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ghostingaces · 1 year

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We Need To Talk About Glass | 141 x Reader/Oc

Synopsis; There’s something not right about the rookie

Warnings; vague horror themes and foul language

Notes; Glass is technically an oc but I don’t mention a name or physical description in this, even though she has one, is because this is kind of like a screen test for her. The only description so far is she's tall, Irish, and has plale eyes. This au is also inspired by this and this which I absolutely adore. This is my first piece of writing on this site so I hope you enjoy.

Its also only Price and Ghost for now. It’s a bit rough. Part Two here.

▄︻̷̿┻̿═━ 一

Most of the file before him was blacked out.

Rows upon rows of dark lines stared back at him as he flickered through the manilla folder, crime scene like photos of bloodshed tacked to pages after pages of mission reports. Occasionally the repetitive drivel would be interrupted by a disciplinary report, but those were drowned out with commendations.

“No picture?” Prime hummed as he flipped back to the first page.

“No Sir” The Irish Ranger in front of him answers. He's a tall man, bald with keen green eyes, and the rookies former CO. Lieutenant Byrne. A respectable and very capable man. A man who’s knuckles had been bone white on the file when he handed it over, green gaze refusing to flicker over the pictures he had probably seen dozens of times already. He had probably lived through several.

Price cast his gaze back down to the first page of the rookies file. Her name was simple and easy to remember, but distinct enough to suit her stature. He read it twice again just to make sure that it stuck though.

He rubbed his eyes as an uncomfortable itch overtook them.

“Infiltration, demolitions, interrogation, guerrilla warfare..., Jack of all trades aren't you...” He read over the callsign inscribed on the page “Glass”

The figure in the corner nodded. A scratchy voice echoed from behind the balaclava “Yes sir”

He had barley noticed the woman when she had walked into the briefing room behind Lieutenant Byrne. Draped in all black and of a similar stature to the man, she had seemed more of a shadow then person. By the time Price had realised she wasn't just an apparition, she had retreated into the dark like she belonged there.

“Before you're cleared for active duty you'll run some sims with the team” He explained. He settled his gaze on where he thought her eyes would be but could only see the shimmer of something staring back at him.

“Yes Sir”

“Even after that you won't be let out on the field for a while, not until you sim scores are perfect. Any objections?”

“No Sir”

“I expect perfection for my team, no room for mistakes.” Price stood from his desk and circled it slowly so he could sit closer to Glass (what was her name again?) and stare into the depths of the shadows that covered her “Understood”

There was what he perceived as a nod “Yes Sir”

“Good.” He grunted before reaching out to the other ranger for a grateful handshake “Lieutenant Byrne, thank you for the introduction but I can take it from here”

“Of course Sir” The irishman smiled aloofly has he shook the captains hand, grip firm, before stepping back closer to the woman “I’ll be out of you hair by the morning.”

Captain Price nodded with an amicable smile and watched as Byrne stepped closer to the woman who had moved to face him. They spoke in hushed voices, a flush of cold sweat gathering across the mans bald head, and what sounds like him snapping out a small ‘behave’ bounced around the room before he moved briskly to the door. It open with a scream of rusted hinges.

“Good luck Sir” Lieutenant Byrne smile tightly and shut the door behind him.

Good luck?

Price watched him go, head turned towards the door, before looking back to Glass.

She was closer than before.

A lot closer.

He could make out the structure of sharp bones under the black balaclava, high cheeks and an almost roman nose, as well as tired pale eyes that seemed to look perpetually glassy. He looked away when the itch returned. John huffed, callused hands rubbing his eyes softly, and watched in his peripheral is Glass continued to stare.

When the ache subsided, he offered a hand to shake “Welcome to the 141″

The corners of her eye crinkled every so slightly and he caught what looked like a smile in her dead eyes “Happy to be here Sir”

He could feel the ice of her skin through her gloves when they shook hands. Something distinctly wrong settled in his chest as he stared into her almost fake looking eyes. (Iris too glass like, pupils to much like a void)

What was her name again?

▄︻̷̿┻̿═━ 一

There was something wrong with Glass.

Something almost artificial, something uneven in the way she walked. Something doll like in the way she turned her head.

Ghost, the paranoid man that he was, noticed it first.

Noticed the lights that flickered when she walked into the room, a figure that wasn't her appearing in the shadow, before the bulbs would return to their usual florescent glow. The woman didn't seem to notice (or she didn't care) and was content to to carry on with her day. Ghosts eyes would follow her though, catching her gaze in the mirror she walked past. (He knew for a fact all the mirrors in her room were covered)

Her reflection would linger a moment while her body walked on.

Every instance of wrongness was so quick.

Too quick, like she was teasing him.

Daring him to say something.

He never told anyone he saw it happen

She made attempts to be normal. Well versed on most topics, she held up conversation easily (if you could ignore you own voice echoing back at you occasionally) but her gaze seemed to pierce through you. Glassy. Fake. Eyes more lifeless than the taxidermy deer head his father hung above the mantle.

He’d watch her for the rest of the day.

He'd watch as she stalked from room to room, lingering in the back, ghoulishly pale eyes fixated on the people that milled about, as if waiting on one to walk off alone so she could follow. Stalking like a predator, like something hungry.

