#crossed wires playlist

[esposadejoyhuerta]

crossed wires (official??) playlist

so catalystwriter let me make a playlist for the series (see below) but the day that I sent it in, they deactivated their acc. I jus wanted to share this playlist anyways in order to honor their work + their amazing series. hope y’all listen n enjoy :’)

#melissa schemmenti #catalyst writer #crossed wires #crossed wires playlist #abbott elementary #spotify

[spanktony]

MISSED OPPORTUNITIES - maddy perez

summary: you can paired up with maddy for a project, little do you know there’s some lingering feelings in the air.

words: 3.8k

warnings: 18+, riding, g!p reader, reader being oblivious, rue, elliot & reader talk abt pegging and b*ssy 😭

notes: might be ooc maddy or bad dialogue, haven’t wrote for my baby in a while! sorry!

navigation. request.

"Maddy and Y/N."

Maddy didn't exactly know you, but yes, she's seen you. She had noticed you from a distance, watching as you'd come to school on your skateboard nearly every day, and on the days you didn't, you'd gotten a ride from Elliot.

Then you'd proceed to come into fifth period with baggy pants, a beanie on your head, and a nonchalant attitude.

Maddy wondered what it would be like to strike up a conversation with you. But, Maddy couldn't gather the courage to approach you, fearing rejection or awkwardness.

Maddy often found herself stealing glances at you during class, watching you bop your head to the music playing through your earphones.

Maddy couldn't help but wonder what kind of music you were listening to and if you'd ever consider sharing your playlist with her.

You take your wired airpod out of your ear, making sure you heard your teacher correctly. You glance around the classroom, catching Maddy's eye. She quickly looks away, blushing slightly.

"So! Now to go over your assignment." You lean back in your chair, listening to the instructions your teacher is giving. "As we all know, spring break is coming up, and I'm sure many of you have exciting plans. Although, the school wants to do something fun to celebrate the break. We thought it would be a great idea for you guys to come up with an event-type fundraiser for the school. It could be anything from a bake sale to a talent show, as long as it's creative and engaging."

Your teacher pauses, scanning the room for reactions. "Then, once you finish your assignment, the school will vote for the best event idea, and we will make it happen during spring break. This way, you will not only have a chance to showcase your creativity but also contribute to the school community in a meaningful way. So, let's brainstorm and come up with some amazing event ideas that will make this spring break even more memorable!"

Your teacher claps, encouraging the class to get up and start sharing their event ideas with their partner. The class gets up, except for you. You hesitate for a moment, feeling a bit unsure about Maddy being your partner.

Now, you didn't know Maddy personally, but you had heard some rumors about her, and you knew her boyfriend, Nate, a dickhead who'd often cause trouble. One time, Nate chased you with her truck, nearly running you over as you frantically tried to escape on your skateboard.

You never talked to Nate nor even looked his way, but he had always given you menacing looks whenever you crossed paths, along with the rest of the football team. It was tiring, annoying, and made you feel constantly on edge whenever you were near them.

You're knocked out of your thoughts when Maddy appears in front of your sight, a slight smile on her lips. "Y/N, right?" You nod, sitting up in your seat. "Yeah..." Maddy chuckles and nods, her smile widening.

"Were you gonna keep thinking about the great depression or come over to my desk so we can discuss this project?" You crack a smile at Maddy's playful comment and quickly gather your belongings, making your way over to her desk.

-

You're at Maddy's house. It's been a week since you've been working on the project together. Maddy had a completely different personality from her boyfriend. She was inviting but at the same time closed off, she'd open up about her interests and passions but rarely talked about her personal life or emotions.

You move to the edge of the bed, taking your notebook with you. "So...uh, so far we have a spring dance, a photography exhibit, and a...twerk party? Did you add that one?"

Maddy giggles, hiding her face behind her hands. "No, that one was all you," she says, her laughter contagious. "I swear I didn't write that." You can't help but smile at Maddy's infectious laughter. It's refreshing to see her so carefree and playful, even if she still keeps certain aspects of herself guarded.

Maddy crawls to the edge of the bed, leaning in to read the notebook. You hold in your breath, her being so close to you, sending a rush of warmth through your body. "You can add karaoke, that sounds fun," Maddy suggests, you nod, taking the pencil from behind your ear and jotting down her suggestion in the notebook.

Maddy bites down on her lip, watching you with a smile. "What...?" You whisper, confused and intrigued by her sudden change in demeanor. She leans in closer, her eyes dancing across your face.

"Do you always ride your skateboard to school? I've been meaning to ask." You feel a flutter of excitement at Maddy's interest in your daily routine. "Yeah, I've been skateboarding to school for a while now. I have a car, but it's more fun, to be honest," you reply, fiddling with the pencil in your hands.

Maddy's eyes fall to your skateboard propped on her wall before falling back on you. "You look hot when you ride it too." Her compliment catches you off guard, and a blush creeps up on your cheeks. "Thanks, Maddy," you say with a shy smile.

"We can take a break," Maddy suggests, taking the notebook out of your lap and setting it aside. You lay back against Maddy's bed, and she does the same, turning her head towards you.

"Any more ideas?" You ask, turning your head towards her. Maddy smiles, "Girl, what part of a break don't you understand?" You chuckle at Maddy's response, your face heating up. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Maddy reassures you, her eyes twinkling with amusement. You turn on your side, propping your head up with your hand. Maddy does the same, jokingly mocking you. "You know, I was thinking we should totally have a secret handshake. Something so ridiculous, only we'd get it."

You laugh at Maddy's suggestion, imagining the two of you coming up with a silly secret handshake. "Like what?"

Maddy sits up, sitting on her feet. You sit up as well, sitting criss-cross apple sauce. Maddy softly takes your hand, "We could dap up..." She moves your hand to the side and starts doing a series of intricate hand movements, "then do a link our pinkies...and seal it with a kiss."

You watch in awe as Maddy effortlessly demonstrates the complex sequence of hand movements. The idea of sealing the secret handshake with a kiss makes you blush, feeling as if you were floating on cloud nine.

"Ready?" Maddy asks, her eyes filled with excitement. You nod eagerly, beginning the intricate hand movements. As you mirror Maddy's movements, your fingers fumble at first, but with each repetition, you start to gain confidence and precision, sealing it with a kiss every time.

"Maddy!" Someone shouts from behind, interrupting your secret handshake. Startled, you quickly break away, turning around to see Maddy's mom at the door. "Dinners ready."

You exchange a sheepish glance with Maddy. "I should probably get going." You say to Maddy, glancing at her door, her mom now gone. Maddy nods understandingly, a hint of disappointment in her eyes. "Yeah, I guess we can finish practicing our handshake later," she says with a small smile.

You reluctantly leave, and you can't help but feel a sense of anticipation for the next time you see Maddy.

-

You lean against Rue's locker, watching the students pass by in the bustling hallway. Thoughts of Maddy replay in your mind making you smile to yourself. Maybe there's something more between you two than just friendship.

But your smile fades, remembering Nate Jacobs. We're they still together? How bad would it be if you did try to pursue Maddy?

Regardless of the bad thoughts running through your head, you can't deny the growing connection you feel towards her, leaving you torn between taking a chance or playing it safe.

You take out your airpod, glancing between Elliot and Rue. "Guys...am I attractive?" Elliot and Rue stop their conversation, exchanging puzzled looks. "Yes," Elliot simply says.

"I'd say so, yes," Rue adds, nodding her head.

Their affirmations boost your confidence, but a part of you still questions if their opinions are biased. Nevertheless, their words provide a small glimmer of hope that pursuing something with Maddy might not be as complicated as you initially thought.

"Let's say...there's this girl, right?" They both nod, and you continue. "And...she's like...giving... I want you, but I don't know if you want me vibes, you know?" Elliot raises an eyebrow while Rue stares at you, waiting for you to elaborate.

"Like! I know she likes likes me, but I don't know how to let her know I like like her." You pause for a moment, trying to find the right words to convey your dilemma. "It's like we're both playing this game and we're afraid to make the first move because we don't want to get rejected or ruin our friendship."

Rue shrugs. "Sounds like you both need a little push," she suggests. "Maybe stop being a little bitch and make a move?" You chuckle nervously at Rue's straightforward advice, appreciating her bluntness. "I guess you're right," you reply.

Elliot puts his hands on his hips. "But are you not curious as to who she's talking about?" Elliot asks Rue, raising an eyebrow.

"It's probably BB." You grimace, "That's not funny, Rue." Elliot tilts his head, confused. "BB? Like, the vape addict, BB?" Rue nods at Elliot, confirming his suspicions.

"You're gross..." He mutters, frowning at you. You make a blank face, "It's not BB, bro."

Elliot puts a hand over his heart. "Oh, thank god." "Who is it then?" Elliot asks, his curiosity piqued. You pause for a moment, debating whether or not to reveal the truth. "Uh..."

Just then, Maddy walks up to you, smiling slightly. "Hey, Y/N." You smile, giving the girl a small wave. "Hey, Rue and Elliot," Maddy adds, earning tight-lipped smiles and nods from the two.

Maddy then holds out her hand, and you're surprised she'd wanna do the handshake in front of Elliot and Rue. You quickly glance at them before reluctantly taking Maddy's hand and reciprocating the handshake, indeed ending it with a kiss.

While you release your grip, you notice a flicker of confusion in Elliot's eyes, but he remains silent. Rue, on the other hand, seems unfazed and continues to observe the interaction with a calm expression.

"Walk me to class?" Maddy asks. You hesitate for a moment, aware of the potential consequences of being seen together, but ultimately decide to go along with it. "Sure," you respond, offering her a small smile as the two of you start walking towards her class.

As expected, Nate Jacobs passed the two of you without acknowledging your presence. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. You turn around to see if he's still watching, but he's already disappeared into the crowd of students. You feel a sense of relief, grateful that he didn't make a scene or confront you about being with Maddy.

-

Elliot takes a hit of his cigarette, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the air. Rue lets out a sigh. "I can't believe a community service event won against your and Maddy's spring dance."

You shrug. "I don't really care. I still got the A." Elliot nods. "So, do you and Maddy still talk? Or have you been talking during the break?"

You hum, "Yeah, we'll Facetime a bit and hang out every now and then." Elliot raises an eyebrow. "Interesting. Are you two just friends, or is there something more going on?"

"Just friends." You confirm. Rue cuts in, "Because you're a little bitchhhh..." You roll your eyes at Rue's comment. "Aren't you the one who nearly skipped town with Jules?"

"Yeah, well, that's different. Jules and I have a deeper connection," Rue retorts defensively. You shake your head, not wanting to get into an argument with Rue. "Whatever."

You glance at Elliot, hoping to change the subject. "So, Elliot, what about you? Are you seeing anyone special?" Elliot chuckles and shakes his head. "Nope, just enjoying the single life for now."

"I think he secretly wants to have a threesome with Jules and me." You and Elliot burst into laughter at Rue's comment, finding it amusing but also slightly uncomfortable. "I think you and Jules want me to want to have a threesome with you guys so you can feel good about yourselves."

Rue raises an eyebrow playfully. "Oh, is that what you think? You're totally wrong."

"What if we had a threesome?" Elliot suggests, jokingly. Rue laughs. "Yeah, and we just pegged Elliot the entire time." Elliot joins in on the laughter but quickly interjects, "Woah, woah! Why me?"

Rue smirks mischievously. "Well, you did bring up the idea, didn't you? It's only fair that you take the spotlight." Elliot's face turns slightly red as he stammers, "I-I was just kidding! I didn't actually mean it!"

You grimace, "Enough about pegging! I just got reminded of Silento."

"Silento? What does he have to do with this conversation?" Rue asks, raising an eyebrow.

Elliot mouths, "Bussy," and Rue frowns, fake gagging.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, distracting you from the strange conversation. You quickly pull it out to see a message from Maddy, smiling at the message.

maddy - wyd

"Maddy just texted me, what am I doing?" Rue lets out a dramatic gasp. "She's a wyd warrior? Brace yourself, Y/N." You chuckle at Rue's dramatic reaction.

you - nm, u?

maddy - home alone and extremely bored

maddy - you wanna come over?

"Holy shit." Elliot is nearly breaking his neck to look at your phone screen. "Maddy wants you to come over? She def wants to fuck." You raise an eyebrow at Elliot's assumption and shake your head.

"No she doesn't." You look at Elliot who stares at you with a raised eyebrow. "She doesn't!"

Rue joins in, "Then she would've asked for Cassie. Not you." Elliot nods in agreement. "And she's home alone."

You consider their points for a moment, realizing that they may have a valid argument. Anyway, you still believe that Maddy's intention is simply to alleviate her boredom. "Well, maybe she just feels more comfortable hanging out with me," you suggest.

"Why are you plotting your own downfall?" Rue raises an eyebrow, questioning your reasoning. Elliot chimes in, "If Maddy wanted company, she could have invited anyone else. It seems weird that she specifically asked for you."

you - omw

You get up from the bed and say, "See you guys later."

Rue yells after you, "Don't be a little bitch!"

-

"Why are your parents out?" You ask Maddy, plopping down on her bed. Maddy shrugs and replies, "They went out for dinner. My dad finally found a job."

You raise an eyebrow at Maddy's response and ask, "So why did you specifically want me to come over tonight?" Maddy hesitates for a moment before saying, "I just thought it would be nice to have some company."

You sense there's something more to Maddy's invitation, but you decide not to push further. Instead, you lean back on her bed and let out a contented sigh. Maddy sits on her feet before lying down beside you.

"You smell like cigarettes." You glance at Maddy, slightly surprised by her comment. "Oh, sorry about that," you say, realizing that the faint smell of cigarettes must have clung to your clothes from earlier. "I was hanging out with some friends earlier, and they were smoking."

Maddy stares at your face, and you feel yourself becoming self-conscious under her gaze. "I am so jealous of your eyebrows," her thumb begins, tracing the shape of your brow.

"They're so perfectly arched," she continues, a small smile playing on her lips. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks as you thank her for the compliment, appreciating her attention to detail.

Maddy's eyes leave your eyebrows and fall to your lips. You notice a flicker of curiosity in her gaze as she leans in slightly. You clench your jaw, frozen in place, you were nervous as fuck. Your heart pounds in your chest, unsure of what might happen next.

Maddy pauses for a moment, her eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation or discomfort. Sensing your unease, she leans back slightly, giving you space.

Shit...did you just blow it? You watch Maddy's reaction, you try to gather your thoughts and find the right words to salvage the moment. The silence hangs heavy in the air, and you swallow hard, feeling the weight of the missed opportunity.

-

"No fucking way," Elliot mumbles as you finish your sentence. He shakes his head in disbelief. "You fumbled badly."

You run a hand down your face, "I know." Elliot pats you on the back, "Have fun dealing with that one. I gotta get to class."

You narrow your eyes, "Since when did you start going to class?"

Elliot chuckles, "Since I realized that I might not be getting my diploma." You give him a playful shove, "Well, good luck with that. Maybe I'll see you at graduation."

Elliot raises an eyebrow, "Don't hold your breath." He turns and walks away, leaving you alone to ponder the consequences of your missed kiss with Maddy.

You lean against your locker, scrolling through your playlists before landing on the one you made for Maddy. Well, she didn't know you did because you hadn't shown her yet.

You press play, and the familiar melodies fill your ears, but suddenly your headphones get snatched from your ear. You lift your head to see one of the footballers, Tyler, smirking down at you. "Who the hell still wears wires?"

You roll your eyes, annoyed by Tyler's interruption, reaching out to grab them back. Tyler chuckles and shrugs, moving them before you can reach them. "You should upgrade to wireless, man. It's the future," he says with a teasing tone.

"You're so fucking annoying." You mumble, exasperated by Tyler's teasing. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" Tyler's smirk fades as he hears your response, his playful demeanor turning more serious.

He leans in closer, his voice lowering as he confronts you. "You better watch your mouth, or you'll regret it."

"This isn't some Disney show, dude. Can I just have my headphones back?" You ask, trying to diffuse the tension. Tyler's eyes narrow as he considers your request, his grip on your headphones tightening. "Maybe I'll give them back if you apologize," he proposes, a hint of superiority in his voice.

"Nah, man. I can always buy another pair." You say, attempting to walk away from the escalating situation. But before you can take a step, Tyler slams you back against the locker, throwing your headphones on the ground before stomping on them.

"Why? They're right there." He smirks, pointing at the broken headphones. He pats your shoulder before walking away, leaving you stunned and seething with anger. You stand there, anger boiling inside you.

He was a dickhead who obviously craved attention because he lacks it at home.

"What the hell happened to you?" You turn around to see Maddy approaching with a concerned look on her face. You take a deep breath, "Nothing, but I'm about to leave school."

Maddy's concern deepens as she notices the anger in your voice. "Are you sure you're okay? You hesitate for a moment, contemplating whether or not to confide in her about Tyler's actions. You nod, picking up your broken headphones.

"You wanna come with?" Maddy hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to respond. She finally nods and says, "Yeah, I'll come with you." You smile gratefully at her.

-

The sun has now set, and you're in your car in a secluded area. Maddy smiles, the last song on the playlist you made from her finishing. "Send me that now!"

You laugh, "I will, swear."

You feel a sense of relief knowing that Maddy enjoyed the playlist you made for her. You meet Maddy's gaze, and your heart swells with gratitude for her presence and the connection you share.

Rue's words echo in your mind, "Don't be a little bitch."

You take a deep breath, letting Rue's words motivate you to push through any fear or hesitation. You softly place a hand on Maddy's cheek, pulling her into a gentle kiss. Maddy sinks in the kiss, leaning forward to deepen the kiss.

The kiss deepens, and you can feel Maddy's nails lightly graze the back of your neck, sending shivers down your spine. Without hesitating, you pull the Latina into your lap with slightly shaking hands.

You pull away in a desperate need for air, but Maddy takes this as a chance to attack your neck, nipping and sucking on your sensitive skin, while grinding in your lap.

You let out a low groan, grasping her hips tightly as you surrender to the energy between you. Maddy's lips trail to your neck, to your jaw, and then back in an intense kiss, her hands roaming over your body.

The kiss becomes messy, her tongue sliding against yours, making your head swim with lust.  Your hands lift her skirt up, feeling the heat and smoothness of her thighs beneath your fingertips.

Maddy's breath hitches, pulling away from the kiss. You think you've done something wrong, but then you see the hunger in her eyes and the way her chest rises and falls rapidly. She leans in close, whispering in your ear, "I wanna ride you so bad."

Heat pools in your lower abdomen as you imagine Maddy straddling you, her body pressed against yours, moving in sync with your every touch. You bring Maddy into another kiss, she begins to grind on your hard-on, her movements becoming more urgent and desperate.

You lift Maddy up slightly, pulling down your pants with one hand while supporting her with the other. You reach back into her skirt, moving her underwear aside, before sliding into her wetness. 

Maddy moans softly, her nails digging into your shoulder as she begins to move her hips in rhythm with your thrusts.

The eye contact is strong, fueling the intensity between you both. Maddy's gasps become louder, her body arching against yours in, "Mm..fuck! You feel so good, baby."

You let out a small groan, throwing your head back against your seat as the pleasure builds. Maddy's moans fill the confined space of the car, encouraging you to increase the pace, lost in the passionate moment.

Your hands grip her waist tighter, guiding her movements as the desire between you escalates.  The car rocks with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the enclosed space. The intensity reaches its peak, and with one final gasp, Maddy explodes into a state of euphoria, holding onto you tightly.

"Y/N!!" You hold onto her, her body trembling in your arms as she catches her breath. You gently stroke her hair, whispering words of comfort and affection as you both bask in the afterglow.

#spanktony works #spanktony #tonyspank #maddy perez x reader #maddy perez #euphoria #maddy euphoria #madtdy perez x g!p reader #maddy perez x you #maddy perez x y/n #maddy x reader #maddy perez smut #maddy perez fluff #g!p reader #g!p #maddy perez x gender neutral reader #euphoria x reader #euphoria x y/n

[writingquestionsanswered]

I love planing out my ideas in great detail but when it comes to actually writing the story it’s like pulling teeth. It goes from being fun and interesting to being nothing more than a dull chore. I’ve tried planning less to see if having some things unknown might help, but that didn’t work. I could spend forever writing and rewriting my ideas and making changes to them. But when I try to write an actual story it’s like I physically can’t. What should I do?

Details Planned But Unable to Write

If you have the details of your story planned out but still aren't able to write it, it's probable that one of the following things is happening. See if any of these strike a chord with you...

1 - Details and Plot Are Not the Same - Sometimes writers say they have all the details in their story planned out, but what they actually mean is they've fleshed out character and setting details, maybe even backstory and some general scene ideas, but they couldn't tell you what the story's conflict is, what the inciting incident is, what goal the protagonist is pursuing and why, what's at stake, or what the major plot points of the story are. No matter how detailed your story is in terms of characters, setting, backstory, and even general ideas about scenes, if you don't have a conflict to tie them all together, you don't really have a story. You just have details. A plot can't be moved forward if it doesn't exist, and if you don't have a conflict, goals and motivation, stakes, an antagonistic force and obstacles, etc., you don't have a plot. Solution: take some time learning about Goals and Conflict, Plot Driven vs Character Driven Stories, Basic Story Structure, and How to Move a Story Forward.

2 - You Lost Interest in the Story - If you have your story properly plotted in addition to having the details fleshed out, and you're still unable to write, it could be that you've simply lost interest in the story. This can happen when we spend a lot of time on a story, especially if we spend a lot of time fleshing things out. Solution: Guide: How to Rekindle Your Motivation to Write, Getting Unstuck: Motivation Beyond Mood Boards & Playlists, Getting Excited About Your Story Again

3 - Something in the Story Isn't Working - Imagine someone riding a horse and they come to a rickety old bridge, but the horse balks and refuses to cross. The horse may just be stubborn, but it's quite possible it's picking up sensory information its rider can't... creaks and groans the rider can't hear, a worrisome tilt or sway the rider can't perceive... If you sit down to write your well planned out story and can't, the same thing could be happening with your gut instinct. Like the horse that doesn't want to cross the bridge because it senses danger, something inside you is saying "this story doesn't work" and isn't excited to get involved. Solution: Read through your outline or plan and see if you can spot the problem. Maybe the character's goal doesn't make sense with the events of the story. Maybe the antagonistic force isn't doing enough to oppose the protagonist. Maybe the character arc is out-of-sync with the events of the story. If nothing else, talk it through with a trusted writer friend to see if they have any thoughts. Sometimes just hearing the questions they have about the story can be enough to highlight what isn't working.

4 - Life Stuff Is Getting in the Way - Even if your story is well fleshed out and thoroughly plotted, and everything works and you're excited about writing, there can be other things going on in your life that stand in your way. If you're putting too much pressure on yourself to write or reach certain writing goals, it makes writing feel stressful and our brains are wired to avoid stressful things. It could be that you're not feeling well physically or mentally. You could be distracted by other things you want to write or do. You could just be too busy with other things to really get into it. Or you could just be not in the mood to write. Solution: Try to pinpoint what's getting in the way and see if there's a work around. For example, if you think writing has become stressful and that's why you're avoiding it, figure out what you can do to make it fun again. Or, if you think you're just not in the mood to write, figure out some things you could do that would put you in the mood to write.

5 - Fear Is Getting in the Way - Details are easy, writing is hard. No matter how much planning and plotting you've done, actually putting those details into coherent words in a way that is compelling and well-paced--that's not so easy. And, the tough reality is that until you've had a lot of writing experience, your writing probably isn't as good as you want it to be. You want it to be good, and you know what would qualify as good, but you're just not able to produce that quality yet. And the only way to get your writing quality to that level is to let yourself write things that aren't as good as you want them to be. You have to write a lot of "just okay" stuff before you can write "really great" stuff. AND THAT'S SCARY!!! And--that's not even the only thing that can cause fear for writers. Maybe you have written a lot and your writing is where you want it to be, but maybe your fear is with the next step... sharing it with others. Maybe you're afraid others won't enjoy it as much as you want them to. Solution: figure out what's causing the fear, whether it's quality-related or next step related, then try to push through it. Remind yourself that writing not great stuff is part of the process. Remind yourself that sharing with others is part of the process (usually, unless you're writing for yourself.) Have a spin through the bottom half of my Motivation master list for other fears and solutions.

I hope that helps!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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[atinylittlepain]

Chapter Two

no-outbreak!Joel Miller x f!oc

series masterlist

series playlist

warnings: dark themes surrounding history of domestic violence, references to physical injury, heavy emotions (hope can also be heavy)

a/n: all i have to say is thank you for reading, and i'd love to hear what you think

......................................

Oh, come child

In a cross bones style

Oh, come child

Come rescue me

'Cause you have seen some

Unbelievable things

Crossbones Style by Cat Power

.....................................

Not comfort. Not exactly ease either. Familiarity maybe. Both of them settling into a routine configured around the other. She likes to help with the animals whenever she can, getting up as early as him, no task too daunting or dragging for her to say no to it. Just the other day she helped him trim back the sheep’s hooves, not even flinching when one of the girls tried to give a jerky kick underneath their ministrations, all shush and soothe in her flicking ears as Joel got the job done. She understands flight and freeze like that, at least in the animals. 

They get done what chores they can in the morning before she has to get changed for work, the requisite light blue dress with the buttons down the front, an apron snug around her waist. She had made a joke about the fucking fifties the first time he saw her in her uniform, surprising him with the quick, crass humor, her half-grin as she got into the passenger seat of his truck. 

He drops her off, heads into town or to the station, whatever needs to be done, and usually is done around lunchtime. He’s supposed to be watching his cholesterol, admonished by the one doctor in town two years in a row now. So he orders a salad with a sigh when he stops into the diner around noon, though Dolores will often tuck a few fries onto the side of his plate, a quiet smile when she sets it down in front of him. Maybe he’s been leaving bigger tips than is appropriate, maybe he made sure that the money in the jar on the counter would be going to her at the end of the day, a quiet conversation with Sal while she was in the back of the kitchen. 

He lingers. Always an endless to-do at home, ignored in this instant, stealing a little extra time sitting at the counter, watching her flit and flicker around the regulars. She’s good with people, big, bright smiles that don’t quite round her eyes, laughs light as air, and as empty too. And he sees the quick slump of her shoulders when the customers aren’t looking, when she’s passing through the swinging door to the kitchen. Turn it on and turn it off. 

But there’s someone new eating lunch at the diner today. One of those climber-backpacker types, all wired-down, tan muscle against shock-white teeth, flicking back his sun-bleached flop of hair, putting on a real show for her when she drops off his burger at his booth. It’d be rude to just keep looking, to turn around on his stool and stare the man down, so he listens instead. 

“Thank you, sweetheart. Can I ask you something?” Like something small and slight being held in a fist, close to breaking or bursting, a cracked chirp of her answer, clearly flustered when she says um, yes, yeah. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a town like this?” That same sound, like she’s trying to make a laugh happen, though it comes out more like a held breath that finally gasps into an exhale. 

“That’s kind of you, but I need to get back to work, excuse me.” 

“Oh come on, where’s that midwestern hospitality you all seem to have?” 

“Do you– can I get you anything else?”

“How about a smile, sweetheart? Just a little one, for me?” For a moment, it’s silent. Joel curls his fingers in a fist, over and over, flex and extend, his back still turned. Something hot and tight closes up in his throat when he hears the man sigh, and then laugh.

