#feel free to disagree through

[loveaetingkids]

It might just be me but I don’t see Rico and Chimi as parents like,ever.I know that it’s canon now that they had children together post-time skip but they would’ve rocked the vibe of chaotic aunt/uncle who live either on the outskirts of the Luna Island or deep in the jungles and who do shit ton of dangerous things (be it protecting the kindoms from the outside forces,experimenting with magic or trying to fight off puma with bare hands).Meanwhile Eagle and Jaguar are in awe of what these two are doing and often beg their parents to go see the Skull Archer and Rooster Wizard. I just KNOW that Rico gifted the Maya siblings explosives at least once,while Chimi tried to teach them how to swim amongst crocodiles.

#they just give the vibe of #“two neurodivirgent students who live in a cramped overpriced apartment whose walls are filled with cartoon figurines on one side #and tons of terrariums with spiders and snakes on the other” #plus i just never see them having kids.at least human ones #however they’re certainly THAT couple who goes “our beautiful son” and they’re talking about an animal #feel free to disagree through #shower thoughts #maya and the three #maya y los tres #maya and the 3 #matt #mat3 #rico the rooster wizard #chimi the skull archer

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Unsolved Mysteries.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #lan wangji #jiang cheng #wei wuxian #Spoilers: It was Wei Wuxian the whole time! #Once again this one was on the chopping block but I saved it for just a better comic flow. #Admittedly I do have a critique of the pacing here. Namely that we really should have ended the flashback when WWX fell. #And then gone back to present time for a bit - or even go to a different flashback. #The sense of time passing isn't as strong as it *could* be. #We get *told* three months pass and that they've been looking for WWX. But to the audience it's been...15 min. #Less than seven minutes if you count the flute playing. #This guy when through a whole aesthetic and persona shift in less time than it takes to walk through a corn field. #Guy who listened to less than half an emo album and dyed all his clothes black. And jorted all his jeans. #Timeskips can be sudden and work out just fine! I personally feel like this one would be stronger with better pacing. #Feel free to disagree with me! #In case anyone is wondering why JC and LWJ are still holding hands: 1) Haunted house episode. #2) I needed to practice drawing hand holding at some point. Might as well get the rough and sloppy ones out with these two.

[lotus-pear]

hear me out for genshin x bsd-

atsushi would be a cryo claymore that scales off atk (since the tiger is shown as extremely powerful and can even cut through space) and optimizes physical dmg

dazai would be a geo sword support that increases elemental res, acting as a debuffer (as no longer human works in the bsd universe) he would also scale off em

kunikida would also be geo but catalyst that deals physical aoe dmg.. he'd be an in-slot dps but not an optimal one imao his talents are much better suited to make him a battery unit

akutagawa would be pyro polearm?? or sword?? and he's obviously a heavy dps that scales off crit rate/dmg and tenma tengai could be similar to cyno's burst when, once activated, increases def while simultaneously raising rashomon's atk

chuuya would be an anemo catalyst dps similar to wanderer bc of his gravity manipulation and he would have a melee stance where he atks from the ground and an elevated state where he uses gravity manipulation to be able to atk off-ground. his ult would be corruption obviously and would parallel xiao's where his atk and crit rate/dmg are sharply increased but he undergoes continuous dmg until the duration of his burst ends (in this state he is vulnerable as his def is lowered and he isn't able to accumulate energy meaning he needs a team built around him, preferably with a healer and a shielder)

how does it feel to be the sexiest person on this site w absolutely the most correct and banger takes anon??.. why are u correct on literally everything

#DAZAI BEING GEO IS A SMART MOVE I LIKE THAT. i would've seen him as cryo (bc nlh is blue and also bc cryo is the element of contradiction) #(much like how dazai lashes out against his inherently selfish nature to help atsushi) #(and how he does not see himself as human and feels alienated from human society bc of it yet he is written to be the most relatable- #-character in the show?? or at least i think so) #BUT GEO MAKES SENSE.. GEO REPRESENTS DETERMINATION AND PERSEVERANCE #GEO VISION HOLDERS HAVE MINDS OF STONE AND WILL DO ANYTHING TO ACHIEVE THEIR GOALS #WHILE THIS CAN BE SEEN AS A NOBLE AND DILIGENT TRAIT.. DAZAIS MORALLY GRAY CHARACTERIZATION PUTS A WHOLE NEW TWIST ON WHAT THIS ENTAILS #HE IS MACHIAVELLIAN INTRINSICALLY. ITS WHO HE HAS ALWAYS BEEN. HE BELIEVES THE ENDS JUSTIFY THE MEANS #AND WHETHER HE ACHIEVES THAT THROUGH MANIPULATION OR THROWING AWAY HIS OWN HUMANITY.. HE WILL DO IT IF IT SEES HIS PLAN THROUGH #also kunikida would be dendro imao bc of his adherence and passion for his ideals #which parallels dendro users highly valuing and pursuing knowledge above all #anyway sry for rambling in the tags again those are just my thoughts feel free to disagree <33 #lotus’s asks