People had been going MIA recently

He’d never seen her eat, never drink, never seen a sliver of skin that wasn't the greasepaint covered flesh around her eyes. Hands constantly bound in leather gloves, tall body locked away in layers of black fabric and body armour. However, in spite of the heavy boots she wore, her steps were basically soundless. She moved like smoke.

“Keep sneaking up on me and I might shoot you” He had snapped one day, tone playful but a genuine threat thinly veiled in his words. He wasn't comfortable with her at his back, not with the knife always on her belt.

Glass has simply laughed, the sound as grating as nails on a chalk board, before she slinked off to to bother Soap or linger in Prices shadow, knife hilt glittering like polished gold.

A Celtic cross was carved into the handle.

A similar gold one hung from a thin chain around her neck, weathered with age and handling, but meticulously cared for.

Soap had asked is she believed in God when he first saw it dangling around her throat, polished gold blindingly vibrant against the blood and black of her tac vest. The chain was short which made the sigil sit right on her breastbone, right above rows of magazines waiting to be used.

Glass had chuckled hoarsely, like she thought having faith in something was more of a desperate joke more than anything else, before spinning a painful vague story about a grandmother and family heirlooms.

Ghost new many people in the service who believed in one god or another, he knew how important it was in a job like this to have something to hold onto to ground yourself when the bullets started flying and bodies dropped around you. Knew it was better to have anything than to let horror of the job eat you alive.

But Glass?

He knew no god could help that creature.

#call of duty fanfic #john price x reader #simon riley x reader #kyle garrick x reader #john mctavish x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #141 x reader #call of duty original character #Cod oc; Glass #Glass tag #shattered tag #call of duty oc #cod oc

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em1e · 1 year

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⠀ 五条 + 夏 // RECUERDOS ⠀ ༝ ༝ gojo satoru + geto suguru ⠀ ༝ ༝ 3.2k words ⠀ ⚠︎ angsty kinda my b. this is a cyoe type story ! ⠀ — [ part 2 ] you were supposed to be dead, but by some miracle gojo's found you. geto, too.

i. dead

He thought he was going crazy, at first.

Who wouldn’t? You were supposed to be dead. Go on and call him psycho for seeing you in everything, everywhere.

The first thing he catches is your scent (it’s like picking up on something so vaguely familiar from childhood - an old memory that makes him double take and look around for what could possibly bring back the reminder of happier times). Gojo follows the smell absentmindedly through the busy streets, haphazardly bumping into other people and muttering half-hearted apologies without pause. He stops when he sees (h/c) hair enter a local grocery store.

It wasn’t possible, right? You were supposed to be dead. He follows behind without much thought, the soft chime of the doorbell making the clerk look up and greet him with a smile. He doesn’t acknowledge them, eyes set on your figure as you head towards the back of the shop - already knowing where whatever you have in mind to purchase is. Gojo keeps his distance, watching from three aisles over as you pick between two different apples, weighing and squeezing and examining until you decide the one in your right hand is much better than the one on your left. You bag the right one and put the left back in its place. From here, he can see your face clearly and he thinks numbly if there is a God out there, surely they are taunting me.

It’s you. You in every way he remembers you. The same soft gaze over everything your eyes meet, the same gentle but deliberate touch, everything done with confident intent. There’s small hints to prove you’ve grown older, that you have changed - more adult, more mature, but deep down he feels it. It’s you.

He finds himself following a few steps after you as you leave the store. He can feel his own heartbeat in his ears, mind traveling a million miles a second as he tries to come up with some sort of explanation as to what was happening in front of his eyes. You stop at a pop-up flower shop, laughing animatedly with the owner before deciding on a bouquet of your favorite and carrying them away in one hand, the other clutching the rest of your belongings and recently purchased groceries. And he watches as you enter a nearby apartment, watches through the window as you greet the doorman with a smile and offer him one of your flowers, and watches you disappear behind the elevator doors.

He leaves with a bitter taste in his mouth.

ii. reunited

You were supposed to be dead.

He’s brought back to that reminder looking at old pictures of when you went to Jujutsu High with him and Geto. Your smile so wide in each picture, your eyes crinkle in the corners with your arms thrown on either boy's shoulders - the bitter taste returns to his mouth.

He knows now, you aren’t dead. Some part of his mind rejects the thought, some part of him rejoices in the fact. Gojo’s done some research on his own (also read: stalking) to find you seem to have a normal life. What happened after that fight?

Memories flood back from that dreadful night ; buildings were crumbled around them, and all Gojo could manage to think about after the demolition was where you were. He watched you take a bad hit, watched you fall off one of the many now broken down buildings, and you had yet to reappear among the other faces. Geto, as if sensing his friend's stress, starts to scream out.

“(y/n)!”

Geto’s scream is met with silence, and for once in his life, Gojo can’t find it in himself to move forward. To join his friend in his search for something. A corpse, part of your shirt, anything that could show proof of your remains, to prove that you were even there in the first place.

Geto finds nothing in your wake, falling to his knees into the rubble and digging until his knuckles are all scraped from the cement and brick and glass and digging still when his fingertips are raw and bleeding, hoping to find anything.