“There you go, prettiest thing I’ve seen since I left Denver. I’ll be thinking about you while I’m climbing this afternoon, sweets, thank you for that.” 

“Shouldn’t be climbing in the afternoon.” He says it before he can stop himself, turning around on his stool, a thick flare of hate, maybe meanness, when he sees the uncertain curl of her shoulders and the slanted smile on the man’s face. 

“Excuse me?” The man slings one arm over the back of his booth, body splaying and slumping toward Joel, trying to take up more space than he’s worth. A little bit of preening, a little bit of plumage.

“You’re likely to get yourself caught in a storm up in the mountains this time of year. I’m surprised such an expert man like yourself didn’t know that.” Arrogant, artifice, the man grins, eyes swooping back over Dolores as he picks up his burger with one hand, a wolfish bite that he tucks into the side of his mouth, the slow roll of his jaw as he focuses back on Joel. 

“I don’t mind trying my luck. I usually come out on top. But thanks for the tip, pal, appreciate it.” He takes one more bite, half of his burger gone in two gnashing mouthfuls, all bright white teeth. With that, a quick clap of his hands together, fast heat rubbed between his palms, he pulls out a wad of cash from the front of his pack, leaving a crumpled fistful on the table before he stands with a sigh. 

“Better head out. Thank you for the smile, sweetheart, I’m gonna remember that.” He tucks a smaller fold of bills into the pocket on the front of Dolores’ apron, and Joel can see the way her stomach tenses, curling back from the suggestion of touch. The word no flashes big and battering in Joel’s mind, though there’s nothing to be done, the man already shouldering his pack and sending a slippery slide of a smile his way before he’s swaggering hips-first out the door. 

“You alright?” She doesn’t quite meet his eyes, even when he ducks his head down to try to catch her beneath her lashes. All he gets is a nod and a pointed sniff, and then she sets herself back into motion, ducking into the kitchen to pick up someone else’s order.

Dolores doesn’t like men, something he learned pretty quickly about her. The first time, when they went to the drugstore together and she wilted like a wan flower under Rod’s friendly conversation, that same curling up of her shoulders, that same drop to her eyes. It happened again when she met John one day at the small grocery store in town. She had been smiling, an easy conversation about palisade peaches being in season, quick to fall and fade when Joel introduced her to the man. Even John, with the disposition of a feckless golden retriever, had gotten that same reaction out of her. 

She tolerates the customers at the diner, lots of nervous laughter and quick movement, her sneakers squeaking hard on the chipped linoleum floor. Warm with the few children in town, the women too. But no, she doesn’t like men. All uncertain angles, folding herself up close and tight and away. Honestly, it’s a small miracle she’s softened that snap, that shrink-back around Joel. Comfort in the known, he supposes. He’ll take it. 

“Hey, you alright?” Again, he catches her on her way to another table, a quick flicker of her eyes and a nod, shrugging the trays held in her arms a little closer, already moving again. Softened, but still there, cagey, careful, and now coaxed up to a higher degree by that man, that fucking man. 

Joel leaves soon after, not wanting to corner or crowd her. Back to routine. Back to the barn and the coop and the animals and all the things that must be done around them. Fall inches ever closer, a time that demands preparation. Work that promises completion and satisfaction when done well and right. Not easy, but simple. Maybe he’s careful to keep an eye on his watch, timing his drive back to the diner right before dinner, just as Dolores is stepping out of the storefront, her face furrowed down to the bills she’s counting in her hands. 

“What’s this?” His turn to drop his brow when she gets into the passenger seat and holds out a thick fold of money to him across the console.

“This should cover the clothes, and that drugstore trip you made for me.” He stares at the money, his fingers curling tighter over the steering wheel. That was two weeks ago, nearly three now, and she’s already trying to make even. 

“You don’t– I’m not keeping score. That’s yours.” Fast fall, flustered, a stuttered exhale, not what she expected, not what she wanted, her hand staying suspended between them, shaking the money lightly as if to entice him into taking it.

“But, I can’t. I–” What he’d like to do is reach out too, curl his hand over hers to close her fingers around that money, make it all hers. But she doesn’t like touch, even the accidental kind, something else he has learned. That quick tightness, that smalling if he brushes behind her in the kitchen in the morning, so he doesn’t. If their hands reach for the radio in the car at the same time, little fire passed between fingertips, and then her immediate recoil, so he doesn’t. And he doesn’t now either.

“You don’t have to. I was happy to, no score. That’s your money, Dolores.” Like she just swallowed something bitter, her face scrunching and then slackening as she nods, careful and quiet in settling her hand, and her money, back in her lap. 

“Could I at least help with groceries?” A small compromise, for her to look at him again, if for nothing else. 

“Okay.”

Here is what makes a town. Two blocks proper, a church at one end and a bar at the other. A second hand shop that sits slumped against the post office. A library that gets new books once every two years. A restaurant, the only other one besides the diner, the downstairs of a newly-established bed and breakfast that most of the residents have turned their noses up at. A police station that sits next to the simple steeple of the church, how fitting. And a grocery store, a small one, the nearest safeway a two-hour drive east. Joel had to look up what an IGA was when he first moved here. 

And because everyone knows everyone, a trip to the grocery is never in and out, always getting stopped in the produce aisle, asked after while picking up a gallon of milk. Today, no different. 

“Hey there, you two. Can I expect to see you at the little thing at the bar tonight?” The little thing Patty is referring to is the fact that it’s the end of the month. A peculiar tradition, not a party, just an agreed-upon herding of one another. Joel has thought to himself on multiple occasions that its real purpose is to make sure no one quietly died while people weren’t paying attention, a once-a-month census.

“I don’t know, Patty, maybe I’ll drop by, keep folks from talking too much.” Dolores’ confusion is clear, searching between him and Patty. Why he’s trying to keep this from her, he’s unsure.

“Well, I hope to see the both of you there.” Patty is a particular kind of woman. Here long enough for her word to have some power behind it. She lives above the secondhand shop alone, though Joel knows she has two sons, shown pictures of them, arms slung across her shoulders, that same slanted smile of hers on both of their faces. They don’t visit. And Patty doesn’t seem sad for it. She orders a specific kind of red hair dye once a month, Joel always seeming to catch her at the post office picking up the box with a distinct logo stamped on its side. Nice enough, a little brash maybe, but she’s always been open-armed with him. And she’s been kind to Dolores too. No questions, at least not to her, no staring or stirring, like it makes the most sense in the world that Joel suddenly has a woman staying with him that he has never mentioned before. So she doesn’t press now, leaves it at that, leaves them to the produce aisle, an easy greeting and goodbye. 

“Are you gonna go?” Her hands are deft and discerning, cracking open and peeling back a pale green corn husk, a hoard of it on sale this year, fine silk tassels and that sweet, crisp, smell. 

“Oh, probably not.” He holds open the produce bag for her, a quiet yeah when she asks if four ears is enough. 

“I would go, you know, if you wanted to.”

“Do you want to?” She shrugs, the slight swing of the hem of her dress as she walks alongside him, zucchini and tomatoes.

“Patty seems like the kind of person who’s used to getting her way.” She doesn’t say it mean, only observation as she tucks two tomatoes down in the cart. He can feel a smile threatening at the corners of his mouth.

“She certainly doesn’t like the word no. We could stop by, if that’s alright with you?” 

It is alright, and after dinner, summer spoils sweet and sated, he waits for her on the porch while she changes out of her uniform. It’s getting darker earlier, the sun already cracking and dripping between the mountains, everything hushing down orange and purple. Soon, it will be time for the sheep to spend their nights in the barn, and in the day too, during that deepest, tightest fist of winter. But for now, it’s quiet, save for the dull thrum of all the small, crawling things, air that’s only a relief in its coolness, not a worry. 

“Ready?” Pretty, he thinks. Hasn’t seen that before, he thinks. Crisp white with fine little flowers embroidered along the neckline and the sleeves. The neckline, a new expanse of her sternum on display, the fragile flutter of it when he stares just a beat too long. 

“Uh-huh, yeah.” Ready, dark enough that the headlights need to be flicked on, flooding yellow down the bare brush and scrub along the road. And then the bleeding neon glow of the bar on the edge of town coming into focus. 

Shoes sticking in the syrupy grime of a few decades past, dim lights and a perpetual haze of smoke, something sad and slow drifting in on the jukebox. No pretense, no pretending that folks are here for anything other than getting a little drunk at the end of another day. 

Patty is happy to see the both of them, offering a bottle that Joel accepts, and one that Dolores politely declines, though she still allows herself to be pulled along by the older woman, leaving Joel to make his rounds. The same questions, asked and answered, health and hearth and how are you. Fine, just fine. Except, a little distracted, quick glances over to the bar where Dolores is sitting. Patty still there with her, still getting her to smile, so fine, just fine until the next time he looks over.

Not Patty. Him. Big, bright shark tooth smile, fang and flare. Even more tan, skin tight and taut against quick-jumping muscle, all pumped and puffed out from his afternoon climb. A wiry arm slung around the back of Dolores’ chair, her whole body slanted and steeled toward the side as he leans in, lips pulled back in a sneer of a smile. 

Whoever Joel was talking to, he’s no longer listening, no longer even feigning interest as he watches, trying to piece together whatever that man is saying to her by the way his jaw pulls with each of his words. Waiting, really, for any excuse to step in, to make this wrong right. 

And then, enough, already in motion as he watches the man reach out, the backs of his knuckles brushing against her clavicle before she can jerk away. Gotcha, got you, gonna get you. All the ways the human body can recoil, say no, and all the ways it can refuse to listen.

He doesn’t catch the end of whatever the man is saying, words coming out on a quick bark of laughter that makes Dolores flinch harder, knuckles all curled up in her lap. He doesn’t care to know, a thick wash of no drowning it out. The thing is, Joel can get big, and loud, and mean, so mean. If he needs to. He can roll back his shoulders and set his jaw in a hard grind. He can make a fist and then make contact. He can make a man get small and get gone. But not in front of her. Another body to account for, a shivering down small body, a body that cannot bear any more violence. So he must settle for something else, a quiet heat, an expression on his face that he hopes is no enough.

“Is there a problem?” The man glances over his shoulder, all smile, all teeth.

“Hey, pal. No problem here. I was just telling this pretty thing about the climb I got in, wasn’t I?” He asks it with a duck of his head, trying to steal her gaze that she keeps on her hands in her lap. A habit of hers, the skin around her nails picked and pulled raw, soon to bleed with the way she’s worrying at them now. 

“I don’t think she’d like to hear any more of what you have to say, pal.” A flicker of something animal, the man sucks his teeth, mouth screwed to the side before he sighs. Fire needs fuel, and he’s not getting any, certainly not from her. Something that sounds like not worth it as he sways himself out of the bar. Joel knows this kind well, blown in and out in a day, maybe two. Not a problem, not really, and he won’t let it become one. 

“Thank you.” She gives Joel her eyes, a quick nod as he sits down beside her. Careful distance kept between them, space for her to spread back out, to unfurl, and she does, leaning back in her chair, a quick roll of her shoulders like she’s trying to shake off that shiver.

“I have no patience for people like that. Think they’re hot shit for hiking up a mountain when they’re just a nuisance.” Maybe he said too much, tempering his words with a swig of his beer, though Dolores seems to receive it, turning slightly toward him so he can feel the ghost of her knee brush against his.

“I just don’t like men like that.” He sighs, because what could he say to that? What hasn’t already been said in the slow fade of the bruises on her arms? 

“Drink?”

“Yeah, please.” 

It’s quiet between them for a while, each nursing a beer as the din around them lulls and lifts. He drums his fingers against his thigh, something steady while he tries to work a thick flood of words into something that might make sense, something that won’t make her recoil. 

“Can I ask you about it?” She doesn’t look at him, focused on her thumbnail working the sticker off her bottle. But she does nod, lips pursed, long sigh like she needs to make room for what she’s about to say.

“All of it?”

“If you’re okay with that, yes.”

Yes, she’s okay with that. No, her husband wasn’t always the way he is now. He was kind until he wasn’t. Quiet until he wasn’t. The first time, silly. That’s what she calls it. A silly, stupid thing. The windshield of his car had gotten chipped while she was driving it. And she saw black with the way his hand guided her skull into the wall of their bedroom when she got home. Silly, she says, a wave of her palm like, no big deal, because not the worst of it. His stomach slurs and sickens. 

She was a teacher, her lips curling around the memory like it tastes sweet. And then he told her to stop working. Command, not question. Gave her a careful fold of money each morning, like a child’s allowance, like a leash choked close and tight. What friends she had left told her to leave him, lovely sentiment, with what money? With what, with what, with what?

And then he got a gun. Waved it around like a second dick. A strange swagger, what the weight of such perfect destruction does in a man’s palms, slung on his hip, never far. 

“Did he?”

“Once, right here.” Two fingers pressed to her temple, her eyes unblinking, expressionless. Though it’s gone just as quick, her fingers flexing and curling into a quick fist before settling back in her lap, unmaking memory. 

She left then. With what, with what, with what? Nothing. A book in the passenger seat and a vague conception of the west meaning something like hope.

“You like to read?” Anything else will come out too harsh, too big with anger, so that will have to do. She seems relieved for it, shoulders settling and smoothing.

“Yes, I do.” 

“We can get you a library card, if you want.” 

“I’d like that.” 

…

They go to the library the next day, and the man who works there just seems happy that there’s anyone new to give a library card to in the first place. 

Dolores has already begun reading the first book in the small stack she checked out, quiet in the passenger seat the whole drive home. And later, when he leaves for his overnight shift, she’s on the couch, already halfway finished, lips parted and moving with the page. 

“I’ll see you in the morning then.” Still startled by his voice, quick to shut her book and look at him, and like so many other times, he wishes he hadn’t said anything, had let her stay suspended in that ease.

“Alright, thank you again.” He’s still not very good at accepting that from her, a nod and a shrug of his shoulders, out the door. 

Lately, these shifts have gotten tinged sour. Something anxious, something angry. Waiting, maybe. Willing. Wanting that car to come zipping past him on the black strip of the interstate. Wanting to chase it down. Wanting to do something that he shouldn’t want to do. He’ll come, he thinks. They always do. Men like that won’t give up the thing that makes them feel big so easily. 

For now, Joel hunkers down in the car, radio off, quiet, waiting with all the other languoring animals for something that will sate. He replays what she told him in his mind, lets something dark curl around it, poison thoughts. But he has to ask himself why. All this care, all this concern, and all this anger, why? For a perfect stranger, who’s not really a stranger now. Been living around each other for nearly a month, so no, not a stranger anymore. 

He likes her. An answer both simple and devastating at the same time. And is he just as bad as any other man? Finding a scared thing so very pretty. No, he cannot like her like that. He cannot like her like watching the rise and fall of her sternum, and he cannot like her like stealing glances of her every chance he can get. Because that is the last thing she needs. But care is allowed. Making something wrong the smallest bit right is allowed. A friend, a familiar thing, a comfort. All things he can do for her. 

…

The sun is just starting to heft its golden belly over the mountains when he gets home, pale blue light and mist rising cool and shy in the brush. Usually, at this hour, she will already be up, making breakfast for the both of them that he always feels a bit bashful accepting. 

But it’s quiet in the house this morning, still. Her book rests on one side of the couch, a rumpled blanket beside it. He doesn’t hear the old pipes groaning with the task of running water, the floorboards crackling with the fact of shuffling feet. And he shouldn’t but he does. Panic like a tight fist, like a heavy stone in his gut. 

He knocks on her bedroom door, a quiet call of her name. Nothing. And he shouldn’t, but he does. So careful, so quiet in cracking open the door. Nothing. Bed still made, untouched. She must have spent the whole night on the couch. Why does that make his heart kick and quicken in his chest? The thought of her reading right through the darkness, the singular glow of the lamp tendriling out into the night. 

Not here though. Did she? Could she? Would she? He feels drunk off this reality. But scared things have always been known to flee, haven’t they? To pretend at fragile trust until they find an opportunity to escape. Did she feel like she needed to escape from him? His palm tries to rub that thought out of his chest, real ache, real pain at the idea. 

Fresh air, because his skull is already starting to throb with this. He steps out onto the porch and tries to imagine all the ways this leaving could have been done. He hates every possibility, every phantom flight that he can conjure. But no time to let it sting or steep, because laughter, a sudden, foreign peel of it. Hers, he’s never heard hers before. But there she is, rounding the corner of the coop, a few of the chickens following close on her heels, already their favorite between the two of them. And she’s talking to them, quiet murmurings from behind a smile, another quick burst of brightness. 

“Hey, good morning.” Saying it to him, smiling at him, the biggest, best relief. He joins her, only a little grumble at the way the chickens squawk at his sudden intrusion. 

“You figure out names for them yet?” One eye dropped in a squint in the brash wash of morning light, still smiling.

“I have some ideas, yeah.” 

She’s here, how wonderful. And how awful, how quickly his heart seized and shuttered itself up at the thought of anything else. He can’t think about that too much, what that means. What danger that creates and threads through his ribs. So he focuses instead on breakfast, close in the kitchen, coffee for her with cream and a spoon of sugar, how he has found she likes it, silent sliding it across the counter to her where she’s stirring eggs in the pan. Always a thank you. 

The table in the kitchen is so small that he has to keep his chair scraped back so his knees won’t brush against hers, making space for her to spread out. 

“Thank you, for letting me stay so long. I know it’s not– you’re probably–” She stops herself, a sigh, chin tucked down. He could almost laugh, because here she is thanking him for what he was so afraid she didn’t want. 

“You don’t have to thank me. I’m glad you’re here, for as long as you’d like to be.” Trying to make it clear that this is not a cage, though the words still feel thick and foolish coming out. She swallows a careful bite of her breakfast, not looking at him, and again, he finds himself bracing for flight.

“I like being here.” 

....................................

taglist: @casssiopeia @eleganthottubfun @anoverwhelmingdin @sscorpiiio @joeldjarin @casa-boiardi @suzmagine @syakhairi @spookyxsam @northernbluess @hier--soir @darkroastjoel @wannab-urs @tieronecrush @beskarandblasters @trulybetty @softlyspector @noisynightmarepoetry @csarab615 @beskarandblasters

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #tlou #joel miller x reader #tlou fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #the last of us #joel miller story #joel miller series #joel miller fic #joel miller au

[folklore-girl]

ek ladki bheegi bheegi bhaagi si — a short story

a/n: okok so i tried my best for you @androgynous-pavbhaji <3 since this is your secret santa gift? im so sorry for posting this so late, this was supposed to come out a long time ago.. but ig happy new year? hope you like this!

word count: 0.6k

warning(s): bad writing, cringe dialogues + a shitty asf story in general :( im so so sorry.

raindrops splattered on the sidewalk as i hurriedly made my way to the bus stop, my clothes drenched from the downpour. my hands held up my handbag to shield my head from the rain and to try and deflect some heavy raindrops, but all in vain. for the millionth time, i cursed my stupid self for not carrying an umbrella, even though we were deep in winter, and there was no way I could’ve predicted this. i still should have.

and, to top it all, i was horribly late to my bus.

when i reached the bus stop a thousand years later, my shoes were soaked and my head was in an overdrive. i noticed a guy—probably my age—waiting at the stop too and decided i should probably wipe the mess off my face.

so, i took out my napkin, just to drop it on the ground like an absolute idiot. and as i bent to pick it up, the guy on the right offered me his napkin, in spotless white.

i was scared. not of the guy, but of ruining his napkin by using it. he saw me hesitate and said, “arey, it’s fine. i have spare.”

“pakka?” i asked, uncertainly.

“yup,” he said and i thanked him, smiling.

he smiled back. and i thought, wow. i guess men aren’t all bad, then.

i took the napkin from him and dabbed my face with it gently, still scared to damage it. when i was giving it back, he said “it’s ok, you can keep it.”

“you sure?” i asked again.

“yes!!” he laughed, “it’s alright, you know. i don’t bite.”

“no, but, i’m not used to all this,” i gestured with my hands and his eyebrows rose in confusion. “kindess?” i finished lamely.

“well then, you will be soon,” he winked and i looked away because i was in a loss of words.

meeting a decent man made me feel like i was in some other dimension, some dream where kind strangers were real and not a thing to read in tumblr posts and fawn over.

by now, my heartbeat had slowed down and my breaths were much less frantic, so we talked about our buses.

“oh, me too,” he smiled, “we’re both going to mumbai.”

“that’s nice,” i smiled as the bus approached the stop, “i bet the ride is gonna be fun.”

he smiled, “hopefully.”

we hauled up our luggage and sat in the bus, me in the window seat with him by my side.

we talked for almost the entire ride there, exchanging our names and talking shit about distant relatives (my lord, we had the same type of humour). and when we grew bored of talking, we both decided to do something else. he plugged in his earphones and i found out that i couldn’t find mine anywhere.

i looked out of the window and i could tell it was going to be a long road.

he noticed and offered to share his wired ones. feeling utterly helpless, i gave in.

later, we discovered that our music tastes were very similar and i soon found myself scooting closer to him as we listened to his playlist together.

by the time shuffle lead us to ‘i guess i’m in love’, i knew the feeling burning up in my chest, threatening to spill over. it was beautiful and warm, like sunlight filtering in through the curtains. like the first day of spring, my heart was blooming and after a long time, i felt the butterflies.

but it couldn’t be, could it?

i woke up to the sound of mumma calling my name. i’d fallen asleep with my head in my arms, crossed on the windowsill while rain poured outside and my chai grew colder with each passing minute. right next to it, my phone had just finished playing the song “ek ladki bheegi bhagi si” on my wired earphones and suddenly the surreal scenario in my head made sense.

i guess it was a dream, after all.

xoxo

#. ༉‧₊˚ — her writings ! #desiblr secret santa 2023 #dss2k23 #desiblr #desi aesthetic #desi tumblr #desi tag #writers on tumblr #female writers #writeblr #writing #moodboard #bollywood

[hyunnielix]

a sweet tooth that has freckles.

Series Masterlist

— felix x reader (f) 

— word count: 3.7k

— genre: non-idol au, strangers to lovers/slow burn with eventual smut (not in this chapter sorry), angst (some?). 

— warning's: Baker!Felix, mc struggles with self-doubt, anxiety and perfectionism, mentions of food, Roomate!Hyunjin, later parts of the series will contain explicit smut. mc deals with grief, the passing of her mother. 

→ playlist on spotify

“This is probably going to be the weirdest question ever.” You stared at the path, refusing to make eye contact. “But are you using those brownies for anything in particular?”                                                        The blonde knitted his brows, glancing down at the clear container filled with sweet treats. “Not...”  he lifted his gaze to your hands that you tried to cover with your beige sweater, “necessarily.”                    You noticed how his forehead creased in concern. He’d seen the grazes; red and irritated. He opened his mouth to speak. Quickly trying to divert his oncoming question, you blurted out, “Is there any chance I could borrow them?”                                                               And borrow them you did. 

You couldn't count the amount of hours you had stared up at the ceiling that night. Paranoia rung in the back of your head, preventing you from sleep. An exhale passed through your lips. Palms resting across your stomach as you focused on breathing. You unconsciously grabbed your phone, checking the time. 3.15 am... only fifteen more minutes until your alarm went off.

Today was the day that your manager would let you display your own creations. A lot of strings had to be pulled, but Chan had eventually agreed upon one condition. They must sell well. Sure, it didn't seem like a scary feat, if the treats were good enough it should be no problem.

But there was always that insecurity... that sense of perfectionism that you could never shake. No matter how hard you tried. Hence why you were here, staring up at the ceiling instead of sleeping. Usually, to quiet the thoughts bouncing around in your brain you'd listen to music. But for now, all you could do was wallow in the possibilities and what if's.

Cursing, you sat upright. The kitchen was figuratively calling your name. You glanced at the slight crack in the door, watching how the light from the bathroom illuminated the laminated floorboards. 

Anxiety baking... here you come. 

By four am you had nearly every ingredient known to man splayed across your granite bench. Already three batches of different flavours of muffins cooling on wire racks. Orange and Oreo, Raspberry and Mint and lastly, Coffee and Salted Caramel (yes the coffee was the singular coffee bean decorating the top of the muffin - it still counts). 

The last thing to come out of the oven was more so an experiment, mini cherry pie’s! The mixture of scents reminded you of lazy afternoons at the beach or having a picnic surrounded by friends. warm and fuzzy. 

A smile crossed your features as you admired the golden-brown pastry. On cue, your stomach rumbled. You placed the hot tray on the bench, being particularly careful with the oven mitts. The last thing you’d want is to burn yourself—

You could imagine it, coming into work with bandages all over your hands. Chan shaking his head in utter disappointment. That may as well have contributed to your nightmares. Being scolded by Chan was worse than being scolded by a parent. 

The next problem was choosing what muffin you would choose to showcase. You wondered if your roommate would kill you for waking them up at 4am to taste test muffins. The answer was probably. Hyunjin was big on beauty sleep, which you didn’t blame him for. You stared at his door for a little longer before deciding against it. 

Instead, you placed a little plate on the bench, grabbing each one of your creations and displaying it cutely. You reached for the icing sugar, dusting it across the plate. 

You left a little note behind, tucking it underneath:

treats for sleeping beauty (don’t worry there’s lots of flour)

                                                                        - Y/N <3

It was decided. You would bring two of each. 

You’d thought about the prospect before, owning your own little bakery. Maybe on the corner of a street, a cute little spot. One with just enough foot traffic to keep yourself afloat. Money was never the real reason for your ambitions. You wanted people to enjoy the pastries and sweets. To feel the same sense of warmth and comfort that you had.

When your mother would present you with her newest addition to her cookbook. A child spoilt, nurtured with love. Every bite reminded you of her. Her soft smile and comforting words. How gently she raised you, as best as she could as a single parent. You never really understood how difficult she had it. 

She poured her love into her creations, the ones that you now tried to perfect. Although, you could never seem to get them right. There was always something missing, something that you couldn’t put your finger on.

A warmth on your cheeks surprised you. Wiping them with the pads of your fingertips, you realised you’d begun to cry. 

Hyunjin was there to pick up the pieces, he’d offered for you to move in. You couldn’t bear to live in the same house without her around. Everything was a constant reminder of her absence. Freshly graduated, and living with your best friend in an apartment complex? It didn’t sound like a bad trade off. You often pondered the idea that whoever said grief got easier to live with was lying. Maybe you just hadn’t reached that point.

Grief was never-ending, a reflection of love that wasn’t able to be shared. It will forever be stuck in a loop. Hence why guilt and grief go hand in hand. You struggled to contain the tears. They were scorching against your skin, it felt like hot coals were placed against your cheeks.

Shaking your head, you tentatively grabbed one of the oreo and orange muffins off the wire rack. Lifting the treat to your lips, you hesitated. It was still warm. Softly biting into the treat, you frowned. It didn’t taste right. It didn’t taste good enough. Your breathing faltered, holding the back of your palm against your mouth as you tried to chew the rest of it. A soft sob escaped your lips. You tried desperately to quieten the whimpers, not wanting to wake up Hyunjin. 

Some of the crumbs transferred onto your sweater. The muffin was thrown onto the floor, the collision with the wood was enough to send the confectionary flying in every direction imaginable. Another thing you’d have to clean up. 

