First Shadow

Henry Didn't Manipulate El Re: Soteria

Details the Duffers Must Address

The Fallacies in Henry's Spider Schtick

NINA and Vecna’s Black Obelisks

Henry and Brenner Expansion Pack

Expansion Pack!

Creel Cousins:

Eleanor “El” Creel

The Stare Runs In The Family

Room (2015)

And Soon, Others Were Born

Sleepyhead

She’s Mike’s…Cousin! Second Cousin! Lots of family in Sweden.

Luke and Leia vs El and Mike (Stav’s Post)

Luke and Leia vs El and Mike (2)

Luke and Leia vs El and Mike (3)

Henry/Edward…Anakin…

Family Files:

Heritability of Powers

Psychopathy: Learned or Genetic

Karen, Virginia, and Tortured Husbands

ST5: Which Wheelers Live and Why?

Alice Creel: Admission of Innocence by Omission of Fault

ST4 Victims: A Story By Proxy (AKA The Breadcrumbs Post)

Even if Henry killed Virginia, It Would Be Self Defense

Brenner and Virginia Expansion Pack

Pedo-Files:

Mamas and Papas: Spiders, Flowers, and Bathtubs

Karen, Billy, Virginia...Henry

Will and Vecna Expansion Pack

Will Files:

Expansion Pack

The First Shadow/Creelarke:

Creelarke Origins

IT (1990) Reddie Aesthetic Similarities

Scott's Funeral Scarf

A New Timeline

IT (1990) Aesthetic Updated for TFS

Radiationgate:

Radium Files:

Eben Byers, Radium, and ST3's Soviet Plot

Chemistry Class: Maria Skłodowska-Curie

Radiation Sickness Files:

Psionic Powers and EM Radiation

Vecna's Curse: Radiation Sickness Symptoms

ST5 Predictions

Nuclear Disaster Files:

Henry Creel Literally Nuked Hawkins

Chemistry Class: Nuclear Explosion Imagery

Chernobyl, Hawkins Earthquake and ST4's Soviet Shadow (1)

Chernobyl, Hawkins Earthquake, and ST4's Soviet Shadow (2)

Phantomgate:

What in the POTO Visuals?

POTO 2004: Film Analysis

Dart and Gustave: Love Never Dies

Secret Admirers: Puzzle Tales Connection

Anime/Manga References

Coming Soon: Fullmetal Alchemist

Rambles:

1: On Byler and Rink-O-Mania

2: On Demoslugs

3: On Byler and Open Secrecy

4: Sad Thoughts About Post-S2 Will

5: On Spore Lore

6: On The Rain Fight

#phantomgate #radiationgate #henry creel analysis #creel massacre analysis #stranger things and the bible #rambles #the wheelers are creels #timeline theory #st casting #stranger things #stranger things: the first shadow

[apocalypticavolition]

Let's (re)Read The Great Hunt! Chapter 30: Daes Dae'mar

Putting on that fancy jacket sure was a mistake, huh? Everyone knows you're up to something now. Oh you can say you're just an innocent lamb, but that's just what a scheming noble would say. Consider this post an invitation. Accept it, and I'll give you all my Wheel of Time spoilers. Decline and... I won't really be able to do anything because I have no way of knowing when someone sees this and moves on. I didn't think this through. But I guess you won't be spoiled for the whole series, so if that's your goal, that's nice.

Another rising sun chapter because we're in Cairhien. I hope these icons start getting a little more obscure soon.

The Illuminators were on everyone’s tongues in the city, even now, days after the night when they had lofted only one nightflower into the sky, and that early. A dozen different versions of the scandal were being told, discounting minor variations, but none close to the truth.

Note how distorted these tales are in comparison to the Seanchan because of how much is being deliberately kept in secrecy.

It was an effort for Rand not to sigh again. “Hurin, I’m sorry. I should not have shouted at you.”

This whole conversation is of course a microcosm of Rand's upcoming dealings with humanity as a whole and a rehearsal for when Rand gets really shitty to Hurin much, much later.

“He hasn’t done that before. Loial, do you think he was listening at the door before he knocked?”

As Loial says, Rand is starting to understand how the game is played. That said, Cuale probably was just freaking out over the senders of the invitations more than eavesdropping.

“Whatever they make of it, at least it’s the same for everybody. I am not for anyone in Cairhien, and I am not against anyone.”

You can't blame the kid for trying I suppose. But this is just the Pattern trying to teach Rand that he doesn't get to sit in holding patterns and have everything work out. He's got to move forward and act.

With most Houses, it wouldn’t matter. Even when they’re plotting against each other to the knife, they act like they aren’t, out where everybody can see. But not these two.