But he doesn’t. Gojo remembers numbly how they buried an empty casket. Pronounced dead with no body to match the call. He’s brought back to wondering why. Why you never told them otherwise, why you never came back to the school, why you never fixed this wrong. Does Geto know you’re alive? Your death absolutely crushed him, molded itself around his heart and formed a tough shell that Gojo finds hard to crack.

He figures out your routine is just that - a routine. Very plain in every sense of the word, but easy to follow, easy to plan around.

So it’s no surprise to him when you leave that same grocery store, items balanced meticulously in hand while saying something to the clerk who knows you by name. Without a second thought, Gojo pushes himself away from the wall he had been watching you from, head held high as he walked forward with mock intent to enter the same shop and oops -

He’s knocked everything out of your hands!

And consequently, has knocked you down as well. You’re quick to apologize, despite being the one to take the brunt of impact, and go to gather your items as quickly as you can. Gojo crouches to assist you, waving off your apology hastily.

“No, no, no need to apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.” He ends with a hum, picking up a now bruised apple that rolled out of your bag and offering it to you.

Here, he can see your face up close, and he takes in every little detail from behind his sunglasses. You finally look up at him as you take the apple from his hand, giving a small smile that makes something in his chest twist.

“Thanks.” You shove the fruit back into your bag and Gojo offers his hand as he stands up, which you take gratefully. He grips your hand for a second longer than necessary, before letting his own drop back to his side, chin up and head tilting slightly as if he’s really thinking about something.

“Say, do I know you? Ya look familiar.”

Your own head tilts in mock of his, eyes scanning his face and figure before your lower lip juts out and you shake your head, “No, I don’t think so. What’s your name?”

His eyes narrow from behind his dark lenses, though he offers you his hand, “Gojo Satoru.” You shake it with an apologetic smile.

“Yeah, no, I don’t recognize that. (l/n) (y/n).”

He drops your hand for a second time with a hum, “You must have one of those faces.”

You shrug, smile ever-growing at him and he wonders if the sun could ever be as blinding in comparison. “It was nice to meet you, Gojo. Sorry again for running into you!” With a final wave, you’re moving past him to go back to your apartment. He knows this because he knows you. He knows you have to go home and start dinner right before your favorite show comes on TV so you can watch it while you eat. Then you’ll clean your kitchen, brush your teeth, and read a chapter from your favorite novel right before bed.

Somehow, he also knows watching from a distance won't be enough forever. Things still aren't exactly clicking to him. Did you really not remember him? Or were you just saying that? He leaves with the hope of finding out.

iii. living

Gojo doesn’t intend to lose you a second time. He settles this with himself laying awake one night, room dark and mind heavy. If you left for good reason, he’s sure he could accept it. Maybe, with more thought, he could bring you back. Such a selfish hole to spiral down.

It doesn’t keep him away the next day, already shopping at your frequented store. You come in five minutes earlier than he expects, and to no surprise head straight for the fruits. A perfect apple already in hand, he pretends to look between the selection of remaining apples, head tilting back and forth as he examines ones he knows aren’t nearly as good as the current in his grasp, but putting on a show for no one in particular.

You step beside him, already giving him that big smile he’d recognize miles away and pick up an apple to examine yourself.

“Funny running into you again.” You pick up another and compare them with the squeeze test.

He pretends he’s surprised that you’re suddenly beside him, turning to look at you as if he wasn’t studying you the minute you stepped in the building.

“Oh, it’s you!” He says after a moment, offering a small smile in return, “Very funny running into you! You wouldn’t believe what I found.”

He passes you the perfect apple without much thought, not catching your amazed daze at the fruit as he reaches for his wallet to pull out the picture of the three of you and offering that as well. “I couldn’t get such a pretty thing like you outta my head - knew I recognized you from somewhere.”

You all but gawk at the photo, apple long forgotten as you take in every detail.

“Is this me?”

He watches your expression shift from behind sunglasses, unsure what to make of this statement.

“It is.” He says finally, “Do you . . . you don’t remember?” A small shake of the head is his answer. “This is you,” his arm brushes against yours slightly to point out the obvious, “this is me, and this is Geto. We were all friends back in the day.”

“You . . . knew me?” Your voice is so small, and Gojo forgets for a moment that the two of you aren’t the only ones in this store, in this reality.

“I . .. did, yeah.” He looks around and finally takes in the other patrons in the establishment, the workers joking and having a good time and Gojo hates that he’s potentially ruined your week with one photo. “Say, why don’t we get outta here and I tell ya all about it - maybe you can tell me what you’ve been up to, too?”

It’s like his voice breaks you out of a trance, doe-eyed expression moving from the photo to finally look at him. You offer a small nod, frozen in place for a second longer before giving one more look to the photo and then looking away again. “Sure, that sounds good. D’ya mind me finishing up here? We can go back to mine after and talk?”

For the first time in forever, you sound hesitant. Unsure. You don’t know what to make of Gojo or of that photo and everything blurs together until you’re stepping foot in your apartment, bags placed on the counter as Gojo enters your home. A silence surrounds you, though it’s not truly unwelcome. For a moment, he can see your discomfort with him - he’s uncertain if it’s because he’s in your space, or if it’s from the new found information. Part of him thinks it’s a mixture of both.