You exhaled softly. Stepping away from the bench, you turned around. Placing your hands on the wooden floorboards, you hoisted your bodyweight upward.

You were upside down, balancing your legs and feet on the cupboards behind you. It’s something your mother taught you. If you couldn’t stop crying, do a handstand. You held the position until your arms gave out on you, slowly crumbling to the floor. Just like the muffin had. 

That episode had further reinforced the idea that you weren’t a morning person. You tried to fake your optimism, carefully placing the muffins in a large cardboard takeaway box. They looked presentable enough. 

You weren’t a morning person. Although, the walk to the bakery may as well have been your favourite thing in the entire world. The blue birds chattering away. The slight breeze that brushed against your cheeks. The smell of fresh dew droplets that decorated the grass beneath your feet. 

You closed your eyes, feeling the first rays of morning sunlight hit your face. It was warmth. She was there, in the sun. Telling you it would be alright, easing your anxieties. The grip on the cardboard box tightened as you opened your eyes. The colours of the leaves shone a little differently in the light, voluminous greens and oranges. The seasons were changing. You always found that the most precious time. When the trees shed their old leaves, new colours and experiences arising. Maybe in another life you were a tree. 

The fluffy clouds decorating the sky looked more like cotton candy. A part of you wanted to reach up and pluck them out and put them on a stick. Due to your attention being elsewhere, you were unable to see the branch laying across the gravel path. 

Your body went careening forward, unable to protect yourself. Everything ached as you hit the ground. The box of muffins now lay, scattered across the gravel and grass. The skin of your hands raw from breaking the fall. You slowly sat upright, gathering your bearings.

A sigh fell from your lips. Brushing the back of your hand against your forehead. What the hell were you going to do now? You couldn’t just show up empty handed. Sorry Chan, I was a clumsy idiot and ruined every thing I baked this morning because I wasn’t watching where I was going. No that wouldn’t suffice. 

You glanced behind you. It was way too late for you to begin walking back home. Checking your watch, which miraculously came out unscathed, it read: 4:48am.

You had work in approximately twelve minutes. 

Picking up what was left of the muffins, you attempted to dust the dirt and grime off them. You weren’t going to salvage any of them at this rate. A weird substance had begun to seep into the cardboard box. You glanced down at your palms, realising the adrenaline had prevented you from feeling the damage.

Shallow wounds on each of your hands were decorated with maroon, mixed in with pebbles and granite. The dull aching became worse as you stared. You’d have to disinfect that for sure. Deflated, you picked up the remainder of the ruined sweets.

You continued walking, the breeze against your face felt icy. Lacking any sort of comfort you needed right now. You began to squint, noticing a figure in the distance following the same path. 

Eventually, you caught up to the stranger. Hanging behind them slightly. Your eyes raked up and down his figure before landing on the clear container resting between his arm and ribcage. A lightbulb went off in your head.

“Hey- Uhm, excuse me.” You mumbled, reaching forward to tap on the stranger's shoulder. He paused, pulling out an earphone that now hung down his front. The stranger turned his body to face you. 

Your mouth parted slightly. Freckles like constellations decorated the tops of his cheeks. He tilted his head slightly, like a confused puppy. The corner of his eyes crinkling slightly at the abrupt interruption. His blonde hair was quite long, styled at the front in fluffy waves. 

He raised his brow. “Are you alright?” His voice was gruff, deep, a complete contrast to how he presented himself. You swallowed harshly, not expecting that in the slightest. 

He was dressed in a multi-toned beige sweater, long cargo pants protecting him from the chilly weather. You averted your eyes, glancing down at the box of brownies he was carrying. 

“This is probably going to be the weirdest question ever,” you stared mindlessly at the treats, refusing to make eye contact. “But are you using those brownies for anything in particular?”

A slight blush dusted your cheeks. Unable to process the notion of rejection, it was already embarrassing enough as it was. Asking a complete stranger if you could steal their food? It was official, you had lost your mind.                                                                                          The blonde knitted his brows, glancing down at the clear container filled with sweet treats. “Not necessarily.” There was a hint of amusement in his tone. He lifted his gaze to your hands that you tried to cover with your cream sweater. 

You noticed how his forehead creased in concern. He’d seen the irritated grazes; the blood was beginning to dry on your palms. It felt disgusting. He opened his mouth to speak. Quickly trying to avert his oncoming question, you blurted out, “Is there any chance I could borrow them?”

“Borrow?”

“Okay, I could trade but my offerings are kind of ruined, hence the borrowing.” You explained. He noticed how panicky your movements were, opening up the cardboard box to reveal your ruined creations. The corner of his lips downturned. 

He pondered for a moment, before nodding. “I’ll let you have them. But we need to take care of that first.” He pointed to your hands and the sweater that you’d now stained. The maroon substance had now turned an ugly shade of brown. 

You sheepishly smiled. “I don’t really have any disinfectant or wipes, and I’m going to be late.”

He shook his head, a small smile playing on his pretty lips. “Don’t worry about that, I’ve got hand sanitizer.” You tilted your head in confusion, “And tissues.” He reiterated. 

The stranger reached into his back pocket, pulling out both of said items. 

“Allergies.” He shrugged, in relation to the tissues. You nodded, that made sense. The warmth in your palms was becoming unbearable against the cardboard. He placed the brownies on the ground. You mimicked him, dropping your box on the floor. There was a certain carelessness in your actions that caught his attention. He tucked the tissues under his arm. 

He stepped forward tilting his head slightly, “May I?” 

Searching your eyes for confirmation, he held the hand sanitiser outward. You nodded slightly, holding your palms toward him. He winced slightly at the state of the wounds, beginning to fold the sleeves of your sweater up for you. The blood stains were covered by the material, at least you wouldn’t have to change. 

That may have been a food and safety health violation, but you were going to ignore it.

“This is going to hurt a little, I’m sorry.” His eyes sparkled with concern, a frown tugging at his lips as he hesitated. You pursed your lips. He squeezed the bottle slowly, allowing the alcoholic substance to seep into each wound. 

You slightly hissed through your teeth, “You have nothing to apologise for it was my fault in the first place.” You rubbed the substance into the wound, closing your eyes as the stinging became worse. It felt like a million tiny needles pricking your skin. Not the most pleasant experience. “Thank you for helping me. It’s not every day that you meet kind strangers.”

You almost mumbled the last part. He quirked his brow, holding out the packet of tissues for you to take. “Why do you say that?”

The tip of your finger brushed against his as you took the packet. The touch felt like electricity, you glanced up at him wondering if he felt it too. Instead, he was staring at you with curiosity. You focused on cleaning up your palms, the pain dulling slightly. You’d still have to wash them out when you got to work. right, work. You were going to be late. 

“I have to go. I’m late.”

He bent down, picking up the clear container of brownies before handing them to you. His smile was soft, understanding. You couldn’t help but scrunch your nose, reciprocating the smile. The sun had come out once more, this time you weren’t sure if it was standing in front of you. “Sounds like you need them a lot more than I do.”

You bowed, dipping your head as you took the treats from him. “Thank you again.” The sincerity laced in your voice wasn’t unnoticed. He dug his hands into the pockets of his pants, watching you intently.

You turned around, beginning to walk away before hesitating. Glancing over your shoulder, you spoke, “Come visit sunshine espresso, I’ll give you a free coffee! on the house.”

You checked your watch, cursing under your breath before taking off in a sprint. You waved to the stranger, smiling as you saw him begin to laugh. You hoped you’d made his day as much as he had made yours. 

Clumsy was definitely going to be your new nickname. The amount of times the string of your apron had slid out of your fingers was beginning to frustrate you. Attempting once more, you gave up on knotting the piece of fabric. 

“You’re late again!” A teasing voice proclaimed, you rolled your eyes. A part of you felt relieved knowing it was Jisung and not Chan. Sungie as you’d like to affectionately call him was quite a playful individual. Nothing really phased him, until it did. Then he’d bring the whole world down with him. He was quite chaotic, but you liked that about him. 

“This time it really wasn’t my fault, a very convincing branch told me that I should give up and go home.” You mumbled, feeling a slight tugging on the string around your waist. You held the material against your stomach as he knotted the apron. You thanked him softly, turning around. 

“Well the tree branch didn’t try hard enough, you’re still here!” Jisung stated, hand placed on his hip. You laughed at his statement, playfully pushing against his chest so you could pass him. Container of brownies in hand. 

Whoever closed yesterday did a brilliant job, the back was absolutely spotless. You admired how clean it was, continuing out to the front. You loved watching the sunrise from behind the counter in the mornings. It was peaceful. 

“Chan’s not here yet?” You questioned, turning around against the counter. Placing the box down, you splayed your hands against the bench. 

He shook his head, standing beside the coffee machine. “Nope! I opened all by myself.”

You pouted, teasingly. “Aww poor sungie! can’t leave you with that much responsibility.”

“Okay now you’re just being mean! go do your job before I tell on you.”

You grinned at him, knowing he was joking. Turning around, you used the tongs laid above the cabinet to grab the brownies. Unclipping the sides of the container. You slowly filled the cabinet, taking your time to merchandise them in an enticing way. 

“What do we have here?” He sang sweetly, glancing over your shoulder at the treat’s you’d brought. You tried to shoo him away, unfortunately it just ended in a fit of giggles.

“H-Homemade brownies!” You finally managed, closing the sliding doors to the cabinet. Jisung’s expression had softened. You fell silent as you realised what he’d been staring at. 

“Y/N your hands...”

“Oh...” You glanced down at them, frowning. They'd started bleeding again. “Yeah I was going to sort that out, do we have any bandaids?”

“Did you fail first aid?” He sassily quipped. You shot him an annoyed glare. He placed his hand on your back, guiding you toward the baker’s bench. “They’re out the back, should be a box in the office.”

The amount of bandaid's it took to cover the grazes was ridiculous. You felt a bit like an idiot. They weren't even neutral colours! They were cutesy hello kitty ones, pink and purple. Oh well... they should be able to withstand the day. 

As you returned to the front, your mouth fell open at the scene unfolding in front of you. “Hey!”

“I just wanted to try one.” Jisung mumbled through the brownie he was currently devouring. Crumbs had fallen all over the bench next to the coffee machine. You huffed dramatically; you were going to have to clean that.

He held his hands in front of his mouth sheepishly. “These taste really familiar.”

Your eyes widened slightly, “What are you talking about?”

He looked puzzled. Then as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head he yelled, "I got it!" Jisung waved his finger accusingly. “These are Felix’s recipe!”

You squinted, leaning against the bench next to him. “Whose Felix?”

“My roommate.” He stated, matter of factly as he wiped the crumbs off his face. "Care to explain?"

A sigh fell from your lips as you hung your head forward. There was no point lying to him now. He already knew. You were done for. 

"If you couldn't use context clues, I tripped over and ruined the muffins I was supposed to bring in."

He shook his head, "and I thought I was the clumsy one."

You rolled your eyes as he tilted his head, "Wait that still doesn't explain—"

"I bumped into him along the way here and he was so kind as to let me borrow them." His face softened at your explanation of the eventful morning. He smiled lazily, "That definitely sounds like Felix."

"Don’t know where he was going at 5 in the morning though, especially with brownies... I guess you’ll have to ask him about that one." You grabbed one of the nearest cloths, forcing Jisung to move so you could clean his mess. He muttered a sorry under his breath. 

"All I hear is chatting right now," Chan poked his head from around the corner. You jumped at the sound of the aussie, turning around to face him. He was wearing casual clothes, all black as usual. What was with him and the lack of colour in his wardrobe?

“I swear I’m getting work done.” You almost whined. Chan flashed you a warm smile. It made you feel more at ease about the whole situation. “I can see that.” He gestured towards the now full cabinet.

You glanced over at Jisung. His cheeks were once again full of brownie, caught in the act as Chan shook his head. Crumbs had fallen onto the floor as he scoffed yet another one. You couldn’t help but giggle at his antics. Someone had obviously skipped out on breakfast. 

“Alright don’t choke on it!” Chan warned, crossing his arms over his chest. Jisung carefully slid the cabinet closed once again, having demolished at least two of the treats. 

“Whoever decided to put freeze dried coffee in brownies is a genius!” Jisung stated, smiling dumbly as he rubbed his stomach through the apron. You shot an amused look at Chan. 

Chan raised his brow, surprise evident on his features. He turned toward you. “You made coffee brownies?”

Your eyes darted to Jisung. You hoped to hell he’d play along with your little charade. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes. You shook your head subtly, as a warning. “Yeah! I thought it’d make it unique.”

You cringed at the lie that rolled of your tongue. Jisung bit on his lower lip to prevent him from laughing at how uncomfortable you looked. He almost wanted to take a photo of your expression. It was priceless.

"Alright, well I just came to check up on the open, I'll be back at three." Chan’s voice lowered, directing his attention to Jisung. "You eat any more of those brownies and you'll be paying for Y/N's next batch yourself."

Jisung smiled cheekily while nodding. He glanced at you, trying to suppress a laugh. As soon as Chan had left, you rested your forehead against the wooden bench. A groan escaped your mouth. "This is so going to bite me in the ass." You side eyed Jisung. "I'm going to have to ask Felix for the recipe, aren't I?"

He simply shrugged; amusement evident on his face. Oh this was going to be so much fun. 

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[lunarw0rks]

Through The Ashes | Chapter Five

Summary: You've been given an offer to join the 141 Task Force. Upon taking it, you find yourself ensnared with the mysterious masked man who won't take his eyes off you.

Warning(s): my attempt at slow-burn, canon-typical violence, mild language, mentions of violence, injuries, blood, hurt/comfort kinda??

A/N: I've been using dialogue from the campaign for these chapters, so hopefully it translates well enough. Thank you for all the support :) | Word Count: 3.5k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter // requests | ao3 | playlist

Kiss Of Judas

Valeria remained completely silent during the entire helicopter ride, refusing to look anyone around her in the eyes. She never expected to be caught, at least not by foreign forces. She was a complicated woman in your eyes, always nearly impossible to read.

You still felt jumpy and wired from the whole operation as the adrenaline began to dwindle, which was not helping your impatience. Valeria was the reason for your condition, but also the reason you didn’t get the life squeezed out of you. And yet, here she was, not giving your Task Force any reach on where to find the missiles.

You opened the door with your keycard and stepped inside, seeing her sitting in the middle of the room—surrounded by your team and the allies.

Her eyes flicked up at you when she heard the motion, mirroring the look she had in her eyes when you were the one in the interrogation chair. You ran your tongue over the cut on your lip, keeping a blank expression.

“Las Almas needs me,” she purrs, giving Alejandro and you a glance. She was searching for any sign of emotion in your eyes as if testing you. You weren’t going to give it to her, or anyone else in this room who tried the same.

Alejandro bends down closer to her, hovering his face in front of hers. “Las Almas needs soldiers, not sicarios… And you,” he begins, looking back at you before he speaks, as if referencing what she let happen to you. “You disgrace the Army, Valeria.”

She wasn’t like Hassan.

He was too emotional when backed into a corner—he was cruel. She always kept a cool attitude about her, always steps ahead of her enemies. And she harbored one skill you hadn’t mastered yet—keeping your enemies close.

Ghost remains posed against the wall, only keeping his eyes trained on the target. “You’re a narco harboring a terrorist.”

Valeria maintains a grimace, carelessly leaning against the back of her chair. “Terrorism is good for business, it’s insurance.”

“Innocent civilians turned to ash, all to protect your drug game?” You finally spoke up, crossing your arms to your chest. When law enforcement is more focused on maimed civilians, they turn a blind eye to the war on drugs.

She ignores what you’re implying, too intelligent to admit that out loud. “To find your terrorist and your missiles, you need me.” Valeria tilts her head, observing the tightness you were carrying in your posture.

Graves approaches her from behind, gripping one of her shoulders with a gloved hand. “I want the missiles, I want the targets, and I want Hassan. You’ve got ten seconds or I’m gonna show you the difference between the military and me.” For once, his combativeness might get you the answers you needed.

To get to Valeria, you needed to mirror her. Ladylike interrogation was not the way she did things, so the opposite was all she knew.

“I can tell you where to find the missiles. When you return, I’ll tell you where Hassan is.” She never meets Graves’ eyes. “In exchange, you will let me go. And get the fuck out of Las Almas.”

“Deal.” Graves loosens his grip and nods his head to the rest of you.

Making a deal with her was not in the team’s best interest, not in the slightest.

Graves only saw the big picture ahead of him, and he didn’t pay any mind to the people he would trample to get to that goal.

—

The intel Valeria grave led your team to an oil rig miles out on the Gulf Of Mexico. Considering how horribly wrong your last mission involving water went, you were hesitant to see the team going along with it, even if it did lead to the missiles.

How could you be sure Valeria was being honest? She had no reason to. She had the entirety of your unit wrapped around her fingers, and that’s exactly how she wanted it.

Perhaps you were lucky you nearly died the previous night because you were going to sit the mission out.

You’re sat on your bunk, cleaning your pistol with a rag, being the only person left in the quarters. Your eyes flick up toward Ghost as he approaches. Usually you would ignore him, or have some snarky remark, but there were bigger problems everyone was facing.

“Do you think the missiles will be where she said they would?” You questioned, setting the rag on the mattress beside you.

“She knows if she gives us this, we’ll have no choice but to set her free.” He keeps his eyes on the ground, still refusing to look you in the eyes. “We’ve been through situations like this before. Terrorists are all the same—only out for themselves.”

You nodded and dropped down from the top bunk to face him. He turned around hesitantly, his face contorting in confusion.

You looked around the room, making sure it was clear before you spoke. “What about Graves? Is he only out for himself?” You muttered, leaning close to him.

“He’s an ally of ours, until we know otherwise, you need to act like it, Sergeant.” He grumbled while reaching for his pack. The truth was, Ghost didn’t trust any of them either. The way Graves forced you into the operation yesterday made him seethe.

Ghost blinked away the emotions that filled him. The flashbacks he had, hearing you struggle for yourself in his ear, the gunshot that followed with silence—all while all he could do was stay put on the hillside.

He grabbed his bag and looped it around his shoulder. “Just say put here, and don’t make any more enemies while you’re at it. Think you can handle that?” He added, looking down at you as if you were dirt on his shoes.

You knew you were right. The most spiteful people have their weaknesses, and Graves had one for sure. Even if no one believed you now, they would soon. You just hoped no one had to die for it to become clear.

—

You’re awoken by what sounds like a disturbance outside, and the voices are familiar. The team must be back from disarming the missiles. You look at the clock, seeing it’s early in the morning.

You sit up straight and gather your composure, curious about what’s going on. Whatever it was didn’t sound good at all.

“This is my base.” You press your ear to the wall, hearing Alejandro’s voice first.

“It’s not a base. This is a sizable covert facility, and I admire it.” Graves speaks next. “So, I’m taking it.”

You feel like your jaw dropped to the floor. You were right all along, and things were about to go very bad very fast. You climb off your bunk and put on your backpack, grabbing all of your gear. 

“Nobody needs to get hurt here.”

“Are you threatening us?” Ghost asks. You can practically feel the tension building, even if all you’re hearing is bits and pieces.

You peer out the window, seeing them standing at the gate. Alejandro is inches from Graves’ face; Soap is in the middle of it; and Ghost preemptively has a hand on his knife, searching for any excuse to use it.

Where are the rest of Los Vaqueros? The realization came that you hadn’t seen any of them since the team left.

A burst of gunfire filled your ears, making you jump. You didn’t have time to sit around and watch, and you weren’t going to be the next person sent home in a box. You grab your pistol and make sure it’s loaded and ready.

The compound will be swarmed with Shadows any minute now—and there was no time to regroup with your team.

You hear Graves’ voice again, but this time through a nearby radio, followed by the stomping of boots. “2-0, cordon the compound. If you find Ghost and Soap, keep them contained. Find the other one, she won't get far.”

You kneel behind the large structural pillar, watching as one of the Shadows patrols the sleeping quarters. He turns his back to respond, “Sleeping quarters are clear, Sir. No sign of her.” You crept behind him, jamming your knife into his jugular.

He goes down quietly, only suffering for a matter of seconds. The Shadow didn’t deserve your brutality. He couldn’t have known what hand Graves was going to play up until now. Still, it was better for them to be dead than you. And there was no time for a moral dilemma.

You jog to the armory, finding it cleared out. Graves was thinking way ahead of just taking the building, he was taking the inventory too, leaving your team with nothing. “Goddammit,” you muttered to yourself, before dashing back to the Shadow’s body. You winced as you ripped the rifle from the corpse’s stiff fingers.

You need to keep moving.

You advance to the upper level, wagering that it would be less noticeable to take one of the side exits up top. You do just that, finding a window in one of the offices to squeeze yourself through. Your feet prowl down the metal steps, keeping your eyes peeled for any hostiles. Lucky for you, the backend of the base isn’t well protected.

Your boots crunch the gravel below you, even when acting at your stealthiest. You reach one of the tall chainlinks bordering the perimeter, and loop one foot through it, taking each ascendant one foot at a time.

You reach the top, using the fabric of your shirt to protect your hands from the barbed wire. You carefully swing your leg over, and follow with the other, now descending down the other side. You drop down once the distance is close enough, taking only a second to catch your breath.

The easy part's over—now you needed to find an area that wasn’t crawling with Shadows on the lookout for your face.

The previous night's injuries didn’t make the ordeal any easier. You found yourself having to rest quicker than usual, almost letting out pained grunts when you extended your limbs. You needed to push through it, just like you did when you survived the tunnels.

You removed one of the backpack straps off your shoulders, leaving it to rest on one side, while the weapon rested on the other. You need to get out of here before another Shadow patrol rotates your way again.

The only sound in the distance was chirping insects, and faint traffic pollution from the city and the base behind you. Things were too quiet.

“Commander, possible sighting by the North Tower, engaging now.” You heard faintly, making your eyes bulge. Your feet carried you before your mind could decide to, making some distance between yourself and the noise.

You felt the rush of the bullets whizzing around you as you bolted until eventually you were knocked down by a lucky one. Your body tumbled down, rolling into one of the ditches. You felt a fiery sting on the fatty part of your hip, flinching as you pulled down the part of your waistband atop the wound. It was a deep slice, bloody and jagged torn skin.

Mercifully, the backpack slowed down the force of the bullet when it zipped through. It grazed your skin instead of being buried inside it.

“Approaching to confirm the hit, Sir.” The voice from before carries, as it echoes through the vastness of the humid air.

“Don’t confirm it—Finish it.” Graves chirps through, sending a rush through your veins. Once the Shadow finds you, it wouldn’t be a graze. If there was any chance of making it out of here, you needed to either choose fight or flight.

You muffled the sounds of agony escaping through your lips, biting into them instead. You scrambled to your feet, reaching for your pistol.

The soldier’s radio static grew louder as he examined the ditch, expecting you to still be laying there. In reality, you were behind one of the concrete dividers lining the path. Before he noticed you, you fired off one shot, dropping the Shadow. You followed the lights of the city in the distance, getting yourself as far away from where you fired as possible.

When you made it several yards away from the compound, finding yourself on a sidestreet, you finally utilized the radio clipped to your collar.

You turned the knob, finding the correct channel so it would go straight to anyone in 141 and not the Shadows. “This is 7-1, how copy? Anyone?” You grew frustrated at the lack of answer. “I repeat, this is 7-1. Anyone copy?”

The voice glitched at first, before it finally came through. He says your name, his tone filled with defeat and worry.

“How copy, Sergeant? You injured?” The reception finally cleared, allowing you to hear it clearly.

You sighed and cleared your throat. “I’m hit, but solid. I got a dozen Shadows chasing my tail. What the hell happened?”

Ghost doesn’t answer your question, but deflects. You sense it has to do with what he spat your way before they left. He knew you were right about Graves, and he wasn’t, and he couldn’t handle admitting that right now.

“There’s a church near the plaza. I’m heading there now. Any sign of Johnny?”

“No. You’re the first I’ve come in contact with. Was he hit? I heard shots before I got out of there.” You continue down the backroad, approaching the main district of Las Almas.

“Affirmative. Keep your eyes peeled for him. And watch your back, Sergeant.” The line cuts after he finishes his sentence, leaving you to stay alive on your own. Soap must be somewhere in the shops in the same prickly situation you are.

There was no time to search for Soap, especially if he’s left a trail of Shadow bodies through the city. You’re of no use out here when you’re bleeding all over yourself.

You needed to find Ghost.

—

Each time a gun fired in the distance, you had to double check you weren’t hit again, even though it felt foolish.

You finally reached the outskirts of the plaza, where the Church was sitting on the top of a hill. It looked almost ancient, tilting to one side. You hovered your finger over the pistol trigger as you crept to the door. You pushed it open, hearing it creak loudly as you did so. There was no light inside, except for where the night sky peaked through the holes in the walls, and one large gap in the roof.

Finally, you spotted his figure near the altar, knelt beside it. You limped up to it, meeting his eyes, which were all you could see given the dark clothing he was wearing.

You slowly dropped to your knees next to him, placing your pistol in the holster. “No sign of Soap while I was out there. Goddamn city is infested with Shadows.”

He nodded at your update, grabbing one of the stray candles off the altar. He fishes out his lighter and puts it to the wick, illuminating your battered appearance, while allowing you to view him.

You stare at him blankly for a few seconds, studying him as he takes the backpack off your shoulders, and begins to dig through it.

“I didn’t have time to pack supplies. There’s nothing whole in there.” You comment, watching as his brow tightens in concentration.

He still hasn’t uttered a word this entire time, simply returning deep glances through the warm candle fire. You flinch when he reaches toward you, but his hands are gentle and slow. He pulls up the fabric of your shirt only slightly, and pulls down the side of your waistband now turned a deep maroon.

You keep still as he examines the graze. He grips the sleeve of his jacket, and rips off a square of fabric with ease, beginning to pack the wound. You snuff out your struggles when he touches the tender parts, clenching your jaw instead.

For the first time, it wasn’t him saving you because he had to; he was because wanted to. He was showing an inkling of the tenderness buried deep within him.

He finished packing the wound with the tear of fabric, before carefully covering your bare hip with your waistband again.

You rise to your feet again, making sure not to put pressure on that side of you. You’re expecting hours of silence between you and him—hours of agonizing silence.

He finally speaks once his back is turned to you, as if he can’t look you in the eye. “You were right about Graves.” He sounded apologetic, like if he had just believed you before, none of this would’ve happened to you.

You tilted your head delicately, stepping closer to him. “Ghost… This isn’t on you. You couldn’t have known Graves would flip.”

He was looking down at the wood floor below him in disappointment, looking as if he wanted to curse himself. You reached out your hand, placing your fingertips on his forearm.

“Ghost,” you whispered. He shook his head and gathered himself before facing you, flinching away from your hand. His eyes had gone glossy, filled with angst.

“If this is about what I said, Ghost—It’s not a concern of mine anymore… We clearly have bigger problems.” You finished your sentence with a light smile, trying your best to lighten the mood. Your attempt to add comedy did nothing to ease him tearing himself apart inside.

“Did you hear me, Simon?” The first time you’ve said his name. He casted a look you’d never seen before. Not hardness, not anger, just torment.

“People like me don’t belong with people like you, Sergeant.” His exterior ran cold again, and he straightened his posture. “Everything that we did, everything you went through because of it, that was all me. Got it?”