[foe-of-fate]

Currently thinking about how almost none of the Harry Potter characters have character growth. I mean sure they grow, they’re kids and we do see their mental state change as they grow, but from the beginning to the end of the books the characters themselves don’t really change at all.

#am I making sense? #they come into their own a bit as all children do #but there’s not a lot personality wise that changes #and maybe some people will disagree #but for the most part they all stay the same #I think the biggest three exceptions are #Ginny Weasley #neville longbottom #and #James Potter #and James barely counts because we only learn of him through backstory and other characters recollections #I guess Percy changes too but not for the better #people can feel free to leave their thoughts #but from a story standpoint I feel like they’re largely stagnant #and this is coming from a Harry Potter lover by the way #Harry Potter #harry potter fandom #harry potter books #harry potter movies #harry potter analysis #potter head #potterhead #book thoughts

[averlym]

Can you do prompt 34 for araleyn?

no.34, gen: "you look happy" //sometimes i think too much about dlyh

#hello here is yet another thing you probably don't remember asking #thank you for the request nonetheless! #woke up w brainrot already going. hm #(hypothetical) you ever think about araleyn as such a Thing in the context of the musical #like. idk vague references in here to context vibes include #the animosity between the two throughout 'he doesn't wanna bang u somebody hang u' and the constant mockery of aragon throughout dlyh #and like. ig since halfway through anne wins over catherine. this would be where the excerpt comes in of 'you look happy' #but also there's the. is anne really happy? no one knows! i like the theory that was floating around that she's actually much smarter than #how she portrays herself in six the musical and the ditzy chaotic version is a front #you can kinda see the more true version in the 'guys i think he's actually going to chop my head off!!' #the panic the desperation the nerves!!! the laughing hysterical breakdown i associate w her for some reason #anyways. feel free to disagree with me on character interpretation ig (but please be nice i am not good w criticism and not crying) #in this one aragon is more concrete i think. because of all the previous posts i've settled on a sort of defined face for her? #anne has always been one of the most amorphous queens to draw for me and in here i am not quite satisfied w her face but idt i can do better #the fun part is that the sketchiness kinda adds to the unraveled look i think. some sort of poetic fitting there #taggity tag tag tag #six the musical #six the musical fanart #anne boleyn #catherine of aragon #araleyn #or if you are. accustomed like me to the other spelling however incorrect #aralyn

[rayssyscourse]

one thing that confuses me is people who say endos "aren't real". I understand the point they're trying to make, which is that scientifically there's no evidence for endo plurality to happen, but like... clearly they are real? because they're right there? if they weren't real, we wouldn't be having this convo in the first place?? again I understand the point that is actually being made--and as an endo critical person I lean more anti than pro, so I'm not saying the point is completely invalid or stupid or whatever (might make another post about my thoughts on that specific point?)--but it just doesn't make any sense to me to say they're not real instead of saying what you actually mean lol.

#this isnt a super thought through post so feel free to disagree #and again i understand the argument i just dont like the way its phrased because it diverts from/takes credibility from the (fair) point #syscourse #rayssyscourse #system #plural #plurality #endo critical #traumagenic

[beheldandcompelled]

Oh my god tell me what are some of the entities you assign to hazbin characters? Alastor, valentino? Angel, pentious (he'd be so cool as extinction) lucifer? Mammon, blitz if you're into helluva boss?

Ahhhh okay yay I've been dying to discuss this with another tma fan bc my hazbin friends give the the big HUH and I'm just stuck rambling to myself

Alastor: the beholding and the web for sure

Vox: also the beholding

Valentino: the corruption. Basing this off his relationship with Angel.