“Nice place.” He hums absentmindedly, sliding off his shoes with his hands in his pockets, taking in everything as an official guest and not some stranger staring in from the street.

“Thanks,” you’re moving to keep yourself busy, putting away things and picking up others to make it seem tidier than it currently is, “wasn’t expecting guests, sorry for the mess.”

Gojo honestly doesn’t feel like anything is out of place - it all feels so homey, so uniquely you that if you told him this is how everything was meant to be, he’d believe you without a seconds hesitation.

“S’okay, just seems lived in.” He’s careful to not rush in too quickly, not wanting to make you any more anxious than you already are. “Nothing wrong with that.”

You finally gesture towards the living room, grabbing waters from your fridge and passing him one as you sit on the couch. He takes this as an invitation to sit as well, keeping his distance while you tuck your legs under you with them crossed. He opens his mouth to start, but you beat him to speaking while openly staring at him.

“What’s with the sunglasses? I don’t think I’ve seen you take them off . . . well, ever.”

Gojo almost wants to laugh at the question when you ask. You used to know. Surely this wasn’t all an act, right?

“Light sensitivity,” he says simply with a shrug. A silence falls over you again, and you relish in it while looking around your apartment. “What kind of questions do you have?” He asks finally, deciding someone has to break the silence and he seems to be the one with less anxieties.

You suck in a breath, meeting his gaze and then looking away.

“Who . . . How do I know you?”

You know he’s already explained it to you, but it seems just partial. Clearly, there’s more. Other things, whatever they may be, are missing.

“We went to high school together,” he leans into the couch, arm slinging over the back, “you, Geto, and I were really close friends.”

“Were?” You parrot, practically begging for more than the small crumbs he’s provided you with.

“Were,” he repeats simply, “you disappeared one day after-” flashes of you falling from the building come to mind, “after school one day. We never saw you again.”

“Oh.” You say quietly. “Did anyone . . . look for me?”

“Yeah,” he feels his chest tighten, Geto falling to his knees and digging desperately, “never found anything. It’s almost shocking to see you here now, honestly.”

When he finally looks back over to you, you’re staring holes into the floor.

“I woke up in a hospital a couple years ago,” you say without being prompted, “I didn’t . . . Couldn’t remember who I was or what happened. The doctors told me there was an earthquake in the area and an older couple found me in the rubble of a destroyed building . . . I never . . .”

“Never got your memory back?” Gojo finishes for you, taking in how much you struggled to talk about this. You shake your head.

“Not fully. Eventually I remembered who I was, I guess, but not really anything else. There wasn’t any record of me anywhere so I was basically . . . I dunno, a nobody. Started from scratch.”

He watches you intently, trying to decide if this is really all true. You have no reason to lie to him, right? This couldn’t all be some ploy?

“Can I see the picture again?” You ask so softly that Gojo doesn’t think he could ever deny you. He pulls the photo out of his pocket and gently passes it to you. You stare at it, taking in every detail like it’s the first time you’re seeing it again. “Who did you say this other person was, again?”

“Geto,” he hums, “he was one of our closest friends.”

“Was?” Your eyes shift from the picture to him.

He nods, “He and I sort of fell out, after a while. We don’t really talk anymore.”

You nod in return, seeming to understand. Silence washes over the two of you again, and Gojo makes no move to change it this time.

The two of you spend the next few hours trading questions between each other - you asking Gojo how things were in the past, and Gojo returning with how things are in the present. He learns you’re a school teacher at a local elementary school (and you love all of your students with your entire being), that you are still the kind hearted person he remembers you once were (how you go out of your way for others is admirable), and that you were thinking about getting a new pet (but you’re unsure if you’d be able to give them proper attention).

He leaves with more than one of his questions answered, and with an invitation to come back around anytime on your tongue as he walks out of the apartment. He knows the offer is something he will take to heart.

iv. memory

Knowing what you do now feels . . . weird. Gojo has made it a point to drop by every now and then, a ‘healthy check-in’ he likes to call it, but you suspect he just wants to rebuild whatever bond you’ve lost from the past few years. You don’t mind, honestly, happy to reconnect.

He happily talks about your past, retelling memories in hopes of maybe bringing something back, but it never does. He avoids talking about Geto (you suspect it was a bad falling out) and you don’t pressure him to speak about the male.

No one could imagine your surprise when you see the enigma walking around the streets on one of your days off.

He holds himself high, a confident aura surrounding him so thick you freeze when he passes you. You’ve never been one to be so direct, stunning even yourself when you turn on your heel and tap his shoulder gently. He makes it no urgency to face you, posture unchanging as he takes you in.

He eyes you up and down, and you almost wonder for a second if maybe he isn’t who you thought you were. The picture you’re basing his looks on is what, 15 years old? Should you really be betting the entirety of introducing yourself on that?

“Something I can help you with?” He asks, voice much softer than you expect it to be.

It pulls you out of your own stunned silence, blinking at him, “You’re Geto right?” You almost cross your fingers he says anything but no.

“I am, who are you?”

You breathe a small sigh of relief, shoulders visibly relaxing.