You were stunned, completely stunned. You spent so long being angry at him, that you were blind to the truth of it. It wasn’t arrogance he used as a shield, it was his scars.

“Simon-” You repeat, feeling like you have been sucker-punched in the gut.

“Don’t say my name like it means something to you. None of it meant anything to me.” He snaps, stepping closer to you, using his frame to tower over you. The vulnerability he showed only last seconds before it quickly became a thorn in your side.

He lowered his voice to give his last blow. “I break everything I touch… I’ll break your heart, Love.”

You felt tears sting at the corner of your eyes. You tried to be stronger than this, but paired with everything you’d been through to get you to this spot, it was too much.

You quickly wiped them away and ripped your backpack from his grasp, slinging it back on your shoulder. You hurried toward the church doors, painting your face void of the emotions you were feeling.

Once you were outside, you radioed the frequency again. “Soap, how copy?”

He replied almost instantly. “Copy. I’m by the shopping district.”

Instead of following behind Ghost like usual, you led him. You ducked through alleyways, avoiding the Shadows rather than taking them out. There were still too many left to count. When you reached the shopping district, you and Ghost split off to take out each hostile one by one. With each kill, you followed the bloody trail that would lead you to Soap.

When you laid eyes on him, you let out a breath of relief. He was only hit on his arm, and it went through.

“Forgive me, Lass.” He was slumped against a brick wall, holding his injury. “But you look horrible.” At least you knew there wasn’t anything seriously wrong with him now. Focusing on him made you forget about your troubles with Ghost, even for just a minute.

“Well, it’s clear there’s no brain damage.” You said backhandedly, reaching out your hand to him.

You helped him to his feet and found an empty vehicle that was left behind, allowing him to climb inside. Ghost took the driver’s seat, you in the passenger seat. You kept your eyes trained on the passing views as Ghost sped out of the city, showing no signs of slowing down for anything.

Las Almas was soon to be a distant memory—a memory that lingered within you nonetheless.

—

You craned your neck up at the aquamarine sky, your attention locked to it. You had to find the beauty of this place somewhere, even if the experience was only filled with violence and heartache.

The rest of your team was finishing up business with Valeria. You decided to sit it out. The closer you stood to the plane, the faster you would be climbing inside of it when they finished their business here.

Price and the rest of the Task Force approached the cargo plane you were standing by, making you break your gaze with the sky.

“Good work here, Private.” He patted your back and then returned his hands to the collar of his tactical vest.

“It’s not over yet. Valeria was privy to a third missile, somewhere in Chicago. Might be another long flight.” You acknowledged the update, following him onto the plane. It never truly ends, does it?

There are only moves and countermoves until there’s no one left standing to shoot at or bomb.

TAGLIST: @neoarchipelago @ghostlythots @gothgirl6-6-6 @cloudyyjanee @ladyelissarose @almightywdm @glitterypirateduck

#mw2 #mw2 fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost mw2 #call of duty

[wanderingaldecaldo]

Born to Run

Together we could break this trap We'll run 'til we drop, baby, we'll never go back

Oh, will you walk with me out on the wire? 'Cause, baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider

But I gotta know how it feels I want to know if love is wild Babe, I want to know if love is real

I've been toying with changing their ship name for some time now. I'd only given Val her full name a few weeks before I named their ship, and I didn't know either of them a fraction as I do now.

The original SK!Val/Mitch ship was based on an idea that I never got around to fleshing out, and instead their story went a different direction and focused more on Mikoshi and the aftereffects.

I've also been playing with the idea of another Springsteen song as the title for the All That Glitters fic, "Dancing in the Dark," so I was primed already to hear Springsteen and think of them. "Born to Run" popped up on my playlist one day a few weeks back and I knew that was it. The upbeat melody that hides the desperation of the lyrics fits them perfectly.

In the day we sweat it out on the streets Of a runaway American dream At night we ride through the mansions of glory In suicide machines Sprung from cages on Highway 9 Chrome wheeled, fuel injected, and steppin' out over the line Oh, baby this town rips the bones from your back It's a death trap, it's a suicide rap We gotta get out while we're young 'Cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run Yes, girl, we were

Wendy, let me in, I wanna be your friend I wanna guard your dreams and visions Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims And strap your hands 'cross my engines Together we could break this trap We'll run 'til we drop, baby, we'll never go back Oh, will you walk with me out on the wire? 'Cause, baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider But I gotta know how it feels I want to know if love is wild Babe, I want to know if love is real Oh, can you show me

Beyond the Palace, hemi-powered drones Scream down the boulevard Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors And the boys try to look so hard The amusement park rises bold and stark Kids are huddled on the beach in the mist I wanna die with you, Wendy, on the street tonight In an everlasting kiss

The highway's jammed with broken heroes On a last chance power drive Everybody's out on the run tonight But there's no place left to hide Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness I'll love you with all the madness in my soul Oh, someday, girl, I don't know when We're gonna get to that place Where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun But 'til then, tramps like us Baby, we were born to run

Oh honey, tramps like us Baby, we were born to run Come on with me, tramps like us Baby, we were born to run

#cyberpunk 2077 #cyberpunk 2077 photomode #cp2077edit #dailygaming #my screens #mitch anderson #cyberpunk mitch #valerie vermilion #streetkid!val #mitch x v #mitch x fem v #shippy saturday #shippy everyday #mods i made #cowboy mitch #ship: born to run #mitch x val

[courtingchaos]

Dying

Gator Tillman x Fem Reader

18+ NSFW No Minors

The snowfall stopped a few days ago so the roads have stayed cleared, albeit icy. He’d texted and asked if you’d wanted to go for a ride and seeing the sun still fully in the sky made you pause.

You know what time it is?

Do you want a coffee or not?

It’s still cold enough that you need a jacket and when you stand outside and wait for him your breath billows out in front of you in big misty clouds. The inside of his truck is warm though and the whole drive over to the good Starbucks he keeps his big hand over your knee. He orders for you and it makes you smile how his accent slides through when he orders your flat white. Distracted by your phone you don’t realize he’s holding your drink out to you or that you’ve even gotten through the drive thru.

“Did you get me a treat?” You ask when he tosses a bag at you.

“It’d be rude if I only got myself one.”

You miss his hand on your knee when you watch him use that same hand to bounce his danish out of thin bag. The fact that he thought to get you one too isn’t lost on you and the little flake of pastry stuck on the corner of his mouth makes you want to reach out and brush it off. You don’t but you do think about it while his phone shuffles through his playlist. This almost feels like a date, if you two did that kind of thing, though you’re starting to think that you need to stop lying to yourself about what he might mean to you.

“Do you ever think about death?” His questions comes out of left field and makes you pause mid bite. He finishes his last bite and crumples up the bag to toss on the bench seat and he steals a glance at you. A clear look, open and honest.

“Yeah.” Open and honest. You think about it all the time in between your wires and the guns in the shop. Every time you handle dynamite and when you sharpen your knives. It’s a hazard of this job you didn’t pick for yourself.

“Like how you’ll die or just in general?” He asks it like this is a normal conversation but you suppose this is the kind of thing you two would casually converse about. Right between him putting you in a headlock and laying on your chest to get his head scratched.

“Both.” You reason. “More just in general though. What about you?” You tilt your head and nibble on a corner of your pastry, intensely interested in his answer.

“I think about it but I also don’t.” Another shrug, his patented response when he doesn’t want to respond. You sigh.

“Even with your line of work?”

“Well it kind of got conditioned out of me.” He hooks his thumb along his steering wheel and turns sharp onto a gravel drive that you know leads to the sheriffs compound. It’s a Sunday and you know it’ll be deserted except for a handful of people but it still makes you a little nervous.

“Oh?” Your eyes follow the pines as they whip by beside you, needles still clinging to fragments of snow.

“Two tours in a desert full of IEDs.” He turns to you, his look flat. He hasn’t spoken to you about anything regarding his military time and you focus on him, turning your body fully to face him. “You tend to get a little numb.” He looks up at the headliner for a moment before focusing on the road again so he can pull into a spot. “If I cut the wrong wire it isn’t my problem anymore.” Another shrug but this one isn’t to brush you off. “You know about that.” His voice is gentle when he cuts the engine and sniffs before looking at you again. There’s that tight feeling in your chest again when one of his locks escapes the gelled back uniformity and when his eyes look at you softer than normal.

“Is that how you thought you’d go? Big boom?” Levity has never been your strong suit but this new mannerism of his is making you panic slightly.

“That or a punch to the head.”

“You fight a lot?” You know he can fight but not that he’d do it recreationally.

“I used to. Just for fun.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head, an obvious memory crossing behind his minds eye.

“What about now?”

He’s quiet while he stares at your knee and chews on his lip. “Fighting or dying?”

“Dying.”

He hums low and keeps chewing on his bottom lip and starts patting his pockets. His fingers dig into the big pockets on his parka, fishing around for his Marlboros. When he pulls them out he taps the box slowly, a few times on the meat of his palm before he looks up at you from under his brows. “You?”

Of course he’d avoid that but he’d started this conversation and you’d finish it. “I want to move to like, Montana, something big and green. Get a big thing of land and live in the quiet.” Your fingers tap on the side of your cup and suddenly you don’t want to look him in the eye. Suddenly this feels very heavy and very personal. You think about all the things you could describe about this fictional, out of reach dream of yours and you cringe at all the normalcy you try to envision for your future fictional self. No, not normalcy. The peace and the quiet and the absence of worry.

“No garages.” All your movement stops and he waits a beat before he makes another noise deep in his chest and hooks those long fingers behind the knee you’ve tucked up under yourself. He wedges them in there and pulls himself closer to you but not touching, keeping his distance just incase.

You decide to just tell him. “And if I make it to my 60’s?” A big shrug of your own and a frown down at your cup, still avoiding his prodding gaze. “Even better, but that’s the limit I think. I’ll close up the house and make sure everything’s in order and then just like, wander off into the woods.” Gator stills beside you, his hand halfway to his cup holder reaching for his own drink.

“I’d do it in the winter so it’d be easier, quicker.” You say it quick like that would make it hard to understand. Like he wouldn’t hear you talk about a quick and easy death after an undeserved quiet end. It makes you scoff after a moment when you listen to yourself, really listen to what you’ve just admitted to him, something you’ve never said aloud and something you’ve barely let yourself think about. “God, do you hear me? I’m gonna get fucking shot or something before I turn 40 especially with my dad running shit.” The nerves bleed through your words enough that you can parse out the slight wobble so you know he heard it too. It takes a lot for you to pull your eyes up off the mat under your feet but you do finally with a sigh.

“Look-“

Gator never kisses you in a real sense. Always a hard press of teeth and lips but he cuts you off with something real. He leans into your space and slides a hand up behind your neck to hold you in place and it’s soft. He kisses you without rushing and without huffing and without either of you tearing at each other. You almost drop your coffee when your grip slackens from surprise and those snakes along your ribs coil and coil and coil until you can’t take a breath without a gasp on the end of it.

“I just need to run inside, I’m gonna be right back.” He breaks away but doesn’t move back, his lips moving against yours. You nod, no words forming on your tongue while the sting of a foreign feeling claws at your eyes. He leaves the truck running when he gets out and you watch him walk into the building, head bowed against the slight gale outside. He leaves you with a tight chest and a newfound feeling that had stayed buried in the deepest pit of yourself for months now.

#Gator Tillman #Gator Tillman fic #Gator Tillman x Reader #My Work #My Fic

[astxrwar]

drops of blood [3/4]

SYNOPSIS: Bucky Barnes has some wires crossed. He fixates on a barista at a coffee shop near his apartment, and tells himself it's fine as long as he keeps his distance. Except you keep making that distance smaller.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11k

CONTENT WARNINGS: masturbation in this one. stalking, exhibitionism. consensual-but-not-safe-or-sane vibes really starting to settle in. Weird psychological elements kinda. For easter eggs you can check my AO3 chapter notes; for additional content check my tag "fic; drops of blood". there is a playlist and it's got hozier and the songs are sooo mood.

Thanks for reading!

Read on AO3

[ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ]

It's been snowing, on and off, the last few days; the gutters on your apartment complex are ancient and decaying, and meltwater pools in the rusted divots along them. The runoff from the rooftop freezes overnight, forms these jagged, spindly icicles on the overhangs, like fingers reaching down towards the street below. You can hear them outside your bedroom, water sliding off the sharp pinpoint ends and hitting the ledge of the window, wearing divots into the brick.

The sound follows you to sleep, the steady drip-drip, drip-drip, drip-drip, staccato and rhythmic and spaced like a heartbeat. In your dream you wriggle out from the tangle of your covers and pad to the window and part the curtains. You look out at the dark night sky and watch the droplets as they fall, glittering flashes of light reflected in the beads of water from streetlamps or the headlights of passing cars somewhere on the street below.

When you look down to the windowsill, the water gathered there has turned color, glittering like rubies, like pomegranate seeds. Like blood, dark and rich and red.

~

“It’s called starfruit. Carambola, technically.” 

It’s just the two of you, and it’s late, the sky black and the street nearly empty and the lights inside the coffee shop reflected back by the windows, the both of your reflections mirrored there. Barnes has been here since seven-thirty, but you’d been busy again, and you feel bad; he must have been horribly bored, just waiting that whole time. If he was, he doesn’t look it– he looks just as neutrally impassive as ever, leaned back in the chair, watching you dump the grocery bag out on the tabletop and pull another chair over to sit across from him.

The fruit is yellow and ridged and weird-shaped, and he prods at it with one hand; the left one, gloved. His mouth twitches. 

“Dunno if you’ve ever seen a star,” he says, “But I’m pretty sure they don’t look like that.”

You flash him a smile, dragging the chair a little closer. Under the table– the cheap square of laminated plastic that suddenly feels far too small– your knee brushes against his, and he starts, jerks back a fraction of an inch and straightens, this sharp frisson of tension that reverberates out through his whole body like tremors from a stress fracture. His reflexes are much faster than yours, all of them, and he’s able to compose himself and carry on as if nothing happened before you can respond to whatever that was; he’s already leaning to draw his knife from his boot and setting it on the table by the time any of it has even registered in your brain.

Hyperreactive startle response, you reason; that’s not abnormal. He’s a veteran. Multiple times over. You’d spent a long time researching it, combat PTSD, wanting to know, wanting to have the information to be able to— meet him halfway, or something. You don’t know the details of his life these days, not outside of these slivers of time he spends with you, and you’d never ask, but a part of you still wonders how many other friends he has. How many other people he even talks to, besides you and his therapist. The thought makes something ache, in your chest, something soft and melancholy and a little bit painful; it does something else, too, makes you feel determined to not mess this up.

You figure right now, what would help the most is for you to not mention it. The way he’d– flinched, or startled, or something, jerked back from less than half a second of contact like you’d burned him.

Barnes lays out the starfruit lengthwise across one of those flimsy recycled paper napkins and aligns the knife to cut it right down the middle, which conveniently gives you something to say that’s entirely unrelated to whatever just happened. 

“Hold on, wait,” you say quickly, “You’re doing it wrong.”

“Doing it wrong,” Barnes repeats, and maybe you imagine it, the way his shoulders relax. Like he’s relieved. He looks up from it, at you; his eyes crinkle up at the corners, just a little bit, humor glinting in the precise and magnetic blue of his irises, and something strange lights in your stomach in response. “What, because there’s a right way?”

“Yes,” you reply, with a teasing sort of cadence like, duh, obviously. 

Whatever that feeling is, It buzzes in the pit of your stomach at the barest amount of warmth in his expression; something like adrenaline or anxiety or frayed nerves, only multiple times brighter. A sensation that’s not unfamiliar, not unrecognizable, either, and also not something you really want to think about or examine too closely, right now. Or— ever.

Barnes opens his mouth like he’s going to say something and then doesn’t. He closes it again, and he glances down and away from you, drums his fingers against the table. Taptaptaptap, taptaptaptap. When he looks at you again, the brightness that had been in his eyes before is gone, snuffed out like somebody’d blown out a candle, and whatever it’s been replaced with is something else entirely.

He sets the knife down. The handle clicks against the laminate and your pulse does something weird at the sound; stutters, maybe, or skips, or just stalls outright. He nudges it with the tip of his finger, at the base, makes it spin in a slow, juddering circle, until the blade is pointed towards him, and then he slides it across the table. 

When your heartbeat picks up again, it’s too-fast, thudding quick and insistent in the hollow of your throat, like rabbit’s feet.

“Here,” he says.  “You want to, this time? Since– since there’s a right way, and all.”

There’s a roughness to his voice, a strain that makes you think of last week, please do it, I just want you to be safe, makes you think of the blood by the dumpster in the back, how he’d looked when he’d come back inside, they were just drunks, it’s fine, it’s all fine, and that warmth inside of you dissipates.

(No, it doesn’t.)

“Sure, yeah,” you hear yourself say, warbly and far-away, like maybe somebody else is speaking. Somebody who isn’t you. But it’s your hand that reaches out to drag the edge of the napkin across the table, and it’s your hand that closes around the knife, too. 

The handle is still warm. Something deep inside of you coils in on itself, in the pit of your stomach or the base of your spine or maybe lower, twists and tightens and pulses like a heartbeat. You think about his hand, being where yours is now, the way that he’d spun the knife a few weeks ago, how he handles it with this unnervingly practiced ease, this familiarity, like it’s something more than an object.

 Like it’s an extension of his body.

(Again, you think about the blood.)

Carambolas are long, oval fruits with five- or six-point ridges; you cut it into slices the way you’d slice a banana, and the pieces fall over one another shaped like stars. 

“Huh,” you hear Barnes say, and when he reaches for one, the glove probably in his pocket, you swallow around nothing at all, suddenly aware with startling clarity of how close his hand is to your own. How much bigger it is than your own. “Starfruit. No kidding.”

You wait for him to pull back before you move to take your own piece, his flinch replaying in the back of your mind, and something else there, too, that you determinedly continue to ignore. The skin on the carambola crunches between your teeth and the juice floods your mouth, sour-sweet and unfamiliar; you’re aware of it, the mechanical action of eating, the taste, but you’re not paying attention to that.

He hasn’t moved to take the knife back. It’s sitting on the table still, closer to you than it is to him. You don’t even really make the conscious decision to reach for it, you just do, dragging it closer to you and turning it lengthwise; up close, there are flaws that you couldn’t see from a distance, chips in the matte black coating of paint over the flat of the blade and the handle, divots worn into the edge from use.

(You wonder if he’s ever killed anyone with it.)

“How sharp is this thing?” you ask absently– idly– inanely, operating on some stupid and unthinking whim, the same impulse that has you reaching out and touching the tapered point of the knife with your thumb, pressing in, just a little, the skin indenting around it until–

Until something entirely predictable happens. Something that anyone with a modicum of common sense could have guessed at, that most people, you figure, probably would have known well enough to avoid, because most people, you think, possess a rational understanding of actions and consequences that would have kept them from doing what you’d just done. 

“Okay,” you say, watching the blood beading up along where the sharpened tip had cut into your skin. It’s just a little, no more than you’d get from a pin-prick or a paper cut, just enough to well up into a drop that grows until the surface tension breaks and it spills onto the flat of the blade, oozing sluggishly down the pad of your thumb. “Pretty sharp.”

You’re not going to wipe it off on the napkin, because there’s food on there, so you bring it to your mouth; the second your hand is clear of the knife, Barnes reaches for it, snatches it back, so quickly that it feels like both things happen at the same time, even though you know, rationally, that isn’t possible.

Barnes is staring at you.

“Sorry,” you blurt out reflexively, “Sorry, that was— pretty stupid of me, don’t know what I was expecting—“

“No,” he cuts you off, “No, you’re— it’s fine, you don’t need to apologize, I shouldn’t have—“ he stops and he stammers and then he cuts out into silence and his expression flickers through a whole bunch of things, some that you recognize and others that you don’t; he looks plaintive and stricken and ashamed and worried and scared and something else that you can’t find the words to describe. “Are you— you’re okay?”

“I— yeah, of course,” you reply, feeling again like there’s something you’re missing. Like whatever puzzle you’re constructing of James Buchanan Barnes—it has this hole, right in the center of it, a silhouette in the shape of whatever it is you’re unable to figure out, and like if you could just find it you might be able to fit everything together, and that it– that he– might finally make sense to you.  “Not your fault, I was being— dumb. And look, see? It’s fine.”

You hold out your hand to him. He glances down at it for a fraction of a second and then looks back at you, eyes wavering and glassy and filled with that thing you can’t name. 

 All that’s left is a thin, red line where the knife had pressed in. 

No blood.

~

 You finish late, almost midnight. 

It’s your own fault, you’d gotten distracted, neglected clearing out the pastry display case and cleaning the espresso machine and prepping the brewing stations for the next morning in favor of sitting with Barnes for— way too long. He’d left at eleven, on the dot, and you hadn’t asked him to wait because he’d already been there a while, spent most of it just waiting there for you as the steady tide of customers ebbed and flowed and ebbed again, always just busy enough to keep you occupied and unavailable. So when you strip off your apron and your uniform hat and shrug your coat on over your sweater and finally flick the lights off in the shop behind you, you expect to come out to— nothing. Nobody. 

But he’s there, standing off to the side, hands in his pockets, expression flat and clear and calm. He makes eye contact with you and something tightens, his brow, maybe, just for a half-second, but then you smile just on instinct, stopping on the sidewalk a few feet away, and his expression, it– softens, again.

“You stayed,” you say aloud, aware of how pleased you must sound and wondering again, somewhere in the back of your mind, if that’s really how you should feel. 

“Yeah,” he replies, glancing down at his feet, scuffing one foot against the concrete. “Yeah, sorry, I, ah—“

“No, I wasn’t– I’m glad,” you interject quickly, back turned from him as you lock the door behind you. “I just— I didn’t ask today because I knew I’d be out late, and I don’t want to— take up all of your time, I guess, I already feel like I made you waste so much of it just, like, sitting, so—“

When you turn back to him, he’s staring, the way he does sometimes— the way he does a lot, precise and unwavering and intense enough to make you feel like you’ve been pinned to the spot– and whatever you’d been saying dries up somewhere in the back of your throat. 

“No,” Barnes says, takes all of an aborted half-step closer, and then he tears his eyes away, like he’d maybe realized and tried to correct it, the way that he’d been looking at you. “It’s— you’re not a waste of time,” he says, looking at the ground. 

The warmth you can feel in your face, you decide, is because of the cold, and nothing else.

~

He tells you to lock up again, and you tell him that you will.

It’s the very first thing, after pulling the keys from the door, before you hang them up on the peg nearby or strip your coat or take off your shoes— you always flip the deadbolt, and the flimsier lock on the door handle. Force of habit, deeply ingrained.

The windows, though—

It’s the third floor, you reason. There’s a fire escape outside the one that looks in on your bedroom, but the ladder can only be released from the second-story landing, some fifteen feet in the air. You have nothing to worry about. And maybe that’s why you just never get around to it; the fact that the urgency’s not there. It’s not a part of your routine. You mean to do it, because he asks and because you’d said you would, but somewhere between stripping from your work clothes and washing off the smell of stale coffee after a long and annoying shift and padding into your bedroom with a towel wrapped around your chest and water still dripping from your hair and onto the floor—

You always end up forgetting.

~

You have those dreams again. A whole bunch of times.

The ones with the broken pavement, the darkened street, the heartbeat. 

The blood.

~

His birthday is March 10th. He hasn’t told you this. You know, though. You’ll see him on the 8th, the Friday he always comes in, and that’s close enough, you figure. Probably better that way; with how he is, so closed off, you think he’ll probably want to spend the actual day alone.

There is an Etsy shop that makes pocket-knives. Fancy ones. Objectively cool-looking ones.You place the order at two in the morning Saturday night, operating on some half-awake impulse. It’s four inches long— street-legal— with this wood-paneled handle and a flat-grip hilt and three letters engraved on one side. JBB. You figured that was better, the initials; the interpretation being left up to him, whether it’s Buchanan or Bucky. It’s just a keepsake. Something you thought he might— like. 

“What’d you get this time?” he asks, that brightness in his expression again; your heart is beating too fast, and you’re anxious and doubtful and feeling a little bit sick, spiraling and suddenly certain this was all a massive mistake. But it’s in your hand, in a reusable grocery bag, and you hadn’t even brought anything else to fall back on in case you ended up losing your nerve about it like you are right this second. 

You pull out the chair across from him and sit down and drop the bag at your feet, awkwardly folding your hands on the table. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

The silence drags out for what must be only a few seconds but still somehow feels like so much longer, thick and oppressive and borderline uncomfortable.

You open your mouth to speak—

Whatever small amount of courage you’d managed to work up evaporates from you completely. 

“Nothing,” you say, nudging the bag with your foot until it’s under your seat, “It’s, um— it’s nothing.”

Barnes stares at you some more, and then raises one incredulous eyebrow. “Okay, well, it’s definitely not nothing.”

“Yeah, or, I mean– no, it’s just— “ You grimace and shift in your chair, suddenly realizing how uncomfortable it is, flimsy and straight-backed and too hard. “I had an idea, but it was a bad one, and— just, nevermind. It’s really— it’s nothing.”

Barnes pulls a patently disbelieving face and leans back and straightens out until his legs are just a little bit past yours under the table, his heels angled against the tiled floor on either side of your calves. There’s still a lot of space between the two of you, he’s nowhere near close enough to be touching, but the awareness of it— his body almost bracketing your own, even if only a little— it lances right through the pit of your stomach, a bright shock of electricity that hums somewhere in your whole body, like it’s leached right into your blood.

Barnes is still staring at you. 

“Just spill it, come on,” he says. “I’m not so old that I can’t tell when you’re full of shit.”

You swallow, half-nervous and half— something else.

(Something worse, maybe.)

“It’s your birthday this week,” you blurt out, so quickly that the words all sort of blur together into one continuous block of sound. “I remembered from– you know. History.” 

You regret saying it before the words have even completely left your mouth, because something in his expression just– shatters.

“You didn’t—“ He sits up straight and shifts back and shuts his eyes, his brow pinching together in the middle. When he speaks again, it’s soft and small and remarkably plaintive. “You did, didn’t you? I can’t— you shouldn’t have— no. Just— no.“

Your mouth twists into this tight little frown.

“See, I knew it was a bad idea,” you say, aiming at sounding dismissive in some light-hearted and trivial way, and unsure how close you get to achieving that. “Don’t worry, I can just— I’ll return it. I should have asked, but I—well, I saw this thing online, and I thought of you, and I didn’t, you know, actually think, and—“

You’re trying, pretty hard, to not sound like you’re a lot of things—self-conscious, embarrassed, a little disappointed— but it’s clear you do a fucking terrible job at hiding all of that, because his eyes snap open and that furrow in his brow worries deeper and before you can even finish he’s leaned forwards again and cut you off completely.

“No, hey, it’s— it’s fine, you can still— if you want—” he starts, stumbling over the words, like he’s saying it faster than he can even think, “If you really want to, then I’ll— it’s okay.”

You’re not looking at him anymore, looking at the table instead, the places where the laminate is cracked and peeling along the edge closest to you. Whatever you feel right now is cold and slimy and awkward and bad, but you figure this is the time to suck it up and get the fuck over it. No gifts. That’s—fine. It’s a totally reasonable boundary, and you should have known better; you should have asked, you should have thought of it earlier so that you would have even been able to ask, but you didn’t. And it’s fine.

