#i wanted to have more ghost background chatter

[crunchyroaches27]

”You’re safe, pet.” | TF 141 x omega!reader

OKAYYY BEAR WITH ME! I just released a pt2 of the ghoap post I made but I could not help but write this one. It’s fluff and angst and the same time.

omega!reader is rescued from a Omega trafficking ring by TF141

BACKGROUND INFO

everyone has lil tails and ears (🥺) + Omegaverse AU + they/them pronouns used; Gender neutral + Alphas have pointed canines for marking

there are more characters, like Alejandro but he doesn’t play too much of a major role. He doesn’t deserve to be here

Price is the pack leader. He is an Alpha— the most dominant out of his other mates. His word is absolute law. He likes to regularly scent his pack, it makes him feel reassured that his pack is safe. Price is essentially their cigarette-smoking dad

Ghost is next in line in this chain of command, he is also an Alpha. He is more impulsive than the others and often has to have many restraints, leading to him often being aloof and angsty. Soap likes Ghost, but Ghost is too fucking slow

Gaz is third in line, also an Alpha like the ones before him. He is cool and collected, yet he also is a bit of a rebel— here and there he will challenge Price’s authority and be snarky

And finally, Soap. Poor Soap is at the bottom, being a Beta. Despite not being an Omega, he still carries out monotonous tasks. As the “peacemaker” of his pack, he ensures that all is well between them. That doesn’t mean he isn’t a jackass sometimes. His body scent is fainter, but his scenting abilities are better than the rest bc he is a Beta

In this cruel world made up of Alphas, Betas, and Omegas, there is bound to be danger lurking in every dark alley, every shady nightclub. Over the course of three days, you had seen and felt things you thought would never end. You were used and passed along like a joint. One particular Alpha paid a good fortune for you, and you found yourself dressed in skimpy clothes and drugged with aphrodisiacs. Your pheromones leaked like a pipe. There’s no hope. Why even bother? you thought angstily as you were transported to a new location.

You’d heard of the tragic trafficking of Omegas, but you didn’t expect to experience it firsthand. Omegas have to know every tactic to defend themselves. Your ears drooped in disgust and a sort of disbelief as your body began to enter some sort of stupor; the drugs meant to make you extremely docile and languid were starting to kick in. The sudden sensation of a sharp turn and the screech of wheels snapped you out from your haze. Instead of hearing the usual excited chatter, you heard gunshots. You were too lethargic to even move, so you passed out in your seat. When you awoke, four men surrounded you; three Alphas and one Beta.

You found yourself on a small cot. Three Alphas and one Beta were sniffing your pheromones to deduce your mental, physical, and emotional state. “Aye, Omega’s ‘woken up,” the Beta with the warhawk mumbled. The bearded Alpha hummed. “Hmm. Let’s start with introductions. What’s your name, Omega?” Another Alpha, clad in a skull mask, trilled, seemingly pleased at your arousal (arousal as in the waking up sense!!). “You’re safe, pet. We don’t bite, at least, not unless you want us to.” He jibed with a British lilt once he sensed your fear. His dark-skinned pack mate snorted, rolling his eyes. You could smell he was an Alpha, too.

All of their ears were perked high in expectation, their eyes watching your every move, sniffing every pheromone released into the already stuffy air. “Y/N,” your response made them nod in acknowledgment. “Mm, ‘Kay. We already knew that. Jus’ wanted to see if we got the right person.” The bearded Alpha sighed before continuing. “Well, I’m Price. This ‘ere is Ghost, Gaz on my right, and Soap’s the one in front of ya.” Soap promptly bent down and twinkled at you, his tail wagging. You didn’t even have to ask for their ranks, you could smell it in the bodily fragrances they released— that applied for them too. You could tell that Price, Ghost and Gaz were all Alphas, while Soap was a Beta.

You wondered how they weren't dying to breed you, your pheromones were uncapped and flowing out into the air freely. They must be taking some kick ass suppressors, you surmised. You were, for the lack of better words, glad they weren’t groping your body ravenously. Yet, despite their composed demeanors, glints of wolfish desires were expressed through their eyes. Their tails were rigid and raised.

“We saved you from that trafficking ring— shouldn’t you be more grateful?” Ghost earned himself an elbow pinch from Price. Ghost lowered his ears and grumbled as Gaz snickered. “Omega’s pumped full of drugs. Damnit, they’re barely alive,” Price grunted, his brows knitted— not in regards to Ghost— but at your deplorable condition. “Don’t expect much yet.”

“Soap, call in exfil, we need to go back to base. We need to get this Omega treated.” At Price’s order, Soap’s ears flicked and he soon got to work. “Don’t worry, Omega,” Price murmured, his thick fingers tracing circles on your sunken-in cheeks. He practically melted at the sigh you soughed. “You’re safe, pet.”

One half of you loved his touch, the Omega side that constantly craved the touch and comfort of an Alpha; the other half wanted to flinch back and snarl at it. You’d been touched, and not in a nice way— you didn’t want to bear that again. Yet because Price’s touch was refreshingly compassionate, the former side won.

At the hospital

When you arrived at the base, you were stirred awake by a splitting headache, an after effect of the narcotics. Your vision was bleary but you could tell that you were in an infirmary— and that you were not alone, either.

Ghost and Soap were seated on the chairs adjacent to your little mattress. Their tails were curled curled together as they waited for your awakening. When you finally announced it by clearing your throat, both of their ears shot up in attention and whipped their heads around to face you.

Soap was the first one to detach from the tail-curling and walk towards you, a gentle concern painted onto his face. “Ye feelin’ any better, Omega?” He chuckled at your reply, a tired no. His hands neared to replace the tape covering your scent glands, but then he stopped, seemingly remembering his manners. “Mind if I change ‘em? Not gonna try anything slick,” Soap asked, his icy blue eyes warming themselves for you.

“No,” you croaked. Slowly, he started to strip the tape off, clean your gland, and patch a new piece of tape on. Obviously, your scent had been carried in the air, exciting both Soap and Ghost. You knew Soap had a better nose than the rest. Soap’s pupils had dilated, making you a bit uneasy, “not gonna try anythin’,” he assured you again, smelling your distrust.

“Where’s Price and Gaz?” You questioned, hoping you remembered the name of the two Alphas right. “They’re in Mexico. With a friend; they should be back soon.” Ghost replied, rising to his feet to join Soap. They both assessed you with such focused attention— especially Ghost— making you feel like a piece of meat again. Your ears pinned themselves against your head.

Ghost’s inhaled deeply through his mouth, his breath trembling. He leaned closer towards you, his head tilting to try and whiff up any of your heady pheromones that still lingered in the air from the tape-replacing. Ghost's ears were angled towards you.

Ghost realized what he was doing and promptly gave you your space, as if to prove his salaciousness was kept under control. Or maybe he did it as an apology. "Sorry, just, you smell nice."

Soap hummed in what could be expressed as skepticism.

"Well, I think we should leave 'em to their own devices." Soap said, giving your hand a quick squeeze. He ordered for a glass of water to be delivered to your room before he left with his packmate.

You were left alone with your thoughts. You realized how much of a windfall this was. Out of hundreds of millions, you were saved. You had quite possibly the aid of God by your side. What an occurrence.

Sorry. Didn't really know how to end it, but pt2 will come out fs 😚

#omegaverse #alpha beta omega #soap cod #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #call of duty #fanfic #141 #gaz cod #john price #captain price #soap #ghost #ghost mw2 #price cod #omega #tf 141 #task force 141 #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #omega!reader #beta!soap #alpha!price #alpha!ghost #alpha!gaz #cod fanfic #fluff #angst

[jungle-angel]

The Little Bookworm (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob can't get enough of your kids being obsessed with books

It was the gloomiest of fall days with the skies over Montana having gone darker than expected, almost as if night were setting in at lunchtime.

Auggie had been perched on the little bay window seat in the living room, the rain battering the diamond paned windows while the woodstove in the living room made the house warm and cozy. Bob didn't particularly like having the tv on all day, but The Nightmare Before Christmas seemed like the perfect background noise on a day like this and with Halloween fast approaching, it made it even better.

Bob smiled a little seeing his little mini-me completely engrossed in one of the books you had gotten him. Auggie had always loved pulling books from the shelf, no matter how big or how small they were and loved making up his own stories to tell you, Bob and the rest of the family.

"Auggie, come and eat," Bob called from the kitchen.

Auggie giggled and shut his book, running right for the kitchen and seating himself into his chair. Bob had definitely outdone himself this time, grilled cheese with bacon, a side of kettle cooked potato chips and a kosher dill pickle on the side.

"Whatcha reading buddy?" Bob asked him.

"Um.....I dunno," Auggie chirped with a big grin on his face before taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"You don't know?!" Bob questioned, pretending to be shocked.

"It's about these three guys and a bad guy who doesn't like them so they've gotta stop him," Auggie explained.

The more Auggie chattered, the more Bob couldn't control the broad smile on his face. The Three Musketeers had been one of his favorites growing up, one that his father had grown up reading as well. Now that Auggie was reading it, he was proud beyond words that his love of the book had been passed down to his son.

As soon as lunch was done, Bob took a look at Auggie's bookshelf and made a list of other books that he didn't have, noting that they would most likely be his Christmas gift that year. He made his way upstairs while Auggie scooted back to his little corner, hoping you were still up in your shared bedroom and sure enough, you were.

"Still working away Mrs. Floyd?" he asked, scooting in next to you.

"All I can do Bob," you told him.

You had been needle-felting all day as a movie played out on the tv that was mounted on the wall. Bob felt awful that you were on strict bedrest, but after the last ultrasound appointment, you both knew it was what you and your baby girl needed. Luckily Reagan and her husband, Elijah, lived close by in case anything came up, but it still made Bob nervous whenever you got up in the middle of the night to pee.

Yet he was in awe at the Halloween decorations you had made for Auggie's kindergarten class, little pumpkins that looked like fairy houses, witches in their pointed little hats and little brooms in their hands, fuzzy little bats with googly eyes and silly looking little spiders, black cats with slinky little tails, ghosts with their mouths wide open and even two little figures that turned out to be Jack and Sally and even a little Zero from The Nightmare Before Christmas.

"Did you do all this while I was downstairs?" Bob asked, picking up the soft, fuzzy little figures.

"Yep," you answered proudly. "Kay told me that while the kids were outside playing in the yard, Auggie, Gabe, Nicky and Pete were all collecting sticks and wanted to bring them home. I figured I could use them to make a little Halloween tree."

Bob remembered having been a kid at that type of school and having had Kay's mother for his kindergarten teacher. They were wonderful days, learning how to make fresh bread and soup for lunch, playing with his friends, listening to stories and plenty of playing outside. Yet they had been tough too. Bob remembered some days when his father had gotten a deployment notice. He would hide out in a corner of the classroom and cry until Kay's mother had to gently coax him out. Bob had made damn sure that Auggie, Patrick and any other children you might have, would never have to go through that when they started school. But luckily, Bob and the rest of the Daggers had been fully and honorably discharged by the time Patrick had been born.

"You've gotta teach me how to do this because I'm curious now," Bob chuckled.

"Believe me I will," you told him. "I need a partner so I can keep from getting bored."

Up the stairs came those familiar little feet you heard running through the house day after day on the weekends. "Daddy, Daddy," Auggie chirped again. "Can you read to me?"

"C'mere buddy," Bob said, lifting him up into the bed with his book and putting him between you both.

You rode out the rest of the rainy afternoon, reading The Three Musketeers and the adventures they had lived. Auggie was practically jumping with excitement whenever Bob read the swordfight scenes, the both of you happy and proud that he was your little bookworm.

#top gun maverick #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #dagger squad

[eskeptical]

worthy watch - miguel o'hara x reader

a/n: thought of a little scenario also sorry for any mistakes i did not spell check if u find any lmk! ✨

summary: after peter b. parker accidentally destroys your watch, miguel ensures you get it back

The Spider Society HQ held its usual lively environment. Multiple spider-people walking around, chattering, a sea of voices drowned as your brain focused on a particular stimulus: the conversation you were currently having.

“I said I’m going to get you a new one, and I will.”

You looked at Peter B. Parker, who was slurping down a strawberry milkshake, eyes closed in delight, because apparently it was that good.

Usually, Peter was not someone you would sit down with to eat some lunch. Your busy schedules prevented you from it, but also, a part of you didn’t like to. You enjoyed hanging out with him, of course, but watching him eat felt like an intrusion, of sorts. Usually, you weren’t one to judge or be affected by something so trivial as a person’s eating habits, but his constant moaning while chewing accompanied by his finger licking after a good, hefty meal made you feel extremely uncomfortable, like you were walking in on something you weren’t supposed to see. However, a long, tiring mission involving both of you led you to go out to eat at the restaurant in the Spider HQ as a well-deserved reward. His treat, because of a little ‘incident’ that occurred during the mission.

You glanced at your left wrist, the ghost of where your dimensional travel watch once was still lingering on your skin, now replaced by a flimsy purple day pass. Then you redirected your attention to the small plastic bag beside your burger, filled to the brim with dust and rubble.

“But it won’t be like the one I had before.”

Your watch - at least, what used to be your watch before it was blown to pieces - had a personalized interface, the orange replaced by blue, with little carvings on its metal structure. All of them intentional, little symbols and initials that represented something important in your life.

“Miguel can probably redo it just the way you had it before. You know, it’s really not fair he only upgraded yours. I’ve been begging him for weeks to add a little Mayday and MJ background to mine.”

“He could redo the interface, I guess…” you replied. Probably not the little carvings, though. Fidgeting with the last few fries on your plate, you then added, “...that is, if he’s not furious when he finds out it got destroyed.”

Peter looked down at the miserable pile of rubble, his brows creasing in concern as he pointed at it with his index finger.

“Pulverized would be a better word for it, I think.”

You glared at him. “And who’s fault is that?!”

He raised his hands defensively in the air.

“I thought it would work!”

At one point during the mission, the anomaly had been holding on to your wrist, and Peter said he knew a secret code you could type in that would shoot an emergency laser beam immediately.

Looking back, you wish common sense had kicked into you to realize how stupid that sounded. But your perception was clouded by the adrenaline, and you were forced to observe helplessly as the watch unlatched from your wrist and self-destructed soon after typing the code in.

“I don’t even want to talk about this anymore.” You sighed, rubbing your neck.

“I’m sorry. If you want you can order a dessert, okay? On me.”

His pitiful attempt of redemption made you look down at your nearly empty plate.

You raised your hand, two fingers up. “Two desserts.”

It didn’t take long for Miguel to notice your watch was gone. In fact, it took him a little more than an hour after your lunch with Peter. He called out your name, impatience setting in his fast pace towards you.

You hid your hands behind your back, the remains of your watch tucked safely in your pocket.

“Why am I not able to contact you?”

“Hm…Maybe it’s a malfunction?”

His eyes narrowed and darted to your arms, tilting slightly to try to get a look at your wrist.

“A malfunction would leave the location of your watch where it was last functioning. Yours completely disappeared.”

You stayed silent. “I feel…caught.”

“Where’s your watch?”

Shame crept up through your entire body as you reached into your pocket and handed the plastic bag to him. “...Here…”

Miguel stared at it, disbelief sprouting on his face.

Deafening silence filled the hallway.

“How…how did that happen?”

“Peter confused the code for self destruction for…something else, so I typed it in…and…well…”

You nodded towards the bag. The rest was self-explanatory.

He frowned, the rim of his eyes a deepened shade of crimson. “...ese pinche idiota…”

“Wait. It was my fault too. I should have been able to recognize it, but I didn’t pay attention when Lyla explained the watch’s functions.”

“Still…he’s an idiot. What did both of you think typing the code in would do?”

“Don’t ask. It’s really dumb. But… I can’t believe it got destroyed.”

You said the last part wholeheartedly, the corners of your mouth falling as your fingers began to trace the vacant area on your wrist.

Miguel finally calmed down as he caught on to your expression, imitating your saddened expression.

“Hey...I can make you a new one…just like the one you had before…with the blue…and the little…”

You raised your hand to stop him.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry about it.” Your hands returned to your sides, and you raised one lightly to motion towards the flimsy purple bracelet.

“Peter said he would get me a new one. I can make do with the day pass for now.”

His eyes softened.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s okay. He’ll take care of it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line.

“...Okay.”

The next day, you were just walking through the many hallways, not really heading anywhere specific, when Peter approached you, out of breath.

“Peter…everything okay?”

He raised one finger as he panted, hands planted on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Then, he pulled out a small device from the pocket of his pink robe.

The watch.

He finally stood up correctly, and your eyes immediately darted towards the heavy, dark bags under his eyes. Your hand reached his shoulder.

“Peter…it really wasn’t that urgent! You didn’t have to spend all night making it! Did you even sleep?”

“Like one hour, maybe less…I just…got motivated to do it last night…”

“Well, thank you. I really appreciate it. But you should not have done that. The watch could have waited…”

He waved his hands around, shooing away your concerns.

“Nonsense. Anyways, I gotta run. Lyla was going to review some…issues…that need attention.”

Before you could respond, he swung out of view.

You looked at the watch in front of you.

Sliding it open, your jaw dropped when you saw the blue interface.

Peter could not have figured out how to do that.

The culprit was revealed when you inspected it, and sure enough, all of the previous markings were carved into the metal side, almost exactly in the same position.

Well, all except for one.

You began walking again, now sure of were you were going.

Your webs easily helped you reach the platform on which Miguel was standing.

“Miguel…” you called out, hands firmly placed on your hips as he swiped a few orange screens away and turned to face you.

“...Yes?”

You raised your arm, displaying your new watch.

“Oh! Your watch is back! Good thing Peter put in effort to replace it so quickly.” His voice was filled with surprise and warmth, but you knew him all too well.

“He said he was motivated. Did you, by any chance, influence his motivation?”

His facade quickly dropped, as he began to scratch his nose.

“Maybe…”

“Miguel…” you warned.

“I just reminded him to make it.”

You met his response with silence, prompting him to add, “and maybe I told him he would never be allowed to bring Mayday here again if he didn’t finish it soon.”

“Miguel!”

He shrugged.

“What? I wasn’t entirely being harsh…I did that stupid background he wanted for him when he finished your watch.”

You sighed in relief. At least Peter got something in return. “What about the blue interface? And the markings? I’ve only shown them to you.”

“Okay…after he finished the initial one, I altered it for you.”