“I’m (l/n) - (l/n) (y/n), I knew you looked familiar.” You don’t see how his eyes widen slightly, too distracted by your own excitement to notice. “Gojo has been telling me about how we used to know each other, it’s crazy you’re here right now!”

“(l/n)?” He repeats, still taking in everything that is you. “Haven’t heard from you in a while . . .” You were supposed to be dead.

The thought weighs heavy in his mind, and he wonders for a moment if maybe this is some cruel trick by a curse. Maybe this is God punishing him for any of his wrong doings.

He doesn’t realize you were talking to him until you’re tilting your head at him expectantly, waiting for a reply.

“Sorry,” he waves apologetically, “I spaced out. This is just quite the surprise.”

“It’s alright,” you offer a smile, “I was asking if you’d like to catch up? If you’re not busy, of course.” You add quickly, not wanting to suddenly take up his day if he already had plans.

The curses at his side voice their concerns, their need to talk strategy and plan, but Geto returns your smile and gestures to a nearby cafe, “I have some time.”

You don’t realize how nervous you are until you’re sitting down with your drink, Geto sitting across from you with a smile that you don’t think has left his face since you got his attention.

“So,” he starts after taking a sip of his drink, “where have you been all these years?”

#salmon rowe #gojo saturo x reader #saturo gojo x reader #saturo x reader #gojo x reader #saturo gojo #gojo saturo #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #geto x reader #suguru x reader #geto sugu #suguru geto #x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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fieldofdaisiies · 13 days

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There's blood on the side of the mountainT here's writing all over the wall Shadows of us are still dancin' In every room and every hall

The bright green has long faded, the spark has long extinguished, his eyes now empty, dull, dead. Deep, blue crescents underline them and tears glisten within them. Pits of brutal, endless cold stare back at him, and somewhere within the icy eternity there is only regret, remorse, and pain.

He grips the sink firmly, knuckles bloody from punching the wall and white from how tightly he is holding on. His whole body trembles, shaking so fiercely he is surprised he hasn’t fallen to the ground yet.

A strangled sob crashes into his ragged breaths, head tipping back, only so the sob can turn into a wail of pure agony and misery. Destruction.

He destroyed it. Her. Feyre. He broke her. Made her leave solely through his actions. She is gone and he lost her. She will never return. And he destroyed himself along with her. His own heart. His own soul. She is gone, and within him there is nothing but agony. Agony and remorse.

Tamlin pushes off the sink, wipes one bloody and wounded hand over his face, brushing back a few strands of damp hair. He leaves the bathroom to return to the place where it happened.

His knees hit the ground first, shards of glass and wood ripping into open wounds that had no chance to ever close, to ever heal.

A cold breeze, like frost and ice against his skin, creeps in through the broken windows, howling as it blows through the empty rooms and hallways. Apart from a few sentries, almost everyone is gone. He is alone. Alone, broken, around him, where there once used to be sunshine and lush, blooming flowers, nothing but endless vastness, demolition and darkness.

Just like within himself. Tamlin knows that there will never be a way back from this. He destroyed it, her and himself, and there will never be happiness within him again, nor within his court. He failed as High Lord, as lover, as male. He failed.

And the consequences…it isn’t hard for him to admit it. He deserves the consequences. For what he has done. And for what happened back then. For what happened to his mate. Reverie. He deserves it all for not stopping what happened to her. For being the reason why she lost her life. He deserves it all. All that is coming for him now, he deserves it. Losing Feyre. He deserves that he lost her. She shouldn’t have ever been bound to him.

He deserves every bad thing, Tamlin thinks, for not being able to protect the few people in his life that ever truly cared about him.

He cries out — not from the physical pain erupting in his knees where now new and old wounds meet, but from the kind of pain that hurts so much worse. The pain that lasts, stays with you, haunts you day and night. It’s emotional pain.

What happened here this day, what happened with Feyre, what he did to Feyre, it all stemmed from panic, from the panic of losing the person he loves. And it brings him right back to that fateful night centuries ago when he lost his everything. When he lost his sense of life, the sole thing that brought him comfort and happiness.

The night that changed everything. The night that made him turn his heart into stone, and the night that wrenched his soul.

“Are you happy now?” Spit drips from the High Lord’s mouth, almost like venomous poison from a viper. “Is this what you wanted?” The High Lord stalks forward, grabbing Tamlin by the collar of his shirt. “Look at me when I am talking to you.”

But Tamlin can’t. He can’t meet his father’s gaze.

The bloody wings on the ground, in the midst of the shards, are the only thing he can focus on. And the light within his chest, or rather, the absence of it. The light that has been extinguished. The light that no longer is. The feeling is dead and what is left within his soul is nothing but a deep, endless void – cold and dark. The bond is gone. Dead. And will never return.

Tamlin knew the moment his heart was shredded into pieces. When he could feel her pain through the bond. When he could hear her wail in his mind. Her sobs. Her cries. His father, knowing about their mental bridge, had made him feel everything. Made him see it all. Everything he did to her. He knew she was going to die that night. He knew she was dead by the time he arrived.