When you finally do look back at him, he’s doing that thing again, his eyes gone all wide and glossy and sad. “Just forget about it,” you reply, a lot more firmly than before, “Seriously, it’s fine, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, and I shouldn’t have—“

“No, it’s okay, really,” he interjects, with a strange urgency. “Really, all right? It’s– I— I just didn’t want you to feel like— like you have to. You’re— you already—“ 

Barnes cuts off mid-sentence, and falls silent like he’d decided whatever he was going to say wasn’t actually worth saying, after all. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and then he laughs, this short, sharp, self-deprecating sound, and his mouth twitches at the corners, just a little. It’s not like a repressed smile, not really; it’s rueful and distant and a little too sad. 

“It’s just—it’s been a really long time since anybody’s—“ he starts, trailing off, clearing his throat, like that might make his voice steadier. Less hoarse. “Since I’ve had a birthday. Guess I kinda forgot my manners. Last time I had to use ‘em was way back in 1942, so. Kind of— rusty.”

Something in your chest— it aches, like somebody’s stuck a hand in past your ribs and grabbed your heart in a fist and squeezed it. 

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out. “I thought– I figured somebody would have– since you’ve been back, I didn’t know–”

“No– hey, c’mon, don’t be sorry,” he says quickly. He leans forwards a little bit more, rests his elbows on the table, arms folded over each other. “What do you have to be sorry for? It’s not– it’s not like it’s your fault.”

You manage a kind of watery approximation of a smile at that, and maybe you imagine it, the way that the tension around his eyes and his mouth eases, his expression going just a little bit softer. 

(But maybe you don’t.)

“Kinda makes me wish I’d gone all out,” you say quietly, your mouth curling up further at the corners, despite itself. “Sheet cake and everything, you know? Candles. Balloons, even.”

Barnes makes another sound, another laugh, maybe, except not really. More like the kind of thing somebody does as a placeholder, instead of something else. Maybe something worse. “I definitely don’t deserve all that,” he says, with this kind of lightness that feels— feigned. Performative.

And all of this, you think, with this soft sad sinking feeling; all of it suddenly starts to make a lot more sense.

“It doesn’t work that way,” you tell him, before you can think better of it. You’re looking down at your hands, and your voice comes out small, but steady. Certain. “People don’t— deserve anything from anyone, not really. I just— I wanted to do something nice for you.”

You still don’t look up. Whatever might be in his expression right now— you think if you looked at him, if you saw it, you might lose your nerve again. “If— if that’s okay, I mean,” you add, after a while, painfully aware of his silence.

“Yeah,” he says finally, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “That’s— it’s okay.”

When you do finally glance up at him, his eyes are wavering and glassy and strangely delicate, like a sheen of ice frozen over window panes. The way he’s looking at you; he’s never looked at you like that before. You don’t think anybody’s ever looked at you like that before, soft and fond and fragile and like you might be able to break him wide open, if you tried. If you wanted to. 

(And maybe you do want that. Just to get inside, just to see, you think, in some part of your brain buried so deep you can almost pretend you don’t think it at all. You’d do it gently, put him back together after, piece by vulnerable piece, and maybe you want to do that, too.)

You reach for the bag under the table and take out the box inside, wrapped up neat in brightly-colored paper, the cheesy kind they sell at the dollar store, with a pattern of multicolored balloons and ribbons and HAPPY BIRTHDAYs written in this big, overdramatic font plastered all over it. 

“Here,” you say, kind of timidly, sliding it across the table. 

Barnes stares at it for a long time. He blinks, and clears his throat, and then finally reaches for the package, pulling it closer to the edge. 

 “You put a bow on it,” he observes, nonplussed, pressing down on the glinting silver loops of folded plastic with his index finger until they flatten against the box.

The corners of your mouth twitch up, just a little. “I did,” you reply, watching as he peels the square of adhesive-lined cardboard off from where it’s affixed to the wrapping paper, mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like what the fuck as he examines it; it occurs to you that they’d probably actually tied bows by hand, way back in the 40s, and that this might be his first time encountering one of the shitty little mass-produced stick-on ones that you can get at the dollar store.

It’s kind of funny. And then it’s also kind of sad. 

He sets it on the table and spins the package until he finds the edge with the tape and pulls that free, working it open that careful way that you’ve seen old people do, when they’re trying not to tear the paper, and that, too, is absurd and endearing and has you pressing down on the beginnings of a soft smile. “Just rip it, I don’t care, it’s going in the garbage anyways.”

“Oh, yeah,” Barnes mumbles, and then tears right through it. “Old habit.”

With the wrapping paper gone, there’s just the actual box the knife came in, made of dark, varnished wood, spartan and simple. It props up, with this mechanism on the inside, doubles as a display case; you’d fooled around with it when it had arrived in the mail.

He flips open the lid and his breath catches.

You shift, nervously, in your seat, careful to not lean closer or brush his calves with your shoes, just trying to fidget enough to dispel whatever apprehensive wave of tension has washed over you at the face he’s making, the worry lines folding deeper and his brow furrowing in again. 

He pulls the folded knife free of the case with his fingers, so carefully, like he thinks he might break it just by touching it at all, and turns it over in his palm.

“It has— those are my initials,” he says, blankly. 

You clear your throat and duck your head and look at the table again. “Yeah, um— the guy I bought it from, he does custom engravings, too, and it was free, so.”

Barnes pulls down on the release mechanism with his index finger and the knife flicks open with a soft click. He hasn’t looked at you, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad. 

“It’s, like. Damascus steel?” you continue, painfully awkward, painfully aware of how awkward you’re being and somehow also unable to do anything to stop yourself, “It’s this weird thing where they take two steel alloys and they fold them together a whole bunch of times, and that’s how they make it, that’s why it— looks like that.”

He makes this sound, holding it in his left hand so he can touch the flat of the blade with the tips of his fingers, running them across like he thinks he might be able to feel ridges, or something, evidence that the two contrasting shades of metal are actually distinct and separate parts, but there’s nothing. It’s smooth. You’d done the same thing yourself, just to see; you can’t feel the individual alloys at all, can’t even tell where one ends and another begins anymore. It’s all just one piece, complete and inseparable. Whole. 

“How much did this cost?” he says, his voice wavering.

You pick at the spot on your side of the table where the laminate is peeling, working a fingernail under the edge and pulling it up more. “Only two dollars,” you say, keeping your own voice as light as you can make it, hoping with a mounting sense of unease that you haven’t upset him. That it wasn’t as terrible of an idea as your brain is telling you it was. “In— you know. 1940s money.”

Barnes makes some sound that’s probably supposed to be a laugh, but it’s thick and rough and hoarse and doesn’t really sound anything like one. “You said when you saw this,” he begins, turning it over again in his palm, still just staring at it. “You thought of– me?”

“Yeah,” you reply, eyes still cast down. “I— yeah, I thought you might— like it.”

(That’s not a lie. Not really. It’s just not the whole truth, either.)

“Oh.” Barnes closes his eyes for a second. He swallows thickly, gives one jerky and abrupt nod before he opens them again and says, his voice shaking more than you’ve ever heard, “I do, I— I really—this is— thank you.” 

And just like that— all of your worry is gone, melted away like frost in the sunlight, and you’re smiling at him before you can even think to stop it, not sure if you would have been able to, anyways.

 “Good,” you say, “I’m really glad,” like maybe if you say it with enough insistence he might actually believe that you mean it; that it’s not about pity or obligation or any of that. You’d really just wanted this, nothing else. To do something nice for him. 

He gives you another one of those looks again, soft and fond and impossibly grateful.

You hesitate, just for a second, before you add, “Happy birthday, Barnes.”

Almost as soon as you say it, his eyes break from yours so abruptly that it takes you by surprise, feels like it physically jolts and forcibly recalibrates your whole nervous system. 

There’s a long, strange, fraught pause. 

You’re suddenly aware of how close you are, both of you leaned in with your elbows on this tiny little coffee table that’s a grand total of two feet across, and something inside of you feels like it ignites at the realization. His legs are stretched out underneath it again, longer than yours, larger, too, so you can fit easily in whatever space is left there, even with them straightened and taking up way more than half of it, and you’re aware of that, too, whatever had come alive in your belly burning a little brighter in response. 

In the soft orange light from the overhead fixture, as close as you’ve ever been to him, you can see flecks of silver glinting in the stubble along the sharp edge of his jaw; the angular planes of his face and the blunt curves of his cheekbones and worry lines setting in on his forehead. It’s not his birthday yet, it’s still two days away, and you find yourself wondering how old he’ll be. 

Thirty-seven, you think, completely arbitrarily; though you’re not going to tell him that. 

“Would you do something for me,” he blurts out; it’s a question, but it’s not really phrased like one, comes out pitched low and flat and monotone. His eyes are closed and his expression tense again, like he’s forcing himself to say it.

 “Yeah,” you reply, automatic, unthinking, “Yeah, whatever you need, what’s up?”

What he does in response to that could technically be called a smile, based just on description alone, but in reality looks nothing like one at all; the upturn of his mouth too sharp and his eyes too cold and the sum of it deeply self-deprecating. More like a grimace, you think. 

The silence stretches. Charged. Expectant. He’s staring at you again, and you’re thinking more stupid things about the color of his eyes, his irises that bright and blinding shade of blue, and you’re not paying attention as much as you should be. 

“Can you—” he clears his throat. Looks away. “I want you to call me Bucky.”

You blink at him for a moment, uncomprehending. And then your stomach does this weird and physiologically impossible fluttering jittery thing and your pulse speeds up or slows down or maybe misses a beat entirely. Maybe misses several. 

“Oh, I– okay,” is all you say, momentarily too stunned to manage much more than that. Suddenly your tongue feels thick in your mouth, clumsy and uncooperative, like you’ve just somehow managed to forget how to move it with the dexterity required to actually form syllables and say them aloud, and it takes way too long to snap the fuck out of it and stammer through all of three words in a voice that sounds way too soft and way too shy to actually belong to you, “Happy birthday, Bucky.”

Something flickers in his eyes, too fast for you to examine in detail, and then—

He smiles. Really smiles, small and soft and entirely too fleeting, the kind that reaches his eyes and transforms his whole face and softens his expression into something open and honest and so fundamentally different than the way you’re used to seeing him that it almost feels wrong to be seeing it at all. Like you’ve been sucker-punched, or something. Like you’re staring, wide-eyed, into the sun. 

For a second, he looks— happy. But just like with anything else you’ve ever seen from him, it’s only a second, and then it’s gone.

~

“Listen, ah, next week,” Barnes— Bucky— says, stopping at your apartment building; he’s not looking at you, looking at the ground, head ducked down, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck, “How about— maybe I could bring something. Y’know, for— for a change.”

You’re standing on the first step of the staircase up to the lobby door; you think it must put you almost at head-height, compared to him, but it’s hard to tell. He’ll let you sit across from him, at that one little table, but he always stands so far away. 

“Yeah,” you say, looking back at him; you’re maybe still kind of running on the high of before, the thought that you might have done something that made him happy, even if just for a second, and you blame that and the fact that it’s nearly midnight for why even something as small as that has you smiling, bright and wide and embarrassingly genuine. “Yeah, that’d be– I’d like that.” 

“And don’t forget to lock your—“

“I know, I know,” you cut him off, fighting back the mostly good-natured urge to roll your eyes. “I will.”

He looks uncomfortable, maybe uneasy, but it’s brief and fleeting and less important than the number of other things you’re still thinking about.

 You stand there for a long, lingering moment, just looking at him. 

He stares right back at you, expression unreadable. 

Finally, he clears his throat. Looks away. 

When he says goodnight, he says your name, too, and a frisson of— something, it shivers right down the length of your spine at the sound of it.

“Goodnight, Bucky,” you say back, a part of you kind of hoping that you’ll get another smile from him, even just a split second of one.

A  flicker of something soft and satisfied flashes across his face, but it doesn’t last, and he doesn’t smile again.

~

It’s all because of that, you’ll think later, having woken up for no reason at some ridiculous hour Saturday night and found yourself unable to fall back asleep, staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dark. 

You’d been thinking about him, because it’s past midnight, technically Sunday. Technically his birthday. And you keep thinking about that smile, all of a split second of one; some stupid part of you had been strangely captivated by it, the way that you’d almost been able to see that twenty-eight-year-old guy from Brooklyn way back when, the ghost of him still in his mannerisms, sometimes, but never as clearly visible as it had been right then. Maybe it was the contrast, the superimposition of that younger, happier, safer self over the face of somebody who wasn’t really any of those things anymore— but you’d been reminded, painfully, of a fact that you’d been doing a great job at ignoring, until now.

The fact that he’s— handsome. That you had, at one point, found him attractive. The crush was brief and surface-level and fleeting, the dead Sergeant James Barnes functioning as a suitably unobtainable receptacle for what was, at the time, your tenuous grasp on the concept of attraction in general. You had realized pretty quickly as you’d gotten older that your type, the kind of people you’re actually interested in, the kind you would actively pursue in real life, are not anything like he was; sweet and charming and boyish and—

And young, a particularly hedonistic voice in your head supplies unhelpfully.

But Barnes— Bucky, your brain corrects, which is also unhelpful and has your stomach doing another one of those weird little flips— he’s not any of those things, anymore. He’s older than he’d been then, by an amount that is not-insignificant, and he’s thorny and standoffish and intense and even a little bit scary, sometimes. That childhood crush had been on a guy who was essentially fictional, a memorialized facsimile of a real person, and that had felt safe, idealized and superficial and well beyond your reach. Whatever your little relationship with Bucky is now— whatever it’s turning into— it’s not like that at all. Sergeant Barnes was some long-dead historical relic, but Bucky is alive, he’s a real human being, someone that you know.

It’s strange to think about, and your mind drifts there, next; the fact that you actually know what he looks like, not just in frozen split-seconds from photographs, but in person, up close. You’ve seen him with a five o'clock shadow and with scruffy days-old stubble and you know that he sometimes nicks himself shaving; you know what he looks like when he’s well-rested and when he’s dead tired with bruise-dark bags under his eyes, you’ve seen him with hair all messed up by the wind and chapped lips when there’d been that cold spell back in February and the air had been freezing and bone-dry for weeks. You know that he takes up way too much space when he’s relaxed, slouches in his chair and stretches his legs out as far as they’ll go, and you know that he’s taller than you, larger, too, that his chest is broad and his shoulders are broader and sometimes when he sits leaned forward his leather jacket bunches up around the tops of his biceps like the sleeves are just shy of being a little bit too small, and you know that his right hand— the only one you’ve ever seen without the gloves on— is tanned and calloused and a lot fucking bigger than yours, that it looks like it might be just a little bit rough, if he were to touch you—

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you mumble, out loud, feeling your face burn with some awful and deeply embarrassing warmth; you try to just roll over onto your side and smush your face into your pillow and will yourself back to sleep, to not fucking think— whatever the fuck you were even thinking. But it’s two in the morning, that horrible hour when nothing seems real and your impulse control is languishing somewhere hopelessly out of reach, and you’re barely half-awake and verging on delirious and as much as you try to think of anything else— literally, literally anything else— the thoughts just seem to sharpen, defiant. Like some part of your brain that you can’t access or control is all the more interested in bringing these things to mind, now that you’re working so hard to ignore them.

Like the fact that you know he runs hot; if he were to touch you his hand would be rough and it would be warm and it would be able to cover such a large span of your body, effortlessly, without even trying. And the other one— you know that it’s metal, even though you’ve never seen it, and that horrible part of your brain suggests that that one might be cool and smooth and if he were to touch you it might make goosebumps spill down the backs of your arms from the chill, from the contrast; he could span your whole ribcage with both of them, your brain supplies traitorously. Could probably close his palm right around the bones of your wrist, maybe even both at once, could cover the whole soft sensitive stretch of the insides of your thighs, could fit one, easily, around your throat—

You make another sound, a wavering and ashamed and deeply self-reproachful one, but it’s really fucking late and you’re really fucking tired and your brain is doing that stupid thing where it decides to hyperfixate on something specifically because you don’t want to think about it, and you rationalize, with a dull pang of guilt, that you might as well just— get it over with. Give up and give in and then get some fucking sleep and be entirely back to normal tomorrow and never have to think about or address any of it ever again.

You shift again, onto your back, and you squirm your way deeper under the coverlet until it’s up around your shoulders and shove your underwear down with the heel of your palm and you ignore the visceral stab of something like shame if shame had fucking teeth that burns in your belly at just how wet you already are, your fingers slipping and sliding and sticky and rubbing light little circles over your clit.

You stop trying to fight that part of your brain that’s insisting on thinking about it. 

His reflexes, they’re so much faster than your own, so inhumanly fast that it sometimes feels supernatural; the things he could do to you, you think, helplessly, how strong he is, how he could probably move your whole body like you weigh nothing at all, how he could keep you from moving, and it wouldn’t even be hard. You think about the shadow of perpetual stubble on his cheeks and jaw and how it might feel, coarse and prickly and rasping against the corners of your mouth or the spot where your neck meets the slope of your shoulder or the sensitive insides of your thighs, and then you think about the sound he sometimes makes, the sharp little exhale of breath, an almost-laugh, imagining it in a wildly different context–

Some kind of awful traitorous little whine of a noise almost escapes, the pressure building behind your voice box, but you crush it into silence instead, pressing the flat of your forearm across your mouth, the muscles in your thighs already starting to twitch and tighten and that pressure in your belly rising way too fucking fast. 

You think about his face twisting up and going tense and his eyes screwed shut so tight the little muscles around them tremble with the effort, and you think about the all of a handful of times you’ve ever heard his voice shake. Heard it crack. You think of his fingers winding in your hair and his hand tightening into a fist and how the muscles and tendons there would bunch and flex and the skin stretched across his knuckles would turn pale and taut and bloodless, his expression going finally, blissfully fucking slack, images your brain conjures with a terrifying degree of accuracy because you’ve seen all of this from him already. You know what it looks like, in person, up close, you know what he looks like and what he sounds like and you even know the smell of what must be his aftershave or maybe his cologne, warm and woodsy and a little bit sweet, and it’s so easy to take those memories and separate the details out and rearrange them into something else, a horribly vivid fantasy.

You think about standing on the first step of your apartment complex and looking at him and how he’d said your name.

It takes you by surprise, when you come, how easily you do, quick and sweet and warm and shamefully satisfying, a shockwave of heat that ripples out through all of your limbs and shivers down your spine and pulses in the fibers of your muscles, constricting your breathing and forcing your heels to dig divots into the mattress and your thighs to close up around your hand and a single muffled shuddering sound to finally break the silence you’d imposed on your vocal cords and escape from your open mouth.

Outside your window, the fire escape creaks, like maybe there’d been a sharp gust of wind through the alley where the apartment complex dumpsters are lined. That’s the first thing that registers, as your body relaxes and your breathing steadies and slows and your brain reorients around things that are— real. The sound of swaying metal. Your darkened bedroom. The faint sheen of sweat you can feel starting in the dips of your collarbones. The haze of perpetual city light leaking in from outside, a dim, slanted rectangle of it cutting across the floor under the window, your curtains not quite drawn all the way shut. Exhaustion hits like a fucking freight train; your eyelids are heavy and your pulse is slowing and your limbs feel warm and weighed down like molten lead and your brain is, thankfully, finally, silent. 

You hear it again, right before you drift off; the creaking outside. And maybe there’s a shadow, one that cuts across that block of gray-blue light on the floor, as quick and as sure as a knife— but maybe there isn’t. Maybe you’re already asleep. Already dreaming. 

~

This time, you’re down on the street again, walking from the other direction. Not like you’re coming home from work, but maybe the grocery store or a friend’s or the park that overlooks the East River, or something. From this way, you can see your bedroom window; you can see the fire escape, too, a spindly, narrow set of iron staircases affixed to the side, painted black by the landlord a few months back to disguise how it’s all rusted to shit. It’s wrong, though, the whole thing is twisted and mangled like a broken spine— like somebody had torn it straight off the building in places, grabbed some part and pulled until the railing bent and the stairs warped and the brackets ripped right out from where they’d been cemented into the wall. 

When you wake up the next morning, it’s deceptively easy to make yourself believe you had just gone to bed at midnight and stayed asleep straight through until your alarm had gone off. 

That all of it had just been part of that strange, surreal dream. 

~

Passionfruit is another South American native, about the size of a kiwi, maybe a little smaller; the rind on the outside is this mottled kind of purple color, and the edible insides are soft and jelly-like and weird-looking. 

“I had to go all the way to Whole Foods on Houston just to find something new,” Bucky’s telling you– complaining, from the sound of it, but from his face and the curve of his mouth you can tell he doesn’t really mind– dragging a plastic spoon around the edge of the peel. He’d brought two, split the first one in half with the knife you’d bought him for his birthday, and you’d grinned like an idiot, seeing it. “Took a train and everything. Wasted a whole hour.”

“Yeah, well, ” He’s not wearing the glove, not on his right; he usually doesn’t, anymore. You’re trying not to look at his hands, trying to make eye contact like you normally do, trying to even remember how much eye contact you normally make, trying to stop thinking about the tiny little two-foot table or his legs on either side of your own underneath it or the way that he’s staring at you. “There’s only so many fruits out there.”

You take a spoonful of passionfruit out of your half, focus on that. It’s less sweet than it looks; more tart, not exactly citrusy, but close. He’s still watching you, which isn’t unusual, but it’s making you feel weird, jittery and off-balance and unseasonably warm for mid-March.

“I’m gonna have to come up with a whole new gimmick pretty soon,” you say, just to fill the quiet. Just teasing. “Or else you’re gonna get bored of me.”

Bucky makes this flat and disbelieving sound in response, a scoff, dry and short and incredulous, like it’s really that bizarre, for you to even suggest it. Even as a joke. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says, sarcasm evident, and then something else about the store, something he’d seen maybe for next week. But you’re not paying attention, just watching him, that warm thing in your belly again, the one that feels like some terrible and badly-kept secret. 

The one that just keeps getting harder to ignore.

~

There really aren’t that many things left; you hadn’t been kidding about that. 

Persimmons, most of which are imported from Japan. One of the men in my unit was Japanese, Bucky says, picking out the blood-red seeds with the point of his knife, From San Francisco, Jim Morita. He was a funny guy. Lychee, native to China, the first thing that he dislikes, people eat these things? tastes like— fancy soap,  and then figs, something else he’d had back in the ‘40s, when they’d be in season down in California. Those you eat only after carefully inspecting the inside, telling him, you know wasps lay eggs in these things, right? And, no, he did not know that, and I didn’t really want to, either, but thanks, dunno if I’ll ever be able to eat ‘em again, that’s– gross.

“When I was maybe about nineteen,” he says after that, some rainy day in mid-April, the sky still not quite black even after eight, the pavement slick and dark and reflecting back shards of white and yellow from the streetlights turning on above it. “There was this wasp’s nest outside my bedroom window. Steve’d just moved in when his mom died, and he’s– well, he was– real allergic to bee stings, right?”

He pauses, finishes his coffee. The way the light is, right now, the blue twilight from outside and the artificially bright gold from the coffee shop— he looks—

You swallow, glance away.

“Anyway,” Bucky continues, setting the cup down, “Anyway, I was all worried he’d get stung by these things so bad he might really die, or somethin’, so I made him stay inside and went out with a whole three layers of clothes on, a slingshot, and a trash can. Still got stung seventeen times. Supposed to go on a date that weekend– she bailed on me, ‘cause my face was so swollen up.”

You lose the fight to not laugh somewhere long before he finishes; he gets as close to smiling as you’ve seen since his birthday, watching you fold into yourself, giggling. 

“Oh, yeah?” he says, “What’s so funny, huh?”

You are, you want to tell him, you’re funny and I like you a lot and you’re probably my favorite part of this stupid fucking job.

“Nothing,” you say, ducking your head with a grin, “Nothing, just– you know people who are allergic to bee stings aren’t usually allergic to wasps, right?”

He blinks at you, and then makes some exasperated noise and leans back in his chair and throws up his hands, like he’s annoyed, except for the corners of his mouth twitching higher. “Yeah, well, how was I supposed to know that? It was the thirties, doll, not like there was the internet.”

And there it is again, like an echo, like maybe it’s really 1941 again and he hasn’t gone off to war yet and he’s just a few years older than you, some twenty-seven-year-old playboy from back before the Playboy magazine had even been founded. You’re strangely endeared by it, and then even more by the fact that he’s not that at all, that it’d come from the mouth of someone older and stranger, who’d been through hell and back in some haphazard approximation of a decade spread out over almost a whole century and come out of it still the same, in a lot of ways, and different, in a lot of them, too.

He’s so stunned by what he’s said it doesn’t even matter that his reflexes are faster than yours multiple times over; he’s still just staring at you, struck dumb and unspeaking and frozen like a deer in headlights, by the time your brain has processed what’d happened. 

“I like hearing you talk about it,” you say, smiling softly,  “Sometimes you get so caught up it’s like– watching somebody travel in time.”

Bucky seems to relax at the realization that you’re not going to be weird about it. You won’t– you’re not even going to think about it in any amount of detail. Right now you are going to put it in a little box inside your head where you put all of the things about him that you don’t think about anywhere except the privacy of your room, in your own bed, staring up at the ceiling fan blades spinning listless and slow in the dark of the evening or the gray light of pre-dawn. 

“That’s really just a nice way of saying you sound like a fucking geriatric,” you add, sidestepping all of those thoughts with a practiced ease and hiding your smile behind your coffee cup. “I bet the old ladies would love you down at the bingo hall.”

He shoots you this rueful look, “Yeah,” he says, self-deprecating, “Yeah, they probably would.”

~

It’s not that you forget, not really, the two sides to the coin, just that you stop thinking so much about the other one. You just get used to the weird things, and they all kind of fade into the background– the staring and the subconscious fidgeting with the knife and the way that Bucky moves, sometimes, so fast and so precise that it’s unsettling. 

The warning. Lock your door. Windows, too.

He always says it. It starts to feel normal. He’s just worried about you, your safety. Hypervigilance, again. He’s a little bit paranoid, and you don’t blame him for that— how could you. It’s not his fault.

And you do remember to lock your door. You always do, you always had, even before he’d started reminding you. You have a routine, to wind down after a closing shift and go straight to bed; you get home and lock your door and hang up your keys, take a shower and brush your teeth and gor right to bed.

By the time you get to your bedroom, you’ve always forgotten about it completely— that he’d said to lock your window, too.

It’s not like he says it the exact same way every time. Sometimes he says remember to lock everything, other times don’t forget to lock up, sometimes he says lock your door, windows, too, always a little different. 

Which is why you almost don’t notice, when what he says one night is;

“Really do lock them, this time. Your windows.”

Something flashes in his expression as soon as he’s said it. A flicker of realization, sharp and volatile and impossibly fast, and then his whole face does something you’ve never seen before– it hardens, and it shuts off, and it goes cold.

Your heartbeat pitches up in your chest until it feels like it’s beating in the hollow of your throat, fluttering there like bird’s wings, and your breath catches. It’s only the smallest amount, so little that you can barely hear it, but you know— somehow— that he can. That he notices. That he can tell. Even though his expression stays utterly empty, frozen still and serene like the unbroken surface of a deep, depthless lake— you just know. It’s something in the pit of your stomach, or the base of your spine, or maybe neither of those places, maybe starting in your hindbrain, that base and unthinking instinct that can sense the presence of a threat even before the rational parts of your consciousness have registered it. Whatever it is, it’s flooding your body with adrenaline, like somebody had pulled a fire alarm in a multi-story building, the warning siren wailing and the emergency lights flashing and the inhabitants all scattering towards the exit signs.