Your finger traced over the markings, the little dents for symbols and numbers on the silver metal, and heat rushing to your neck when you added, “...you missed one…did you skip over it..?”

Miguel smiled warmly at you, his hands gently reaching for your wrist.

“How could I? We made it together. I just relocated it.”

He shifted your hand for your palm to face down, and slid a part of metal, revealing a small inscription.

His initial, a plus sign, and your initial.

"Plus, I added a new one. Look."

He pointed his finger to the new addition, right below the initals.

Three letters, carved neatly. TQM.

You know exactly what it means.

Warmth fills your chest, and a dumbfounded grin forces itself upon your mouth.

He slides the metal back into place, and holds your hand, moving it upwards to his mouth, peppering kisses all over it.

“Now go.”

Surprise flooded your expression.

“Go? Go where?”

“You’re joining Peter down at the left wing. Lyla is going to run over the watch functions until they’re drilled into your pretty little head.”

He placed a quick kiss on your forehead, and turned back to the screens.

You groaned, and begrudgingly swung out of his office.

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara atsv #atsv #across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #spiderman 2099 #miguel spiderman #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #miguel x y/n

[darkworkcourier]

A day late, but have a little festive follow-up to this fic. ;D

Words: 4476 Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader (reader code named Ladybird)

Contains some naughty business in the bath, oral, good ol' missionary, a little tiny bit of cockwarming, and soap being ladybird's bestie again.

---

It’s half past seven in the evening. You’re up to your neck in honeysuckle-scented bubbles, right ankle propped up on the faucet, stomach comfortably filled with döner and champagne. Eyes closed, shoulders still pleasantly aching from your two o’clock massage, you prop your phone between your jaw and shoulder and say, “No, it’s been awful,” with the perfect amount of high drama. “The room’s tiny, no laundry, nearest restaurant is like a half mile away. I’ve never been so miserable in my life.”

“I call bullshit,” Soap says into your ear.

“Nothing to call bullshit on. If you want to trade places—”

He snorts, and you hear the clatter of pans in the background. “And put up with him when he’s like this? Bet me the fuck not.”

You play coy. “Like what?”

“Wound up like an eight-day clock,” Soap replies. You hear the hiss of a faucet, and then the distant chatter of what you guess is a hoard of family members. “Sexually frustrated.”

Someone in the background asks, “Who’s sexually frustrated?” in a mirror of Soap’s accent.

“You, ya reprobate,” Soap retorts in good humor.

You grin and tilt your right foot a little, idly wondering if you should schedule a pedicure. “Tell your brother I said hi.”

“My friend says ye sound like a bampot,” Soap dutifully reports.

“Soap!”

“It’s a nice thing in Scotland, Ladybird.”

“You know it’s not.”

He laughs, as does his brother. At the same time, you hear the hotel room door open, causing you to smile immediately. It should alarm you how easily you've fallen into this, all smitten and ridiculous. When the bathroom door opens, it takes a hell of a lot of self control not to just hoist yourself out of the tub—soaked, slippery, and naked—and launch yourself right into Simon's arms (or potentially trip and slide into them). Instead, like a normal person, you glance over your shoulder while staying very much in place.

Simon pokes his head in, hair mussed from his beanie, N95 pulled down below his chin. He furrows his brow and mouths, 'Who?' while making a phone gesture with his pinky and thumb.

You point to the bar of (French-milled, lavender-scented, luxury) soap next to your elbow, and he nods in understanding, disappearing back around the door frame. For one foolish second, you think you're safe.

"Alright, so aside from being in a hovel, how is it?" Soap asks.

You turn your attention back to the phone call, stretching your legs out and propping your left ankle on the edge of the tub. It slides a little on the wet marble. "I mean, I get into the bath and come out dirtier, if that gives you any idea."

"Mhmm." He sounds unconvinced. "And the mission?"

Shit. Right. "Y'know," you start, voice pitching higher than you intended. "It's... going."

The bathroom door opens again. You let your guard down, which is one of the classic blunders. Biting down on your bottom lip, you resolutely do not look at Simon slinking into the room like a devious cat.

"Yeah, sounds like you're workin' real hard there," Soap says, completely unaware that Simon's kneeling down beside the bathtub, his jacket discarded in favor of a black t-shirt (his favorite Six Feet Back or Six Feet Down shirt, complete with plague doctor).

Do not look at him. Do not make eye contact. The second you make eye contact, it's over. He's like a sleeper agent.

"I mean, we've gotten more intel in the past few days than we have since this all started," you say, keeping your voice steady even as you see an arm slide into your periphery, following the line of the tub. "Ask Price."

Fingers dangerously close to the water line. You watch them, glaring.

"Don't need to," Soap replies. At the same time, you hear the high-pitched shriek of a kid tackling another. He groans. "Also, I take it back. Trade places wi' me."

He might not want that at the moment, right when Simon's hand slides into the water, disappearing wrist-deep in bubbles, fingers finding your left thigh right away. Finally, you do look at him, since looking away doesn't seem to work. The bastard has the au-fucking-dacity to look bored, like this is just another part of his mission, a box to tick on his to-do list. Scope out Berlin, follow a money trail, chit-chat with some KSK insertion specialist, get dinner, feel up the girlfriend.

In a clumsy motion, you manage to mute yourself long enough to hiss at him, "Don't you dare, Riley."

"Don't I dare what?"

"Ladybird?"

To quote the man feeling you up, fuckin' hell.

"Sorry. Yeah. I'm here," you say, leaving a smeared fingerprint on your phone screen. "I'm, uh, trying to multitask."

"Multitask? On what, exactly?"

"On—" Simon's hand lazily glides over your inner thigh like he has nothing better to do. You swallow hard. "On my report for Laswell," comes your very pathetic answer. (Simon snorts in disbelief.) You have maybe six words total on that report, and none of them are informative. "Trying to do that and figure out my laundry situation at the same time."

"Uh-huuuh," Soap drawls out. Another kid screeches in the background, and you hear his brother (who sounds alarmingly like him) bark something that sounds a lot like 'don't make me go in there'.

"Yeah," you say, as Simon's index finger finds your slit, tracing up and down the length of it while he props his opposite elbow on the edge of the tub, resting his chin on his palm. "It's, uh, tedious."

And you hear the realization. You know Simon and Soap are friends by the shared rate in which the reach epiphanies. "Gotcha," he says. "Should I leave you to it?"

Oooh, he sounds way too smug.

"I mean, talking to you really is the highli-i-ight of my day!" you reply, the long vowel of 'highlight' catching on an upward stroke of Simon's fingers that nearly sends you right out of the tub. And Simon, son of a bitch-in-chief, snickers.

So does Soap. Because these men operate on a wavelength that transcends time and distance. "Right. Is this a bad time to ask if you're still plannin' on comin' up for Hogmanay?"

"What'd he say?" Simon mutters close to your other ear, low enough that Soap can't hear him.

You mouth 'Hogmanay' before biting your lip when the tip of his index finger brushes over your clit, sending a jolt through you that disturbs the bath water. He shakes his head, giving you the worst attempt at a wide-eyed innocent look, seeing as how he can't accomplish it even if he tried.

"Didn't catch that, sweetheart. Wanna put him on speaker?"

"Fucker," you hiss. Against your better judgment, you do as he asks, tapping the speaker icon and setting the phone down on the opposite side of the bathtub. It's out of the danger zone of you dropping it as Simon's fingers do terrible, horrible things to you in your time of vulnerability. "Soap, can you repeat that? You cut out for a sec."

He either laughs or coughs, and it's hard to tell which. "S'askin' if you two were still planning on comin' t' Hogmanay, or if this Berlin thing was gonna take up the rest of yer time."

"Of course we're still going," you reply, right as your legs betray your brain and spread to give Simon more room. "W-wouldn't miss it for anything!"

A long pause. A long, long pause. Then, "Ghost?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

Damnit.

"You coming, too? Or is Ladybird finally gonna come to her senses and ditch you to run away wi' me?"

Simon mutters, "Oh, she'll come alright," into your ear as his middle finger joins his index, drawing heinous circles around your clit while you try not to moan.

"What was that?"

"I said yeah, I'll be there."

"Ah, more's the pity," Soap says mournfully. "A'right. Try not tae keep her up too late, ya mongrel."

"Copy that, Sergeant."

You hear the tinny, percussive sound of something hitting a solid object with alarming volume, and then the squeal of, "Uncle Johnnyyyy! Throw it back!"

Your turn to snicker, even as Simon is being a monster. "G'night, Soap."

Soap gives an exhausted and resigned, "Gooood night and happy holidays, Ladybird. Don't let the bed bugs bite, or give you too many hickeys."

Bastards. All of them. Every single one.

You gratefully end the call, your head falling back to the rim of the tub and that hidden moan finally coming to the surface. "You are the worst," you tell Simon, although each word comes out unfairly sexually-charged.

He looks thoughtful, even as his fingers start teasing your opening. "That's not what you usually say."

"Usually you're not trying to f-finger me in the middle of a-a..." He picks up the pace in the middle of your sentence. You shudder, head rolling toward him, your glare losing its heat. "A fuckin' phone call," is the end result, and the last word is lost in a sigh.

"You don't sound that angry about it," he points out.

No, because you love him and he knows it. He knows that you look at him like the sun rises on one shoulder and sets on the other, and that he looks at you the same way (when he thinks you're not watching). And he knows that maybe, deep down, you kind of get off on the shit he likes to pull.

"I will be angry if you try fingering me underwater," you say. "Water's not lube."

"I wasn't gonna try," he replies. "Figured I'd get you riled up first."

You squint at him, bottom lip pouting out. "The worst," you reiterate.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. "You like it."

"Wash my hair and I'll like you more."

His hand retreats, to both your frustration and relief. He draws it out of the mountain of bubbles, wiping it off on the bathmat. He's out of your peripheral for one second, a low hum reaching your ears and reverberating down your spine. "The sea salt one or the— whatever the pink one is?"

"Argan oil, and yes to that."

"Spoiled," he says, and while your knee-jerk reaction is to refute that claim, you immediately agree with it the second his fingers touch your scalp.

---

You had plans in Berlin. Nightlife plans, even. There were all manner of shows, concerts, clubs, scenic walks, and nighttime river cruises you could have enjoyed. Those plans, like the ones you had for tonight, got ditched mid-flight the moment Simon had any kind of say.

You can't find it in you to complain. Not while he's between your legs, eating you out like dinner earlier didn't sate him. He fucks you on his fingers, his thrusts matching pace with the quick flicks of his tongue, his dark eyes finding yours in the amber-warm light of the bedside lamp.

You're propped up on a small mountain of stupidly soft pillows, back arching, toes curled into the high thread count sheets. One hand's in his hair, pulling him closer, closer— Anything, any possible means of getting off and finally breaking the tension he's carefully and mercilessly built up inside of you. You're practically fucking yourself on his face, and he looks perfectly at peace with this.

When you do finally come, it's beautiful. It's every neon and LED light you're missing in Berlin, every firework launched over a park, every star in the December night sky. You shudder, twitch, spasm against and on him— Hell, around him as he fucks you through it, coaxing out every last vestige of pleasure on the tips of his talented fingers.

You only realize you're practically suffocating the man with your cunt when you finally let his hair go and he jerks back and gasps. In turn, you gasp, fingers flying up to your mouth as he wipes his face on his arm.

"Holy shit, Simon, I am so sorry," you pant, trying to get your own breathing under control.

"No, no. Don't be," he says, swallowing hard, mouth hidden behind his wrist. "That's exactly how I wanna die when the time comes."

He would say that, but you're still mortified that you accidentally tried to kill him in the name of an orgasm.

At least it's an easy synaptic jump to make in order to think of a way to make it up to him. He lays down beside you—a pretty close mimic of that first time in your room back at base, that first round of tentative touches and vague understandings of each others' bodies. One arm goes around your shoulders, pulling you close to him, letting your head rest against his sweat-damp chest. To your credit, you give him more than a half second of warning before your hand is on his dick.

More like two seconds. That's being generous.

Still propped up on him, you start moving your hand in long, languid strokes. He stills, but you can hear his normally steady heartbeat quicken. Simon ditched the half-protests of 'no, you don't have to' and 'I don't expect it every time' a long time ago, but you still feel that hesitance, the slight shift in his body like he wants to tell you that he's fine; you're not contractually required to pleasure him. You know he wants it, though. That's enough of a reason.

What he doesn't anticipate is you sliding down the length of his body, rolling over a little until your arm and torso bracket one (unfairly muscular) thigh, your hand curled around the girth of his cock, lips brushing the underside. This time, you look up at him, finding his half-lidded, lust-glazed eyes under furrowed brows.

(Once, you like to remember, you did something like this after a mission. He didn't bother to take the mask off, and so you looked up at a grinning skull, greasepaint, and bloodshot eyes from thirty-four sleepless hours. It took so long to get enough gear out of the way in order to pull him out of his pants, but it was worth it to watch him go boneless under your touch. Worth it still when he absolutely passed out afterward.)

Simon's body language doesn't always give everything away. You're trained in the art of watching his tells and cues, the subtle dance between muscle spasms and eye movements, reading out a whole play of emotions that he's trained to hide. He doesn't flinch or tremble when you touch him like this, or when your mouth finally engulfs the head of his cock, tasting the salt tang of precum on the tip. But you do see his abdomen tighten, the way he braces for a punch to the torso.

He braces for you, and what a fucking ego trip that is.

Spurred on by this, you swallow him down as far as you can, until your jaw aches and your throat protests. By mutual agreement, you never take him down to the hilt. He doesn't want you mimicking outlandish porn scenarios with the idea that it would make him happy. Instead, you do what you know for a fact he likes.

Your tongue moves slowly, pressing up under his cockhead, swirling around it, tasting the slit at the tip. You bob your head slowly, savoring the taste and texture of him, the warmth radiating off his body as his breath hitches and he grunts. When you watch him, you see tightness at the corners of his eyes, the way he keeps catching his bottom lip under his teeth and letting it go over and over.

He's awful at making noise, even though you've told him how much you love hearing his sounds. He's got a lifetime worth of experience in keeping quiet at all costs—turning it into an instinct—and so you learned that what sounds he gives you, you've earned.

So he does moan. It's soft, subdued, but the vibration goes through you and makes you wet all anew. It's followed by a soft rasp of breath, and the sight of him fisting the sheets by his hips in a white-knuckled grip. When you swallow him down again, right hand twisting the base of his cock, left hand under his thigh, you feel him shudder and tense.

"Wai— Wait," he manages. Holy shit, you knocked the breath out of him.

You pause, cock still halfway in your mouth. Now it's your turn to tease him, looking up at him with wide eyes and the exact ploy of innocence. He can't play innocent worth a damn, but you've got it down to an art.

"Mm?" you hum around him, and earn another shudder for your trouble.

His expression makes it look like he's working through a particularly difficult puzzle—a jigsaw with no corner pieces. "I wanna... Fuckin' hell, I don't wanna finish like this."

Reluctantly, and with deliberate slowness, you draw your head back enough that his cock slides out of your mouth and smears a small streak of precum along your left cheek. "Oh?" you say, feigning like you simply have no idea what he's insinuating. No, sir.

And like he has a tendency to do, you tilt your head so your right cheek rests against his thigh. You can see the moment he catches what you're doing, a pinch forming between his brows as his brain fights to stay online.

"You... Ah, fuck," he tries, raking a hand through his hair and causing some of it to stand on end. He'd hate to hear you say it, but it's adorable. "Jesus fuckin' Christ, get up here."

"Can't talk about him like that so close to his birthday," you joke, but you follow directions to the letter, hoisting yourself up and slowly dragging yourself across his thighs and abdomen. Your breasts brush over his chest, making him hiss between his teeth. Then you straddle his lap, enjoying the sight of the flushed, hard line of his cock against your thigh. You resolutely do not touch him, even though the temptation is there. He's teased you enough over time, and even though the blowjob was to make up for almost murdering him, you still need to get a little revenge for him trying to make you drop your phone in the bath.

You look up and see him staring back at you, pupils dilated, bottom lip dark from biting, chest heaving. He's the image of sexual frustration (and Soap's words come back to you at the worst moment)—a little bit debauched, a little bit divine.

He doesn't say anything, simply reaching up and resting a hand on the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on him, and you wonder if he tastes himself on your tongue. He holds you there, kissing you in a way that feels utterly molten, a long-lasting burn that you're sure he's sustained all day. When he finally does release you, you feel like you were the one deprived of air, suffocating in his need.

His hand moves from your neck to your face, thumb brushing along the ridge of your cheekbone. He leans in once more to kiss you firmly, and you lean back into him entirely.

Forget teasing. You love this man way too much to keep up the jest.

"Where do you want me?" you ask against his lips.

His forehead's pressed against yours. You can feel his eyelashes, a slow, ticklish flicker against your skin—his nose nudges against yours. "On your back," he says, more than a little breathless. "Please."

You don't waste time, rolling off him to splay out on the pillows and blankets, sinking into them. Simon briefly goes off the edge of the bed, fishing around his backpack for a condom. Then he's back, wedging himself between your knees, hips slotting close to yours. Heat radiates off him in waves, and you get a contact buzz just from the proximity. His lowers his head once, kissing you, biting your bottom lip, tasting you once more.

"You need extra lube or anything?" he asks.

"Not after what you just did to me," you reply, tilting up enough to kiss his jaw as a reward for consideration. "I'm good."

You hear the condom packet rip, see the brief silver flash of the wrapper as Simon carelessly tosses it... somewhere. As you adjust your hips for comfort, he rolls the condom on. Then you feel his hand against your leg, movements slow and gentle as he aligns himself with you.

"You alright?" he asks, out of habit.

You nod, smiling up at him. "Always."

And he slides in.

It's an easy motion, part practice and part wetness from the combined efforts of his mouth and your arousal. He still takes it slow so as to not fill you up all at once. Yet the slow glide is almost more maddening—toe-curling as you feel him thrust in and hear his low moan. It feels like an epoch before he seats himself all the way inside, hips flush to your pelvis.

You hear your name as a sigh, and it rings in your head like a bell. You'll never get over how he says it, the myriad of ways he turns your name into something special. 'Ladybird' is reserved for work, for situations when you need to keep your cover, or when he's feeling surly. But when he says your real name, it's with a certain degree of reverence regardless of if it's said in happiness or anger. Like it means something to him that it's never meant to you.

Then again, you get it. His name feels like a secret, too.

"Fuck," he whispers, one hand on your hip, the other on the bed beside you. "You feel so damn good."