Again, Rand doesn't get to just wait it out. He has to make a decision.

“I won’t break the seals. That way, they will know I have not answered either one yet. As long as they are waiting to see which way I jump, maybe I can earn a few more days. Ingtar has to come soon. He has to.”

Of course, Rand really doesn't want to learn any lessons at all, so he's still kicking and screaming.

After a moment, he pulled the two invitations from his pocket and studied the seals, then stuck them back.

This chapter uses the word "seal" so much that I'm trying to find a way to tie it into the actual seals but so far I've got nothing. Rand does hang onto the unbroken seals he finds, but his hesitance in breaking those is a lot more about not being ready for the final boss fight yet than refusal to play and he doesn't really showboat with them for obvious reasons.

He avoided thinking of the way he might, just might, deal with ten Trollocs. It had not worked when he tried to help Loial, after all.

At least his denial here is based on practicality instead of just pigheadedness.

Rand thought a man, dressed in what had once been good Shienaran clothes, ducked back into the crowd at the sight of him, but he could not be sure.

Almost certainly that's exactly what Rand saw, and the news that he and Loial are so far away from the Horn spread quickly.

“It is my pleasure to do what I may,” the man said with his false smile.

The question here is, is he outright lying of his own accord because that's what he always does or is he being specifically instructed from above not to cooperate?

Moiraine, he thought bitterly. She’s still causing me trouble. Almost immediately, though, if reluctantly, he admitted that she could hardly be blamed for this. There had always been some reason to pretend to be what he was not. First keeping Hurin’s spirits up, and then trying to impress Selene. After Selene, there had not seemed to be any way out of it.

Points to Rand for having the self-awareness to admit that all Moiraine did was give him the rope to hang himself with. All things considered, many would just be angry with her and move on with their lives from there.

Thom’s nephew had lasted almost three years by channeling only when he thought he had to. If Owyn had managed to limit how often he channeled, it must be possible to not channel at all, no matter how seductive saidin was.

Well sure Rand, but you've literally just established that you have a hard time not using every available tool at your disposal so plot-convenient ultra-heroin is probably not a drug you can just take a little hit of at parties, you know?

The closer they came, the more certain it was, until they rounded the last stone-terraced corner and there was The Defender of the Dragonwall, smoke pouring out of its upper windows and flames breaking through the roof.

If Tuon were here, she'd likely explain to Rand that a military-themed inn bursting into flame was a Seanchan omen foretelling the fall of its city to the depicted enemy within the year.

She's not here, thank the Light, but that's probably what she'd say and she'd be right.

The common room hardly seemed as if the building were on fire. The double line of men stretched up the stairs, passing their buckets, and others scrambled to carry out what furniture was left, but there was no more smoke down here than if something had been burning the kitchen.

The Cairhieniens are probably pretty big on fire safety after the last invasion anyway. Without industrial pipes and hydrants to supply water for you, city fires can be downright apocalyptic.

“You cannot carry Hurin and the chest both, Rand.” The Ogier shrugged. “Besides, I won’t leave my books to burn.”

The books are obviously Loial's number one priority here but he has the decency to feel a bit guilty about that.

The banner was still in there. The banner of the Dragon. Let it burn, he thought, and an answering thought came as if he had heard Moiraine say it. Your life may depend on it. She’s still trying to use me. Your life may depend on it. Aes Sedai never lie.

Yeah this boy can't even leave behind the thing that would get him killed anywhere in the known world for possessing it. No way he's not going to be shooting up ultra-heroin every chance he gets even if his life didn't turn into an epic fantasy.

The onlookers stared at him, with his face blackened and his coat covered with smut, but he staggered to where Loial had propped Hurin against the wall of a house across the street.

I'd be staring too, who walks around with a coat covered in por-

"A small flake of soot or other dirt".

Oh. Do you know this may be literally the only time I've ever seen this word used in its non-sexy context?

Rand felt a shiver run through him. “It’s too late,” he told them. “You came too late.” And he sat down in the street and began to laugh.

It's cool Rand, nobody is going to think your acting like a crazy person is suspicious behavior AT ALL.

#let's read #wheel of time #wot #robert jordan #wheel of time spoilers #wot spoilers #rand al'thor #hurin #loial #cuale #aldrin caldevwin #mat cauthon #perrin aybara #ingtar shinowa

[tobiasdrake]

Rise of the Monokubs! Let's talk about the three-step structure: Setup, Reminder, and Payoff. This is far from the only way to write a plot point, but it's a classic and an effective one.

Oh no, is this the end for Monokuma!?