 Except, in this analogy, you’re not the people, you think. You’re more like the building; stationary, unable to run. 

“Okay,” you say, slow and small and strangely calm, “You always say that. Why?”

A muscle in his jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say a word. Just stands there, silent, like a statue, his eyes flat and cold and devoid of anything at all.

You think of a lot of things you haven’t in a while. The knife and the blood and the Winter Soldier.

Inside of you, something twists— something that, you think, might be fear.

(Something that isn’t.)

Your mind is racing. Your thoughts— they’re scattered and fragmentary and moving so fast you can’t hold onto them, connected by some subconscious thread of understanding that you can’t see. 

What you can see, though, is how Bucky’s still looking at you, his eyes vacant and empty and his expression so lifeless he looks catatonic; it’s not like he’s forced himself into some impassive and impenetrable detachment as much as it looks like he’s torn out everything inside and crushed it into nothing, ground it into the dirt, anything he might think or feel. Left this emptied-out imitation of himself, like a shell. Like a skeleton. Like that very first time, the husk of the pomegranate, the wilted, waxy skin, with all of the red stripped clean—and it startles you, how vehemently some part of you reacts to it. Thinks, a little desperately; no. Please don’t do that. Please come back. 

“Bucky,” you say, on purpose, after he’s been silent for a long time, careful to keep your voice soft; he flinches, a brief, slight thing that’s almost imperceptible, a fissure splitting across whatever facade he’s put on. Something inside of you clings to it, evidence that he’s still even there at all, that he hasn’t shut himself off from you completely. 

He makes this low sound, and he finally moves, just a little, shifts his weight and drags his palm down the lower half of his face. 

“I just want to know that you’re–  safe,” he manages, his voice carefully flat, not really admitting to anything, not explicitly, but this weightless trembling shock of adrenaline pierces right through your belly, anyways.“That’s– that’s all.”

You swallow. Your throat feels tight, your chest, too, like your muscles have all constricted, like your lungs can’t expand fully. You’re suddenly aware of the sound of your own breathing, aware that something must be off about it, that it’s coming too fast or too shallow or just somehow wrong, because it feels like you’re not getting enough air. And maybe that explains it, the way that you feel right now, dizzy and breathless and strangely numb, like your brain is just– shut off. Or, no, maybe it’s not, maybe it’s the opposite, maybe it’s working so fast you can’t make sense of any of it, all of your thoughts blurring out into this long indecipherable stretch of white noise.  

Maybe, you think, distantly, maybe you’re just– overreacting. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe you’re overworked and overtired and all of this is just a very long, very strange list of uncanny coincidences.

(But also— maybe not.)

“But I’m not, like–” your voice cracks, and you have to clear your throat, force yourself to focus on steadying it when you continue, “You don’t think I’m– in danger, or anything, right?

Bucky opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. 

“No,” he says, his voice something worse than hoarse, like it’d been ripped to shreds, like you’d carved the word right out of his mouth.

He looks like he might say something else, but you cut him off before he can. The way that he seems right now– you’re afraid that if he speaks again it might be something terribly final. I shouldn’t, he’d said, once, and meant it like he should go, and not come back. Meant it like goodbye.

“Okay,” you blurt out, before you can even think; because, you realize, you don’t want that, you do not want that at all, and that matters to you much more than whatever may or may not be happening right now. You don’t want him to leave and you don’t want things to change and you want everything to stay exactly the same as it’s been, and you would do anything– rationalize anything– to make sure of it, to have the assurance that he’s not going to just disappear, that you wouldn’t just wake up tomorrow to a world in which you'd never see him again. You’d do it in a heartbeat. 

(You’ve done it already. Ignored things that, you think, maybe you shouldn’t have. Lots of them, that perpetual voice in the back of your head supplies– so, really, even if you are right, even if you’re not being paranoid, what’s one more?)

“Then it’s fine,” you tell him, forcing your voice to be as steady as you can make it. “It’s— I’ll lock it, I will, as soon as I get inside, and– and everything will be fine, okay? You won’t have to worry anymore.”

You glance down at your feet, the pavement, huscuffing your shoe against the sidewalk, toeing at a crushed, dirt-caked bottlecap wedged into a crack in the asphalt, just to give yourself an outlet for your nerves. Waiting for him to say— anything. 

He doesn’t say a word.

“I gotta go to bed, it’s pretty late,” you say, after a while. You look back up at him. You wonder if he’d even taken his eyes off you at all. “I’ll—I’ll see you next week, though?”

His face twists up, just for a second, his brow raising, furrowing in, his eyes gone wide and round and stricken, before he seems to notice the shift in his expression and forces it to smoothen out again. “If— if you still do,” he says, “Then— I’ll— yeah.”

He starts saying something else, but you say, “I do,” before he’s even got the first syllable out. 

He stares at you for a long moment before he responds, and it takes everything you have to hold his gaze, not to blink or flinch or look away. 

Maybe you should, you think. 

Maybe you should have been doing that the whole time. 

~

At night, you replay everything, alone in your bedroom. In the absence of that nervous adrenaline you’d felt down on the street, it all kind of seems silly. Bucky knows you; he knows that you’re a terminal procrastinator and he knows that you’re always really tired after work and he knows that you never really took it seriously, the thing with the windows. It’s not so outlandish to think he’d just– guessed, and guessed right, and then felt bad about having anxiety, the way he, historically, feels bad about ever having any kind of visible emotion that’s considered less-than-palatable. And all of the things about his behavior that your brain had taken as evidence otherwise, it had been so subtle that you could barely be certain that there’d been anything there at all. He gives you so little to go off of, it’s like it renders your rational mind utterly useless, the scraps of information you feel like you have to fight to even get in the first place arranging themselves into absolutely nothing.

All you have, then, is your gut. Your instinct.

You glance over at the window. The curtain is open, and you can see the moon between the silhouettes of the buildings across the street, hanging pearlescent and full against the backdrop of the night, like the globe of an eye. Milky and opaque and sightless. Blind. 

You really should lock it.

Yeah, you think, yeah, you probably should. But– just because you’d promised. Tomorrow you’ll do that, before you go to work, and then Bucky won’t have to worry anymore, and everything will be fine.

You tell yourself this, firmly, like that will make it true.

Everything will be fine.

~

In your dream, the eye of the moon in the window has a pupil, endless and blacker than the night sky, blown out so wide the iris around it is just this slender, paper-thin ring of color.

Blue.

You wake up in the middle of the night with a start, your blanket kicked down into a twisted heap at the foot of your bed, your bare legs and the stretch of your exposed stomach where your shirt had ridden up in your sleep staring back at you accusingly, every inch of your skin burning up and running hot like you’re fighting a fever. You’d fallen asleep without getting up to close the curtain, something you normally do in the spring and summer when the sun rises before you wake up; you tell yourself it’s just that you’re not in the habit yet, haven’t gotten used to needing to bother, because it’d been winter. But it’s the middle of the night and your body temperature feels like it’s skyrocketing and your pulse is so loud in your ears you can hear it, and when you try to lie to yourself it’s like your brain just won’t let you.

You’re shaking, you realize. 

You’re not even a little bit cold.

You force yourself up out of bed on unsteady feet and you move to the window and you don’t lock it, you don’t even think to, but you do, shamefully, draw the curtains closed. 

When you lay back flat in your bed you pull up your blanket, even though your skin is sticky and glinting with a faint sheen of sweat. You draw it up over your whole body, your head, too, and only when it’s covering you completely do you finally slip your fingers past the elastic of your underwear. The thoughts rush back again and you fall right into them, his name in your mouth; even if you can’t quite bring yourself to say it aloud, just holding the silent shape of it on your tongue and so close to your teeth, feels like this terrible, bloody secret—Bucky. Bucky. Bucky—

You come quickly, so quickly, well before the air starts to feel thin, but you still gasp for a breath when you throw off the blanket after, like you’d been suffocating. You force your lungs to expand out far past what feels natural, filling them until your chest starts to burn and then holding it for as long as you can.

You exhale, horribly unsteady, and draw in another, slower breath–

There’s a sound, from outside, like something scraping against brick, and your breathing— it catches, so hard you nearly choke on it.

You burrow deeper into your blanket, trembling, your whole body alight with adrenaline and your brain telling you that you’re being paranoid and something deeper telling you– or wishing, hoping, which is maybe even worse– that you’re not. That it’s–

You can’t bring yourself to think it, not even in the privacy of your own head, but you don’t even have to. Whatever brief and shallow feeling of satisfaction you’d felt– it’s already gone, like it’s evaporated, and that feverish, trembling warmth has flooded right back.

-

You think you might be afraid of Bucky Barnes. You’re pretty sure you should be.

(You know, though, deep down– you know you’re not.)

#bucky barnes x reader #fic; drops of blood #please tell me why this is going to finish at like 4 chapters/45k #HOWWWW! #it does not feel that long when I'm writing it

[rocksibblingsau]

Okay so Classical trolls have love letters and that “can I have your hand in marriage” thing going on with confessions, so do the other tribes have any kind of confession ideals? (I forgot the word for cultural traits)

Techno Trolls have special kandi patterns for romantic partners! Y'know how some animals are really colorful to attract mates? Techno Troll romance is colorful. Their wedding outfits are colorful (as opposed to the classic white gown/black tux).

Confessions vary with them but exchanging kandi is a major part of it! They might also make you a playlist about how much they love you.

Country Trolls value practicality. They're very straightforward with their feelings but there's also the family to consider. Country Trolls value the family over the self a bit and so you're not only asking out one troll but the whole family essentially. You sit down with them for dinner and put everything out there.

Hospitality is also big with country trolls. Offering practical gifts and hosting a perfect dinner is vital to courting. It's also their preferred love language. Sure getting flowers is nice but they value gifts of food, clothes, tools and things they need.

Rock Trolls can swing between 'grand displays of epicness' and "hey you wanna date me? ...cool". As a tribe with a lot of subcultures, Rock Trolls have a lot of different views and 'traditions' for dating. A classic is 'holding a boombox over your head outside their window'.

Rock Trolls don't always fully define relationships too, so sometimes wires can be crossed and you show up to what you think is a party only to find out you're getting married to your apparent boyfriend of seven years.

Funk Trolls favor earnestness over any displays. Asking someone out is a pretty casual affair, but where you take them and what you do should be more tailored to their tastes. Are they into space? Take them stargazing or out for a quick visit to the moon. They favor smaller displays that show the other pays attention to them over anything else. Maybe you notice their hands are always cracking so you buy them moisturizer. Maybe they mentioned once they like the scent of lavender, so you start incorporating it into things like candles, desserts, perfumes, etc.

Pop is actually very similar to our own standards. Flowers, chocolates, sappy poems and notes, a swan ride in the lake with music. If it'd make Barb say 'puke' then it'll win you a pop troll.

#sibblings qna #sibblings au #rock troll culture #techno troll culture #funk troll culture #country troll culture

[nonclassyparty]

man with the plan (j.wy) - chapter 1.

Summary: "Don't forget Pretty, I'm serving life plus one. So if I get busted for attempted escape, I'll throw in a homicide in there as well with no problem, that’s like a parking ticket to me." When your brother ends up in jail for a murder he didn't commit, the only thing left for you to do is to find a way to break him out. But after a perfect plan is set in motion, you don't expect a romantic variable to get added into the equation.

Pairing: jung wooyoung x fem. reader, jeong yunho x reader (but if u squint)

Status: in progress

Word count: 6k

Warnings: blood, cursing, violence, men being well men!

Taglist: @tinyjuni @hazysan @atinytinaa @tenebrisirae @doggopepper @dazzlingstarrs @lavishloving @cherrypandora @silentcry329 @jeagerist-20 @myunvillage @manipulatedstars @bitteryu @maru-matt @bubbleteakittyy @joonsthethicc

A/N: hello everyone! welcome to the first chapter, before you start reading i just really wanted to say that some of the parts are kind of corny, i usually hate writing know-it-all characters finding it cringy most of the times so push through pleek lol as i said before in the prologue; this is inspired by prison break, a lot of the dialogue is taken from there as well as most of y/n's characterization so all credits go to them! i just wanted to write this bc i thought it would be a fun little thing and something that could include all of the members in more detail all while still remaining a wooyoung focused story! the story is set in 2005-ish btw! i hope you enjoy <3 -bree

my main masterlist // playlist // moodboard // ao3

prologue // masterlist // chapter 2

Chapter 1; I'm headed straight for the castle, they wanna make me their queen

It was weird to walk through the entrance designated for the employees instead of the visitors.

Your boss, Mrs. Ahn, was walking in front of you while Minho was following closely behind, looking over his shoulder like somebody was about to run across the empty yard, jump over the wired fence and shank him. He was always a little bit of a wimp.

It was barely past seven in the morning, the prisoners weren't allowed to be out of their cells yet so the empty yard covered in fog had a deeply eerie feeling to it. Just as the ride inside the hills where the compound was set. 

Trees, fog and silence all around.

"I hope they have good security around here." Minho mutters to you, hands stuffed inside the pockets of his coat as you neared the door to the building.

"Relax, Minho," You chuckle, as you slide through the door he holds open for you, "You'll be here for an hour tops."

"I'm saying for your sake, Y/N. I've still to see any women working in here." His voice is scolding and all you can do is chuckle again.

The inside of the building where the infirmary is conjoined with the warden's chambers and staff offices is a huge difference to the chilling October air and your cheeks immediately turn pink as they embrace the much needed warmth. 

You observe the yet unfamiliar halls that were empty as it was still early in the morning. Mrs. Ahn insisted that you left the office earlier than necessary, afraid that Minho would get lost somewhere between the hills and the deep forest that surrounded the compound.

"Oh, see." You nudge Minho, staring in the direction of the infirmary halls where a middle aged woman was walking around with a clipboard. You grin at him in triumph. "A woman."

You ignore the set of curious eyes from the same halls that you know follow behind you.

-

"Why you'd want to work here is beyond me." Mrs. Ahn comments with her arms crossed as she stares through the window, lips pursued as she observes the yard that was now filled out by the inmates, doing whatever they do in their free time.

"Someone has to do it." You look up at her from your place behind the desk with a small smile. Minho was outside, near the construction site negotiating with the workers that were supposed to drive over the materials in an hour.

"Y/N, you know very well what I mean." She harps at you, "With your qualifications and capabilities, something like this...supervising a construction site? In a prison no less? It's something JJ with half of his degree could do." She huffs when you just stubbornly stare at her without a word, "It's below you. Let's not even mention how potentially dangerous it could be, these people are animals."

You sigh, eyes falling to the blueprints of the new construction, what they're going to call the 'C-building' of the compound.

"You should be going to Tokyo with me. Working on skyscrapers and million dollar deals, not wasting time here."

"It's only a couple of months." You quietly muse, swallowing down your true thoughts, "I won't miss out on too much."

She stays quiet and for a long second, you start thinking she finally dropped it.

"I know it's because of your...." Mrs. Ahn starts trails off, voice laced in sympathy. When the thing with Jongho happened, she advised you to not exactly scream the fact that he's your brother from the rooftops. "But Y/N, you won't be able to talk to him any more than you could during visitations. What do you plan on gaining from this? I know he's your only family, I know how much he means to you but...if anything, aren't you only making it worse for yourself?"

"I don't plan on gaining anything from it." You chuckle softly, leaning back in your chair in defeat as you stare at her. "I'd just like to, I don't know, see what he's doing over the day? When he's in the yard, that is. I'm aware of the circumstances but this opportunity appeared and I just couldn't let it pass me up."

The double meaning to the words was a little inside joke that only you were in on so far.

She quiets down again, returning her attention to the view from the window.

"Supervising a construction site is a shitty job, just so you know. Especially as a woman. The construction workers won't be much better than the damn inmates, acting like they haven't seen a woman in years." She glances at you from the corner of her eyes, "They won't take you seriously, they'll try to intimidate you."

You grin at her, "I can handle them."

Her mouth perks up at the corners as she looks at you. "I know you can."

The little moment is interrupted by Minho walking into the room and observing it in obvious disdain.

The office you've been given is not bigger than a storage room, located on the third floor with nothing more than a bookshelf, desk and an old worn out chair. It's stuffy and the walls are old, probably collecting mold in the corners. 

Much different that your modern and spacious office back in Seoul.

"Well, it's definitely something..." Minho trails off, glancing at you and you have to let out a laugh at his obvious attempt to not offend you. Even Mrs. Ahn chuckles.

"Are you done out there?" She asks him and he nods quickly, collecting his briefcase from the chair in front of your desk that he left it on.

"All done. The materials arrived, half of the workers are here and the other half is arriving in the afternoon. Something about a limited amount of workers being allowed during yard time." Minho explains, fixing the scarf around his neck before sighing.

"We should get going then." Mrs. Ahn says, looking at you with the same scolding look again and all you do is give her a small tight-lipped smile.

"I'll walk you guys out." You pitch in, standing up to pull your coat on.

The halls are already more lively than when you walked in this morning, two officers are conversing by the door and they nod at you three in passing. You give them a smile.

The air is still cold outside, only it's not as quiet this time around. Yells and curses from the basketball court echo through the area from one side along with the construction workers moving the beams off of the trucks from the other.

Minho turns to you and with another sigh, throws his arms around you. You let out a giggle in his embrace as he mutters, "Please, for the love of God, be careful in here."

"You're so dramatic." You say as you pull away, taking a step back. "I'll be fine. Keep my office warm while I'm gone."

"Of course." He nods. 

You give Mrs. Ahn a small wave and she only nods in response before you watching them both walk away through the tall gate that swiftly shuts behind them.

Now, you're on your own.

On instinct, your head immediately turns to the yard not even forty meters away from the building your office is in. A tall, steel wire surrounds the enormous grass surface, small basketball court is set near the middle of one wall that the wire makes, benches are spread across the yard generously, most of them occupied.

You hear someone whistle at you but you pay them no attention, mind set on finding a specific someone. 

Your brother isn't in there, you wonder where the fuck is he but for right now, Jongho isn't the one you're looking for.

Most of the convicts in the yard are separated into small groups, gangs, and the blue uniforms aren't a help to making a distinction between them by any means. 

Until you spot a certain messy black and white head of hair sitting on the highest bench with six other men surrounding him like a kingpin.

You sniffle, nose starting to run from the cold before turning around and heading to the construction site on the opposite end of the compound, far away from the yard or the A and B buildings where the original prison cells were located.

"Good morning." You greet the group of men, shuffling around the site with tools and materials. You get a couple of murmurs of greetings in return.

You glance at the two guards sticking near the site, in case something happens, that's what the warden said as you've been told.

That's how the morning passes, they work and you do what you're supposed to; you supervise.

Mrs. Ahn was right, these men don't take you seriously. They snicker at every suggestion you make, ogle at you when they think you aren't looking and get way too close when they need to speak to you.

 You could use it to your advantage, play the pretty ditz skipping around the site on the daily. Would surely make your job easier.

It's just that if there's one thing you hate more than your brother getting falsely accused of murder and you having to devise a detailed plan on breaking him out of prison; it's people underestimating you.

"Can someone hand me that trowel over there?!" A guy crouching a few feet away from you shouts over his shoulder, your lips quirk up as you quickly jump to your feet. Finally! 

"Here." You hand him the trowel and he glances at you before taking it. You cock your head. "Is everything okay?"

"This whole thing is about to tip over, I need to stabilize it." He speaks loudly, smacking on some more mortar to the brick.

"Maybe if you listened to me when I told you-"

"How about you let me do my job, sweetheart?" He scoffs and another guy a couple of feet away snickers.

You pursue your lips, swallowing down the annoyance before shrugging. 

"Fine, when it starts caving in because it's not attached to the foundation properly and inevitably causes problems for the water and heat isolation which in turn can cause a serious line of health issues, you and your buddy over there can laugh in court over it since you'll be listed as one of the people responsible for it." You lean closer to him, "Because I'll remember your fucking name, Mr. Kim Seojoon."

He stiffens, looking over his shoulder again to meet your gaze. His eyes shoot up to something behind your shoulder before he looks back to you and then towards the very obviously shit job he's done in the past three hours he's been here.

"Tear it down and start again." You spit out before straightening out.

When he notices that you're not moving from your spot of hovering over his shoulders, Kim Seojoon, starts tearing down whatever mess he managed to slap up. You hum in content before turning around on your heels to walk away.

"You'll have to forgive my boys." A voice stops you in your tracks and you turn your head to the left to come face to face to a man that looks to be in his mid-fifties, seemingly the oldest one out of the bunch and by the blueprints stacked in his arms, the boss around here. "They're not used to taking orders from anyone that looks quite like you or is as young as you. They probably expected a drunkard to be supervising in a place like this."

You shrug, "Well, unfortunately for them, they got me."

He laughs, mustache stretching over his top lip. "I'll make sure he fixes it."

"Thank you, Mr...?"

"Cho Hayoon, miss." He holds out a rough hand to you and you gracefully accept it.

"I'm Y/N." You say with a small smile before dropping his hand. "I'll leave you to your work then, Mr. Cho."

He gives you a nod in return and you attempt to move away before something glistening in the ground makes you stop in your tracks.

"What's this?" You mutter, kneeling down and curling your hand around the piece of tin stuck in the ground hard enough until it breaks through the skin of your palm and you jerk your hand away with a yelp. "Shit!"

"Are you okay?" You look up to see one of the officers walk closer towards you.

"Yeah, I, uh, I cut myself on this piece of trash." You spit out staring down the tin stuck into the ground as you show him the gash on your palm where blood already started trickling down.

He looks down at it before turning his attention to you, "You should probably get that checked out at the infirmary." Your heart skips a beat. "Wouldn't want you to bleed out, huh?"

You bite your lip, "You're sure I'm allowed to use it? Isn't it just for prisoners?"

He smiles at you, looking a good ten years your senior, "Of course, you're allowed to use it."

You look towards the entrance of the building where you know the infirmary is before hesitating. He notices it, smile growing bigger. Nothing like a guy that loves playing hero.

"You scared to go alone? There's no inmates there at this time of day."

"I just, uh, would you mind taking me there? I'm not sure I even know where the infirmary is. Wouldn't want to get lost, y'know?" You ask, lips quirking up gently as you look up at him.

He smiled so big someone else would've thought you ripped open your shirt and showed him your tits.

"Of course, this way." He motions in the direction of the infirmary before you both start walking.

You hold back a smirk.

Everyone loves a damsel in distress.

-

"Doc, I got a patient for you!" The officer, Eunwoo is his name (you learned that because he made sure to slip it in a few times in the one minute walk to the infirmary), calls out knocking on the door of the small infirmary.

"Send him in!" A voice is heard from the other side and the guard chuckles sparing you another overly friendly glance before pulling the door open. 

"It's actually a her." The officer, Eunchae-whatever the fuck, comments as he walks in with you following.

The doctor looks confused doing a quick glance before it turns in a double glance when he spots you by the door.

Your blood is simmering below your skin as you take him in. 

A good four inches taller than you, dressed in scrubs and a white coat with a stethoscope hanging under the collar of it. It's him. The most important key to a ticket out of here with your brother's name labeled on it.

"What happened?" His voice is raspier than you would've imagined as he motions for you to sit on the chair next to his desk.

The officer opens his mouth but you're quicker, showing him your bloody hand, "Accident at the construction site." 

You tell him quietly, voice almost shy.

He glances at your face before nodding taking your hand into his hold as he removes the tissues you've clumsily wrapped around the wound.

His hands are warm, slightly calloused but nice looking. Long fingers with neatly trimmed nails. And there was always something attractive about a man with visible veins running up his hands. Hm!

"Uh, miss," The guard coughs but neither you nor the handsome doctor seem to pay much attention to him. "You want me to stay with yo-"

"No." You interrupt without even a second glance at him, eyes not moving from the doctor's concentrated face.

The officer looks like he wants to say more, a little peeved that all your attention was occupied by the young doctor but he doesn't instead he awkwardly turns around and leaves you two alone, closing the door shut behind himself.

Thank you Eunwoo but you've served your purpose.

"Need to clean this, to make sure nothing got inside the wound or you'll be in trouble." The doctor says, voice still raspy, still pleasant as his hands gently work on your wound.

You only hum in response, eyes starting to roam around the room. Observing the big windows along with the metal bars laid over them, then the square water drainage under the sink to your right and lastly, they fall back to the doctor's face.

You've spent a lot of time digging out information about him. 

You've seen his senior photos, high school graduation photos, photos of ceremonies and galas he's attended with his father, photos from his own charity work that gets plastered all over the newspaper because charity work is just that special when he's the one doing it.

And you have to admit, none of the photos do him justice.

His hair is longer now, black and covering the nape of his neck. He has piercings up both ears, shiny jewelry dangling off of them. Honey-like skin without any visible blemishes, cute nose and full lips that seem chapped from the cold. 

You never noticed the mole below his eye and a matching one on his bottom lip in the photos. They give his face even more charm.

He was gorgeous.

"Tattoo looks fresh." His voice interrupts you from inner musings and it's then that you notice his dark eyes trailing the lines on your right arm which was left bare once you rolled up the sleeve of your shirt up to your elbow.

You suck in a sharp breath before giving him a small, soft smile. Here goes nothing.

"Sorry about this, the last thing I want to do is be an inconvenience but...there was a lot of blood." You chuckle breathlessly which causes him to look up at you with his lips curled up in a small smile. "Thank you for doing this."

"No worries, it's quite literally my job." It's his time to chuckle, smile growing wider as he presses a cotton pad soaked in something to the gash that ran across your palm and fuck, he had a pretty smile. 

"You seemed like you were busy..."

"Nah," He shakes his head, eyes rooted on the wound, "Was just going over patient records. It's fine, I treat the staff here sometimes."

You pursue your lips, eyes drawn to his face again. "I'm Y/N, by the way."

He nods, brows jumping up a little as he picks up his head, like he's already aware of who you are. "The new supervisor for the construction site, I've heard."

"And you are?" You ask, a flirty smile blooming across your features as you look at him through your lashes.

"Doctor Jung Wooyoung." He holds your gaze a millisecond longer which is all you needed.

"Jung like the governor?" You ask, heart soaring in thrill when you feel his hands still on your own. You can't help yourself. "You have the same last name as the governor, you sort of look like him as well."

He, Wooyoung, stays quiet and opts to work on your wound instead.

You cock your head to the side, "You're not related, are you?"

Again, silence.

You let out a small hum, mouth curling as you look at the dirty tissues pilling up on the desk in front of you.

"Wouldn't think you'd find the son of frontier justice Jung Myungdae working in a prison." You comment in an almost taunting voice, rich boys who pretended like they cared about the lower classes and were different than their snobby peers always being a little bit of a joke to you, before turning your attention back to him. "As a doctor no less."

You can hear him let out a sharp breath, head picking up to look at you as a fleeting look of being uncomfortable washes over his face.

"I believe in being a part of the solution, not the problem." Doctor Jung says decidedly and you hum again, eyes falling to the way he gently holds the back of your hand with one hand while he holds the gauze with another.