You can't wrangle the mischief edging its way into your smile. "It'd be better if you moved," you say.

He huffs a laugh, but follows your suggestion. His hips roll slowly, testing the waters, eyes gauging your reaction. Honestly, he doesn't need to watch for anything with you—it always feels good.

Sometimes the two of you work up a little banter, joking with each other between thrusts, teasing relentlessly. This isn't one of those times. You can't pinpoint why that is, why your playful back-and-forth from earlier fades into this, all emotionally-loaded and sweet. But you're far from complaining as he fucks you, fills and empties you on each thrust and draw, an ebb and flow with all the power of the tide.

Your right leg hitches around his waist, drawing him in close. He presses himself against you, your breasts firmly against his chest. At the same time, he kisses your cheek, down to your jaw, lower still to your neck. When he gets to your collarbone, you feel the slight pinch of teeth, then see his dark eyes fixed on you.

For a moment, you're not sure what he's doing, but then—

"Ohhh," you say. He and Soap aren't the only ones hitting epiphanies on the regular. "Right. Bed bugs and hickeys."

His smile is quick, a flicker of muscle movement, before he gives you another quick nip to the clavicle. "Somethin' to show off at Hogmanay," he says.

"Soap's never going to shut up about it."

"Good," Simon replies. And then he's sucking on your skin, biting down enough for you to hiss and wince. He keeps his eyes on your face, watching to see if it's too much. (It never is.) And he keeps thrusting in, enough so the pleasure drowns out any pain. When the ache is noticeable, he finally relents, lips finding yours again.

His thrusts quicken, and he buries his face into your neck as you arch off the bed and moan. Your arms go around his neck, holding him close, your bodies moving as a singular unit. He feels so deep, every driving push powerful, sending sparks through your nerves. You gasp his name, shuddering against him as you feel his heart hammering in his chest, reverberating into yours.

Your name is a scrape of his voice in your ear, and then you hear the distinctive hitch that tells you how close he is. He doesn't have to say it—rarely does—and you know him well enough now to catch all the signs. His pace stutters, muscles twitch, and his breath is hot against your skin. All you can do is hold him close, fingers on his back, stroking up and down his spine as he fucks you harder.

He has a tendency to freeze up when he comes. It's a quirk, and one that makes you smile and tilt your head enough to kiss his bare shoulder. He grunts and gasps, hips jerking once, twice, then burying himself so deep that it aches. You stroke his back through it all, feeling the divots of his spine, the hard muscles, networks of scar tissue forming constellations between freckles and moles. You're a little bit wistful at the idea of someday feeling him spill into you, experiencing that extra heat. But for right now, you're content to let him lay there and catch his breath as you lightly run your fingers over his skin. Idly, you raise one hand to card through his sweat-damp hair, fighting back giggles as you make it stand on end.

"What are you doing to me?" he asks, slightly muffled against your neck.

"Nothing."

"Doesn't feel like nothing."

Your thumb brushes down over his forehead, running along the curve of his eyebrow. He sighs against your skin, eyes fluttering closed.

"You gonna pull out any time soon?" you ask, grinning.

"Once I remember how my legs work, yeah."

"Take your time."

"Mm." Slowly, he hoists himself up on his elbows and pulls his cock out of you. You enjoy the pleasurable soreness that follows, rubbing your thighs together like you're pressing the memory between pages of a book. As you do that, he unfolds himself to get off the bed, discarding the condom before standing up to his full height.

When you see him wince, right hand going to rub a spot on his lower back, you can't help but laugh. "Is round two off the table, old man?" you tease.

He gives you a mock glare over his shoulder, but you see the suggestion of a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. "Once the paracetamol kicks in, it's over for you, Ladybird," he says.

You can't wait.

---

'and how many hickeys?'

You sigh, thumbs moving quickly over the keyboard. 'None, you filthy animal. I'm all business.'

The emojis come quicker than usual. A cute little cow, and then grinning shit.

#cod: mw2 #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #i am so sorry for any errors as i have a cold and everything feels bad forever #i'm not like totally happy with this but i wanted to idk say thank you for everyone being so darn nice about my fics

[keresnotceres]

MW2 CHARACTERS: as Lovers (explained through songs)

[sfw] cw(s): lyrics/themes of death, mentions of abuse/ghost's past, brief mentions of sex

i spent an embarrassing amount of time on this, so enjoy it lol.

Ghost is disastrously Everlong (Foo Fighters). The genuine emotion that song manages to evoke in me is painful and refreshing at the same time — that’s the type of feeling Simon “Ghost” Riley exudes.

As a lover; he’s very distant at first. He refuses to become more attached to you than he already is — convinced he’s going to lose you too (or, worse, become his father). It very likely takes him years to truly open up to you about everything, and when you don’t stop loving him, he never want to leave your side. Ghost likely feels like he is never going to do enough for you until the two of you finally have that unbreakable connection, and then he finds himself to be everything you could ever need through your actions/words.

The instrumental sections, especially the part that emulates the opening of the song after the second chorus. The change from strong drums and electric guitar to the simple bass line and indistinguishable radio chatter that slowly ramp up into the loudness again is so goddamn emotional. If that isn’t Ghost then I don’t know what else is.

Ghost is one of the most tragic characters in MW2, Everlong has an incredibly emotional tone that perfectly captures the feeling of tragedy, something Ghost has been through countless times. This heavily reflects in his romantic relationships.

Lyrics such as “Come down and waste away with me” and “If everything could ever be this real forever / If anything could ever be this good again” are so Ghost coded, especially when it would come to your relationship.

Gaz has intense Die For You (The Weeknd) energy. Do I really have to explain? (Yes the fuck I do) Gaz is absolutely smitten with you, there's no damn doubt, and he will express it to you in any possible way he can, even if the two of you are in a rough patch.

Gaz is likely very in tune to his emotions, but that doesn't mean he can express them that easily. That being said, the one thing he can express without a hitch is his devotion and love for you. It doesn't matter how long he spends away from you, how long it's been since he last spoke to you, the first words out of his mouth upon seeing you are "I love you." There is nothing in the mortal plane that could stop him from loving you, he would do fucking anything to be able to be yours and have you be his. However, he finds issue in communicating issues he has, whether it be ones to do with the relationship or outside of it.

He has a need to be in control of the emotional state he's in, which makes a relationship with him a bit difficult. He'll do his best to change how you feel about something just to make it match his, or he'll try to mold a situation into something it's not so that he can find a way through it without making himself vulnerable.

The background music of Die For You manages to be something playable in a club, but emotional at the same time, which is rather conflicting when it comes to trying describe it. But that makes it utterly perfect to describe Gaz with.

"The distance and the time between us / It'll never change my mind" has major Gaz vibes due to the obvious divide between the two of you whenever he's deployed, but also because there's sometimes going to be an emotional distance between the two of you if he finds he can't communicate his.

Soap is so RUNNING OUT OF TIME (Tyler, The Creator) coded you gotta believe me here. I find Soap to be subdued when it comes to you; the military aggression he can be so capable of slips away when it comes to love you. This is why I chose this song instead of the other IGOR songs.

I see Soap as someone who gets into a relationship quickly so that they don't get bored of being in a "talking stage." Soap often feels that you'll get bored of him, especially when his thoughts slip to you when he's deployed. He's not home as often as another man could be, he can't spend all the time in the world with you -- he's always so scared that he'll come home to any empty flat after you left, too bored of being alone. Due to this fear, Soap tries him damn best to show off just how much he loves you any time he can, he becomes so involved with you he almost has nothing else in his life happening except for you.

Very much intense in his loving, would probably do anything you asked of him, and years of reliance on others in the military has left him needing that energy reciprocated. There's a sense of security he feels knowing that you would do what he would do for you.

I feel like the instrumental sections of the song are reminiscent of Soap's personality when he's with you. He doesn't have to be calm and militaristic, but he doesn't have to play up the energetic part of him. With you, he's able to be genuinely happy and has a somewhat bubbly go-with-the-flow disposition . The electric synth-y sounds of the outro and breaks between verses showcase this type of feeling very fell.

"Your waves wash over me / I drift to the deep end" is a really representative pair of lyrics for Soap, he's just in love with you that he's willing to go to the farthest lengths for you.

Price probably looks like he should be some 80s love song, and he does, but I am a firm believer that he is a Florence + The Machine song, specifically her cover of Stand By Me (a song from 1962). Price is likely more emotional around you than his boys, so you get to see a softer, probably sadder version of him.

Emotionally matured in his years of military service, and it shows in the way he loves you. He adores being domestic with and for you; just waking up in bed to you sound asleep next to him is enough for to make him happy. Likes to be by your side, holding you. It's comforting to him to know that you're there, to know he's there with you, and that he's surviving for you. Price lives for you because he knows that his death would be a devastation to you, the same way your death would hurt him irreversibly. To Price, you are home and you are safety. Coming back to you after being gone for months is one of the best feelings he has ever felt.

He's very work-oriented, almost to the point that, if he's exhausted enough, he might treat you as if you were one of his soldiers. It doesn't take him long to realize what he's doing, and he'll feel extremely guilty after it (even if you assure him it's alright). He'll let you take care of him after this, you can convince him to rest because he feels too bad to say no to you.

Florence's version of the song is much more orchestral than the original version, a harp is one of the first things you hear, along with other string instruments. It's flowy, almost water-like, and most of all, calming; it feels like a falling asleep with the window open on an autumn night, which fits Price immaculately well. The swell in the music is even calming to some degree. The amount of emotion in the song makes it all the more loving.

"I won't be afraid / Just as long as you stand, stand by me," demonstrates the comfort that he feels with you, how you are the one thing that he can rely on to be safe.

Alejandro would've been Lorde coded, but you guys have to hear me out on this one. This man is the epitome of That's All (Kris Jonathon). Alejandro is devoted to you in every sense of the word, he is so utterly in love with you that he is yours.

Alejandro is, and always has been, a lover at his core. He's charming and affectionate to everyone; but god, when he has you in his arms, it's like you're the only thing that has ever existed. His love for you runs deeper than the oceans, it's sometimes so intense it's overwhelming, but you always know that Alejandro loves you. He always finds a way to make you feel seen, feel loved. Alejandro makes an effort for you, even if he's tired and overwhelmed. His job inhibits his ability to see and live with you all the time, so he often finds himself thinking about a future with you, when he's retired from the military, and can be by your side far into old age.

Despite his openness in loving you, Alejandro is likely another person who despises being vulnerable in other states. Sure, he can tell you how much he loves you with ease, but he couldn't tell you how tired or depressed he was. But sometimes, Alejandro will let you in a little further and whisper to you how much he wants to be by your side always, and that leaving you behind with the possibility of leaving you behind is harrowing to him.

That's All is slow, it's a ballad, it's about wanting a fairy tale love story, and god does the slow background music with the overpowering hi-tat give me major Alejandro vibes. It's passionate, the instruments and the lyrics that accompany them, and it makes for a loving sounding song that encapsulates Alejandro's style of loving you.

"I want a tale, a giddy after with you," Alejandro wants a life with you, he wants to live with you by his side until he no longer can, which the lyric, "Till death's kiss, I'll promise you this," shows. Alejandro will always be with you until death takes parts the two of you forever.

Rudy is easily Fantasy (Kali Uchis, Don Toliver) and I will not be taking any comments, complaints, or concerns. If you think for a second that Rudy is not an intense and loving partner, you are so so so wrong and I am here to prove it to you.

Rudy is one to love you like no one can touch you ever again, he knows full well that you are his. He wouldn't go so far as to say he owns you, but he knows that you wouldn't say a word against it if he said you belonged to him. This possessive part of him is usually choked down and he's often much more passive to you and everybody around. He's honestly rather sweet, often calling you a nickname or a pet name instead of your name, but you can always see something a bit more passionate in his eyes when he looks at you. He has eyes for no one else, he loves you too much to even think about someone else in the ways he thinks of you.

He tends to idly enjoy your presence, his thoughts stray quite a bit when you aren't there, oddly enough. When you're there, he just wants to be with you, not an imaginative version of you. Holding you close is something he treasures, sexually or otherwise, he likes having you near him and often never wants to let go.

The background music begins with a rather calm piano, which is basically the impression you get upon looking at Rudy for the first time, but the upbeat rhythm that follows it is more representative of Rudy's way of loving you and what it's often like with him.

"I belong to you / Know you're all mine too," is the only lyric I need to pull from the song to push my agenda onto you. Your relationship is built off of knowing that the two of you are each others, Rudy relishes in this knowledge.

Valeria is literally the embodiment of Summertime Sadness (Lana Del Rey). You can scream and cry but Valeria is so LDR coded and I will die on this hill. The nature of her work really makes it unpredictable to know if she'll come home to you, so the two of you live your lives like you're about to break up but god do the two of you love each other.

It took her so damn long to admit it and understand that she loves you, but once she did, everything was for you. She lives for you, she breathes for you, because you're all the good the world has left for her, and she'll keep an iron grip on you until you're ripped away from her. Valeria knows that one day, she likely will leave you on your own, so she lives every single day with you as if its the last. Even if it's a small day, where you just live with one another, there's always a feeling of longing between you two.

Something hat Valeria will likely never get to have is a wedding with you. She knows, deep down, that marrying you is putting an even larger target on your back, but that won't ever stop her from wanting you to be more than just her lover, wanting to be more than simply dating you.

The slow drums in the background accompanied by the soft strings and guitar during the verses and choruses have a longing feelings attached to them, which gives way to the way Valeria feels about your relationship. There's always longing between you even if she's right by your side.

Lyrics that particularly scream Valeria and your relationship with her include, "I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight," "I just wanted you to know / that baby, you the best," and "Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky." All of these have a feeling that any of the above paragraphs explained, but they're also pretty self explanatory.

#cod headcanons #cod mw2 #gaz x reader #john mactavish x reader #john price x reader #kyle garrick x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #gaz mw2 #ghost mw2 #price mw2 #soap mw2 #cod mw2 2022 #alejandro cod #alejandro x reader #alejandro vargas x reader #call of duty x reader #mw2 x reader #soap mactavish x reader #rudy x reader #rudy mw2 #rodolfo x reader #valeria mw2 #valeria garza x reader

[ofsappho]

Heartless, Chapter 5

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT

-

You get into trouble and Ghost disciplines you for it.

CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS/TAGS UNDER READ MORE

-

TRIGGER WARNINGS: in the first part of this chapter, homophobic slurs (fag, faggot) and insults are tossed around. From an inconsequential side character towards Soap. I want to note that I myself am queer/nonbinary, and I have been harassed/attacked/bullied for being queer. Additionally, this scene is directly inspired by real events. A friend of mine, who is queer + nb AND is a veteran, got into a fight during their service with another Marine on their base for saying vile homophobic shit. My friend dropped the guy in an instant. My friend knows I am interpreting their story in this chapter, and they approve.

SMUT TAGS: degradation (a lot of it), humiliation, spanking, bondage, dumbification, edging, spit kink, dacryphilia, bratting/brat taming, choking, face slapping, praise kink, overstimulation, squirting, care taking (tbc next chapter!). Knife kink. All consensual. By degradation, I mean degradation in the context of the smut.

Everything goes wrong like this:

You’re out with Ghost and Johnny to explore the base. 

They show you the fields where people like to play soccer. “It’s football,” your friend insists in his thick Scottish brogue. Ghost agrees with a grunt like the traitor he is.

Your heavy, exasperated sigh draws out chuckles from them both. “I’ll stop calling it soccer on the day you beat us at football.” And you don’t even like football. But fuck the British if they think they can get one over you. Well, the British and Scottish. Whatever.

The two of them start chattering- correction, Johnny chatters, and Ghost genuinely listens, you can tell, about sports and teams, and you regret bringing up the topic at all because you can barely follow.

What’s the difference between Manchester City and Manchester United? Isn’t that, like, the same thing?

As your husband discusses a recent game, a few guys kick around a ball, and some people smoke a few feet outside the designated smoking area. You watch a guy stub out his cigarette on the sign that says not to smoke elsewhere.

You’ve gotten too comfortable referring to Ghost as ‘your husband.’ Hm. You should check that impulse before it spirals into something that might validate Alejandro and Gaz’s conspiracy theories about love at first sight. Gross.

Do you know what else isn’t helping? Ghost’s refusal to let you be alone with them again. He doesn’t try to stop you or interfere, but you can’t ignore him lurking in the background like a little stalker whenever you socialize.

It’s… kind of cute.

Oh, and you finally encountered Roach in the wild. You spotted him in the mess a couple of days back, collecting the randomest assortment of snacks (Cool Ranch Doritos, a pre-workout drink for balance, you guess, a chocolate milk, and three lemon sugar cookie flavored energy bars).

He had on some interesting cat ear headphones, so you just waved and wordlessly gestured that you liked his headgear. He waved back, then shot you a thumbs up.

You tap back into your surroundings. Ghost has wandered into the smoking area to light up, and you might as well join him.

When you stretch out your hand, he plucks a smoke from his pack and places it delicately in your palm. He even lights it for you from a Zippo engraved with skulls, with one scarred hand cupped around the flame to keep it steady.

Johnny wrinkles his nose. “That’s gonna kill you in five years, you ken?” He stands on the other side of the painted smoking area line to hang while letting his disapproval be known.

You take a drag instead of laughing in his face. After all, he was the one who charmed every convenience store clerk at the young age of 17 into buying what he wanted without getting carded, smokes included.

“Since when have you been so health conscious?” You say as you blow the smoke away from Soap’s face.

Ghost does the same without thinking - like he’s stood somewhere and smoked while chatting with Soap enough times to make it a routine.

You envy the easy way they complement each other. You used to be like that with Johnny, and you wish… you want your own routines with your new husband, to know that he goes out into the world and does something different for the rest of his life because of you.

Distance is only natural, you tell yourself. You’re new to their friendship.

But Soap has been one of yours for so long, and Ghost is becoming yours faster than you thought possible. Like a rapacious strangler vine or fungal colony occupying a rotted tree, you find that you’re plotting all the ways you can twist yourself around and into Ghost.

Soap laughs. “Aye, well. You try getting shot a couple o’ times. Am not goin’ down over one of them cancer sticks.”

You hear it just as you tap some of the ash off the end of your cigarette.

“...can’t believe they let those fuckin’ fags…”

You bring the smoke to your mouth to conceal your grimace before turning ever-so-slowly. You’ve learned this lesson many times over; gathering further context is important— no need to bring a knife to a situation that does not call for knives.