Tamlin’s vision is blurry with old and new tears, his body shaking so hard he is no longer sure he is sitting. Maybe he is floating. Falling. Landing hard, but it doesn’t matter. No pain will ever compare to what it means when your mate dies.

“You brought this upon her.” The High Lord smirks and grabs Tamlin’s chin. “Mingling with the rival court. Wasn’t your silly little friendship with Rhysand enough?” His thumb presses down on his son’s chin, adding just enough pressure to make it painful for Tamlin while their eyes stay locked. “No, you had to fuck his little sister as well. My son, the traitor. Scum.”

With a harsh shove to his shoulder, the High Lord steps away. “Clean that up. All of it.”

Tamlin doesn’t remember if he nodded. If he said something. There is only the flaring, hot pain deep within his chest, spreading like a rapid, burning fire, lava blazing through his veins.

She is gone. Reverie is dead. His mate is gone. Was killed. Was murdered by his own father.

And with her, the bond died as well, leaving him utterly empty.

tags: @thesnugglingduck @sirenpearldust the song is by Olivia Rodrigo

#tamlin x oc #tamlin acotar #acotar #acosf

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l-lend · 11 months

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Creator Self-Promotion

Rules: post the first lines of your last 10 fics you posted. If you have less than 10 fics posted, post the first lines of all your fics.

"But K, I don't write but I still create can I still play?"

Post your last 10 pieces and give us a play by play. What was the inspiration? Any fun facts you can share with us?

Anyway let's get on with it

1. Fishing for Compliments - Merman!Crosshair x F!Reader

A sigh passed the young woman’s lips as the sun began to disappear beneath the waves. The waves rocked her quaint vessel as if it were a mother soothing her child. Her meal as well as a plate of identical food remained untouched as she kept her gaze to the depths. Every ripple of its surface a reminder of the mounting minutes that her company kept her waiting.

2. Drop Me a Line - Wrecker x F!Reader

The young woman stifled a yawn as she continued to work the mass of dough to her standards to be plopped into pans to bake. She continued working the dough sparing glances to the chrono on the wall as the sky outside began to lighten with the sunrise. Her pulse spiked when the chrono was checked again. She abandoned the lump of dough as she snatched up a pastry box. The bell chiming as the door opened and closed.

3. Budding Romance - Rex x F!Reader

“And you’re sure you’ll have them there.”

“A bit of faith would be nice, Anakin.”

4. Skin in the Game - Wrecker x OC (Rina) (18+ Please view responsibly)

Wrecker was on the hunt. Thankfully the Marauder held only a few spaces to hide away as he searched the ship. His target tucked away by the sensors. Vibroblade twirling between his fingers while his idle gaze stared at the screen. The demolitions expert took a breath, hoping to find answers.

5. Hair Support - Tup x Reader

The days of the Clone Wars tended to drag on in between assignments. Thankfully, the Republic saw it fit to dispatch your research team with a clone legion escort to ensure the lush jungle planet would not eat you and your colleagues alive. It was in the sweltering heat of the afternoon that one of your study binges was interrupted. You shook your head knowing who dared tread into your tent.

6. Interrogations - Echo x F!Reader (18+ Please view responsibly)

The former arc trooper sighed. Another fruitless attempt at slipping free of his bonds. The chair he was bound to chilled any amount of exposed skin. The room kept dark to prevent him from gathering his bearings. He bided his time, waiting for the tell-tale clicking of his keeper. It was a whisper at first but grew louder as the automatic doors parted.

7. Personal Tastes - Hunter x F!Reader

Strands of meat sizzled and spat as she flipped the tangled mass. Her work distracting from the pair of eyes watching you from the doorway. Her culinary tasks from the staccato chops of a knife to peppers to the accented clink of a mortar and pestle offered a calming tune.

8. Just This Once, Everyone Lives - Rex x Reader

Your bottom lip remained captured between your teeth as the speeder came to a stop. The building looming over the city streets twinkled in the night. A beacon for personnel to gather while dressed to the nines. A hand curled around yours, smoothing over your knuckles.

9. Keep Away - UniversityAU Wrecker x Reader

You filed out with your fellow undergrads as your last class for the afternoon let out. the professor's voice offering mention of the end of the first sprint. You traversed amongst the student body's current before veering off to a corridor. The current loosening its grasp the closer you ventured toward the sanctuary of paper and ink.

10. Nothing Fight - Crosshair x F!Reader

It could be easy to say Clone Force 99 had a culture separate from the sea of clones. Clone medics would be reassigned in the blink of an eye and nat born medics often assigned whoever pissed off the higher ups. This led to your current long term assignment. Having a medic on board being the main reason one of your patients was released to his squad early pending observations.

NPT - @photogirl894 @rain-on-kamino @tecker @techs-stitches @littlemissmanga @annwayne @fakegingerrights @merkitty49 @moodymisty @starrylothcat

Wanna promote your work here too? Do it!

#self promo chain

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inkformyblood · 1 year

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Soap gets hurt. Roach stays with him. (Established Soap x Roach, Ghost x Soap x Roach, canon verse)

Pain isn’t dissimilar to one of Soap’s demolitions; if he could choose, he would want it to be entirely the same, all loud and bright and instantaneous like a building crashing down into a plume of dirt and dust, the intoxicating scent of smoke in the air and lightning in his veins. It would be something he chose with the press of a button or the flick of a switch, something solid, something tangible.