Angel: the desolation marked by the web because he constantly burning himself out and the addiction component plus he's an actual spider

Pentious: the extinction makes sense. Also just the slaughter

Lucifer: I changed this like four times but final answer is the end and the beholding

Blitz: ughhh he's a perfect mix of the lonely and the desolation to me

Fizz: I guess the stranger since he was replaced and clown aesthetic but he's got some corruption vibes (blaming mammon)

Stolas: the Vast and the lonely and guess what I'm crying

Mammon: The Corruption with The Hunt those clown contests give me "hunt for sport" vibes

Moxie: he gives me spiral vibes

Millie: the slaughter for sure

#ty for asking me this #i loved thinking this through sm #please feel free to add or disagree!

[oksanas-sun]

i like to think that if kenny was still alive, he would've ended up becoming friends with villanelle/oksana

and that goes hand in hand with the fact that i also like to think he regresses as well. because we know from geraldine that carolyn wasn't exactly a good mother and even tho, kenny was more like her and understood her more (tho those are carolyn's words, not his, we don't really know his perspective), it can't have been easy. plus, the fact that he wanted to leave her and mostly stayed because he liked being coddled / didn't seem to like confrontation screams childhood trauma, at least to me.

so yea, i like to think he's a regressor too and that him & oksana have play dates sometimes. they would balance each other out really well - oksana would be bubbly and talkative while kenny is quiet and just likes to listen to her little babbled rants.

i also also see them truly understanding each other perfectly, even beyond words. kenny isn't a touchy person, he gets uncomfortable with hugs and generally doesn't really get social cues (could see him with selective mutism as well). meanwhile oksana loves to cuddle, her love language when regressed is touch. but even tho she's small, she understands and respects kenny's boundaries and always makes sure to keep a safe distance when they play together. in return, oksana is one of the few people kenny actually is okay with occasionally touching - stuff like holding hands for comfort or a short hug.

just... imagine oksana and kenny being best friends. i think it'd be adorable.

idk, that's just something i've had on my mind for a while and needed to get out of my system :,)

#i just don't know who his caregiver would be or if he would have one at all #at first i thought elena but she's been absent for so long that it wouldn’t make sense #next thought was geraldine but we've never seen them interact &also she has so much emotional trauma herself that she needs to work through #so idk lol #anyone have any thoughts on this #also feel free to disagree with me on this #it's just a little thing i thought of for funsies

[dawningfairytale]

currently fascinated with the concept of unrequited blackrose as per usual

#rtc #ride the cyclone #blackrose rtc #blackrose #also to be clear i am not villainising anyone who has unrequited feelings or is unable/unwilling to reciprocate unrequited feelings #i mostly think of it in a constance -> ocean way but ocean could have unrequited feelings for constance #i think either way the feelings-haver would feel so guilty. this is her friend and she’s corrupted it with stupid romantic desires #constance would bury it down deep. she knows ocean has no interest in relationships. she listens to all her words and remembers each one #and yeah ‘the truth sets you free’ but not if it traps the person you love #who is loving you back in every way they can #it’s so personal to me actually #if oceans having the feelings she tries to breeze past it. forget that thé thought ever came across her mind #but she cant. every look that constance gives. every smile that lets her personality shine through. every laugh that lights up her heart. #makes ocean think of holding her and kissing her and being her strongest defence from the cruel world. #but she can’t. #ocean has heard constance’s rants on the idea of settling down and how much romantic love is pushed #and she doesn’t disagree. far from it. that’s why she knows - for once - to shut up and let constance’s feelings dictate the duo’s actions #either way they stay friends. of course they do. and one never reveals the stupid crush she had on the other. because that would crush her #again! not villainising those who can’t/won’t reciprocate feelings. just looking at the guilt and confusion that comes from loving someon #e who can’t return it and what constance and ocean would do in such a situation #you’d think i’d be able to get over her more easily. wouldn’t you.