"Be the change that you want to see in the world." You recite with a nod, still staring at the wound on your palm but noticing the way the comment seemed to strike him. You look at him, not being able to contain the smile on your face when you catch him staring at you. "What?"

He shakes his head, lips pursued like he's holding back a smile. "Nothing. That was just my senior quote."

I know, I had your senior photos glued to my window.

You raise your brows in playful disbelief. "That was you? This whole time I was thinking it was Ghandi."

That gets a laugh out of him. It's a nice sound, slightly higher in pitch but sort of endearing.

"Funny." He comments sparing you another smile and going back to wrapping the gauze around your palm.

Once he's done, you let your bandaged up hand lay on your lap as you watch him stand up.

"Sit tight, I'll get you some painkillers because that's bound to hurt for the next couple of hours." He says before leaving you alone in the room. 

Once he's out of your sight, you pull out a small origami dove out of the pocket of your pants and quickly walk over to kneel down next to the sink, slipping it through the slats of the grate for the water drainage before returning to your place.

Half a minute later, Doctor Jung reenters the room with a glass of water in one hand and painkillers in the other.

"Here you go." He hands them to you and you down them obediently before giving him a grateful look.

"Thank you again for this." You sigh, standing up from the chair and running your healthy hand through your hair before smiling, "Hope I didn't take too much of your time."

"I already told you it's not a problem." He responds with a smile of his own, eyes feeling unusually pleasant on you.

"Well, I'll let you go back to your patient records, then." You say, inching closer to the door.

"If you need anything else, feel free to drop by." Doctor Jung's voice softly calls after you and it makes you pause in your steps as you turn to look at him over your shoulder.

"Then I guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other then." You boldly tell him, enjoying the way he obviously tries to bite back a grin.

"Guess so." He responds, eyes boring into your own.

With one last smile, you disappear through the door and head up the stairs leading to your shitty office.

You will be just perfect, Jung Wooyoung.

-

Schweitzer 

Allen 

11121147

You stare at the writing tattooed on the inner part of your lower right arm, fingers anxiously tapping against the hard surface of your office desk before a knock causes you to lower the sleeve of your shirt as your head snaps to the door.

"Come in."

"Miss, the warden would like to see you." The warden's assistant, Soojin gives you a kind smile which you return, standing up and quickly straightening your outfit before following her through the door and down the hallway.

The section with the offices for administration (and now, you) was on the third floor of the infirmary building and almost completely protected from any spaces where convicts might roam around by locked bars placed on the halls going after the staircases.

And while your office was shitty, the warden's was definitely not. 

You observe the spacious room and the big oak table the older man sits behind as he smiles at you invitingly and offers you a seat.

"Did you settle in accordingly, miss L/N?" The warden asks and you nod comfortably.

"Yes, sir. I plan on being very diligent and making sure everyone does a good job."

"Good, good." He nods his head before a look of hesitation crosses his face that immediately causes your nerves to flare up. "This might seem extremely unprofessional and definitely out of character for me as I don't do it often but I'm in need of a little help, you're a structural engineer, correct?"

You tilt your head to the side, brows furrowing, "Yes, sir."

He clears his throat, pushing his chair back to stand up. "Follow me."

You follow the older man as he walks across his face to the door on the opposite wall of the entrance which you've mistaken for a closet so far. He motions for you to enter first and you do, your mouth can't help but part in slight awe.

You stare at the model of the Taj Mahal propped up on a huge table in the middle of the spacious room connected to the warden's office, surrounded by windows from one side entirely, the light seeps through the model beautifully and you admire it quietly.

"Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal as a monument to his undying love for his wife. My wife is quite fond of the story. It appeals to the romantic side of her." He smiles at you, "Being married to someone on corrections, it's a terrible job, wouldn't wish it on anybody. And yet, in thirty-nine years my wife has never complained and the worst part is I've never thanked her. So because I couldn't say it I thought, you know, I could build it. In January, it's our fortieth anniversary. Well here, look." The warden bends down to look into the base of the structure and you copy his movements, peering inside.

 "The problem is, I build anymore and it's all going to come down like a house of cards. That's where I was hoping you could be of assistance. Obviously, it would be a favor for a favor. I don't know what you would need, new furniture for your office? New heater? I know everything in there is rusty..." He trails off, eyes glinting with pleads.

It felt like Christmas came a month earlier to you.

"Actually, I have something else in mind."

"What? What is it?" He shakes his head, urging you to speak.

"You see your eight wonder of the world might collapse since the stress isn't propagated properly." You inform him with an innocent smile as the warden frowns.

"Propagated properly?"

You nod. "Propagated properly.  The joints are overloaded. They won't provide anywhere near the strength the completed structure will need."

The older man looks at you in mild concern before turning to the model, something he very obviously placed a lot of effort into. "How much work are we talking about?"

"When did you say you need it to be done? January?" You ask, circling around the model again. The warden lets out a small 'yes' and you hum, "Then we better get started then, I'll help you out for an hour every day."

The warden's face lights up in relief and you have to hide the shakiness in your voice as you continue. You clear your throat; "In return, I'd like to be approved weekly visitations to my brother."

The smile on his face freezes for a moment before melting away completely and getting replaced by a deep frown.

"Your brother?"

You gulp down the nerves and wipe your clammy hands on the back of your pants, nodding, "My brother, Choi Jongho."

"Choi Jongho is your brother?!" The warden asks, voice laced with utter disbelief and your eyes fall immediately to the carpeted floor. "How the hell was I not aware of this?"

"I took my mother's last name after I graduated from college." You offer quietly, mustering up the balls to look at the man in the eyes, "It's not like I was hiding it or anything but...it never came up. I didn't exactly learn when was the right moment to say that my brother was one of the inmates in the jail where I'd be sent to supervise the construction site."

"You know you're not allowed visitations if you're a staff member, right?" He asks, crossing his arms over his chest as he gives you a strict look.

"I know but... I'm not a permanent staff member." Your voice drops in volume as your eyes start to burn, "And I'd really just like to see him once a week just like everybody else is allowed. He's my only family, sir."

The warden's eyes soften once he catches sight of your eyes glistening with tears. 

Your nails dig into the wound on your palm.

He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before sighing, then he starts pacing up and down the length of the room which might be a good indicator that he's actually considering it. 

You dig your nails harder into the wound and the first tear drops, you sniffle.

"The reason I took this job was...I felt like I'd be a little bit closer to him for a short period of time. He's my older brother, he took care of me when no-one else did," You sniffle again, feeling a nail punch through the thick gauze of the gash on your palm. Another tear. "I thought, just being able to look at see him through the window when he plays basketball would be nice but then they told me I wasn't allowed visitations and by then, it was to late to change my mind."

You discover that Chungju Detention Center's warden hated seeing young girls cry.

"That's all you ask for? Nothing else?" He breaks the silence after a long moment of consideration, "Wouldn't a new heater for your office be better, it gets cold during the winters here."

You quickly shake your head, "J-just visitations to my brother."

He's quiet again before he finally lets out a deep sigh.

"Alright but it can't be longer than ten minutes, do you hear?" He asks and you nod, eyes growing in size as your head snaps up to look at him. "And the moment I hear about any funny business, it's over. Do you understand me?"

"Absolutely," You nod with innocent, big eyes. The tears miraculously stopping their flow all of a sudden. "No funny business."

He observes you for a second longer before finally allowing you to leave his quarters.

You let out a big exhale on your way out, staring at the blood that managed to run through the gauze on your palm.

-

You were trouble.

That's all the conclusion Wooyoung could come to as he stared at you, leaning against the doorframe of the infirmary with your bag slung over your shoulder, coat folded over your arm and a smile on your face that made his head spin.

"Hey." You greet him, voice mellow and sounding lightly tired as you lean your head against the frame as well.

"Hey," Play it cool, you're a grown man. "How was the first day?"

"It was good, a little unexpectedly boring almost." You answer him with a smirk and he clears his throat before he started staring at your full lips without the option of looking away being in his books apparently and inevitably got caught.

"What did you expect?" Wooyoung lets out a light laugh, crossing his arms over his chest as he sits at the corner of his messy desk. "Shootouts  and heads getting bashed in all day long?"

You giggle, pearly white teeth on full display as you nod, "I was expecting a lot more yelling and screaming at least."

"Hey, we have some quiet times in here as well. Give it a day or two, though."

You chuckle again before shaking your head, hand coming up to brush your hair from your face and in the meantime, showing off the tattoo you had on your other arm as well.

And as Wooyoung was a red-blooded healthy male, of course, his mind started wandering on just how far the tattoos went.

God, you are trouble, you are so much fucking trouble.

He should've been kind of pissed off at you when you brought up his father but...how the hell could he be?

He saw the way the other guards stared at you, how the one who walked you into the infirmary this morning was almost salivating with his eyes glued to you and just how much Wooyoung's ego skyrocketed when you told the guard he can fuck off because he was there now. He obviously wasn't the only one affected here!

With your pants that hugged your waist and thighs perfectly, the shirt that accentuated your cleavage and it's two intentionally popped open buttons , the thin necklace decorating your collarbones, the tattoos (God, the tattoos), long hair that smelled like vanilla to whoever got close enough, a smile that definitely knew of its effect on other people and eyes that seemed like nothing ever phased them.

Wooyoung liked trouble sooooo much.

"I wanted to, um, ask for a favor." Your soft voice interrupts his current train of thoughts and he raised his brows in question.

"What?"

"I, uh, I'm a Type 1 Diabetic." You tell him, straightening out your posture in a way that tells Wooyoung that you might be nervous for some reason. You give him an awkward chuckle which he finds kind of cute. "And I'd get my daily shots at a doctor's office on my way to and from work every day since my own office was close by."

"Mhm..." He tilts his head in curiosity. He wonders where you used to work, did you drive a car? Wooyoung used to work in the center of Seoul as well! Did you two ever ride the same train downtown? 

"And that's no longer an option anymore since, well, I have to be here every morning so I have to leave, like, an hour earlier at least." You bite your lip, pretty eyes meeting his own, "I was wondering if you'd be able to do it here? Obviously, I don't want to impose on your schedule or anything, I understand if you can't but I thought it might be worth trying. I'd bring my own shots, wouldn't want to steal government resources y'know...heh..."

He notices how you always speak like you're an inconvenience when you need help.

Wooyoung bites back a smile as he watches you ramble before finally finding the heart to interrupt you, "Alright."

Your lips part at that, "You will?"

"Yes," He chuckles, "It's not a big deal, it takes, like, two minutes tops so..."

"Okay, great." You sigh in relief, playing with the bandages on your hand before nodding again. "Thank you. For this and...today, as well."

"It's my job." He's quick to respond out of habit by now, God, he's been out of the game a little too long now. There were, like, five different lines he could've dropped there. He forgot how to flirt.

Or maybe flirting with you seems a bit terrifying if he was honest.

"Right." You chuckle, fixing your bag on your shoulder before smiling at him one last time, "Well, have a good night."

Wooyoung nods, almost a little disappointed that you're leaving already. "You too."

-

Jongho might understand why Jisung decided to wrap that sheet attached to the pipe around his neck and jump from the staircase.

In fact, if he had to listen to this dude, Coin or whatever the fuck, talk about his girlfriend Lim Jiyeon, class 2001 of some damn beauty school in Gangnam with auburn colored hair and perfectly applied lip gloss for one second longer, Jongho just might do the same thing as Jisung.

He was serving a life sentence for something he didn't do, that should be a punishment enough. He already knew there was nothing else to do except to serve time here, nobody else will serve it for him.

But, holy fuck, his new cellmate who invited himself to the seat next to him on this bench, could not keep his mouth shut for a second and Jongho really didn't need this so early in the morning.

"Woah, who's that?" Coin whistles, following someone with his eyes like the sun was shining out of their ass.

"Who?" Jongho mumbles in question not even bothering to turn to the direction his new cellmate was salivating in, thinking it was probably just another stupidity that managed to catch Coin's attention. There's not much to do here, after all...

"That woman." Coin nudges him. Typical, all those woes about his dear girlfriend forgotten at the first sight of another woman. Jongho rolls his eyes, taking a quick glance to where the other man was pointing before turning back around again.

Then he freezes.

Jongho's head whips around in the same direction again, the familiar checkered coat and same hair length making him blink to see if he finally went insane in here.

The walk was the same as well.

His legs, with a mind of his own, started swiftly moving across the yard with Coin yelling something behind him but Jongho ignored it, his only goal to get to that fence even if he had to shovel through the inmates.

"Y/N?" He mumbles to himself, watching the woman move across the gravel, long hair carried to the side by the cold wind. And as if she heard him, she slows down with her steps, turning her head in his direction...

Jongho feels like his heart stopped.

"Y/N?" He asks, this time a bit louder because holy fuck, that's his little sister's face. It's her. It's you!

You don't stop to talk to him, you don't say anything back but Jongho, sure as hell, didn't hallucinate the smile that you throw his way as you continue up the gravel to the building leading to the infirmary.

"You know her?" Coin's deep voice makes him jump in his place, Jongho didn't even notice that the older male was standing right next to him by now.

"Yeah." Jongho whispers, words getting stuck in his throat as he finds it hard to swallow.

"Bro, are you okay?" Coin questions, confused by the way Jongho stared at the building you just disappeared into.

"That's my sister."

And she's definitely up to no good.

#ateez angst #ateez x reader #ateez imagine #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung imagine #wooyoung angst #wooyoung fluff

[hannie-dul-set]

hiii!! tysm for feeding us suar well w those delicious writing 😵‍💫 can I request txt's yeonjun, with the monster x monster hunter trope?? u can add any elements you like, I js love the trope hehe

[monsters don’t hide under the bed]. you have run into a bit of a problem.

“uhm. mr. eldritch horror, sir.”

this morning, you received the alarm that one of the containment chambers got cracked open. level nine threat on the loose. exterminate on sight, said the memo. 

“it’s yeonjun,” it? he? says. “can you move over? i can’t see the screen.”

“oh, sorry.”

but how are you supposed to explain to your boss that the monster you’re supposed to be un-aliving is currently scrolling through your netflix catalog under your blankets?

he’s even wearing your fuzzy socks.

what.

what is this situation?

“hey, it was just getting good!” the television cord is now in your hands, unplugged from the socket. “turn it back on!” he slams a fist onto the comforter, knitted brows over two protesting eyes while the other two underneath them remain closed as the force causes the mattress to bounce. he’s still tucked in your bed, and what you assume are countless swirls of tentacles are hidden underneath the thick blankets.

you never know that otherworldly horrors can throw pouty tantrums like this. had you known, you might have steered yourself into a different career opportunity.

”i apologize, mr. yeonjun but i don’t think this is an appropriate time to be watching hospital playlist.” you let the wire drop onto the floor, walking closer to the foot of the bed with caution. you have a net gun stuffed underneath there somewhere. the problem is how to fish it out unnoticed. “would you like to have some breakfast first? i’m not sure if your diet consists of bacon and eggs, though.”

now, you’re the idiot for trying to fool a creature beyond human comprehension, because the moment you try to feel around with your foot for the trapping weapon, something latches onto your ankle and jerks you up and suspends you into the air.

“shouldn’t you be pretty familiar with the things i like to eat?”

it’s the first time you’re seeing their kind from up close.

it’s the first time you’re seeing them upside down as well.

“if you aren’t then you’re just bad at your job,” he clicks his tongue, a shade of purple and sharp canines peeking out when he does. yeonjun, as he introduced himself earlier, pulls out the gun you were trying you look for earlier with one of his many, many appendages, and tosses it to a corner in the room. he has his arms crossed and is sneering in disappointment. this is one grumpy being. “from what i’ve heard, i thought you’d be smarter than this.”

you blink away the nausea that’s starting to hit. “ah, i see you’re quite informed about me.”

“my friend is well acquainted with you. he doesn’t appreciate how you nearly blew off his head last year.” 

you’re not sure which friend he’s referring to. your annual work reports are usually quite lengthy. “please send them my apologies. it’s just work, nothing personal.”

”i can’t exactly send him a message with he’s trapped in one of your shitty little boxes.

“i can fix that.”

sick. you’re starting to feel sick, but despite this situation being relatively and incomprehensibly insane, there is one thing you are absolutely sure of—

“how about you put me down first and then we’ll talk, yeah?”

that you have zero intentions of dying by the hands of an eldritch monster that’s wearing your fuzzy socks.

#pretty sure this isn't what u were anticipating but sometimes my mind travels and lands itself in these inexplicable places. #blurbs #choi yeonjun x reader #yeonjun x reader #txt x reader #tomorrow x together x reader #choi yeonjun scenarios #yeonjun scenarios #txt scenarios #tomorrow x together scenarios #txt fanfic #choi yeonjun imagines #yeonjun imagines #txt imagines #choi yeonjun x you #yeonjun x you #txt x you

[thoughtsandbones]

Time for Tea?

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!MedicDoc OC (codename: Blue) 💀💙

WARNINGS: Mention of profanity, self harm scars, scars, fluff, medical inaccuracies and just getting the POV of our friendly neighbourhood masked menace.

Plot: Doctor Ruhari Hari Kaur (OC is South Asian ☺️) joins the 141 again, but this time as their doctor. After the betrayal of Shepherd and Graves, Task Force 141 begins their hunt on his whereabouts and locating Makarov.

PLEASE reblog and like! Hope folks are enjoying the series, I am building up characters and plots, cos I have a lot ideas and just been enjoying writing :D

Song inspo: Across the Spider-Verse playlist basically only Spotify

Word count: It's long... sorry, not sorry.

A/N: Flashbacks are getting messed up when I am indenting them and I am getting lots of errors when publishing the work, please bare with some mistakes and spelling issues.

I grew up with the OG MW2 game, so there are some references to the old one, so kind of a mix of both the OG and the new timeline... (Also I'm ignoring the OG Shepherd betrayal and keeping in line the one with the new timeline..)

All rights reserved to the rightful owners of Call of Duty Modern Warfare.

spelling and some grammar mistakes as I am bad at times... :/

(FYI: bold sentences... that are like this... are supposed to describe redacted data/info to the plot... ;] .. )

Please do let me know how you all are finding this fanfic! :D

PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 7, PART 8, PART 9 and PART 10

Part 11

<CUE FLASHBACK> Siberia, Russia, October 12 2010 Day 3- The storm was making it difficult to see where you were going; the harsh sharp wind was piercing through your morf snood, cold needles prick your skin. You breathe out, the moisture cooling the cold around your mouth. "Yer drifting right Blue, come to your left a bit" The Captain said over the radio Looking over to your left you could no longer make out the silhouette of the Captain. "Copy Cap" You say back and change your direction walking left, you see the outline of the Captain emerge. "Stick close, we are nearly there" He said over the radio again "Yes sir" Both of you walked, slightly crouched. The storm bringing in snow, being the perfect cover for the two soldiers infiltrating the base. Up ahead you see barbed wire fencing appear, the silhouette of the buildings of the base coming into view. The Captain puts his hand up, signalling you to stop, you do so. "Here we are Blue" He says "Hanger on the right hand-side of the tarmac Cap?" you say "Aye, make our way through to the left and head to the tarmac where the MiGs are." "Copy Cap" The Captain crouched down, looking left and right, and you followed him "Blue, yer nervous?" The Captain says You look at the back of his head, he doesn't turn, because you know he's looking on the look out. "Staying focused Cap" You respond, trying to keep a cool demeanour. "It's alrigh' to be nervous" The Captain teased "Nervousness produces adrenaline, which is keeping me on high alert for any Russians sir" The Captain chuckled through the radio "Aye, yer nervous" he said "Yer got me, so yer'll good" The Captain added You laugh back "Aye Cap" you mimic his Scottish accent which earned another chuckle over the radio.

"This is Major Perov! Come up with your hands...."

The hiss of that memory electrified your whole body awake. Hot sweats lathered your body, your baggy t-shirt clung to your back and chest making those parts of your t-shirt damp. You can smell the sweat coming off you as you turn to lie on your front.

Not another dream like that again You think, groaning into the pillow. The sticky sweat had seeped through your t-shirt and onto the bed. Running your hand through your hair and down the nape of neck, you could feel the droplets resting on the surface of your skin as they were squashed against your fingertips.

Gross

Getting up, you sit crossed legged on the bed, the sweat on your body going from hot to cold. You shiver. Grabbing the duvet you wrap it around you. You feel the cold within your marrow.

You grab your phone. It was 3:46am. Laying back down on the bed all snuggled with your blanket and sweat ridden shirt. Pondering at the thought of going back to sleep. The bad odour coming off you made you abandon the thought.

Unraveling yourself from the blanket you head to the bathroom, turning the shower on and wait for it to get warm. Taking off your shirt, still damp with sweat and chucking it in the laundry basket. Catching your naked body briefly in the mirror.

Your torso a lighter shade of brown than your arms and neck. You turn your body admiring the right side of your arm and shoulder, flexing the muscles under the skin. The bullet scar curved over the top of your shoulder, the black humerus bone tattoo standing out. These markings make you, you.

The mirror began to steam up from the heat of the shower, stepping in, bracing yourself for the onslaught of hot water droplets that somehow pierced into your skin and warmed your bones directly.

Once you dried yourself and got ready it was 4:26 am, you were hungry but the mess hall wouldn't be open. Price did say he had a small kitchenette next to his office you could use. In your second drawer you grab a mug along with a small bag that contained your emergency stash of tea, sugar and milk sachets. You hoped Price would have fresh milk and tea, but you brought yours just in case.

You put on a black hoodie over your clean grey shirt that was tucked in your black joggers, trying to keep you warm, and your trainers, walking out with your mug, whilst stuffing the your home tea kit in the large pocket of your hoodie.

Damp strands of hair clung to your face as you walked to the kitchenette, putting your AirPods and playing music to drown out of the echo of your dream.

Meanwhile in Price's kitchenette/break room, Simon sat on the sofa, head laying back with a cup of chamomile and lavender tea, it was the smell of this brewed tea that helped calm him from another restless night, he held the mug close to his chest, giving warmth to his heart.

The steam from the mug drifted to his naked face, his mask hitched above his brows. He brought the mug to his lips and took a sip of the tea, savouring the warm bitterness of the lavender and sweetness of the honey. His ears perked at the sound of approaching footsteps outside the break room, he quickly pulled his mask down his face with his left hand, holding his mug steady with his right.

The doorknob turned and the door opened. There you walked in, your long damp brown hair reflecting in the dim light, you did not turn the light on.

Ghost froze, he had not expected you to come here, especially at this time in the morning. He watched as you headed over to the kettle and placing your hand on it's side.

The kettle was warm, it had just been used, and someone was in here, as you heard movement come from behind you.

Price? You think and then turning around expecting to see a grinning gentlemen.

Nope. It was the masked menace, Ghost, sitting on the sofa, holding a mug of tea. Through the little natural light that lit the room, you could make out his blue eyed-balls widening at you.

"Morning Lieutenant." You say turning back round, and switching the kettle on.

"Mornin' Doc" Ghost gruffed, he cleared his throat. He watched as you took out a bag from your black hoodie, and take out a Tetley tea bag along with a spoon. You didn't even flinch.

Tetley girl eh? Ghost thought gazing down you, wearing black joggers. His eyes went back to your brown hair draped over your shoulders, some parts still damp.

The kettle began to shake as the water within boiled. You placed the string around the handle of the mug and plopped the tea bag into the mug. The kettle boiled as the switched flipped up. Waiting a few seconds then pouring the water into the mug, watching the colourless water become seeped with dark amber.

"Is there milk in the fridge that I can use?" You ask, your back still facing away from Ghost.

"Yeah, blue top on the bottom shelf" Ghost says watching as you move to the fridge

"Thanks" You say, opening the door and grabbing the milk.

Ghost watched as you set his pint of milk next to your mug, you stirred the teabag with a spoon you brought out from the little bag. You take out a sugar sachet, ripping it and placing its contents in the mug, then swirling the tea. He watches as you squeeze the teabag against the side of the mug and toss it in the open bin. You take his milk and pour a dash of it in, stirring the contents, you add a bit more.

Ghost wondered how milky you liked your tea...

You screw the cap back on and then put it in the fridge, grabbing your mug you sit on one of the four chairs surrounding a small square table, where you place your mug of tea. You look over your shoulder and see Ghost still staring at you. Looking down at your wrist, noticing you forgot to put your watch on so you couldn't count the seconds of how long he was staring at you this morning. You let out a sigh, delving back into the music that sprang from your earphones.

Ghost diverted his gaze back to his mug. He then watched you take a sip of tea in the corner of his eye. He looked back down at his tea, the mugs warmth bringing him a sort of comfort as you sat there. Ghost noticed you move your left arm up, like a magnet his eyes were drawn to your movements, you pushed you hair back, he noticed you had those wireless ear buds in, he scanned your body noticing your left leg resting on the chair opposite and your right foot tapping the air gently.

He was frozen in his seat. He felt like he could not move or get up. Ghost was drawn to you again as you raised your arm and placed your elbow on the table, resting your head in the palm of your hand.

You take another sip of tea. Gulping another sip of the hot liquid down, trying to warm your insides that felt cold, warming the nerves.

If only you could make some chai but you didn't have the spices with you.

"This is Major Perov..." echos in your left ear but faintly this time, you try and focus back on the music..

Should've brought my jar from home you think. You lean back into the chair sighing again. You turn your head to the left and see Ghost looking at you, he moves his head down, to look at the tea in his hand.

There was no heavy tension between you two... or so you could tell... He could've left when you went in but he didn't. You wonder how would you bring up a subject like Siberia to him. You don't even know him. He's just a masked enigma.

Wish the Captain was here. You think, worse case, Sergeant Riley would do, the distant memory of him awakens in your mind He'd surely tell you to leave him be but throw in the sarcastic comment to see how'd he'd respond and go off that. 12 years since they've been gone. 11 and 10 years for MG and KD. Your former mentors and comrades. Gone.

Now you've got new ones to get to know. And one currently sitting in the same room seemingly hates your guts or has some major trust issues.

You clear your throat, pausing the music, taking the left ear bud out, taking your shot...

"Did you get the email sir?" You ask, turning slightly towards him, bring your left leg down from the chair opposite.

Ghost looked up "Yeah I did" he responded whilst nodding, his the fingers on his right hand drumming against the mug. Lump forming in his throat again.

You nod back, bringing your mug in your hands and close your chest, and then take a sip. The insides of you cold still. Perhaps cocooning yourself with your blanket will help? You think

Ghost watches as you bring out your phone, taking your other earbud out and placing them back in your pocket. His eyes stuck to you as you get up and take your mug and little tea kit bag, stuffing it back in your pocket.

"See you later Lieutenant" You say not smiling

Ghost nods back at you and watched you leave, closing the door gently behind you. He glanced at his watch. 5:15am... In about 9 hours you both were going to have another interaction together... Why were you up so early? Training perhaps?

The stoic face you had flashed across his eyelids when he blinked.

You were annoyed, who wouldn't be? Ghost retorted to himself, slightly scoffing. The looped voices bouncing across his cranium.

He leaned back on the sofa, his tea now lukewarm, he lifted his mask and took a sip.

"Bleurgh" He said as the barely warm liquid ran down his throat. He gets up, takes the teabag out and tosses it in the bin and pours the tea in the sink, washes the mug and places it on the drying rack. Ghost stands by the counter, looking at the seat which you sat at moments ago.