Not whatever the fuck this is.

“Roach,” Soap mumbles, whines, really because he’s owed some small measure of feeling bad for himself and he’s comfortable here, sprawled across Ghost’s slightly larger than average bed. Promotion came with some benefits it seemed. “You don’t need to fuss, I’m fine.”

Roach makes a vague clucking noise low in his throat, the same one that always reminds Soap of a chicken. Specifically a cartoon one, something drawn with a rough smattering of watercolours outlined with a pale defined line. He doesn’t, however, stop brushing his fingers over the bandage wrapped around Soap’s forearm, mindful of the stitches beneath.

Soap sighs, tipping his head back into the makeshift pillow he’s made of Roach’s thighs. There’s a buckle digging into the nape of his neck, irritating but not enough for him to put effort into moving. The cut had looked worse than it had been, a side effect of adrenaline sharpening his focus while numbing everything else. His teeth had only barely stopped buzzing by the time he had left medical with a fresh rattling pill bottle and one of his boyfriend’s being similarly rattled and plastered to his side.

“Where is Simon anyway?” Soap asks, cutting a glance over to the door. He couldn’t remember the time between the training exercise and now clearly, but some instances stood out better than others. He remembers bare hands pressing over his wound, gloves roughly torn away and dropped without a second thought. It had been good, a closeness he had once thought impossible without cracking open his rib cage and decorating it with pieces of moss and bacteria to make a home. He also remembers that one fucking step up into medical, the jarring slip and slide that happened every fucking time and never got any less painful at the sudden swoop of his stomach as he is convinced each and every time that they’ll drop him.

Roach blinks up at him, his eyes pale without the cover of his glasses. “He’s picking up some food,” he signs, the gestures almost slurring together with his displeasure to move from his perch. It’s almost like having a lap cat sprawled across him, unwilling to move no matter how much Soap could drag at his bulk and presenting his claws as both threat and reluctant promise because how could he think of moving him?

It makes him laugh.

Roach grins along with him, dissolving to draw shapes across Soap’s palm. It tickles, leaving behind a flickering after trail and his fingers twitch on reflex, catching hold of Roach momentarily. There is a heavy scar that wraps around his forefinger, a raised ridge of indented reds and pinks that would burn in the summer and ache in the winter, and Soap squeezes it in the facsimile of a kiss. Moving is still not an option but he hopes Roach understands all the same.

“Try to sleep,” Roach signs, rubbing the pad of his thumb over Soap’s knuckles. “I’ll wake you when Ghost gets back.”

Soap should try and argue, but he can’t think of a single reason why other than to be difficult. He manages to grumble something from beneath drooping lashes and heavy breathing before he collapses into sleep. Roach is there, Ghost would be back soon. Everything would be fine. He could weather pain if it meant being with them.

#soaproach #roachsoap #soapghostroach #ghostroachsoap #johnny soap mactavish #gary roach sanderson #cod mw2 #my writing #fanfic

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jazzythursday · 9 months

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Careless (667 words)

He’d gotten careless.

It was a simple mistake, but a careless one all the same. He’d gotten distracted, and the ratio of one chemical to another was just a bit not right, just enough to—

It was carelessness, is all it was. Stupid. Idiotic. He can’t afford to call himself a demolitions expert if he can’t even handle semi-compustables without fucking it all up.

He’s still staring at the remnants of the exploded vile in his hand, tiny rivulets of blood running from the bits of broken glass embedded in his skin. He’s never liked being hurt, he’s never liked blood. It makes him feel fragile, and a bit like the times he was a child getting rapped on the knuckles for not trying hard enough in lessons, even though he was trying so hard. He flexes his hand. It burns, but not much, not as much as it probably should, and he should really get something to clean up the mess, but he’s just staring, staring and staring and wondering why he hadn’t thought to measure twice, why he hadn’t—

Jesper finds him like that, hunched over his work table, staring.

He’s very gentle as he handles Wylan into a chair and cradles his arm, brow furrowed and lips pursed as he inspects his hurt hand to look over the injury. Wylan feels frozen, like he’s stuck somewhere he doesn’t know how to find his way back from. Bracing for some kind of punishment—from who, he isn’t sure. Berating himself for being stupid enough to make a mistake he knows he’s better than and caught between the past and the present, in some cold and numb place in the middle.

Jesper catches his eyes. “Well, it looks like you’ll get to keep all your fingers.”

It draws a rough laugh out of Wylan, and he feels himself start to thaw. “Is that your professional opinion, Jesper Fahey?”

“Yes, and that’s Medik Fahey to you. Sit tight, love, and if you’re a good patient, I’ll even throw in a prize.”

Wylan snorts, then winces, because being out of his head means he can properly feel how much his hand actually hurts, and he finds that it does. Ouch.

Jesper gets out a pair of tweezers and pulls out every piece of glass, cleaning the cuts and wrapping them until Wylan has a bandage that runs from his fingertips up halfway to his elbow.

Jesper drops a kiss into the palm of Wylan’s hand when he’s done, soft and infinitely sweet in ways that Wylan cannot begin to define, in ways until recently he did not know he could have.