[trans-leek-cookie]

pokemon teams for Destiny's Children

Rosamund Du Prix

Liligant, Roserade, Florges (white), Aromatisse, Alcremie, Galarian Rapidash

Gerard

Gallade, Aegislash, Escavalier, Wimpod, Politoed, Lotad

Mother Goose

Blissey, Swanna, Pichu, Togepi, Riolu, Igglybuff

Ylfa

Arcanine, Houndoom, Lucario, Stoutland, Lycanroc (Midday and Midnight form)

Pinocchio

Hatterene, Phantump, Mimikyu, Bannette, Cubone, Honchcrow + Ariados (before), Kricketune (Current and fully for the Cry)

#Neverafter #GERARD WAS HARD BC THERES A LOT OF POKEMON THAT ARE LIKE ALMOST THERE BUT NOT QUITE SURE PICKS #Anyway for Pinocchio Honchcrow + Ariados is for Pinocchicrow + Spinocchio and Kricketune is the 100 yr old cricket. And qlso the cry is so #So important you guys. Anyways this is the first time in my life I've wanted to do a pokemon au these guys need little buddies but also oh #Oh FUCK that's sad that's so sad so so sad. Maybe two teams for twice upon... whatever first go through. I may do princesses when we see #All of them... anyway feel free to give some opinions agreeing/disagreeing with my choices I wanna see #The Hatterene is kinda Pinocchios stepmother but Less Bad which is WILD. And the phantump is HIM.

[cloudgutzwavesbyetosanity]

Ok but hear me out

Being autistic is like

like being that one kid who's scared of heights

around that one group of people

WHO ALL LOVE ROLLERCOASTERS

"go on the rollercoaster" they say

"it's fun" they say

IT IS NOT FUN, HECK, IM AFRAID OF FERRIS WHEELS, GOD HELP ME

#yes I'm actually afraid of ferris wheels shut up #autism #actually neurodivergent #may the lord spare the neurotypicals of the most awful things they put themselves through for fun #such as asmr #unpopular opinion here but it feels WRONG #feel free to disagree

[fira211]

I don't know how it would work, I don't know where the idea came from. But I'm rereading the Abhorsen series and I had a rare pair thought:

Disreputable Dog/Mogget enemies to friends to lovers (though almost certainly ace rep or something mystic like Good Omens angel/demon feelings sex and not bodily sex [not that GO body sex fic isn't also delightful but I digress])

Also, Good Omens/Old Kingdom crossover in general but I would love for Aziraphele and Mogget to be friends (library cat) and Crowley and the Dog to be friends (chaos twins)

#abhorsen series #the old kingdom #good omens #rarepair #something about Kibeth and Yrael being kind of friends before the Destroyer #and then Kibeth being upset/betrayed feeling when Yrael is all 'fuck this shit I'm out' #and then they seal Orannis again #and Kibeth is dead but not dead #and Yrael is free to go wherever the fuck he pleases #and there's adventure meetups #and conversations about how interesting life and humanity is #and the interesting dichotemy between a creature who willingly gave up their sense of self for the greater good and one who was forced to #working through resentment and coming out friends again #also the loving complaining about humans and how dumb they are but man they're also pretty great #Yrael does not admit this willingly but he doesn't disagree #Kibeth is. as always. a little shit

[thebibliosphere]

Whenever I talk about the medical neglect and ableism I've encountered as a victim of the healthcare system, there's always some cockwaffle who feels entitled to come into my inbox and make the argument of "not all doctors" while talking about how "people like them" (because it's always someone in a field of medicine who does this) are doing their best and it's really hard because so many people fake being ill to get on welfare (Yikes), but like, yeah, obviously #not all doctors, because if all doctors were negligent, bullying scum bags, I'd be dead.

But here's the thing: while I truly believe that the majority of doctors are doing their best in a system stacked against them and their patients, their presence does not negate the mass harm caused by the bad ones. And there are far more bad ones than you realize.

Fuck, John Oliver literally did a segment on this last week:

Yes, the truly bad, malicious doctors are in the minority. Most are just horrifically burned out and fighting a losing battle against a system, killing both them and their patients through a lack of funding and resources and profound overwork.

But the malicious ones do exist, and they will go out of their way to harm patients who don't kowtow to them.

I almost lost my life because when I was in my early twenties, I told a doctor I didn't think she was listening to me, and I disagreed with her assessment of my mental health (she was not a mental health doctor, and I was there for heart palpitations and chronic pain). She retaliated by putting "non-compliant" in my file.

There was also a fun little "doesn't show respect" note too that lives rent-free in my head because I know I wasn't rude. I was polite. I just didn't agree with her, and my refusal to accept her off-handed comment that "you probably have bipolar or BPD" (again, I was there for heart palpitations and chronic pain) meant I was "refusing care."

I wasn't. I just refused to be slapped with a mood/personality disorder when I was there because I kept fucking fainting when I stood up.