He had a chance to apologise but missed. He left the break room and headed back to his room, his mind more clouded than before.

Later on that day

"Hope my blood pressure isn't too high" Price said as you wrapped the cuff around his right arm.

You smile slightly and shake your head at Price's remark

"Shall find out soon enough" you reply pressing the start button on the blood pressure machine, the cuff fills up with air, the machine whirrs, the numbers on the machine rise up.

Once you hear two beeps the reading is complete: 125/80

"125/80, that's perfectly good for someone your age" You say

"My age?" Price chuckles

"41 is a good age sir"

"You're 9 years younger than me Doc"

You look up "Don't look it though" You smirk.

Taking off the blood pressure cuff, you write the reading down on your chart for the Captain.

"Your med kit is good, I just put more Celox, the haemostatic gauze, and saline in there" handing him his med kit, zipping it up.

"That shellfish stuff?" Price asks as he takes his kit giving you a semi-disgusted look.

"Yes sir"

"Not a fan" He added looking at his kit

"Good thing you won't be eating it for rations" You retort

Price chuckles, and checks his watch 10:55 am.

"Right, I'll leave you to prep for the next patient" Price says, you get up and take the tissue paper where Price sat and placed it in the bin. Spraying the bed with disinfectant and wiping it down with blue roll. You wait for the remaining disinfectant to dry and go to the bathroom and wash your hands.

For the duration of the 30 seconds it takes you to thoroughly wash your hands you scan your reflection in the mirror. Drying your hands and turning the tap off you head back in the main room.

Laying new tissue on the bed, you hear footsteps approach, checking your watch it was 10:59am. Perfect timing you think

Gaz appears in the doorway, you propped open after Price left, you look up and force a smile

"Morning Gaz" You say

"Morning Doc, you good?" Gaz asked, he carried his half empty med kit in his hand, sort of hoping you won't scold him. He looked around the infirmary, it was done up well. Clean. Organised. A laptop on your desk, along with a few files stacked neatly next to it. A small brain statue lay next to the lamp.

"Good, how are you?" You say gesturing to the med bed as you closed the door.

"Very well doc, er.. my med kit is a mess" Gaz says handing over his med-kit.

You take it, and examine, a little worn and torn, but expected when out in the field, somewhat similar to Price's bits of sand trapped in the edges, unzipping it you see it stocked with a few plasters, one ambulance dressing and gauze. Looking back up, you see Gaz's concerned face.

"I can stock this up fully, don't worry" you say smiling, "Fill what you can on the chart, don't worry about address" you add, heading to the cabinets behind your desk and place med kit on the counter. You turn back to see Gaz and walk back over.

You take out your equipment and move over to where Gaz sat, placing the clipboard with the pen to the side.

"Temp check" you say placing the IR thermometer to his forehead. The screen turned green, 36.4 ℃, normal. You grab the chart and jot this down.

You place a pulse ox monitor on this forefinger on his left forefinger.

"What's this for?" Gaz says flickering his finger where the oximeter was clipped.

"Measures pulse and percentage of oxygen in your blood"

"Cool gizmo"

"98%, good" You say checking the screen and scribbling the number down. "Pulse at 88 bpm, also good"

"Why not 100%?" Gaz asks looking at the oximeter, he breathes in sharply and holds his breathe, the oximeter changed by 1%.

You let out a small laugh "Not always, as we have a little carbon dioxide in our blood" You say

"Interesting" Gaz says continuing to look at the oximeter.

Taking the oximeter off his finger you proceed with the other checks; blood pressure, height and weight check, general well being, medicine enquiries but mostly refilling his med kit.

You hand it back to Gaz and explain what new stuff you packed. Gaz nods and thanks you and leaves.

It was 11:45am, Soap will be here soon, you follow the same procedure, strip, wipe down and set up.

Never did you think you'd be doing the job of a GP, seeing patients one after another, no surgeries, no rotations and no other doctors, least no friendly doctors yet...

There was a knock on the door. Getting up and opening it, you see Soap grinning.

"Morning Doc" He said

"Morning Soap" You reply back, making way for him to enter as you stood by the door, he walked and looked around.

"How are yer?" He asked turning facing you as you closed the door.

"Good" You say "How are you?"

"Been alrigh' Doc, Ghost beat me in target shooting this mornin'" He adds, awaiting your reaction when he mentioned Ghost's name.

You walk over "Ah, better luck next time" You say

"Take a seat on the med bed and fill out the chart on the tray" You gesture to the clipboard.

Soap picks it up and starts to write down his details, he notices are large x in pen over the personal details section apart from name and date of birth.

He fills out what he can and places the clipboard back on the tray.

Walking over, you begin with the your check list of check-ups. Soap took his shirt off, you stare at him blankly, trying not to ogle at the toned and defined muscles of his upper body.

"Ergh what are you doing?" You say apprehensively

"Don't yer need to put those electric cables on my chest?" Soap said looking at you confused.

You meet his confused face with yours. Your cheeks feel hot as your eyes dropped to his abs and down his snail trail, Soap followed your eyes and grinned. Swiftly turning on your left heel I cannot believe I looked you cling to your white coat.

"I'm not doing an ECG, please put your shirt on" You say closing your eyes trying to shake the image, now realising what Soap thought.

"Alrigh' doc it's on" He laughed "Sorry, I genuinely thought.." he trailed off as your turned back around, your cheeks showing a tinge of pink. He saw you biting in your lips and your ears going red.

You proceeded with the checks:

Pulse oximeter on; 98% and 97bpm

BP: 126/70

etc etc etc

You finish by asking Soap to step off the weights.

"Got your med-kit?" You ask

Soap's face dropped, the one thing he completely forgot that he should not have forgotten.

Taking in his shocked face, you smirk

"Get it to me when you can. I have Lieutenant Ghost at 13:30 so before then please" You say and Soap nods as he leaves the infirmary. Glancing at your watch, 12:40pm, enough time for a quick lunch.

Heading down to mess hall, it was busy of course, you wait in line for food along with other soldiers. You felt like you stood out with your blue scrubs, it's not like you were actually working in a hospital. Should've worn my black fatigues and sweater you think as you move along with the line.

Lunch was a steak and ale pie with chips. You felt full after half-eating the pie, you check your watch 13:10pm. You swiftly stop eating and get up, putting the food in the food bin and placing the plate and tray on their associated piles.

Heading back to the infirmary, you spot Ghost and Soap talking outside, Ghost looks at you and lowers his voice, Soap also looks at you and nods, you see him holding the med kit in his hand.

As you approach, they both stop, both looking at you as you open the door.

"Afternoon" You say to Ghost,

"Goo' afternoon doc" Ghost said, taking a deep breathe as he stepped inside the infirmary. He looked around, it was nice, orderly and clean. A better state than before you came.

"Got the med-kit" Soap said, bringing out out of his pockets of his fatigues, it was rolled up and empty. You take it off him, "I'll give it to you once it's ready" You say, Soap nods but doesn't move

"Here's mine" Ghost said as he uncrossed his arms and brought his kit, it was fuller and heavier as it was placed on your hands.

"Right, I'll have a look in a bit." You say looking up at him and then to Soap who was still hovering.

"You alright?" You ask Soap

"Yeah, just..." Soap started looking at Ghost.

"Johnny, you had your check up, now bugger off" Ghost said turning to him, knowing exactly why he was lingering

Soap grinned at Ghost and then at you, he began to walk away but turned slightly

"Lt, if you wanna make the doc blush, all you gotta do is take your shirt off" Soap winks and teases closing the door

"Wa-What?!" You say stammer as Soap closes the door, you could hear him laughing on the other side.

Ghost whips his head from the door to see your wide eyed shocked face, you turn your head to meet his eyes, he taken in your doe-eyed expression.

"He took his shirt off on his own accord" Υοu blurt "Thought he was getting an ECG done" you say motioning to the empty space between you with your right hand as if to swat the memory away.

"It's alrigh' Johnny likes teasin'" Ghost says, he watches your face return to normal, and head to the back counter placing both med kits there and opening them up, examining the contents.

Ghost watched your back, like he did this morning.

"Sorry about yesterday" He says looking at your back, he watches your head come up, listening.

"I was out of line, you're good.." He added "Just was.. cautious" Ghost added slowly. He felt his right hand reach up out to you, wanting to tell you it's...

You take in his words.. inhaling for four, you turn around and head back to where Ghost was, exhaling for four.

Ghost swiftly brought his right arm down in his back pocket of his jeans. He looked at you and you smiled, he relaxed a bit more.

"Thank you lieutenant" You say, accepting his apology, you still feel like he somehow... For some reason he still despises you...

You look up at him and smile, he nods back, you his eyes crinkle a bit, hopefully smiling underneath that mask...

Ah the mask and the clothes... You always observed him wearing long sleeve shirts or sweaters, no t-shirt in site so far...

"So.. I'm going to check your blood pressure, pulse, weight, height..." You trail off looking at his blue eyes grabbing the clipboard on the tray.

Ghost blinks and looks back at your deep brown eyes, framed by your black mascara'd lashes "Yes doc..." He says slowly

"I understand the mask stays on, but need to take a neck reading for body temperature if that's okay?" You add looking down from his eyes to his shoulders then to your clipboard.

"Of course" Ghost says, lifting the hem of his mask to reveal is neck. You were entranced by the sudden willing nakedness of his neck, the hem stopping under his chin with his ungloved hand; snapping out of the haze you grab the IR thermometer and press the button, you look back at his neck and notice a mole on the pale skin covering his jugular.

The thermometer beeps, screen turning green, 36.8 ℃. Good. Placing the thermometer down, you grab the chart and jot it down.

Ghost pulls his mask down, watching you scribble out parts on the form. He unzips his jacket, revealing his own black pullover hoodie.

You look up and notice your lieutenant take his jacket off, and then reach for the hem of his hoodie. Leaning on your heal you turn your back.

Please don't strip down like Soap you plead trying not to imagine what his naked torso would look like.

After taking his hoodie off, and folding it on top of his jacket. He looks and sees you've turned fully, your back facing him, smirking slightly under his mask, he wonders if he should tease you and take his shirt off too...

Turning back to face the Lieutenant, you see him wearing a black t-shirt which hug snuggly to his muscular torso. Grabbing the blood pressure cuff you bring it next to him. You notice on his left fore arm a myriad of different tattoos.

Ghost watches as you move towards with a blood pressure machine, he rolls up his sleeve of his t-shirt, he gazes at your brown hair now braided, slightly messy, as few strands have fallen out are now tucked behind your ear, he notices two small silver hoops hugging your cartilage.

Unravelling the cuff, you wrap it around his chiseled bicep, you noticed a few scars up and down his arm, even a few on his hand, but you didn't say anything or linger on them too long. Not when you knew how awkward it is when people stare and make remarks of your own scars.

Looks bigger than my thighs you think, admiring the muscles laying underneath the flesh of his upper arm.

The cuff did not fit fully. You look up at Ghost, he was looking at you, your eyes widened slightly.

"Good thing the machine came with an extra large cuff" You smirk, taking the cuff off the machine and heading to the drawers he cleaned last week.

"Good thin'" Ghost repeats, sitting up taller, observing the way your white coat glided with your movements. Your left breast pocket filled with pens, he noticed some writing underneath the pocket, but couldn't decipher it.

Walking back to Ghost with the XL cuff, you plug it in the machine, unravel it and placed it around his arm above his elbow. You swiftly look at the tattoos again on his left arm; a black monochromatic piece, a wonderful chaos of skulls, a dog tag, guns and other army related pieces.

Your cold fingers grazed his warm skin, Ghost felt the cold ripple all the way to his chest. He watched on as you adjusted the cuff.

"That alright?"

"Yeah" Ghost says

He watches as you press the machine and watch the numbers go up, he felt the cuff tighten as it filled with air around his arm. The air hissed and he watched the numbers fall down. 137/88

Grabbing the clipboard and the pen, you jot down the numbers, and you frown slightly.

"You've got high blood pressure"

Ghosts huffs Great he moans in his head

"How old are you?"

"34" Ghost grumbled

"How's your diet?" You ask looking up at him

"Alrigh'"

"Are you taking any drugs, legal or illegal?" You ask

Ghost looks at you, stunned by the wording of your question

"Legal?" He asks narrowing his eyes at you. You gotta be pullin' my leg

"Paracetamol, simvastatin, antibiotics, opioid based pain relief etc" You say

"And illegal?" Ghost asks perking up, curious as to where this will go...

"Cocaine, cannabis and other not so fun things" You add smirking at him.

"Only done the legal kin', paracetamol and hold up - opioid based pain relief? Ghost whips at you, now realising what you said.

"Morphine, codeine and oxycodone" You say "They're legal but addictive like heroin."

Ghost takes it in, of course, he had his own familial experience with that dark side of drug addiction. Tommy...

"Just paracetamol and antibiotics from injuries in the field" Ghost said quietly

"Okay" You say, jotting that down.

"Any new stress in your life?" You say looking back up to him

Ghost looks at you, and then back at the reading of the BP monitor, 137/88 flashes at him.

You observe Ghost, looking at the monitor

"High blood pressure is not worrying if we can correct external factors like diet, exercise and maintaining any stresses" You roll off your tongue.

Jeez you sound like the pamphlet you remember your mum getting from the nurse about high blood pressure You slide back slightly on your chair turning your head, manoeuvring yourself to the trolley tray, rolling your eyes to yourself as you aimlessly fiddle in the tray.

Of course these guys would have a few health issues, they are super elite soldiers, they've dealt with so much...

Ghost looks at you. He's been here before, doctors telling him to change this, do that, etc etc...

You grab the pulse oximeter and move back over to Ghost.

Alright, Sergeant Riley taking your advice; sarcastic comment, time to throw that..

"Look, I sounded like a damn pamphlet, but I'm here for all your health needs" You say bringing your hands up to your sides, foolishly giving him jazz fingers and you smile with teeth.

Ghost scoffs a laugh out, then clears his throat turning his head to the side.

"No new stresses" Ghost says, his gaze back to you, he watches you raise an eyebrow and tilt your head.

"Not even me?" You add, remembering the encounter yesterday after the target course.

Staring into your narrowed brown eyes Ghost knew it was you who was slightly causing stress. Ghost shook his head and then looked at the BP monitor again.

You get up and take the cuff off his arm. You show him the pulse oximeter, and he brings his hand up, you clip it on his forefinger.

"What time do you usually get up?" You ask, remembering the encounter this morning at around 5am.

"Couldn't sleep last night if you're referrin' to this morning" He says looking up at you

You nod back at him, your lip curved slightly. 98% and a pulse of 72bpm. Strong heart

"Not able to get to sleep or wake-up in the middle of the night?" You ask writing down the readings of the oximeter.

"Both" Ghost grunts

"Have you tried any medicine for sleeping?" You ask

"That herbal stuff, calm, from Boots" he said

He watches as you wrinkle your nose. "Didn't work?" You say

"Yeah"

"I'll give you zopiclone, just one, for tonight, see how it goes and we will have another check-in tomorrow" You add, heading to the small locked cabinet and cut out one tablet from the sheet. Locking the cabinet, you head back and give it to Ghost, he places it in his jean pocket.

He continues gazing upon your movements, your hand flicking back a strand of hair that got near your amber brown eyes.

"Take it an hour before sleep, avoid going on your phone and alcohol and should help with aiding sleep. Keep water or squash nearby as it can have metallic aftertaste" You command softly whilst writing away on the clipboard sitting on the stool.

Ghost looked at you, all this seemed so natural coming out of you. He nods along, mesmerised with your poise and assertiveness. That's the rookie you remember from all those years ago. He smirked under his mask and leaned forward a bit.

"How was the herbal tea?" You ask looking back up

"Eh?" He guffles, how could you know?

"This morning, I could smell lavender, was that your tea?" You say, eyes becoming doe-eyed.

'Course, the smell of lavender was soothing, especially after that... episode... nightmare

"Yeah Doc"

"Does it help?" You ask

"Sort of, chamomile and lavender tea..." Ghost begins and then pauses.

Gazing upon his eyes, which shifted left to right as he spoke to you. His cool blue eyes strike yours, they were even icier against his blonde eyelashes.

Ghost looks at you, he notices the writing on your white coat, Dr Hari Kaur Neurosurgery threaded in black cursive under the pocket full of pens.

"What abou' you?" Ghost asks, he notices your eyes narrow.

"What do you mean?"

"You were up early" Ghost retorted

Tilting your head back, your roll your head around. Maybe if I open up, he'll too...

"Bad dream woke me up." half-lying to him. You didn't want to talk about Siberia, not now..

Ghost watched as your eyes lost a bit of brightness, becoming dull.

"Tea help?" He asked, trying to bring that brightness back in your eyes

"Tea always helps" You smirked

"What one you have?" Ghost asked, knowing full well you had Tetley.

"Tetley, but I prefer PG tips" You grinned, eyes twinkling again.

"Oooh" he sucked in some air "Yorkshire is best" he sighed

"Tetley is from Yorkshire!" You snapped

"Was from Yorkshire" He retaliated "Run by an Indian company now, Yorkshire Tea is still based in Yorkshire" He added crossing his arms and puffing his chest out.

You scoff at him, looking away and then back at him, admiring his chiseled torso.

"Actually prefer chai, with PG tips" You quipped

"Hmm" Ghost says "Maybe you could use my Yorkshire Tea next time and I'll judge" he added

Nodding back at him you get off the stool. "Next time for tea then?" he nods back.

Ghost watches and listens as you ask him to step on the weight balance, and checks his height. He continues to gaze at you as you complete other checks needed, obliging your every command willingly. It was the least he could do after the way he treated you.

You would understand if he told you later convincing himself that now is not the right time.

You would understand, bad people are out there

He gives a nod and a yes comes out of his mouth, as you say something about his med-kit, his eyes drawn in on your back as you walk to the counter checking their contents again.

You would understand, it's safer for Simon Riley to remain dead to you.

Ghost looks at you, wondering if you ever thought about Simon Riley...

"I am the death of everything you know and love" Roba's voice echoed faintly in his skull

You would understand

#fan fic ideas #simon ghost riley x medic #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x doctor #modern warfare fanfiction #angst #cod fanfic #modern warfare fluff #fanfic fluff #ghost cod #simon ghost riley x oc #cod ghost #cod fandom #cod fluff #simon ghost riley x original character

[elenavr13]

Darkiplier/Damien Playlist (Updated)

172 songs

Evermore- Dan Stevens

Everybody Wants To Tule the World- Lorde

Control- Halsey

Gasoline- Halsey

Dynasty- MIIA

Judas- Lady Gaga

Take Me To Church- Hozier

Castle- Halsey

Sing To Me- MISSIO

Kamikazee- MISSIO

Panic Room- Au/Ra

Isolate- Sub Urban

Elastic Heart (Rock Cover)- Written by Wolves

Crossfire- Stephen

Dead!- My Chemical Romance

Stressed Out- Twenty One Pilots

Look What You Made Me Do- Taylor Swift

Smooth Criminal- Michael Jackson

The Voice of Darkiplier- Markiplier

I’ll Be Good- Jaymes Young

I Wanna Be Yours- Arctic Monkeys

Do I Wanna Know- Arctic Monkeys

In His Eyes- Jekyll & Hyde (musical)

Can You Feel My Heart- Bring Me to the Horizon

Feeling Good- Michael Buble

Can You Feel My Heart x Favorite Dress (slowed)- Miro remix

My Demons- Starset

Achilles Come Down- Gang of Youth

Monster- Skillet

What’s the Use of Feeling Blue- Caleb Hyles

Where I Want to Be- Chess in Concert

Can’t Help Falling In Love- Ice Nine Kills

The American Nightmare- Ice Nine Kills

A Grave Mistake- Ice Nine Kills

Left Behind- DAGames

Farewell II Flesh- Ice Nine Kills

Below the Surface- Griffinilla

The Wrecked and the Worried- NateWantsToBattle

You Can’t Take Me Anywhere- NateWantsToBattle

Goner- Twenty One Pilots

You’re Gonna Go Far, Kid- The Offspring

Fake You Out- Twenty One Pilots

Miss You- Corpse

Epoch- The Living Tombstone

In the End- Linkin Park

Me, Myself & Hyde- Ice Nine Kills

The World In My Hands- Ice Nine Kills

Popular Monster- Falling In Reverse

Monster- Imagine Dragons

What I Could Have Been- Sting

Hushh- AViVA

Phantom of the Opera

Darkside- NEONI

Broken- DNMO & Sub Urban

Killer In the Mirror- Set It Off

Doubt- Twenty One Pilots

I’m Not Okay- My Chemical Romance

Friends on the Other Side- Princess and the Frog

Poison- WE ARE THE FURY

Apologize- One Republic

My Lullaby (metal cover)- Jonathan Young

I See Red (slowed)- Everybody Loves an Outlaw

Tear In My Heart- Twenty One Pilots

I Hate Everything About You- Three Days Grace

F.L.Y- Ice Nine Kills

Migraine- Twenty One Pilots

Car Radio- Twenty One Pilots

Demons- MISSIO

Snakes- PVRIS & MIYAVI

Villain- KDA

Royalty- Egzod & Maestro Chives ft. Neoni

The Red Means I Love You- Madds Buckley

Loser- Neoni

Not Ready To Die- Avenged Sevenfold

I Want You- Mitski

Poltergeist- Corpse

Life Waster- Corpse

All Of Me (slowed)- John Legend

Young And Beautiful- Lana Del Rey

Dark Paradise (slowed)- Lana Del Rey

How Villains Are Made- Madalen Duke

Love and War- Fluerie

Dark Things- Adona

Wicked Game- Ursine Vulpine

Neptune- Sleeping At Last

Enemy- Tommee Profitt

Far From Home (The Raven)- Sam Tinnesz

City Of The Dead- Eurielle

Throne- Saint Mesa

Paint it, Black- Ciara cover

Man Or A Monster- Sam Tinnesz

Dark On Me- Starset

Hell’s Comin’ With Me- Poor Mans Poison

Wires- The Neighbourhood

Liquid Smooth- Mitski

Little Dark Age- MGMT

Devil In Disguise- Elvis (LLusion)

Toxic- 2WEI

Dark Room- Foreign Figures & EJ Michels

Heathens- Twenty One Pilots

Dance With The Devil- Breaking Benjamin

Black Out Days- Phantogram

Somewhere Only We Know- Keane

Monsters- Ruelle

Whispers In The Dark- Skillet

Salvaged- NateWantsToBattle

Saint Bernard- Lincoln

F*ck You- Silent Child

I Know Those Eyes/This Man Is Dead- Thomas Borchert, Brandi Burkhardt

Broken Inside- Broken Iris

Sweet Dreams- Besomorph

EVIL- AViVA

Saints- Echos

Screaming Bloody Murder- Sum 41

Dandelions (slowed)- Ruth B

Master Mirror- Ashley Serena

Everyday A Little Death- The Count of Monte Cristo

FREAK- Jordan Friction

Broken (slowed)- lovelytheband

Michelle- Sir Chloe

Like A Villain- BAD OMENS

If It’s Vengeance You Want- Unlike Pluto

Monster- Fight The Fade

Listen Before I Go- Billie Eilish

Mary On a Cross (slowed)- Ghost

R.I.F.P.- MOTHICA

Nervous- Lola Blanc

Unravel- Johnathan Young

Lost In Paradise- Evanescence

Lies- Evanescence

Haunted- Laura Les

Dread- Unlike Pluto

Monsters- Shinedown

Black Soul- Shinedown

Sorrow- Sleeping At Last

Seeing Red- Saint Chaos

Villain- Bella Poarch

Lithium- Nirvana

Smells Like Teen Spirit- Nirvana

Down With The Sickness- Disturbed

Animal I Have Become- Three Day Grace

Greed- Godsmack

One of Us is the Killer- The Dillinger Escape Plan

All The King’s Horses- Karmina

Gilded Lily- Cults

Haunted & Unwanted- NateWantsToBattle

Symbol of My Regret- NateWantsToBattle

In My Head- NateWantsToBattle

Vendetta- Unsecret & Krigare

Nothing To Me- NateWantsToBattle

Chasing Cars- Sleeping At Last

Villain- MISSIO

Used to the Darkness- Des Rocs

Unforgiven- Ghost Nation

Monster- Starset

Eight- Sleeping At Last

Already Gone- Sleeping At Last

Devilish- The Phantoms

Motherland- Reach

Falling Away From Me- Korn

Just a Man- Jorge Rivera-Herrans & EPIC Ensemble

Something Wicked- Starset

Darkness in Me- Fight The Fade

I Would Die for You- In This Moment

Eye For An Eye- Rina Sawayama

Psycho in my Head- Skillet

Done With Everything- Line So Thin

Monster- Besomorph

Twisted Games- Night Panda, Krigarè

Killer Inside of Me- Willyecho

King For A Day- Pierce The Veil ft. Kellin Quinn

someone i’m not- Layto

#markiplier #youtuber ego #darkiplier #a heist with markiplier #ahwm #ahwm darkiplier #darkiplier x y/n #darkiplier x da #markiplier damien #damien x da #damien the mayor #who killed markiplier #wkm #wkm darkiplier #wkm damien #character playlist

[rustbeltjessie]

i smell like smoke from electrical fires — a year-end, happy-birthday-to-me mix.

I used to always make a mix tape or mix CD or playlist for the end of the year/my birthday. The mixes were always a combination of songs I listened to a lot that year, songs that summed up my year in some way, and then a few that I just felt like hearing at the time I was making the mix. I started doing it at around age 12, and continued the tradition until I was about 35. But that was the year 8tracks died for a while, and at the time I didn't have a way to make tapes, and also that was the year I started using Spotify, so I kinda just depended on Spotify wrapped to sum up my music-listening habits for the year. Well, since I no longer use Spotify, and since I do have a way to make tapes, I decided to get back into the habit.

As per usual, I made a YouTube version as well, in case anyone else wants to give it a listen. If you listen to we'll burn it & we'll build it again (the mix I made in July) followed by this one, you'll get a pretty clear picture of what I was listening to a lot this year/what my year was like.

Side A

MX LONELY - Rest in Salt

Smashing Pumpkins - Disarm

World/Inferno Friendship Society - Burn & Scar

Daycare Swindlers - Darkness

Dave Gahan - Mother of Earth

John Doe - Big Moon (3Sirens Session)

Jolie Holland - 2,000 Miles

Big Thief - Vampire Empire

Superchunk - Crossed Wires [this is the song from which the title originates]

Green Day - When I Come Around

Jawbreaker - Want

Bikini Kill - Capri Pants

Worriers - Pollen in the Air

Team Dresch - #1 Chance Pirate TV

Side B

Sinead O'Connor - Black Boys on Mopeds

Grian Chatten - Season for Pain

The Smiths - Cemetry Gates

Squirrel Flower - Alley Light

RUSTBELT - Young and Punk

Partial Traces - Silver & Green

The Shivvers - Reckless

The Replacements - Swingin Party (Ed Stasium Mix)

IDLES - Colossus

The Pogues - Rain Street

Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros - Ramshackle Day Parade

Operation Ivy - Sound System

#mix tape #playlist #rust belt jessie #i smell like smoke from electrical fires #current jams #nostalgic jams #obviously i listened to a lot of wifs & jawbreaker & bikini kill & IDLES this year #as all those bands are on both the july mix and the december one