The Monokubs rise up in glorious revolution and defeat Monokuma forever! Surely, this will have a deep and lasting consequence for the franchise as a who--

Nope, never mind. Defeating Monokuma doesn't matter, nothing ever sticks, he always comes back and Danganronpa keeps on going anyway. I wonder if that's a microcosm of anything? Hmm.

Monokuma's extremely temporary defeat is an important point because it serves as the Reminder. Everyone's familiar with Setup and Payoff but the three step process can be very effective when trying to carry a plot point across a long distance.

3-1 established in the funniest scene in the franchise that the Exisals are powerful enough to destroy Monokuma. Or, at least, one of Monokuma's bodies. Nonetheless, it was set up in that chapter that they are a threat to him physically.

This is the Setup; Introducing what will be an important plot point, but disguising it behind an innocuous bit that makes it seem as though the card has already been played. That the Exisals can harm Monokuma is a funny joke, but it's not there to be engaged with as anything more.

Then, in 3-3, we see the Reminder.

That the Exisals are a threat to Monokuma returns as a plot point, this time much more seriously. This time, it's for real. When the Monokubs force Monokuma to relinquish control of the Ultimate Academy to them, he's left with no choice but to give them what they want.

True to its name, the Reminder serves to remind the audience of the plot point that had been established. It shows how dangerous the Exisals are, even to Monokuma. It reaffirms the point that 3-1 made, assuring us that this threat was not a joke then and that it's deadly serious now. In contrast to Danganronpas 1 and 2, the Monokuma of V3 is not untouchable.

It doesn't too dramatically influence the plot, but it demonstrates the plot device's utility. This way, when it finally comes into play down the road, it doesn't feel overly shocking or like it came out of nowhere. The audience is reminded that this exists and given a brief glimpse into how it will be used.

This then carries into the opening of 3-5. By that point, the Monokubs are gone. But the Exisals are not.

This is the payoff. The big moment that the device has been building to, when it delivers exactly what the Setup hinted at and the Reminder promised. Monokuma in chains; Kokichi assumes control.

Kokichi whole-ass prying control of the Killing Game out of Monokuma's claws is the sort of plot point that would feel like it came com-plete-ly out of left field, especially given the iron grip that Monokuma's been firmly established to have in every appearance he's ever made.

But the reason it doesn't, the reason it works, is because V3 did a good job of adhering to the three-step structure of a critical plot point. They set it up and they reminded, making it all the sweeter and more satisfying when they paid it off.

#danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #revisiting drv3

[invested-in-your-future]

So, Pyrrha remains dead in your rewrite? Are you satisfied with how her story was concluded? (no pressure)

I decided at the very start that everything from the first three volumes stays, no matter how I feel about it in retrospect. For example, I would want to rewrite the dance scene, flesh out the White Fang into something more than a bogeyman, add additional stuff for Weiss's characterization, or even rewrite the awkward Jaune bullying arc in V1, but I won't.

Pyrrha's fate remains unchanged, but the impact of her death is more important than just a few moments of Jaune's Angst. For me, it's less about him and more about the whole team dealing with what happened.

What did Pyrrha mean to Ruby? How has what happened affected her? What did Pyrrha stand for for Nora and Ren? And, yeah, Jaune - Jaune is still there but has quite a different character arc.

What does what happened mean to them?

For me, Pyrrha works as the very embodiment of what a Huntress should be. It feels thematically fitting to have her fall together with Beacon - two symbols of hope - falling apart together. A thematic microcosm and macrocosm.

Not to mention that different people deal with grief and loss in different ways, and that's just an interesting thing to do, IMO.

Also, not having to deal with Two Gods stuff in Mistral nor with Salem's lackeys adds additional chances for retroactive characterization.

What was Pyrrha's life before Beacon? How did people who knew her before Beacon view her? What drove her to become who she was? Do the characters' impressions and memories of their friend match or clash with all the new information they will experience?

A decent-sized part of the Mistral arc in my version is about various characters getting to experience pieces of life from the people that are either no longer there or that they never knew. For Yang, for example, that's something literal - the people she knew and opened up to are no longer there, having physically left her. For Ruby, it's more metaphysical, as she struggles with the sense of perpetual loss embedded in reality. For Nora and Ren, it ties into their pasts as a reverse of sorts, as while they are still there, everything in their lives before Beacon is gone.

In part, Mistral is an arc about Pyrrha, about who she was, and ripples reverberating from the fact that she is no longer there. What happened to Pyrrha and Penny drives the plot in more ways than just adding mere angst for Jaune.

Even a single life lost can matter in unexpected ways.

#rwby #rwde #rwby au #pyrrha nikos