(Spoiler alert: it was dysautonomia)

That "non-compliant" marker followed me around for years. It followed me across an ocean and effectively ensured that any doctor I saw was going to treat me like absolute dogshit because no one wants to help Difficult Patients. It wasn't until I was so undeniably ill, literally on the brink of death, that anyone helped me.

I'm alive because of a good doctor. And all the good ones that came after him because of him.

So, I know they exist. You don't have to tell me that.

But I really fucking need you to acknowledge the bad ones and that you're part of a system with a long, long history of abusing minorities and vulnerable people. I need you to acknowledge that because it's the only way we're going to survive this godforsaken nightmare and make things better.

So yeah, #notalldoctors, but if you feel the need to say that because someone talking about being literally left to die by the medical system hurts your feelings, I'm going to have to ask you to take a step back and ask yourself if you're going into medicine for the right reasons.

Namely: do you want to help people, even the "difficult" ones?

Even the ones who might disagree with you?

Even if they're on welfare?

Even if they'll never get "better" in a way that means "cured"?

Just a thought. But hey, what do I know. I'm just someone who experienced hemolytic anemia because doctors kept telling me I was anxious and needed to exercise more 🤷‍♀️.

#chronic health tag #medical abuse #medical neglect #medical #ableism #to all the good health care workers who follow me and leave supportive comments: I appreciate you so much #but you need to come get your fellow drs #and idk #give 'em a shake or something #Youtube

[peachesofteal]

Light On - single mom/neighbor fic - reader POV - cw: grief Simon Riley/female reader

"Breathe, honey. Try to take a deep breath for me."

Simon is frantic, cradling your face in his hands, pulling away your own to try to look in your eyes, his own wide with horror, worry.

This isn't fair. This isn't right. This is confusing.

"I- I'm sorry." You sob, because it's the only thing you can say, the only thing he can think of, and he shakes his head like he disagrees with you.

"No, no. Sorry for what?" You can't make it make sense, to him, in your own head, and when you try to talk, nothing comes out but a broken cry. "Shhh. You're alright. Just breathe." He tries to soothe you, and it only makes you cry harder, sob welling in your chest. "Are you hurt?"

"No!" you protest. "No, you didn't... I'm not... I-"

"Okay, okay. Hey, look at me sweetheart. I'm right here, I've got you." He coos, still holding you, wiping your tears, keeping you close. "You're okay." You bury your face in his chest, letting him wrap you up, cuddle you close, all while your mind spins and spirals, heart aching like it's been broken all over again. This wasn't supposed to happen. You're not supposed to feel this way. You're supposed to be happy. Aren't you happy?

"I'm sorry." You whisper when you find your voice, and he hums a raspy rebuttal. "No, I... you don't deserve this, to be saddled with this, a-" A widow, and a baby. An emotional basket case. A burden.

"Stop." He looks down at you with sincerity, severe certainty in his eyes, and you gulp at the intensity, shuddering when his lips graze your skin gently. "I don't deserve you, sweetheart. I know that for sure, but not in the way you're thinking right now. I'm not being saddled with anything."

"You don't understand." You shake your head.

"Then tell me." He encourages. "Tell me. I'll listen." He caresses your cheek, touch gentle and caring, devoted, and you close your eyes.

"Okay."

Simon makes you a cup of tea. When he returns to press it into your hands, you're sitting up in bed, donning one of the t shirts you found on the floor.

"Is that my shirt?" He asks, cocking his head, and you nod bashfully, lip tucked between your teeth. "Looks good on you." You reach for the mug with shaking hands, trying to take a deep breath and collect your thoughts. "Take your time." He murmurs. "I'm here. We've got all night." He's not going to want you anymore, once he realizes. Once you tell him how you feel, what you're thinking. You shake the thoughts free, trying to banish them. He said you could tell him. You trust him. You can do this. Just be honest.

"Emmaline's dad died the week we found out we were pregnant." You whisper, unable to look at him. "It was a housing fire, big building. Like this one." You take a sip, watching the way his fingers sit lax in the bed, close enough to touch you, but giving you space. "There was a power surge, or something. Half the city lost electricity and he got called in. It wasn't unusual, he was a Lieutenant, and they're responsible for a crew, a truck. I thought... I thought I'd just go to bed, wake up in the morning, and he'd be there next to me. Like always, on big calls."

"But he wasn't."