The same guy you heard before continues with his little rant.

He’s a miserable-looking dude with a pasty milk face, no defined chin, a bad haircut, and a shitty name tag on his shitty uniform that says ‘Pvt. Langford.’

But somehow, despite lacking any discernible charisma, he holds rapt court with a bunch of other similarly-miserable peeons. “They’re a bunch of pussies, like, it’s pathetic, bro. Gonna give me fuckin’ AIDS or some shit if I gotta be in the same room. Criminal.” By now, he’s seen you watching him.

The corner of his thin-lipped mouth lifts as if he’s said something funny.

Eh. He’s maybe got half of a foot on you. At most. There are worse odds.

Then he slides his smarmy, revolting gaze from you to just over your shoulder, and his smirk grows. He’s looking at Soap.

You’ve seen this exact look before. You know what it means, what nerves motherfucking Langford is trying to trample on.

Before anyone can stop you, you’re across the smoking area and in Pvt. Langford’s face in about five seconds.

-

Soap thinks he’s about as level-headed and reasonable as the average man, but Langford has been getting on his nerves for way too fuckin’ long. For the whole time they’ve been stationed at this base, so, weeks.

Everyone knows Langford is a little shit. Everyone hates him and his bitch boys.

You’re just the first person willing to do something about it.

So while Johnny has never felt the urge to personally handle the Private’s homophobia because swatting flies is beneath him, he’s content to sit back and watch the show.

Naturally, Ghost tries to follow you. You’ve got the poor fellow whipped and wrapped firmly around your little finger.

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected any less.

Soap holds your husband back with an outstretched arm. “Let the lass do her thing,” He advises. You won’t appreciate it, and Soap has no intention of being on the receiving end of your wrath.

Ghost rolls his shoulders back. “Not gonna stop her?”

The Lt. doesn’t know, does he? “D’ya really think ya can?” Even more reason to let you go off. This will be fun and, frankly, a necessary introduction.

Ghost stills. “…” Not so new, then.

What a bloody buzzkill. Now look who’s fussing and clucking? Like a rooster.

Soap watches his teammate flex and crack his knuckles and decides that you owe him for what he’s about to say. “If she needs it, we’ll grab her before it goes too far,” He reassures Ghost before leaning against the ‘Smoking Area’ sign.

It’ll work out one way or another. No big deal.

The scowl on your face as you stare down Langford is somethin’ real ferocious. “What the fuck did you just say?” You demand, voice low and proud and loud enough to catch the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius.

Langford laughs and tries to play it off. “That’s classified.” Oh, haha. Real fuckin’ original. Like half the girls in town haven’t heard soldiers try that line a million times.

The Army sure didn’t take Private Langford for his brain cells.

Next to him, Riley shifts from foot to foot. “She always like this?” He asks as if the words are throwing themselves against his mask and demanding to be let out.

“Mmm. Since we were wee mates.” From here, Soap can see how viciously you throw your cigarette to the ground and grind out the lit ember with your heel like the poor thing did something to you.

“No. Say it again,” You snap, cracking the sentiment over Langford’s thick head like you’re breaking a chalkboard in two.

Ghost stiffens up even further, and behind the mask, his eyes glint in the sunlight like that flame you just put out.

Is it possible that he’s…  impressed by you? “Go on. I just want to make sure that I heard you correctly. That we all heard you correctly,” You say icily.

Global warming would be solved in a day if they could translate your tone into real ice.

Watching Langford take a small step back without realizing it is funny as hell. Even his minions have backed away as your aura of menace sets off their self-preservation instincts with the subtlety of a pulled fire alarm.

Lt. Riley’s eyes narrow as he memorizes your scowl and how you crowd Langford forward without letting up. “Spitfire.” Damn. That’s some bloody high praise coming from him.

Heh.

Riley’s hood can’t hide the shadowy hickies on his throat; one would think that Ghost has realized it by now.

Are those teeth marks he spots? “You sound surprised. Figured she was teachin’ ya that already,” Johnny leers.

Ah, the expression he can make out under the skull mask. He wishes he had a camera so he could show you later.

Ghost closes his eyes for a long moment. “Shut your face.”

Across the way, Langford musters up a little courage. “Aw, are you mad? Did I make you mad ‘cause I spoke the truth, snowflake? Did those faggots get to you already?”

In the aftermath, even the birds stop chirping.

“Fighting words. Surprised you’re not out there with her,” Ghost says.

Only a fool would think the Lieutenant is relaxed right now; Johnny can tell that his breathing has slowed, that he’s holding perfectly still with an unbreaking focus on his prey.

That’s part of how Ghost manages to disappear in broad daylight. When those subtle signs of life go away, it’s easy to overlook him, unsubtle mask and all. 

He’d best save it for the field, but that’s none of Johnny’s business.

You two are so well-suited. “That’s the thing. About bein’ her friend. That bird- that bird’s a psycho.” If your marriage outlasts the bets everyone’s placed on an irrevocable breakdown, Soap figures he could make a killing on a matchmaking side hustle.

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t hear the truth. I heard a bunch of yapping from a little boy who a recruiter conned into signing his life away to lick the boots of his COs because he was a complete waste of resources otherwise.”

Yikes.

Occasionally, Johnny regrets quitting. He regrets quitting now, specifically; he could use the calming rush of nicotine. You’ve never ended fights in a good way, but this will end… spectacularly badly. He can see it already.

Ghost lets out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Then the Lieutenant looks around, and Soap realizes he’s checking for their Captain or any other superior officer.

Soap was planning on doing that anyway, and your new husband wins another point of approval in his book for thinking of it on his own.

“Pretty nice though, canny lie. Who else d’ya know that would fuck up a man for you without hesitatin’?” He says as he watches you open your mouth again.

“How does it feel to know you’re just that worthless?” Your voice rises and rises, acrid enough to melt paint, and it keeps Langford frozen in place.

“How long have you known her?” Lt. Riley asks.

“Eh… give or take sum’ ten years, prolly.”

“She like this the whole time?”

You go in for another round. “Thank God you’re not deployed anywhere important. It would be like the Bay of fucking Pigs all over again.” You’re close enough to spit on the Private, right fuckin’ close to his sallow face, and as your lip curls up, Johnny knows you’re definitely considering it.

Anger thrums in the air as bitter as gunpowder; it’s infecting Lt. Riley, churning in his posture, and it’s (unfortunately) starting to break through Langford’s shock.

“Aye. Never seen a law, or a rule, or a fuckin’ polis stop her. It’s nice not to fight alone, an’ if she had her way, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger in school.” He pauses, then looks at Ghost.

Johnny picks his following words with care. “Bet that one could carry the world on her shoulders if we’d let her. You know that she’s taken to you right quick?”

And then…

“Shut the fuck up, you dumb whore. Who even are you? Some slut whose only accomplishment is spreading your legs for a uniform? I’m not afraid to hit a little girl.”

Fucking Langford. Way to ruin a moment between mates, when Soap was just trying to help you.

God knows you need it; Lt. Riley is a piece of work.

The other man puts out his cigarette.

Now Soap has to think about how many soldiers he needs to threaten into silence after Ghost is through and how Soap will hide Langford’s body once he gets the final hit. “Lieutenant-“

They start moving in tandem, trying to get to you as fast as possible, like sharks circling after tasting blood in the water.

“Yeah, well, that’s funny ‘cause ‘little girl’ is what your mom calls me when we fuck,” You jeer before raising your hand.

Johnny loves you a lot, but man, do you make stupid choices sometimes.

-

Private Langford stumbles to the ground like a little bitch.

Damn. You didn’t backhand him that hard, and you’re not wearing any rings.

You can take a slap way better.

You stand over him as he clutches his face, practically cowering on the ground, and your knuckles are stinging, and all you feel is the adrenaline flash-flooding through your veins like cocaine or a really good fuck.

And then- strong, immovable arms clasp around your waist and yank you away.

Your hair’s in your eyes, and you can’t tell who’s holding you back, but whoever they are… you’re gonna make them regret it.

“Fuck you!” You howl at Langford, kicking and thrashing against the stranger’s grip.

You try to get an elbow in the side of whoever it is, but they evade it with ease. “Let go of me! I’m going to fucking kill you, you inbred motherfucker!” You scream as Langford gets to his feet.

The stranger carries you a few steps back and eliminates your chances of getting your nails in Langford’s face.

You redouble your efforts to free yourself. “Let me go! Let me at him! I’ll rip his fucking head off!”

The person shakes you like a rag doll. “Calm down. Calm the fuck down, lass. It’s me, Johnny. Stop your fucking fighting,” Soap hisses.

Oops. You stop moving all at once, causing Soap to almost drop you.

The adrenaline levels off, leaving you empty, and you drag breath after breath into your lungs to make up for it.

You shove your hair behind your ears just in time to watch Ghost put Langford in a headlock with beautiful, immaculate, careless ease.

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him take anyone down, and it takes away the breath you just found. Like, your mouth goes dry, and you forget Soap is restraining you.

Just… holy shit. He moves like the hand of God, eyes flashing and skull mask fierce.

Langford blacks out the same second Ghost gets his arm around the other man’s neck, crumpling to the ground like a chewed-up paper doll.

Oh. Oh no.

Now you understand why Soap keeps you in place because Ghost tosses Langford’s unconscious body to the side without blinking twice and then beelines straight. towards. you.

Your hands push and hit Johnny’s arms. You need to- you need to run this time, get away, and get out of Ghost’s path.

Flee. You need to flee before he unpicks you with his teeth and eats your fucking bones like a fairy tale monster.

God fucking damn it, why won’t Soap let you go?

A rush, you can’t breathe, oof, your stomach hurts, have you been swept onto Ghost’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes?

The upside-down sight of his very well-formed ass in his jeans tells you that, yes, you are hanging from his shoulder as he takes you to a secondary location.

All the blood in your body surges to your head. “Ghost. Ghost, let me down,” You tell him, voice jostling with each step he takes.

No reaction.

If you could just breathe, an action obstructed by his stupid shoulder jabbing into your stomach, and clear the fuzz from your mind (thanks hanging upside down!), you’d make him regret this.

“Put me the fuck down. I’m not fucking kidding.” Again, nothing.

If anything, Ghost actually tightens the hold he has on your hips, accurately predicting that you’re seconds away from kicking him.

Fuuuuuck this. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU OAF. I AM YOUR WIFE, YOU CAN’T JUST-“ You try to be as loud as possible, so maybe someone will hear and save you? Or irritating enough to make him set you on the ground?

Ghost keeps walking. “No,” He tells you before digging fingers into the back of your thigh. It’s painful, and you inadvertently shut your mouth, teeth grinding together. For now.

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T SET ME DOWN THIS INSTANT-“

Once Ghost unlocks your front door, he shoves it open viciously with his boot and locks it behind you without letting you go.

You fully expect him to unceremoniously drop you on the bed, but he- he doesn’t.

He pulls you into his arms like a husband carries his wife on their wedding night and lays you down gently.

Then he backs away as if burned by your skin, backs all the way to the other side of the room.

Shit. Shit. You’re in trouble. You’re in so much trouble, Ghost leans against the wall and crosses his arms, and you can’t meet his gaze; you can only look at his shoes.

He sighs. “You know what’s gonna happen next. Nod if you know.”

You nod, still looking at the ground, and feel the humiliation and anticipation trying to strangle each other in your stomach.

“If you don’t want it, you need to get the fuck outta my sight. Right now. I can’t look at you,” Ghost tells you.

You’re not sure how to find the right words. Do you want to beg? Resist? Ask him if he’s proud of you? You end up shaking your head in a negative and propping yourself up on elbows planted firmly in the bed.

He doesn’t say or do anything for a few minutes. You know he can see you squirm, how your fingers flex and feet tap the ground.

You pick yourself off the bed and walk towards him like a moth drawn to a flame.

Ghost moves as soon as you cave. He plants his large hands on your shoulders and pushes you back, back, back, until your back slams into the wall with his body boxing you in.

Before your head can hit the wall, he slides his palm around the back of your skull to cushion you.

He braces that same arm on the wall as he speaks. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some stupid shit.” You’re not really listening because his flexed bicep is right there, above your head, and he has to tap your cheek to get you to focus.

You look up into Ghost’s mask and his eyes- his eyes burn, greedily eating up your blush and your throat bobbing as you swallow your nerves.

His other hand trails along your neck and then wraps around it. “Thought you were s’posed to be smart. My smart, clever girl,” Ghost croons, all condescending like he’s talking to a misbehaving animal.

Then his voice deepens to a sound that’s just a touch inhuman. “You could’ve gotten hurt. That fuckin’ wanker almost laid a finger on you.”

Your heartbeat pounds fast, screaming in your chest. “I got him first,” You point out.

Ghost’s eyes crinkle at the ends. “That you did. You were brilliant there, love, won’t deny it.” Here’s where your flush brightens, where the praise makes you look away. “I see that went straight to your pretty little head.”

He falls silent when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“But oh my fuckin’ god. You can’t go ‘round gettin’ into fights like that.”

“It was for Johnny,” You protest weakly. You don’t regret a single thing, but you find yourself caving at the slightest pressure.

The hand on your throat tightens, not tight enough to do anything other than remind you that you’re his. “I don’t bloody care if it was for Jesus Christ himself. Nothing is more important than you. Than your safety,” Ghost amends.

But you heard him. Nothing is more important than you, he says.

Why does he care?

Ghost sees the fight flare up in your face. “Listen to me. Nothing. Not Soap, not me. You- you are…” He’s supposed to be scaring you right now. He’s meant to be reading you the Riot Act, and the part you play is the frightened doe he teaches a lesson to.

You’re scared for a whole different reason.

Ghost is looking at you, looking through you, and it’s like you’re a little girl again, learning that the only time people give a fuck is when you do something for them.

‘Nothing is more important than you’ plays over and over in your mind.

He lets go of your throat to grab your hand, the one you hit Langford with, and his gaze drops to your reddened, bruised knuckles.

When he talks, his voice sounds odd, like he’s shaking the rust off his vocal cords. “Fuck. I was so-“ Ghost cuts himself off.

His fingers are gentle with your fingers. He turns them over, runs his thumb along your palm. You’re not used to people touching you like that.

You find your words as fast as you can. “What? You were so what?” You challenge him.

You feel him drop your hand in favor of digging his fingers into your jaw. “You’ve talked a lot today, doll. The next thing you say better be a fuckin’ apology.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s how you wanna play this?” Ghost asks, eyes flat and unreadable.

You let him apply more pressure so your mouth lolls open, you let him think he’s got you. “Yep.” Then you poke your tongue out and lick the side of the finger pressed into the corner of your lips.

“Another stupid choice,” He tells you before letting go.

He wears holsters strapped on his back and jeans, and for the first time, you’ll get to meet what he keeps in them. “See, I was gonna be nice. Was gonna… fuckin’, I dunno, say some sappy shit, be real sweet, make sure you were okay…” Ghost says matter-of-factly as he finds a single-edged switchblade that is definitely illegal for civilian carry.

There are rules for that sort of thing. The blade is an inch too long, and that popping mechanism was outlawed in 1958.

You know that he keeps bigger knives on him, ones that look like they violate the Geneva Convention. In comparison, this is small fry.

Ghost deliberately pinches the collar of your shirt between his fingers. “But you’re gonna be a bitch about this, aren’t you? I’m gonna have to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull?” He asks, moving far slower than he’s capable of, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You hear yourself pant desperately, you look at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, then hold perfectly still so that he won’t nick you.

The tip of the sharpened knife pokes a tiny hole in the fabric. “Hope you’re not too attached to these, doll,” Ghost tells you before slicing a clean line down the middle.

It’s cold in your bedroom, you had the air conditioner running earlier, and you blame your instinctual shivers on that instead of the need brewing under your skin (and between your legs).

When he pulls the tattered remnants of your shirt from your shoulders, you let him.

Your bra goes next. A swift rip and then your tits hang free and bare, nipples already beginning to harden.

He makes sure to click the blade back into the handle before reaching out to caress the heavy swell of your breasts, unable to resist stroking your soft skin even when he’s mad.

You picked a good day to wear a skirt that falls just past your ass with a hemline that dances teasingly around your thighs. To be clear, it’s not a good day for your skirt itself.

When the blade comes out again, Ghost cuts your skirt with steady fingers that brush your curved stomach.

Then he slips the knife between your underwear and your skin, carefully aiming the sharpened edge out so you feel the cool metal press into your heated skin without risking an accidental cut.

He doesn’t react to how your panties stick to your cunt when he takes them off you, most likely to deprive you of the satisfaction of any reaction at all.

You see part of his balaclava twitch, and after a moment, you realize he’s raising an eyebrow.

Right. Shoes. You kick them off with far too much eagerness.

He returns the closed knife to its designated holster. It’s very safe of him, very proper.

“I won’t go easily,” You remind Ghost.

He answers by covering your eyes with his hand and kissing you, his mask bunched over his nose and pressing awkwardly into your skin.

Each kiss makes you dizzier, hazier, you forget why you’re fighting, he ravages your mouth with his, and when you moan, it makes him even more feral.

He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, and you shout at the pain and try to curl away. But the hand over your eyes keeps you in place, and you shudder against him, naked and helpless.

The webbed straps of his chest holster grind into your breasts and leave rough streaks of chafe wherever they touch your skin.

His tongue slips against yours, Ghost tastes like smoke and something uniquely him, it feels like he’s pouring nicotine into your synapses, and your spine relaxes, your muscles soft and compliant.

When you try to bite his lip back, he pulls away without acknowledging your unhappy whine.

“Open your fucking mouth,” Ghost snaps.

You do that and even stick your tongue out for good measure. You might not be able to see him, but he can see the little tease of how good you can be.

You hear him spit before you feel the glob of his saliva land messy and hot on your outstretched tongue. Your legs shift, and you press them together, anything to help with the pressure beginning to build in your core and the arousal trickling down your thigh.

Cloth rustles, and then Ghost removes the hand covering your eyes. His mask is back in place like he never lifted it at all. “Step away. Hands behind your back.”

You turn around on unsteady legs, then put your wrists together behind your back as ordered.

Something unclicks behind you, and then he pulls it off his… pants? His belt - he’s cuffing you with his belt, deftly weaving the nylon strap between your wrists and securing it into place.

As you test the strength and make sure he’s restrained your hands in a way that doesn’t cut off circulation, Ghost gathers your hair and drapes it neatly over one shoulder so it won’t bother you.