"He wasn't. Instead, his Engineer, and his Captain, were at my door with his helmet in their hands." You bite down on your tongue, fruitlessly stalling the tears and the breakdown that's fighting it's way up your throat. "I loved him so much." As soon as you say it, your voice breaks, vision going blurry, and Simon reaches for you, holding your free hand, stroking a thumb across your knuckles. "I haven't been... I haven't been with anyone, since then."

"Oh, sweetheart." You set the tea down on the table next to the bed, pulling air in through your nose as much as you can, trying to regulate your heart rate, your breathing.

"I thought I knew what love was." You whisper, peeking up at him, soft brown eyes watching you patiently. "But this... feels different. It feels like... more. And that... that makes me feel like I'm betraying him. Like I'm dishonoring the love we shared. I feel guilty, and awful, like I'm doing something wrong." You close your eyes, losing your control, your battle, lower lip trembling with a sob. It tumbles out of you, hoarse and raw, everything falling away as you cry. There's a knife, in your chest, in your heart, twisting and sawing and stabbing, and it hurts, it hurts so badly, the sharp ache only soothed when Simon pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, hand smoothing up and down your spine.

"Sh-shhh." He's settled you into his lap completely now, legs and hips and entire body, wrapped up tight, safe and secure. A small amount of tension sags away from your frame, relieved that he's not running, white hot guilt and grief and still burning in the pit of your stomach. "You're not doing anything, anything, wrong, sweetheart." He thumbs at a tear on your cheek. "It's natural to feel grief like this, it's normal. But you're not betraying him, or your marriage. He'll always be a part of you, and Emmaline." He's rocking you, murmuring softly above your ear, and you relax more, letting him calm you, put you back together piece by piece, your tears starting to slow, your chest rising and falling at a more regular pace. "I want to tell you something." He says after a while, once it's been quiet for a few minutes. You nod, trying to encourage him. "My mum is gone." You push off from him, looking up into his eyes. They're sad, and you see grief in them, despair, but also a deep depth of love. "She taught me how to cook, when I was a young lad. Always told me it would come in handy, when I fell in love." He takes a deep breath, burying his face in your neck for a second before coming back up for air. "She never got to see that, me with someone else. In love. And for years, I thought I disappointed her, let her down, even in death."

"Simon." You whisper, heart breaking apart all over again for the pain that's embedded across his face, the torment that bleeds from his expression.

"But, ever since I met you- I've thought, maybe she's lookin' out for me. That she's somewhere, out there, still bein' my mum. Sending me angels." He blinks, lashes wet, the tear that drips down your face mirroring his own. "Sending you, and Emma. And maybe your husband, is doing the same." You close your eyes, remembering the first time you ever saw Simon, on the roof, handsome in the morning light, even though he seemed so exhausted. You remember the way he held Emmaline, the first time he gave her a bottle, your little baby so at home in his giant arms, safe and cuddled against his chest like she just fit there. When he came to your rescue in the park, scary enough to make every scatter but all you felt was safety. The first time he kissed you, on his patio in the snow. And tonight, when he promised to give you everything, when he held you, made love to you, promised to take care of you. Your heart races in your chest, fingers clutching onto him, holding as tight as you can.

"Am I your angel, Simon Riley?" You wondered aloud with wide eyes, leaning into him, nose to nose. He kisses you, face wet with tears, voice hoarse when he answers.

"You're mine, as I'm yours, sweetheart."

#peaches writes #light on #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

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[caraphernellie]

nothin', just intimate, sleepy morning sex with els <3

an: quick fic i wrote bc i wanted to write something super intimate n kinda romantic ◝꒰ ´ ˘ `♡ ꒱

cw: nothing much rly! morning sex, tribbing, looooots of 'i love you' and romantic talk. not super hot n heavy? idk. slow and gentle <3 i imagine this as maybe fiance or wife ellie!! suuuuper sappy btw. this is really sappy ksfjklajeklfdg

sunlight streaming through the curtains, golden light cast upon your elegant features. ellie peppering those open-mouthed kisses over your hot skin, from shoulder up to the corner of your lips.

"g'mornin'," is the mumble you hear, that voice filled with sleep nothing but a rasp. "how'd you sleep?"

instead of a response to ellie's simple question, you offer a gentle sigh of content, hooking your leg over her waist and pulling her in closer. "i love you. you feel like home to me."

"home?" ellie whispers, brushing your cheek with her thumb, moving her hand to cup your head so delicately at the back of your neck. "what'chu mean, babe?"

"i feel safe with you." there's a pause, ellie watching your eyes flutter while she rubs the skin at the back of your neck, nails lightly scratching over your skin. "s'feels nice."

"nice?" the response a low murmur. "m'glad."

"i think as long as i'm with you, i'll be okay forever."

ellie chuckles quietly, her hand trailing down, over the expanse of bare skin, and she leans a kiss to your shoulder. "romantic this morning, huh?"

"and you're touchy this morning," you retort, fingertips grasping her chin for a soft kiss. a sloppy, slow exchange of spit and warm breath.

the sounds of that wet, gross kissing along with your giggles filling the room, ellie's hand moves upwards to cup your ass.

"i'm more than touchy," she admits, lips curling into a subtle smirk. "lemme have you."

a quiet moan slips past your lips as she kisses down your neck once more, pressing her lips over every purpled mark she left under moonlight mere hours ago.

"god, els," you murmur, words all slurred, brushing your hand through her hair, "c'mon... need you."

"mhm," ellie hums, slowly pushing you onto your back. she smirks at the immediate spreading of your legs, climbing between them.

she gasps, wet cunt meeting with yours. grabbing your leg to fix the angle, she lets your foot rest over her shoulder, leaning over you.

"mmm, ellie," you moan, hips bucking up into her. "s'pretty..."

ellie chuckles, starting to grind down into you, groaning at the sensation, clit rubbing against yours, the feeling slippery and hot and intimate. "you're the prettiest."

"n--" but ellie cuts you off with a kiss. she won't hear anything different, she won't allow you to disagree, not when the sunlight hits your cheekbone like that, and you're splayed out for her to love on, those heavy lidded eyes staring into her own.

pulling away and biting your lower lip, ellie grunts, starting to rub faster against you. she cages your head between her hands pressing into the bed, and she won't let you tell her, but she's utterly beautiful like this, auburn hair curtaining her face. freckles like a tapestry of stars all over her body, every inch of skin so unique to you, sweat beading at her forehead.

ellie's breath grows heavier and she stares down into your eyes, groaning and huffing.

"mmmmff,fuck, ellieee," you whine, "i love you. love you so much."

"i love you too." ellie leans down to kiss your neck, moving faster. but she can't find words that tell you how she really feels. so she resorts back to her typical, vulgar nature.

"and nobody fucks this pussy like me, yeah?"

"no," you manage, shaking your head with half lidded eyes. "nobody does. mmmm, s'good els, yea."

"good?"

"sooo good, good, good, su'good," you babble, beginning to pant a little heavier. "close, ellie."

"me too," ellie mumbles, "hold my hand, babe."

you grab at ellie's hand, your free hand going down to hold her thigh, keep her close as she rubs her soaking cunt onto yours. "kiss, kiss me baby."

ellie squeezes your hand, leaning down and connecting your lips in a kiss, pushing her tongue past your lips. she revels in the moan it elicits from you.

"love you," is the only thing you feel like saying anymore. "yours, i'm yours in this life and in the next, in all the lives after that-"

there's just level of intensity in the room now, soft breeze blowing the curtains peacefully in the light of dawn, moans filling the room, movements of both you and ellie becoming more frantic as you reach the height of your climax together.

"i'm always yours, ellie."

she loses it at that, breath becoming shallow, a soft squeak of--

"cum, cum with me baby."

she meets your lips with hers again, and that familiar feeling snaps in you, the two of you shaking against each other, intertwined in a hold of skin to skin contact.

and ellie holds you close, wrapping an arm around you nice and tight.

"for the record, i'm yours too," she says quietly, kissing your cheek.

"in this life and the next," you say with a firm nod.

i didnt expect it to turn out like this but daaamn... idk if i like it but also??

tags: @dinasvampgf @fadedin2u @machetegirl109 @eurewili @craz1er4you @divinediors @onlinelesbo @thecowardwrites

i'm still trying to sort out my tag list!! it wouldn't let me tag some people. if you wanted to be tagged but weren't pls let me know so i can fix that <3

#ellie williams x reader #tlou2 x reader #ellie williams #ellie williams x fem reader #fem reader #⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ fanfic #ellie williams smut #tlou x reader #tlou2 x reader smut #ellie x reader #ellie x yn #ellie williams x you #ellie x you