He touches your back and neck with an almost unbearable fondness. Fuck.

You feel him kiss your shoulder through the mask, closed-mouthed and chaste. “This isn’t coming off until you’re ready to behave,” He murmurs into your skin before sliding an arm around your waist, pulling the mask down, and biting the place he just kissed.

You struggle and twist in his grasp, but he holds fast, and you slump into him with a pained moan. Is he trying to fucking brand you? It sure feels like it.

When Ghost releases you, he turns you around with a hand on your bound wrists and then walks backward faster than you can keep up.

Then he sits on the bed as proudly as a king on a throne and beckons for you.

Without your arms free to help you balance, you stumble a few times, and Ghost watches you with a pleased glint in his gaze. That may be the point.

By the time you get to him, you’re thoroughly unbalanced. “Come on. Yeah, over my lap.” You kneel without complaint, too busy avoiding eating shit to consider resisting.

He helps you lower your torso with an arm placed below your collarbones and a hand flat on your stomach so you don’t face plant into the sheets.

“Are you going to-“ You feel him guide your hips up, encouraging you to place most of your weight on your face and shoulders.

Conveniently leaving your ass exposed. And- and he can see your dripping folds, see proof that you crave him.

He goes on as casually as if he were describing the weather. “Spank you? Yes, I am. A slag like you can’t see reason, obviously. Got to train it in ya.” You practically jump out of your skin when you feel him drag a finger along the inside of your thigh, tracing the rivulets of slick trickling from your pussy.

You feel like a thing, like putty in his hands that he can bat about and talk to like you’re not even there.

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking get off on this. Be honest. Or are you too stupid to do that?” Ghost asks as if he’s just remembered that you can answer questions.

You clench around nothing and desperately wish he’d take that finger playing with the sensitive skin of your thighs, and do something useful with it. “…I do.”

“There’s my needy girl.” He neatly fists a hand in your hair, somehow mindful that you won’t appreciate losing a few strands without you telling him.

His free hand caresses your ass, then up and down the backs of your thighs. You feel him grab one cheek tightly, grinding down with his fingers so he can see red marks bloom under his touch.

You jerk forward with a cry when he hits you the first time, though the hand in your hair keeps you from going very far. Ghost doesn’t spank you hard, more of a warning tap than anything.

The shock smarts more than the blow did. But you’re determined to show that you can, in fact, take a hit better than Langford, so you dig your knees in and psych yourself up for the next spank.

“Fuck is wrong with you?” His voice cracks like thunder, then he follows it with another spank.

This one hurts. Hot, hot pain radiates from the spot he hit, but your body wrenches with a different sensation as your body processes that pain as… well… pleasure.

When he spanks you again, he takes the time to force your head further down into the blankets. “Hm? Running your dumb fucking mouth, talkin’ all that big shit?” Ghost snaps at you.

Each time he spanks you, you cry out, your eyes roll back, and it hurts, and he keeps hitting the same spots, so even when he isn’t touching you, you’re sore. 

Another set of blows, each one harder than the last.

You gotta- you gotta tell him- you push back against his grip, and he lets you lift your head. “God, Ghost, please-“ Your voice is choked-up and pleading, mirroring your thighs trembling with want and your aroused, needy core that he’s fucking ignoring.

He slaps your ass again, this time right where your ass cheek meets your thigh, close but not close enough.

“Please, what? Please, what, doll? Come on. Dumb little doll doesn’t know how to talk?”

Your breaths are ragged, labored, you’re shivering and there’s so much pain that you can’t tell where it stops and where the want begins.

“Harder-“ You cut yourself off with a gasp when he does just that.

That one burns. That one feels like an open flame, like Ghost’s touch is burrowing into your muscles, down down down, like it will leave a lingering mark that you don’t want to fade.

He rubs over your heated skin, massaging away the worst of the soreness. “You’re welcome. Now listen to me,” Ghost speaks in a low, reassuring tone like he’s gentling a startled animal.

He notices the exact moment you get lost in the feeling, when you push back and fucking present yourself in the hopes that he’ll give you more.

Then he cracks his hand against your ass; the sound is louder than your answering shriek. “Listen. You are going to apologize for almost getting hurt. You’re going to mean it. You’re going to swear you’ll never get into a fight again.” Ghost tightens his hold on your hair and twists his wrist to push your face back into the bed, taking back the advantage he granted.

“Or what?” You won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week at least, the ache and the bruises forming have you strung out for the tiniest scrap of pleasure… but you did tell him you wouldn’t go easily.

“Or…” Ghost trails off slowly. Your scalp begins to tingle as his grip grows even tighter.

It’s so painful that you almost miss the two thick fingers he slips into your pussy. Almost.

“Fuck!” You keen, your mouth open as your nails dig into your palms.

He thrusts them into you slowly, lazily, totally unsympathetic to your pleading noises and your muscles quivering around his fingers as he drags them in and out of you.

Your cunt has to stretch to accommodate them, and he grinds into you each time he gets knuckle-deep. And then he holds your head down like you don’t get the privilege of looking at him… Your pussy clenches around him at the thought.

Eventually, Ghost stops moving at all, but you’re gone, you’ve been gone, and when you start fucking yourself on his hand, he lets you.

You can tell he’s rock hard, you can feel his dick through his jeans, but he has far more willpower than you could even imagine, and brushing up against it does nothing. “Oh- oh my god, fuck, that feels…” You pant as you chase the sweetness, chase the tension twisting up your guts that’s so close to boiling over, so close.

Your clit is aching, screaming for pressure, for stimulation, but he doesn’t grant it to you. You can only work your hips against his hand, over and over.

Your eyes close as you speed up, you’re whining, you’re gonna come any second, your cunt can’t stop twitching. “I’m so close, wait what-“

Ghost pulls his fingers out before you tip over the edge.

“Or you’re not coming tonight,” He informs you, and you can hear the stupid fucking grin in his stupid fucking voice.

When you try to protest, to get up and fucking bite him or some shit because that’s not fair, Ghost spanks you with the hand you soaked.

You’re sort of blissed-out, sort of pissed, and a lot horny. “I’m sorry-“ You start in the hopes that Ghost will fold and give you what you fucking want.

His mask rustles as he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Then he slides you off his lap like you weigh nothing so he can stand.

Ghost keeps you in the same position, head down, ass up, and nudges your thighs open a bit wider.

You can’t see him through any of this. That seems to be something he’s taking full advantage of. You can’t touch him, you have no idea what’s happening next.

The only clue you have that he’s taken his mask off again is when he puts his tongue on your sensitive, aroused clit.

(He really should just take the damn thing off more regularly. This is inconvenient, and it’s not like there’s anything under there that could make him less attractive.)

He laps at your swollen folds with his hands on your hips to steady you, and the thoughts melt straight out of your head and drool from the corner of your mouth.

You struggle against the belt in earnest this time, maybe you can loosen it enough to slip your hands out and get away from Ghost and his planned torment. As much as your body pleads to stay put, as much as you want to push yourself back and let him consume you, let him fuck you stupid with his tongue, you know it will end soon.

And he’s going to be fucking mean about it.

Ghost takes his breathing break as an opportunity to taunt you. “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” He promises, leaving handprint bruises on your thighs.

Your stomach churns as he sucks on your clit, like there’s a knife slicing through you, and it’s the hot, burning pleasure pulsing through your body.

You’re not sure you can hold yourself up any longer, your knees waver like you’re a baby deer, and oh God, you’re going to come again, you can feel the spasms in your cunt grow stronger and stronger.

The beginnings of your orgasm tremble through your muscles, so close that you can taste it, you feel it throbbing with every beat of your heart.

He keeps sucking, his wet mouth relentless and dragging you painfully to the edge of the cliff. “Ghost, please, please let me- Fuck!” You wail as he backs off. 

Tears well in your eyes as the tremors fade into nothing.

You get yourself upright before he can stop you. “Why are you being such a dick?” You blurt out, lurching forward on your knees like if you can get to him, you can do… something. You’re not sure what, other than that you want to kill him.

Ghost blinks a couple of times.

In the silence that follows, the deadly, threatening silence, you realize your mistake. “Just- just let me come, I’ll be good. I promise. Just wanna come.” You beg, you sit down and tilt your head up like a dog doing a trick, and you pray he gives you grace.

He gets his hand around your throat faster than a snake striking its prey. This time, Ghost squeezes the sides hard enough to make you see white lights. “I am being a dick,” He agrees congenially. “But that’s not what you need to say, is it?”

“…no,” You mumble.

The next thing you feel after he releases you is his palm meeting your cheek. Hard.

“Have I spoiled you that much? You think you can fuckin’ ignore me?” Ghost sounds so calm, so authoritative.

After the ringing in your ears clears, you’re proud to see that you’re still upright. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” You stretch your jaw a few times to release the ache from his slap.

He hunches over, puts his hands on his knees, and gets right in your face. “Oh, but you did,” Ghost whispers. 

There’s something about the fogginess clinging to your eyelashes and the inside of your ears and the folds of your brain that makes his skull mask seem more than real.

A hovering specter of exposed bone, hollow eye sockets with no end, and a gaping, horrifying maw.

You’re starting to understand why people call him Ghost and mean it.

Your mouth goes dry. “Please, I’m begging you,” You whimper, eyes round with awe and flustered blood rising in your cheeks.

He nods, and you swear there must be hearts in your eyes at his approval. “Mm. I like that. Beg again.”

“Ghost. Husband. I’ll be so good. Anything. I’ll do anything. I can’t take it, I need to come so badly.” You lean forward to touch your forehead to his, making yourself as obedient as possible. For the most part.

“That’s not an apology.” Then he sighs, long and drawn-out and aggravated. “Anything, you say?” Ghost asks.

“Y-yeah.”

“Alright. You can come…. When you promise not to fight. And you’re gonna wait until you do,” He tells you as he slips his hand between your slick thighs.

“No…” You moan. He’s doing it again, torturing you again, you just want to give up, you feel him play with your throbbing clit, and it hurts so good.

Ghost clamps a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to roll your hips against his hand. “Sounds like you weren’t listening. Now that makes me think you don’t care.” Shit. Shiiiiit. He pushes a single finger into you, and you collapse into him as you start to ride it, hips jerking unconsciously.

He laughs when he hears you squeal. “You’re just a mindless whore who’d let half the fuckin’ base run through you, aren’t ya?” He’s found your g-spot, he rubs the patch of ridged flesh inside your cunt over and over.

Sweat beads on the back of your neck and drips down your spine, your fucked-out gaze can hardly focus on him, you feel like you’re burning alive in your skin.

“Don’t even need me at this point…” He circles your clit one more time and your mouth hangs open and you want to beg, but you can’t focus-

Tears fall down your cheeks when he wipes his fingers on your heaving breasts.

“No, no, no, Ghost, I need you. I want you. No-nobody else. I do care, please, you’re the only one,” You sob into his chest, pushing your nose into the fabric of his hoodie because it’s soft and smells like him, warm and like home.

“Yeah?”

You feel him rub your back, then slip a few fingers between the belt and your wrists to test your comfort.

You nod without lifting your head. “I- I was- I’m listening, promise, I can’t- you gotta make me come, don’t want anybody else.” You’re so tired, so worn out. There’s a patch of dampness on his jacket from your weeping, and you let out little high-pitched whimpers like a neglected kitten.

He frees your hands in an instant. “If I gotta repeat myself, I’m gonna leave you here,” Ghost tells you, though his voice isn’t as mean as before.

Your arms cling to his neck as you nuzzle your face into the space below his sharp jaw. “Ghost. Don’t go.” The edge of his balaclava muffles your words, but you don’t have the strength to say them to him straight.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so stupid,” You sniffle before bringing a hand to your nose to wipe a little snot.

Ghost gently knocks your fingers away and replaces them with the edge of his sleeve, delicately cleaning the mucus from your upper lip.

Next, he dries your cheeks with the shadow-black fabric.

You protest when he unhooks your arms from his neck, and your hands scrabble for purchase in the hood of his jacket.

One soft look, his fingers brush your chafed wrists, and you let him lay you down. “Took you long enough,” Ghost quips as he unbuttons his pants and pulls out his dick, mouthwateringly hard and long. He pumps his cock a few times.

You’re in a daze, hovering in that raw space on the other side of crying but wanting him anyways, needing him more than anything.

“Spread your legs, love.”

Ghost leans in like he’s about to kiss you. Then he remembers his mask and changes his mind, having lifted it enough today.

He taps your sensitive clit with the fat head of his cock, and you suppress your shudders, how your legs automatically try to close and get away from the feeling. “I won’t do it again,” You tell him, voice breathless and sweet.

Once he’s coated in enough of your arousal, he keeps one hand flat on your pelvis as he pushes in. “Fuck- fuck, I…” You groan. There’s never any room in your body left for air when he fucks you. Never.

He’s so large that it hurts a little when he’s bottomed out, you can hardly twitch or clamp down like you desperately want because of how fucking full you are.

You can feel every inch of him, you’re on the brink of crying again because all of those denied orgasms are tearing at your insides, and your painfully aroused cunt screams that you can’t take it, that it’s too much, too good, he’s too big.

You have to be good. “Uh, I won’t fight, aah-“ That’s the only thing that gets you to say the words he wants through numb lips, especially when Ghost starts to thrust, and your pussy convulses around him each time.

He moves slowly, really slowly, shallow at first, your tits bouncing in time, and you’re crying out underneath him, so used to all that edging that you subdue your pleasure on instinct.

The slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out are loud and profane, filling the room more than your weak, almost pathetic whines do.

The solid, imposing weight of his body settles you down so you can enjoy his faster, harder pace, and his balls slap against your ass as he fucks you open. “Promise?” Ghost pants, his hands pressing your knees almost to your chest.

He’s looking for something. He moves your legs every few thrusts, opens you up a little more, tilts your pelvis up and-

When his dick catches on your g-spot, your tears cover your cheeks and trickle into your hair in earnest. “Yes, yes, shit, hngh- I promise…” You’re so wet that you can feel it dripping down to the bed and pooling under you, you feel that familiar pressure building, except this time it’s stronger, it’s got a stranglehold on you.

Every time the fly of his pants brushes your engorged clit, your eyes go large and you hiccup, unable to moan properly because it’s like electricity is coursing down your spine.

He kisses the side of your face before nailing that sensitive spot with terrifying, mind-breaking accuracy.

“Come on. You can do it,” Ghost groans, cursing under his breath when you squeeze him so tightly that he almost loses his grip on your thighs.

Oh. Oh. He wants- he’s trying to make you…

“I can’t, I don’t know how, I, I-“ You sob, the pleasure is so intense that you feel nauseous, he’s rutting into your body furiously, and you’re stuck on a horrible knife’s edge of needing to come or you’ll die, but it’s not happening.

He nudges your knee until you wrap one leg around his hips. “It’s alright, love. Let me help you. That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Ghost shushes you before slowing down so he can place his hand on your throat and restrict the blood rushing to your head.

Everything goes sweet and hazy, and you give him a cock-drunk smile in return, eyes rolling back and drool stuck to the corner of your lips.

Once you’re suitably pliant, he slides that hand between you and finds your aching clit. “Just focus on me.” He’s pressing his forehead to yours, you look into his dark, fathomless eyes ringed with pale lashes.

The coil tightens, and you arch into him, gasping and biting down on your lip so hard that you draw blood. 

“Ghost, fuck, can I-“ You beg, voice choked and strung out as his fingers move faster on your clit, circling it in tandem with his cock pounding you so deep that it feels like he never ends.

“Go on. Come for me. I know you can.” Ghost pinches your clit, and you come with a wail, thighs shaking, your cunt seizing and it fucking gushes out of you, you soak his jeans, you clamp down so tightly that he slips out.

He replaces his dick with three fingers slotted right on your g-spot, moving in quick, jerky thrusts to see you through it. “Holy fuck. Did you just…” He mutters as your eyes screw shut, and your nails snag his shoulders. 

You feel like you’re dying, you can’t stop fucking squirting, the waves grow and grow-

Your hips jerk for the last time, and you’re left a whimpering, quivering mess of oversensitive nerves, the last of the aftershocks still simmering in your muscles.

Ghost kisses your forehead as he carefully withdraws his fingers. “You’re too good to me,” He tells you with something like awe in his rough voice.

You slump to the bed, boneless and empty, not even giving a fuck that the sheets are all messy with sweat and… squirt?

That’s new, you think blearily. That kind of shit only happens in porn? Right?

Your head lolls to the side so you can watch him through lidded eyes.

He moves you out of the wet patch with one arm under your back and the other under your knees, then tucks himself back into his boxers.

“Wait… you didn’t- you didn’t come…” Your voice is fucked up and hoarse, and maybe you should give in to the overwhelming urge to sleep, but…

Did he not want to? You did everything he asked.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t need to. You were perfect, you learned your lesson.” He splays a hand out on your stomach, luxuriating in your squishiness.

Your brow furrows. “Ghost…” Then you rub the sweat and crusted tears from your eyes and set your mouth in a mulish, determined line.

He watches you like a hawk. “Yeah?”

“Please? Fuck me?” You ask as you touch his forearm with a weak hand.

A beat passes. “You’re crying. And you drenched me, the bed too,” He tries to reason with you. You see him swallow harshly, you know he’s shifting where he sits because he’s given himself blue balls.

Your eyes flutter when the exhaustion almost gets you, but you power through it. “It’s okay. I- I’m tough. I want you to come.”

“Yeah. Alright… Tough girl.” Then Ghost reaches for your hips with all kinds of enthusiasm that tells you the truth.

It was sweet of him to try and be gallant. You’d rather he break you open and fill you up.

To be extra nice, you even hold your knees apart so he can push back in.

You’re not going to come again, you’re too fried for that, but it still feels… incredible. You’re glad for all the extra lubrication and that you can make him feel good.

Ghost fucks you with abandon, and deep, animalistic groans echo from his throat. “Shit- I could fuck you forever, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, fuckin-“ He grunts, head tilted back the tiniest bit and composure gone.

Breathe, you tell yourself, breathe. Do it for him.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Your swollen pussy spasms from the praise, constricting him so tight that he cries out. You just can’t help yourself when he says shit like that, especially when he’s making you ache in such an addictive way.

His hips move faster. “You like that? You like it when I tell you how good this fuckin’ pussy feels?” Yeah. Yeah, you do.

“Fuck, fuck fuck-“ You feel him orgasm, he paints your walls with his cum, then grinds those last few thrusts so deep that you cry out.

His pelvis bumps the backs of your thighs like he’s trying fuck his cum in as deep as it will go.

Ghost catches his breath as he softens inside you, panting as raggedly as you are.

He pulls out before dropping his chest harness to the side and unzipping his hoodie so he can clean you up.

You can’t stand the thought of anything touching anywhere near your beat the fuck up pussy right now, so you shove his hands away and drag Ghost down to snuggle.

Of course, he obliges you and helps you rest your head on his shoulder as you curl into his muscular frame like a little bug.

“What happens if the fight comes to me?” You ask. 

He’s running a hand up and down your spine, soft touches to bring you back to earth in a gentle, comforting way.

His hand stops until you kick his shin, gently, then he starts up again. “You run,” Ghost says.

“What happens if I can’t run?” You press your cheek into his t-shirt, so close that you can feel the heat of his skin through it. And a little rhythm that must be his heartbeat.

Next, Ghost threads his fingers through your sweaty, messy hair and attentively smooths it away from your face. “You call me. I’ll come get you. Every time.”

-

Hope y'all liked this one! Next chapter will be super soft/sweet/fluffy with lots of caretaking, I promise.

Tagging:

@abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @poohkie90 @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @555ilovecats @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @idesofarch @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney @crowsjourney @vanevafu @xxghostyx @rafaelacallinybbay @akaotv @chibijusstuff @wasteland-babe @anubiseqq @lilpothoscuttings @soapyghost @maliceex59 @valdemarismynonbinarylove

#heartless #cod #call of duty #modern warfare #mw #modern warfare 2 #mw2 #cod mw #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod modern warfare 2 #call of duty mw #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty mw2 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #simon riley #ghost #ghost riley #ghost call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost mwii #ghost mw #lieutenant riley

[violet-smokes]

Hi!! Would you be able to do some Violet x fem reader hcs? Nobody writes for her anymore 😭

omg ofc - and ikr! i wish we had more vi/taissa love on this app 😭

Violet Harmon x F!Reader

Warnings: not smut, but mentions of it - i’ve never made hc’s before so im excited!

a/n: if anyone didn’t know, i mentioned morrissey and carina round bc vi mentions morrissey in one of the eps and she has carina playing at some point as well! - for the person that requested, i hope this is what you wanted! if you want me to redo something, lmk!! 🫶🏻

Summary: headcannons!

-

Pre-Death:

You had first seen her when you were walking down the halls of your school. She had a pretty red dress on and a brown hat with an almost dead cigarette smushed between her pointer and middle finger.

She ended up catching you staring and confronted you with an angry tone, but you quickly defended yourself and told her that you thought she was pretty.

Violet was taken aback at first, not expecting to hear that coming from a stranger at her new school. Especially with the interaction she had earlier with that one girl.

Eventually, you both started to eat lunch together and one day she invited you over to her house. When you figured out she lived in Murder House you were intrigued, already aware of the chatter and rumors that made up the place.

Months go by, and you both were best friends. It was hard to keep your feelings bottled whenever she rambled about this Tate guy, but you suffered through it nonetheless.

When she had finally stopped talking about the ghost, you had noticed. She didn’t confront the subject, but you always had to hide the smile on your face when she didn’t say his name.

Normal hangouts started to get more intimate when she had revealed that she was inexperienced and you, so dumbly, blurted out that you could help her.

From then on, friendly visits to her house turned into quiet make-outs in her room and heavy breathing mixed with murmured words filling up the space.

It had been awhile before you had actually mentioned what was going on and what you two were. Violet had been nervous, something you weren’t used to seeing. She confessed her feelings towards you and vice versa.

From then on, you both carried out a relationship without the knowledge of anyone else. At least that’s what you both thought.

But Vivien always caught the way your eyes would sparkle and the way you grew shy around her daughter.

She thought it was cute.

Post-Death:

After Violet’s death (when she had confessed to being dead), you were in shock. For awhile.

It’s not like your girlfriend telling you she died was a normal thing.

It was really hard to wrap your head around the idea of her not being able to leave the grounds of Murder House, but after a bit (a long time), you started to understand why.

Violet explained to you about all of the other ghosts in the vast house, adding to your shock at the time. It was crazy to think that the girl you’ve been kissing and hugging has her rotting corpse hiding somewhere in the house.

From then on, you practically lived there.

You’d bring over clothes and other necessities, as if it were a sleepover, but majority of the things you brought over would stay at her place and never make it back to yours. She always claimed that whatever was yours was hers and vice versa. (She loved seeing you wear her dresses, even if it wasn’t your style.)

You’d have little romantic date nights in her room and would listen to Morrissey or Carina Round in the background as you both would read or draw together. It usually ended up with you sleeping on each other or with your clothes somewhere on the floor..

As much as Violet hated to acknowledge him, Tate would some times watch you both.

He always had a predatory look in his eyes when he noticed you hanging around in the brunette’s room, but he’s yet to make an appearance to you. Vi hoped it would stay that way.

Vivien and Ben welcomed you with open arms whenever you would come over and the other ghosts that roamed the house would only occasionally show themselves to you. It’s not like they really cared about Violet’s girlfriend.

In the end, you and your ghost girlfriend stayed together through thick and thin!.. and Tate..

#taissa farmiga #violet harmon #violet harmon x reader #ahs #ahs murder house #taissa farmiga x reader #violet harmon exacts #violet harmon style #ahs violet #zoe benson x reader #zoe benson #murder house #tate langdon #tate langdon x reader

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

Burn the Witch

From Control - Full Story in Progress on AO3!

Soap x Shadow!Reader x Ghost Light Graves x Reader

This is your first operation away from Shadow Company, as your skills as an undercover operative will be put to the test on your hunt for Hassan Zyani. With help from the 141, things should go smoothly. You could only hope...

Word Count: 2.2k

Tags: Foreshadowing Future Action, Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Tension, Light Romantic Tension, Canon-Compliant, Foreboding, Probably Military Inaccuracies, Reader has hidden agendas, part one of two for these next two chapters basically

Masterlist

Let me start by saying I HATE this chapter with a burning passion. It took me a month to try and brainstorm every possible way I could convey the plot how I wanted without it being boring. But alas, I've said fuck it, because it's been over a month and we've gotta keep it pushin'.

The chapter's slow, obviously meant to be the prologue to the next chapter. Once again, I'm sorry I made you all wait so long for this. However, with this mundaneness out of the way, I hope the next chapter improves.

Please enjoy.

Chapter Twenty-One - Burn the Witch

What does it mean to be ready for the inevitable? You've pondered that a lot lately, though it sparks in your mind more so once the trucks have parked and your team has offloaded onto an airstrip swirling with chaos and urgency.

Helicopters raged above you, convoys and other armored vehicles driving to their designated areas, ready to ship you all into battle. All the while, the night sky sits plainly above you. An empty sea of black set fit to remind you of the uncertainty which lies ahead of you.

In five minutes you would be heading out.

By now air support has most likely already started bombing the AQ bordering your LZ, meaning the firefight starts the second your flight touches the ground. The rest of the details involving your mission came to you as hectic as the night had already been. Comm chatter blistered on every channel, new information getting spoon-fed to you by every half-hour mark.

There had been no time for any other thoughts, in fear of missing something crucial. But one detail had been an especially hard pill to swallow, all things considered.

They're splitting everyone into two teams, both tasked with sweeping separate areas for Hassan. Once each building has been neutralized, the teams will regroup, with Hassan either dead or alive in your custody.

A sound strategy as any you've heard before, though you would have preferred to stay placed on the same team as 141, had you any say.

Instead, you were to lead Team Alpha in there stead, as Ghost and Soap lead Team Bravo.

Your placement had been deliberate, to say the least. Shepherd always had a way of pulling the strings to his advantage in the background, and you had just become his latest puppet.

Your real briefing came to you via a quick, virtual meeting, having had to wait for the others to break off and start loading up their gear before you could slip off somewhere secluded to meet. From there, you'd gotten the video up and prepared yourself to be greeted by your two-faced general.

But instead of some old, bald man appearing before you on your screen, you had been greeted by a pair of steel blue eyes, sharp, and consumed in all sorts of stress and business.

Your commander.

It took your breath away to see him again, still with his authoritative look and short, blond hair he's spent the last few minutes combing his fingers through, you're sure. Even through the screen, you could have sworn you might have seen the light come back in his eyes. Then, you're reminded of how you two left things off, and the radio silence that had fallen soon after.

He hadn't changed a bit, you'd say.

You frown, not wanting to reward the man with any expression beyond mild irreverence, even as he smiled at you like nothing changed. You knew a mask when you saw one, and frankly, it was getting old.

You have more important things to worry yourself to death over.

"You're lookin' good," he compliments.

You pause, taking another second to look over your commander again. What you can see is the small joy he feels, having caught you doing so. But before you've allowed him to speak, you've made his mind up for him.

"The briefing? Commander?"

Graves cleared his throat, straightening himself up on the other end. He hadn't expected to still be so taken aback seeing you after what felt like over a month now. "Right then," he begins. "Your mission..."

Graves did his best to give you the highlighted version of whatever it was Shepherd told him about your orders. While the clarifications had made things more clear, it didn't make tonight any easier.

With you separated from 141, the General's hopes had been for you to investigate what you can about the missiles and "take care" of Hassan. With no suspicion or incident. It only figures that regardless of what the AQ General knew about his missiles, Shepherd would want him dead. And if he wanted him dead, then that's just what you had to do.

Anything to put an end to this.

"Get this done, and we're one step closer to being home free," he feels the need to remind you again. Only lately you've wondered what that even means anymore. It didn't help that trapped sensation you'd been unable to shake all night.

"I've heard that before," you roll your eyes.

"Don't make it any less true," he says. And then he pauses, hesitant from the looks. Silent. You knew what often came after that.

"Are you... Have you been doin' alright?"

His question doesn't come as a surprise to you, however, you admit you're unsure how to answer him. You wish he had asked you weeks ago.

But he hadn't.

"I'm fine."

Graves opens his mouth to say more, however, something stops him. Perhaps the look he sees in your eyes, or the lack thereof. He knows bridges have been damaged between you two, if not burned. He's not an idiot. He's also only human.

"Don't get yourself killed, OK?"

Though it made you feel rather pathetic, his words felt more riveting than you had wanted them to be. And you had missed it.

"No promises, Commander." You wink.

You tap your leg against the metal floor below you, feeling it shift and sway as the heli races through the dark skies of Al Mazrah.

Two minutes now and you would be separated from the 141. Alone and on a mission of your own. One only you were aware of. Your mind needed to be right.

You take a look around at the soldiers gathered around. They had everyone crammed into the heli like sardines, your rifles hugged to your chest and your eyes forward. Awaiting the sound of gunfire.

"No songs to whistle?"

Ghost's gruff voice from across the heli brings your eyes back from the row of dark boots your eyes had been glued to. They had been all down there all night, doing whatever possible to ignore the eyes of Ghost's on you all flight long.

Your behavior tonight had been a stark contrast to the last op he'd run with you, where there you'd been jovial and nigh overconfident, chatty in most instances. Tonight, you had been completely quiet, eyes razor-focused, and mind everywhere and nowhere all at once. It gave the man a rough feeling about tonight, and watching you tap your leg finally drew him to a point of speaking, it seems.

You look up at the lieutenant, more wide-eyed than intended. Everything needing to be done tonight had been buzzing through your mind so much this past hour, it hadn't even crossed your mind to calm yourself to a tune.

"I can't think of one," you admit. "But I take request."

Ghost holds his gaze with you for a moment, his eyes so dark in this interior that he almost appeared inhuman, the large shadow that he was sitting across from you. Meanwhile, he wondered if there'd ever be a day you weren't trying to delve in a subtle way and hear his music taste.

Perhaps you've finally worn him down. Ghost looked as though he were about to actually answer you for once.

And then, the comms cut in.

"Approaching the LZ."

All casual conversing had now just ended.

Bombs and gunfire grow louder outside the heli, replacing the rumble of the spiraling blades and the vibrations of its metal. Like a song drumming you into battle, you hear it beckon you all near.

"Bravo Team offloads here." Ghost stood from his seat to address both teams now, his entire aura changing from endearing to brutish in the blink of an eye. "Alpha Team stays onboard to land downrange. Both teams meet in the middle. Remember, we want Hassan alive, but this is capture or kill."

You watch as Bravo Team stands from their seats, gathering near the end of the heli to exit. Your eyes track Soap, who passes by your peripheral briefly until he's paused right before you.

With all his gear on, helmet strapped tight, and weapon loaded and ready, he looked a man ready for anything. He always seemed to be in most cases.

You'd been aware of Soap's watchful gaze since boarding together. He had smiled every time you looked his way, giving you an assuring nod, and sharing a comment when a thought would come, but you see the worry he held for you in his eyes. He had just wanted you to be OK.

His positivity alone hadn't been enough to ease your troubles, even as the man desperately wanted it to be. He only feared not having more to offer you beyond a smile and promise to keep you safe. He'll keep making that same promise 'til he's blue in the face if he has to.

Soap raises a fist to you gently, giving you a warm smile.

You tell him, "Try not to have too much fun."

Soap had wanted to say more, by the way his lips parted and the glint in his eyes twinkled, even beneath the red lighting. But he holds his tongue, knowing he must prioritize the mission. Duty above all else.

"Aye, aye lil' bird."

Soap gives you a parting wink, and then joins Ghost and the others at the front of the heli. You watch him the entire way, until the doors open, and a gust of wind barges into the heli, whipping through the fabric of your uniforms. This didn't feel real until now.

From where you still sat, you watch the lieutenant give him a scolding look, the men preparing to exit. "Keep up, Soap," he says.

The heli doors shut behind them, leaving you in a metal coffin shared between other marines you knew no better than the men you were about to fire on. With Ghost and Soap no longer around, it now leaves you to lead this team through thick and thin.

Gravity feels a lot heavier all of a sudden.

You hear the pilot speak into the comms, "Razor-1, all Bravo deployed. Moving to secondary HLZ."

The heli shift to the side, and you feel yourselves soar through the night sky, the sounds of gunfire increasing at every second.

"Alright," you call out to your men. "It'll be hot once we've landed. Check your gear and weapons now while you can. The faster we get this done, the faster we can call it a fucking night."

The marines all give you an affirming cheer of agreement, and for the first time all night you start to feel more positive about how things will go.

Yeah, you told yourself. This mission's like no other you haven't done in the past. Find your target, neutralize the situation, and get out. Simple.

You adjust your grip on your rifle and straighten up, your leg tapping even faster than your heartbeat. No word from Ghost or Soap on the comms yet. That had to be a good sign.

The helicopter dives to the right suddenly, sending you all back into your seats, before the chaos outside is instead drowned out by the sound of blaring alarms from inside the heli.

"All stations- Razor-1 is bracketed," the pilot chimes in. "We're getting lit! Incoming- Flares! Flares!"

Your heart sinks, your insides shifting and moving like waves in the ocean at every quick sway and dive the helicopter took in its evasive actions. Helplessly, you sit, not even able to see the enemies that fired upon you, bitter to not even of had the chance to step foot on the ground yet before this happened.

You all grab hold of your seats, doing what you can to remain stable. The heli sways, the sounds of flares deploying outside ripping through the rocket fire. The flight settles and a few seconds go by. It isn't until the warning alarms have been silenced that you finally release a breath of relief.

A narrow dodge.

But then, it shifts again, only this time you're not so lucky.

There's a loud crashing noise, followed by the erupting pop of an explosion, as it twist the metal of your helicopter, tearing it open.

"Razor 1 going down!" The pilot shouts. "We're going down!"

You watch in horror as one of the marines is sucked out of the hole, screaming the entire way out as they're eaten alive by the flames of your crashing coffin. You see the dark world outside painted in the passing glare of gunfire, spinning around you, your helicopter falling from the sky.

You clutch onto the straps to your seat and brace yourself for impact. Closing your eyes, you hold your breath and simply await the inevitable, doing your best to be ready. Just as you've been trying all night.

Metal and fire twists around you in a loud hurricane of booms and clashes, before all sense of the world around you became nothing but a cold, quiet air.

Dark.

An endless void.

You're not sure why, but the first thing that came to mind was Soap. You hadn't wanted to think of the horror he must be experiencing having just watched you get shot out of the sky. What flurry of emotions now twisted in him because of you.

So instead, you thought of him as he was before. Of his smiles, his eyes, the warmth of his embrace and the safety you felt with his words, even if he promised the impossible. You'd give anything to have John by your side now.

You still needed to tell him your name.

To Be Continued...

#call of duty #control #soap x reader #ghost x reader #graves x reader #modern warfare ii #mwii #call of duty modern warfare ii #mw2022 #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost mwii #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #phillip graves x reader #phillip graves

[hot-take-tournament]

After reading more of that terrible vocaloid/ vocal synth take, I feel the need to recommend some of my personal favourite songs that use vocaloids, in particular I wanted to show the diversity and range that can be a polished by different producers.

I feel like these are all very basic, but they are just so good.

Pumpkin spice dummy - Momocashew

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=CnHtaYiTrVM&pp=ygUTcHVtcGtpbiBzcGljZSBkdW1teQ%3D%3D

Scrap boy - Steampianist

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=lgRTbYJ8V5g&pp=ygUJU2NyYXAgYm95

The undertakers daughter - Steampianist

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=xVpvRAKD_W0&pp=ygUZdGhlIHVuZGVydGFrZXIncyBkYXVnaHRlcg%3D%3D

Detention teacher - Honeyworks

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=k7DayMp2L7Q&pp=ygURZGV0ZW50aW9uIHRlYWNoZXI%3D

The chattering lack of common sense - Ghost

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ksW7SuH6IAs&pp=ygUgY2hhdHRlcmluZyBsYWNrIG9mIGNvbW1vbiBzZW5zZSA%3D

Hyperdontia - Ghost

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=04BqFwERmac&pp=ygUPSHlwb2RlbWlhIGdob3N0

The entirety of the kagerou project by Jin, but specifically Kagerou daze and Ayano’s theory of happiness (this one always makes me tear up)

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=A7KNYk4f3XQ&pp=ygUMa2FnZXJvdSBkYXpl

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Hll18UugDTE&pp=ygUbYXlhbm8ncyB0aGVvcnkgb2YgaGFwcGluZXNz

Similarly, evillious chronicles by Mothy, specifically regret message

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=R4shMkF0ymk&pp=ygUOUmVncmV0IG1lc3NhZ2U%3D

Punch it punk - Ferry (every thing Ferry makes is great but this song itches my brain perfectly)

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=s_lGrcOtzck&pp=ygUNcHVuY2ggaXQgcHVuaw%3D%3D

I’m glad your evil too - PinocchioP

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=PLevj9bdRRA&pp=ygUUSW1nYWxkIHlvdXIgZXZpbCB0b28%3D

Villain - Teniwoha (this song holds such a special place in my hear you have no idea)

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=p9FJXfGHtDA&pp=ygUQdmlsbGFpbiB0ZW5pd29oYQ%3D%3D

Rolling girl - Wowaka, an obvious, but correct, choice.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=vnw8zURAxkU&pp=ygUTcm9sbGluZyBnaXJsIHdvd2FrYQ%3D%3D

The blessed messiah and the tower of Ai - Hitoshizuku × Yama

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=CiEC329xPos&pp=ygUndGhlIGJsZXNzZWQgbWVzc2lhaCBhbmQgdGhlIHRvd2VyIG9mIGFp

The idea that voice synthesisers are trying to take over human vocals is so dumb, not every song using them even try’s to sound human. It’s such a cool instrument and a great way to tell stories, I don’t like the idea of it being filed down to evil AI.

Saying every song that has ever used a a vocaloid sound exactly the same is just blatantly incorrect. Some vocaloids do sound really similar but different producer put their own style into it and make them sound so unique ( I have included 3 songs that use Vflower and they all have their own special spin on her voice, which is so cool).

An important aspect of vocal synths is human creativity, we wouldn’t have awesome stories like the Kagerou project without real people like Jin thinking them up. Tuning a vocal synth takes so much work it’s incomparable to stupid AI covers.

I really like vocal synths it’s such a cool medium, sorry if this is long I’m very passionate about this.

don't apologise!

never listened to much vocaloid other than what you guys have sent me so i've got these on in the background now <3

#asks #not a poll #vocaloid #vocaloid drama #vocaloid discourse

[bitwynn]

"Behold," (holds up a dead person) "a Paimon!" PART 2

FIRST / PREV / NEXT

Italics and “...”  will be used with RECKLESS abandon. Grammar and writing sensitive people, read with caution. This is not a ship fic, I am aroace and as this is mostly self indulgent and wish fulfillment and my one wish is to be Diluc's friend, it will be written as such. Meaning, there will be no explicit shipping. Along the line there might be subtle or even straight up shipping, but this is not an "x reader" or "x y/n" fic. This is literally just me wanting to be Diluc's friend via horrific isekai and ghost. If you want ship material, this is not the fic for you.

Hyde/Paimon/Phantom!Reader is left and italic, Jekyll/Diluc is right and bold. Both is bolded italic.

---

Y/n knew the moment that Diluc finally fell into his well deserved slumber, feeling the sort of stillness he left behind in their head. It was similar to how you don’t notice something’s there until its gone, like removing bay leaf from stew or the quiet left behind when you turn off a humming fan or air conditioner. His waking presence in their head felt like… the background noise of chatter in a noisy building like a school or classroom. And him sleeping felt sort of like the strange silence that would greet you if you visited it after hours or on the weekends.

You sigh to yourself, reaching out with your mind? Soul? Spirit? To brush against… whatever tethered you to this world. A stark reminder that this wasn’t a simple game anymore. That this was gonna be your new reality. It, for lack of a better term, purred under your… intangible touch, Diluc sighing along with it.

Heh, its like a cat. Wait, does this mean that Diluc’s like a cat? Well, he didn’t seem like much of a dogboy from what I remember from the game– oh shit right, Teyvat’s real now… or fuck, maybe its always been real! Does that mean I’ve been fucking around in a real, actual, fucking world? Like some kind of fucking god? No, no that can’t be… Right? Afterall, the Traveler’s always been the one wandering around Teyvat 

and doing everything… as I control them. Ohhhhh shit.

You groan into your hands, curling in on yourself a little. The thick wool button up cardigan you were wearing shifted heavily to one side with the sudden movement. You immediately move to adjust the weight at your side and fix your clothing. That morning, that daily routine, felt like it happened ages ago. It could’ve been really, considering the fact that you might’ve been… in that void for longer than your mind could comprehend. You couldn’t tell if that void was death or the space between it and life. You weren’t sure if you didn’t want to see what it really was.

You tightened the garment around, conscious of the weight beside you.. You didn’t have much on you when you left the house that morning both so close and so long ago. Just your phone, its accessories and the rest of the essentials. Masks, a thing of alcohol, wallet with all the necessary cards and IDs, your keys, a travel sized thing of tissue, some lint, candy of varying degrees of age, and a small towel all in your trusty handbag. You chuckle to yourself, picking at your cardigan at the thought of ghost lint. Until your laughter dies down, the weight on your thigh practically burning a hole into your leg.

Your nonexistent heart begins to race and your hands tremble, as you try to both rip and gently take out whatever that weight is. It results in you crumpling, turning into a shaking, quivering mess that looks like you’re trying to handle a glass figurine via ripping your cardigan in half. Thankfully, no woolen cardigans were harmed in the process and you stared at the offending object in your hand.

Your hands fumble with it, an object tumbling out.

It was a phone. More specifically, it was your phone. With your bag, your earphones, charger, candy, lint, and everything that came with it..

“...What…?”

You open it, plugging in whatever passwords or biometrics needed to bypass its security and you’re greeted with… the same familiar home screen, with the same apps and wallpaper and whatever widgets you had on it. A gasping shuddering sob wrenches its way out of your mouth, as you cradle what's possibly the only thing that connects you back to home to your past life. You only notice now that your hands have been shaking this whole time as you hurriedly open your messaging apps.

And unfortunately it seems like that was one of, if not, the only thing that got changed in your phone. The apps are still there, they still work… its just that you couldn’t reach out and message your friends, loved ones. It was more like an archive of your life than anything. Sure, whatever you sent got received but… they would never get seen. Fuck– you could clearly see the messages being rapidly sent in your group chats, the familiar bubbles that indicate typing, and the green symbols that indicate that a call is being held.

You saw the grief and despair they felt, losing you so suddenly and unexpectedly. Plans and ideas ended, snuffed out so… easily. It felt like you were screaming and banging against a glass wall, trying desperately to reach them, to get them to hear you– but they can’t. They can’t because they’re alive and you’re dead but alive somehow and– you wanted to scream, to sob, to throw your phone at a wall and rage. But, god– fuck– you can’t.

You can’t even scream in your head because Diluc’s asleep and somehow, through– whatever fucking tether or connection you have to each other, he will hear and know everything that goes on through that noggin of yours and vice versa– you innately know how fucking exhausted this man’s body is and the only thing that keeps him moving right now is sheer might of will, so dammit, you are going to let him get the rest he deserves– no, needs. You can’t wake him up, the idiot doesn’t even take care of himself so how can he take care of others? The only thing you can do now to try and get rid of this pulsing, aching pain in your chest is to let out a single, shuddering sob and hope to fuck that it’s enough. You know its not.

Your legs felt weak at that moment, not even noticing that you’d sunk into one of Diluc’s many sofas and couches and armchairs scattered around the room. You took a breath, stupid, I don’t even need to breathe at this point– and started reading, piecing together the story of your death. It still doesn’t feel real.

After some time of trying to calm your shaking hands as you scrolled through the messages of your friends and family, you discover that– fuck– you died. Its gonna take a while for that to really set in, if it ever does. Your heart stopped. Flatlined. But… you… were alive? You were in a coma, more specifically. And god, your heart beat dangerously slow. That’s all you could take, having sifted through the grief palpable through your phone. You could also see the personal struggles that your passing brought. You were sorry, even though there was nothing really, to apologize for.

There were tears and snot streaming down your face that you hadn’t bothered to wipe away with your hands or sleeves. You chuckled to yourself, a small, sick thing that came out of your throat. Heh, ghost snot. You took a few calming unnecessary breaths, watching as the snot and tears you wiped off your face slowly faded into sparkling space dust. Or, more accurately, ghost dust. You unconsciously flexed your hands, opening and closing them. If you wanted to go back, you had to understand what happened to you. Other than the fact that you, you know, died. 

You checked the time on both your phone and his clock. It both showed the same times of ‘it's the asscrack of night, and everyone should be asleep by now’. You could only assume that it had been only a few minutes since your inception and subsequent interaction with Diluc. Add to that the time you spent… researching your death, and you’ve spent approximately half an hour in Teyvat.

Happy birthday to me, I guess.

You jotted down both the dates of your “birth” and death, standing up from your seat. You still had a couple million questions about how this whole ‘being a ghost’ thing works, if you were even a ghost. The night was still young and long and you have a feeling that you won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Or ever again.

—

Diluc awoke from his slumber with a soft groan, the sound of a book shutting greeting his ears. “Oh, uhm– hi.” He could only stare at the incorporeal being kneeling at his bedside, clearly having rushed from wherever they were originally sat on. He sighs. “Then I can safely assume that last night wasn’t some incredibly vivid dream then?” They sheepishly laughed to themselves, scratching their head. “Ehe… sorry about that.” He shook his head. “Like I said, there’s nothing to apologize for. You don’t have to apologize for appearing here after horribly dying.” Really, I should be the one apologizing– you were finally free from the pain of living, both literally and figuratively, and yet somehow I dragged you back to the land of the living. I’m sorry for having you experience that pain again. “Hey! No, stop that! You couldn’t control the fact that I’d end up here! Stop apologizing for the things… you can’t… control…”

They raised an eyebrow at him. “That was slick.” He stretches a little and gets out of bed to his bathroom. They don’t miss the amusement that thrummed down into a strange fondness through their connection. “When you spend large amounts of time with someone you’d consider… slick, it tends to rub off.” Y/n leans against the closed bathroom door, the quiet sounds of Diluc freshening up filling the air. They pick at a nail.

You know… I don’t think my being here isn’t completely by random chance. They knew that he was listening. Last night, I couldn’t sleep so I… They don’t tell him about it, because they didn’t need to or want to. The noise coming from the bathroom paused. I decided to try and figure out some stuff about this whole ghost business.

A warmth of comfort bloomed in their chest. They continued, aloud this time and hoarding the feeling close to their heart. “I looked into my memories of… what happened. Its kinda crazy, having a firsthand account of what happens after death.” Said memories rose unbidden from the depths of their mind. “It was… really quiet. Peaceful. I think I was… fading away or something. Becoming one with the energy of the universe, or something like that.” They scratched their chin. “I… can’t be too sure though, since while I was… Like That, some part of me knew that there was still… something past that void. It could be what I said, the whole returning back into all of creation thing, or some kind of afterlife that so many religions talk about.”

They catch themselves, fumbling and gesticulating to the air. “Oh, uh– shit sorry, I kinda ended up rambling. But uhm, back to the point. I think when… when the paramedics got on the scene, they got my heart pumping again. And… I think that’s kind of the reason why I’m here.” Diluc already knew the conclusion they came to, but still gestured for them to continue. “I think– when I came back there and I felt the pain I… I wanted it to stop, so I…” They gestured with their hands. Despite the fact that he couldn’t see them gesturing. And the fact that he could just, you know, read their mind.

“Hey, I don’t have to explain this, I can just insert the knowledge into your brain!” “Talking ideas and theories out helps build upon and solidify them. I was merely letting you do that.” They huffed, pouting. “Anyways, you get what I’m talking about right? How I might’ve…” They made a ‘voop’ sound as they mimed the process of how they… ’vooped’ themselves out of their body and into his. Diluc nodded, the steady exchange of information directly into their minds painting him a clearer picture of how they believe it happened.

He turned the knob of the bathroom door, stepping out. “Well, without any experts on ghosts, or spiritual phenomena, or… anything resembling our situation, its the best guess we have.” Y/n, having already anticipated his coming out, was stood a few paces away from the door and mulling over what the next step was. “True, but the only people who I– sorry, we know are more interested in… exorcism. And I would still like to stay… unalive? I guess you could call it?” They shudder at Shenhe’s suppressed bloodlust focused onto them and wonder how bad it would feel if they were exposed to Chongyun’s excessive Yang. I mean, it must feel horrible considering the second he just… exists somewhere, all of the demons or whatever just– skidaddle. And– FUCK– No, bad y/n, you will not think about Shenhe stepping on you no matter how close it is to reality. I wholeheartedly agree. They yelp a little, still not used to the thought that their private monologue is a little less than private now.

They whirl around, immediately intending to apologize, and turned around just as quickly, as they’ve forgotten the fact that Diluc just took a bath. And that they’re kind of in the way of his wardrobe. “Oh my god, Diluc I’m so sorry–” Kinda hot tho– nO NO NO– HORNY BONK HORNY BONK– “Diluc please, I’m so sorry– I’ll just– LEAVE–” “Yeah, I think that would be for the best.” Diluc watches as they dash away, a sort of amused and resigned expression on their face. I am trying to not look, and if I do, I am looking respectfully, I PROMISE DILUC– He sends a reply as he picks out what manner of clothing to wear for today. You meant no harm by it and it was an accident, I completely understand.

He can practically feel them simmering in shame in the corner. Thank you, I’ll just– try to not think the Bad Thoughts. Because, well– you are a genuinely good looking person. You are a very pretty man that’s very easy on the eyes and is very aesthetically pleasing to the eyes, and– yknow, you just gotta appreciate beauty right? I fucken– I am just digging myself into a deeper hole, I’m gonna shut up now. Diluc does his best to send an approximate of him patting them on the back as he finishes putting on the last touches of his outfit. “Okay, you can come back now.”

They bashfully return to his side, embarrassment and shame coming off them in waves. Diluc pulls back a couple chairs for both of them and sits down. “So,” he starts, mercifully ignoring the fiasco from earlier. “I’m assuming that you already have… a bit of an idea of what to do? Hm…” He scratches his chin. “What do you want to do?” They plop down in the offered chair, finally facing him. They do have to admit, the game graphics do not do him and his outfit justice. The reality of it all giving it much higher detail and beauty than the 2d art and 3d graphics of the game

He cleans up quite nicely, the insides of his iconic black coat covered in soft and warm velvet. The outside of which was made of a thick sort of fabric that they’re loathe to call denim as they know so little about clothing and its make. The comparison to denim does make sense though, as it seems like a strong and yet comfortable make. The vest and slacks seem to be of a stiffer textile, or at least one that keeps its shape despite rigorous movement. Like office clothes, but with a more… relaxed vibe, they suppose. The gray button up, though covered up by the vest and their tie, also follows the same design principle– something that looks clean, crisp, and professional while also being able to handle large amounts of movement. It doesn't look stiff but it is, the cotton-like material sending their head for a loop. No, it’s… made of but only the finest silk flowers from Liyue. Its quite astonishing how versatile high quality fabrics can be, especially silk flowers as they had just assumed that it could only make silk fabric.

“Uhm… wait what–”

Diluc winces a bit at the high pitched internal scream, as y/n finally realizes they’re looking at him again. “H–Hey, its alright. I know you were ‘looking respectfully’ from all the observations you were making. You have… quite a keen eye for detail.” “Thanks.” came the stilted reply. “Did the, uh, silk flower thing come from you?” “Yes, though…” He leans back, thoughtful.

“It wasn’t really a conscious decision to ‘send you the information’. It was more like–like remembering something so that you could say it in conversation.”

Y/n sighs, slumping over and dramatically draping themselves over the small table between them. “And the mystery continues…” Pulling out their phone, they quickly unlock it and tap a few times on the screen. They set it down, screen face up. It showed a short 3 step list.

Master being a ghost

Figure out why im a ghost

Home

“And that’s the game plan.” Diluc tentatively picked up the ghostly device, some small part of him marveling at the technological feat that this thing is. The rest of him though was overtaken by crushing familiarity at the small item, subconsciously knowing every nook and cranny of the phone and the apps and what not it contained. Like Eren seeing the ocean for the first time and finding little to no joy in it, already filled with the memories of his past selves.

He blinks. “And I assume that the… ‘Attack on Titan’ reference came from you? Like how the silk flowers came from me?” “Oh my god, is that why I suddenly thought of him? Damn, this… mental link thing is…” They make some sort of sound, the term ‘keyboard smash’ coming to mind. He couldn’t help but agree with the absolute gibberish that came out of their mouth. “But, you have to say– having a steady stream of information coming in, no matter how strange it may be, is quite convenient. Advantageous even…” Still laid over the table, y/n takes on a more somber tone and rests their head underneath their arms.

“Yeah, you’re right but… its… kind of unsettling? I guess? Uncomfortable maybe? About having every single thought and memory between us just be… free range.” They fidget a little, burrowing deeper into their arms. “The whole… lack of privacy between us is just…” They make another noise, one filled with distress. “And its like– its not like I have anything to hide! Well, much of anything to hide but like– its just–” Another sort of strange strangled noise comes out of their chest, as they gain a frantic expression on their face and start wildly gesturing. “THE HUMAN RIGHT TO PRIVACY MAN– I DON'T TOUCH YOUR SHIT AND YOU DON’T TOUCH MY SHIT TYPE RESPECT THING.”

They flop back down onto the table, y/n’s face smashing into it. “The right to consent to stuff about and between two individuals is gone and thats wrong and I do not like it–” Diluc sighs, placing a tentative hand on their shoulder. “I’m sorry but… there’s really nothing much we can do about it now.” “But there has to be! There has to be Diluc! What if– what if someday its more than just thoughts and emotion and information coming down the line? What if I just– completely override your free fucking will, Diluc?! Oh my god– fuck– was I already doing that back then? When I played?– oh god, oh my god I can’t cross that line, I don’t want to cross that line!”

“Then, we’ll work something out.” The hand on their shoulder becomes a reassuring weight. They sigh, sitting up to rub a hand down their face. “Thanks Diluc, I just… Dying. You know how it is.” They shift in their seat. “But yeah, I… guess we could start with that. Getting a little more control over the mindlink thing. I do want to get to the point where I’m not just running around your underwear drawer in your brain.” Diluc hums in agreement. “And I do want to be able to choose whether or not to give you certain thoughts, memories, and information. Both consciously and subconsciously.” Y/n’s face breaks into a smile. “Alright, Operation: Telekinesis is a go!” Telepathy. “Telepathy!”

---

Aaaaaaaand theres that. Id say sorry for the lateness of this installment but i did clarify that i was, first and foremost, writing for myself but also i do still care abt yalls thoughts and opinions on my work so like-- yeah sorry about that. Life's just been-- a whole ass turd and a half. Id say that id make lemonade out of the lemons life gave me but life never gave me lemons, it just cut them in half and stuck them into my eyes and injuries after it beat me senseless with a stick. its just been really hectic and i got hit with the Big Sad which id call depression but im not gonna make assumptions since im not diagnosed so i shall be calling it the Big Sad, and i havent found quiet time to actually sit down and write this fic. despite how much i really want to. and i really do aight? id never force myself to do things i dont want and this fic is basically just me unwinding so its been nice to actually sit down and finish it. fun fact, i actually just needed to write the last paragraph-- this part's been ready to go for AGES AHAHAHA

but yeah thats the typical AO3 author life update, and now for what to expect and/or not to expect in the next installment. obviously, theyre gonna train that part of their abilities and im also gonna like-- include parts of diluc's daily life and work so im gonna speedrun learning how to run a winery business real quick to write that part AHAHA-- fbi agent watching me, dw this time im not trying to make a diy nuke at home i prommy-- AHAHA-- also if youre kinda tilted abt y/ns mood swings, oh hONEY. my friend circle don't call me the "angst king" for no reason. oh yeah, im gonna delve DEEP into y/n's trauma about dying and their existentialism. yeahhhhh babyyyyyy AHAHAHHAHA

See ya next time!

FIRST / PREV / NEXT

#genshin #genshin impact #genshin impact au #genshin impact self aware #self aware genshin impact #self aware genshin #genshin self aware #genshin sagau #genshin impact sagau #sagau #sagau genshin #sagau genshin impact #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc #diluc genshin #genshin impact diluc #diluc genshin impact #behold a paimon au #genshin behold a paimon au #behold a paimon fic #genshin behold a paimon fic

[rphunter]

Hello! (20 yr old here) looking for someone to play Superman for me against my female oc. Looking to do a DC rp. I don’t double, but I can play some cannons for background characters. It just depends on who. I am generally more comfortable playing female characters.

Plot: I want to ship my character with superman. Sort of a situation where Clark and Lois are broken up for whatever reason and it seems like they are never getting back together. And when Clark meets Rhea (my oc), he begins to fall in love for the second time in his life.

Rhea Riley is a seemingly human individual who actually has superpowers. Much like Clark, Rhea comes from a race of Aliens. Except she wasn’t raised on earth. She came to Earth since her planet was in the brink of war, and she had heard tales of a man who could fly on Earth. Thinking Earth was a safe haven, she fleed there.

And this is where we would start. How they meet we can sort of wing, but I do have ideas about future plot points and such.

Rules:

Have little to no triggers

Be 18+

Be nice

Be communicative if you no longer want to rp/ need a break or are busy for a few days.

Do not ghost me, it’s not fun. I get wee all get busy but just shoot me a message if you can’t reply for a while due to life stuff and I will do the same for you.

Be willing to plot with me and be okay with ooc chatter. I like to make friends with my partners but it’s not necessary.

HAVE DISCORD (it is my preference to rp on discord.)

,

#dc roleplay #dc rp

[2n2n]

How did you find out about JSHK? I mean it’s not that well-known so I’m curious about it, personally I wanted a peaceful manga *cough cough* but I definitely don’t regret it! It gave me so much emotions… to me it’s a masterpiece

Well. I don't know how to say this. I'm sorry if this isn't the answer you wanted. I'm just... a shotacon... by design.... by nature, so, I've been 'aware' of its existence for a long time, as anything within my interests comes to be known. 'The grapevine', I suppose? I'd seen manga panels just floating around, like this, for years

I actually wrote it off initially because, while Hanako looked great, I don't actually get much out of the BL-bait-y genre haha (sordid past). I thought it was probably of a similar tenor to Black Butler, or even something like Ouran Highschool Host Club. That kind of... genre-referential humor, wackiness nonsense... as it was a shounen, probably interspersed by fighting or something... I didn't really want to bother. If I chased after every manga with some nasty black-haired boy.................. the TOILET themeing KINDOF increased the impression that it would be an onslaught of off-color gags, LOL. This image was really like, "ok, looks like he's putting a condom on his tongue, Like Those Images You Know"-- DIDN'T HELP HIS CASE!

Whenever anyone of my general interests liked it, they also treated it as a nasty manga? I guess I never observed anyone who really stanned it; anyone I knew tangentially even was like, "hot twin stuff" "skanky ghost boy" so I was like, I don't really need that ... *shrugs*

It's kinda interesting, you know, but I feel like almost all chatter misrepresented the manga? Whether it was, "it's a funny peaceful silly comedy" or "it's a dirty fuckfest", neither actually pays dues to the heartfelt, romantic, carefully woven nature of JSHK. The story itself. I agree with you, it's a masterpiece. And reading Iro's other writing, and seeing Aida + Iro's friendship over the many years (they post so many chats and convos... from their old blog to twitter), ah there's this unbelievable charm and charisma, a wonderfully infectious energy....? It's so unique. I guess all the frivolity of the manga, that's also kinda present in AidaIro's entire online presence over years, whether Aida is tattling on Iro for stealing the Bavarian cream off her parfait, or Iro's reporting a nightmare they had about a scary MILF chasing them + Aida, or Iro's mishearing Aida saying 'gingerbread' as 'ginger blood' to a cashier, or the both of them discussing what panties characters of theirs would wear, it's all heartfelt... it comes out in the manga, maybe. I'm more familiar with a typical slightly contentious Mangaka+editor relationship...

There are a ton of images and pages that I think, "I would have read this in a heartbeat if you'd only showed me this first". Aida's art alone is drop-dead gorgeous and I never saw anyone pointing to the background composition, color blocking, expressions, etc, which would have totally sold me instantaneously too... I was either seeing the most salacious caps or panels, or the more plain stuff, something funny maybe, I wasn't being shown like, this stuff.... (I know some things are more recent, just bare with me for what I have saved already to give an IDEA)

I was never given an impression it could be so loving, so careful, so impassioned, so loaded with delicate themes and symbols...

EVEN SPEAKING TO MY MOST CRUUUDE NATURE, you could have forced me to read JSHK instantly by showing me this image...............

I would have said, "I gotta-- gotta get in that," ahaha...

for the record though the nastiness is still... there, and a charm point of it all, it's just kinda fascinating it is threaded with all the heartfelt stuff. I mean Iro will be out there joking that if you tell 100 dirty stories rumor is the Molester Woman will show up. They are. Irreverent and the manga IS loaded with salacious imagery, its actually just... more, interesting, the interplay of all of this, watching it all happen. Feeling like I'm going to cry and also feeling like, baited. I do not think I have ever read anything that did both make me think and feel agony and also make me look at tied up boys. Sometimes at the same time....

#avvy's JSHK

[vnards]

               Stepping onto the tarmac, I’m greeted to a bustling compound with men and women going about their job with a purposeful certainty. A sudden movement startles me, bumping into Ghost. Ghost’s hand sits securely on my back. A man and woman, the emblem of medics, step forward to us. A quick assessment lets me know the woman is an alpha and the man is a beta.

Ghost is in front of me before the man opens his mouth. Nothing to be deemed as a threat, but that didn’t seem to matter. “I will take her myself.” He tells the medics. His order leaves no room for argument, even as the alpha medic begins to protest.

               “Lieutenant, it won’t take long for us to see her. It will only take-“

               “No.” End of sentence.

               Everyone is a bit speechless at Ghost’s harsher reaction. He’s never been a soft, understanding man he’s known Price to be; always a little too jagged around the edges. A little too blunt. A misstep he realizes a bit too late. Price falls into his role easily as a commanding officer, taking charge of the situation with ease of experience. “I believe it would be best if she could get cleaned up and rested up a little, Simon. Don’t you think, hmm?”

               There’s a silent conversation between the two, but I still feel Ghost’s holding tension in his hand. Ghost takes too long to answer before Jacob tries to balm the situation, “You can walk down with us.” His unassuming smile does exactly what it’s made for. “We just need to ask a few questions. I’m Sergeant Jacob, but just Jacob is fine. What’s yours?” He doesn’t reach across the Lieutenant to greet you, but his smile says enough.

               “Vic.” I say. “You can call me Vic.” My voice is a little scratchy, unused and worn down over time. I clear my throat and step forward. He towers over me from behind, “May I get a cup of water?” It’s the first thing I’ve asked for since leaving one life and stepping into the next. Really the first thing I’ve spoken since waking up in the Humvee.

               Jacob smiles, more genuine this time, “Of course, Vic. Follow me.” He offers out his elbow for support, noticing how I had my weight shifted, body weak and sore. There’s a moment of hesitation before I slide my arm through, another bit of trust given to strangers with no safety net if I fall. He begins to lead me away from Ghost, away from the alpha who rescued me from those horrors.

               A zap of panic jerks my head to glance at him, the feeling of being dragged away from him eliciting a primal fear of change. Losing what’s familiar.

His expression is hard to read. His hand closing around nothing by his side, as if wanting to reach out. A small twinge in my stomach forms as he does not move to follow us. Our eyes meet once more before Jacob’s small chatter fills my ear and catches my attention. I swallow my fear and find safety in something else.

--

               Ghost watches as the omega retreats with the medics. There’s this itching under his skin that’s trying to get his attention to tell him something. But he mentally shakes off the feeling. Ignorant and not listening. Price must see something about his internal struggle. As he dismisses Soap and Gaz, Price steps closer to Simon, not trying to intrude, but to guide, “You have an hour until debrief,” he states simply. “you should go eat, but give me an update on how she’s doing?”

Ghost sees the order for what it is.

An excuse.

He could not be more grateful for his Captain.

Simon looks at John with relief for a moment, appreciation. The weight of the day has taken its toll on all of them, and as much as Ghost would like to lick his wounds behind closed doors, his Captain gave him an order. And he is nothing, if not a good soldier. He obeys without fuss, following the low and sweet scent trail in the air to Vic through base, wandering in the background like he shadow he’s known to be.

masterlist

[the-firebird69]

Nobody wants to see Ghost Rider in the rearview #GhostRider #NicCage #Cr...

Good night see some crazy things like this and people think that Max are doing stuff and it's a trick and more my son is trying to defend himself what you're going to be is horrified

Thor

I was horrified when I first saw it I couldn't believe it I said why don't we let there dad rest they're going to be nuts about it it started blaming us and I see the effect

Freya

We use it it's harsh and we have to prep and this kind of goes global and they say he's the man and they're actually quite terrified. And the chatter comes down cuz they can't hear anything or see

Olympus

I have my own and she rides with him as a woman and you don't see her she's in the background the whole time and yes the other girl and it looks like Lily and it's not

Hera

[lunarmote]

An update...

I’ve been the happiest I’ve been in 4 years. This is such a weird feeling. I find reasons to self-sabotage or to tell myself I shouldn’t be feeling this way. You get so used to a constant of sadness that you want to invite it back. The absence of those feelings makes me antsy.

I’ve discovered a few things about myself. One is that I really need to be connected to other people in order to function. I used to think I was extremely introverted because I had no one; my single parent worked a 9-5 and attended night classes and how convenient it was to barricade myself in my room after school and consume media. Or invest in solo hobbies. It wasn’t all that bad (so I thought), so I kind of assumed there was nothing more to life. But even back then, there were signs. I’d go to the downtown Starbucks, the one with 4 out of 5 busted outlets, just to hear the chattering of strangers. Sometimes the low drone in the background helped me to concentrate, but during momentary lapses of self-awareness, I'd feel consumed by such a gaping feeling of emptiness that I’d pack my stuff and start on the lonely journey home.

The more people I talk to, the more I realize I am really enriched by simply being in others’ presence. There is no electrifying feeling of “clicking” with “your people.” I am energized in general by the buzz of exchange. I get home and I might not remember what happened and what conversations we had but I feel a lightness in my body, and if the conversation happened in the morning, this lightness sets my mood for the rest of the day.

Sometimes I get this feeling that I’d prefer to be a ghost so I can linger in the spaces that others are and so they don’t have to be pressured to present their public self to me. I’m not interested in eavesdropping on personal conversations. Most of the words don’t register, anyway. I just like being in the presence of other people.

I’d like to start writing again, but I’m not really sure what to write about. Plus — here’s the more annoying problem — I have a habit of editing and reshaping my paragraphs until what I originally wanted to say is completely unrecognizable. Because my thoughts never come out right and I keep thinking it’s a matter of my slippery grasp on the English language. Maybe it’s time to make peace with the fact that I’ll always feel some kind of barrier between my need to express myself and natural language.

#personal #diary

[sky-limits]

[twwm] stack: a moment of connection - polaris

The atrium opens up wide before me, and gone is the pool which I had swam down into. The wall behind me is flat and engraved, overgrown and suffocated by the scrawled calligraphy of ferns and broad leaves. There is nothing to see ahead besides a dilapidated platform of stone, hovering silently. The bow quivers the strings of my soul again, and the energy of this place draws me in. I step to the platform - intricate strings and valleys of mosses mapping old crooked stone, an old man's teeth - and it lowers below me. We go, the stone and I, into the depths of a beating heart, and we are not alone. The blood and oxygen of this organ flows and trickles down the walls beside us, little prickles of water like shimmering traps, almost too faint to see.

My platform hits the ground with only a slight tremble, sliding smoothly into a groove I had not noticed before. We had reached the landing, the joining point for all the canals, and it was beautiful. Stretching out into the distance like a fine net, water glimmers and glistens with misty mournful sighs, little trickles and puddles cascading and colliding into one another. It puts me...on edge. I cannot describe exactly what I feel upon seeing the sight. It's the beauty of the ocean tide coming in, waves sweeping themselves off the sand to roar like monsters, and the knowledge of the death it could bring.This nervous system network is beautiful like a tangle of vines up a brick wall and fearfully built like a rat-king and its many many tails.

I have no choice but to continue on, as my companion - the platform - has left. I choose a stream all my own, slightly to the left and disconnected from the others. I place my paws carefully, not wanting to mess with the intersections of crossings in my path. The water leads me onwards to more and more streams and canals, all bubbling, babbling. The lines between them begin to blur as I tire if plodding along, the only sound nearly imperceptible trickling. I miss the chatter and click of birdsong around me, bugs trilling away in the dust.

These canals and their tunnel system make me feel trapped, burdened, and left behind. My trotting footfalls slow, and my head hangs low, swinging like a branch in the wind. I no longer look up, inquisitive about the world around me, but instead stare down at the stream I have picked, eyes glazed over with a mist I did not quite recognize. I continue traveling, and a large sound grows ahead of me. I do not recognize it at first, but as I listen, it is the trumpets of war, callers, and welcomes of battalions and plagues of soldiers. It is water crashing against itself, brackish and clear, groggy and awake. Seawater sweeps in, clear against muddy streams that rush out, and foam forms from their meeting. I watch it, and it is the first thing that truly catches my eye all along the blank paper trail on the way here.

Like a song, the sounds of the water creating new beings fills my soul. Little creatures shaped from sea froth and deep breaths of ocean billows dance on the foam streets. It reminds me of the city that was once near my home, full of people of all shapes and sizes. They seemed to gather together in clumps and groups, separating and then returning, an intricate dance. I remember wandering that city looking for someone to see me, someone I could feel akin to. The wide, open cavernous space that I am in feels like a chest, a ribcage. Someone breathes, and I breathe with them, the deep rising swell of air bringing more and more of my memory back to me.

Late nights wandering roads looking for travelers, finding those in need of warmth - as much as a ghost could give - or a listening (albeit invisible) ear. There was the day I had spent in the town, sitting with those ignored, and becoming unseen with them. My eyes opened as they closed, and I faded into my already translucent background, letting myself fade away as I dreamt of a life wandering among them. Instead, I was here, watching the brackish water mix with fresh streamwater, and remembering a life I no longer had. That was then, and this was now. I tried to shake the dancing of the seafoam away, forget what had happened, but the memories forced themselves into my mind, aching to be seen.

Evenings spent in the town streets, following the smell of bread, and watching as its creators pressed stamps to the top of the rounds, marking them from their bakery. A woman selling cheese milked her cows and goats, hands rough with age and work - like mine were. She looks up as I pass by, but I know she does not see me. I walk around, float to windows to peer in at the humanity going on. A child builds towers with wood logs in his room, a man holds the hand of his wife, laughing softly at a joke. A man kisses the cheek of his husband when he brings in the horse for the night. It’s a sweetly saccharine moment in my heart, strings playing to invisible rooftops when I feel tears begin to build in my eyes.

These people are living the life I wish I had had more time in. Loving each other, parent and child, spouse and partner. In an act of mimicry, two children clasp hands and giggle, running past me, through me. I am reminded once again in this memory that I do not belong, and that is when I hear it.

A soft, downy laugh. Like little pebbles sinking soft to the bottom of a creek, it is a baby, giggling. I creep to the doorway it is coming from, light on my paws even though I cannot be heard. The baby is sitting with her mother, clapping her hands and giggling. She shrieks with laughter when her mother pulls a funny face, and I have to step away, reminded of….of someone. Of the copper haired woman who showed up bloodied and hurt in so many ways more than skin-deep. I am reminded of the blanket she made, for the child we were never given the time to have.

The memory transports me, and now I am laying by the road, feet tucked underneath myself, watching for travelers. A weary pair comes up the road, a set of people in need of me. My mind is torn away from the thoughts of copper and moths, and I stand. Internally, in the future, I am yelling, screaming, begging to not have to see this memory again. This intertwined memory that connected me with humanity for a second more before I lost it all again, the shifting of the tides that brought me into a warm grasp of life only for it to pull back a moment later.

The travelers keep walking in my memory. One of them stumbles, trips, falls. Their friend picks them up. They keep walking. The person falls again, and doesn’t get back up. I am transported through time again, watching their partner bury the friend, and then I am building the cairn; stacking the rocks; filling the niches with mud and gravel; making it strong and sturdy and steady and safe. The one traveler left behind awakens to a rosy dawn alone, and next to my memorial to their efforts, their fight, their journey.

They weep, openly, and it is dirt and dust of the trail that smears when tears hit their cheeks. I curl around them. They cannot feel me, and the moment is severed. I am lost again, without the connection to humanity. The memory has ended, I realize, standing in front of a door shrouded in vines, a veil of dark ivy hiding the doorway’s face from the world. I am crying when I step through, but I do not look back.

#twwm #those who went missing #esks #esk #polaris #soulsong #sky's words