“Thank you,” he says, meaning it.

Jesper shrugs one shoulder and tilts his head, “Anytime. Well—not any time, please don’t make a habit of demo-disasters, not that this was a disaster, but—you know what I mean—”

Wylan cuts off the ramble with a kiss, marvelling at the way it never fails to make Jesper release a short little swallowed gasp into his mouth as his hands immediately pull Wylan closer. “I know,” Wylan says. “Thanks.”

“Right,” Jesper says, a little breathless. “Right,” he says again, dropping a kiss to the top of Wylan’s head and then flashing the grin that Wylan knows he uses when he wants to be charming. “First things first, I did say you’d get a prize, and I have it on good authority from Nina that waffles make the best medicine. Feel up to getting out of here?”

Wylan let’s Jesper pull him up by his uninjured hand and lead him out of the warehouse and into town. He’ll have to clean up the mess he’s made of his workstation tomorrow, remake the whole batch of flash bombs. But for now, as Jesper fills the silence with easy conversation about what he’d missed at the Crow Cub, the reassuring weight of his arm wrapped around his shoulders, Wylan thinks it can wait.

Maybe he can afford to be a little careless about some things.

#a drabble for your troubles?#written for the promt: careless from the wesper server #wesper fic club #Jazzy writes #jazzy writes fanfic #wesper #wesper drabble #wesper ficlet #wylan van eck #Jesper fahey #six of crows #shadow and bone

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msweebyness · 3 months

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Mirrorverse Crossover- Aurore

Hey hey hey, it’s Weeby with the next installment of Mirrorverse! Things are getting tense between the well/mannered fairy and the wacky witch! Enjoy! @artzychic27 @imsparky2002

Sitting ramrod straight and feeling supremely out of sorts, BluRore looked with trepidation at her counterpart, the witch giggling like a madwoman as she swung her legs back and forth. Every so often, she would sneak a glance at the fairy, before descending into another fit of laughter.

“Is there a reason you’re somehow acting even more disturbed than usual?”, BlueRore asked tersely, folding her hands as she looked at MimRore with uneasy irritation. What was with her?

The mad mage let out another fanatical laugh before answering her counterpart.

“I’m just excited to talk to a version of myself that thinks ‘goodness’ is the way to go in life, dearie!”, she tittered, gagging at the word ‘goodness, “It fascinates me how someone with my face could be so dull and dense!”, she went on to taunt, giving the fairy a twitching grin.

BluRore took in a deep breath at these words, her entire body going tense. If she wasn’t so well-trained in holding her composure…

“Oh, no…”, Sabrinocchio murmured nervously, her fingers making hollow clicking sounds as she twiddled them anxiously. If there was one thing her fairy godsister hated, it was having her intelligence called into question.

“I wouldn’t say that I’M the dense one here, my dear. Your head is barely attached to your shoulders on a good day.”, BlueRore said tersely, her wand gripped tightly in her hands. MimRore only smirked in response.

“Well, if you were smarter, you'd notice that something isn't quite right. But it seems...”, she taunted cheerily, before a sudden poof changed her physical form into that of a small purple bat!, “You're blind as a bat!”

Promptly changing the other blonde back to normal with a flick of her wand, BlueRore said in slight irritation, “I would ask what you mean by that, but I know I won’t get a straight answer.”

“Would you like a curved one?”, MimRore asked teasingly before she cackled like mad at her own joke.

The fairy’s eyes narrowed as she sensed that something was indeed different. Something felt…wrong.

“Enough with the games. What do you mean by ‘not quite right’?”, she demanded sharply, only getting a devious grin in response. It was then that one of the heroes seemed to figure out just what was missing from the picture.

“Uhhh, guys? Where’s Mireille?”, Demolition Denise piped up with a nervous edge to their voice, shooting a hard glare at Mireides as the goddess snarkily raised a hand and waved, “OUR Mireille.”

With rising horror and fury, BluRore noticed that MimRore's giggles had turned sinister, and became louder by the second. Shooting to her feet, she shot her counterpart a piercing death glare.

“What have you done, you vile witch?”, she snarled, clenching her wand so tightly her knuckles were white. MimRore only stuck her tongue out.

“Wouldn't you like to kno-“, she had begun to taunt only to cut off with a squeak.

Holding her glowing wand to the manic girl’s throat, BlueRore demanded, “ANSWER!”

“Okay, cool your blue tits, I just hid her somewhere!”, the loony sorceress said shakily, before regaining her ‘composure’ and smiling deviously once again, “But I won’t tell you where...unless...”

“Unless. What?”

“Unless you can defeat me...”, the wacky weather witch began dramatically before she jumped on the table and struck a dramatic pose with her arms raised, “IN A MAGIC DUEL!”, she thundered

BluRore looked wary as she ventured to ask, “That's it? A duel? There has to be a catch.”

“No catch, fairy! If you win, your little kitty goes free as a bird, no harm done!”, Mimrore said cheerily, before she added with a wicked glee, “But if you lose...”, before she paused ominously.

“Out with it!”

“YOU’LL HAVE THE CHICKENPOX FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE!”, Mimrore shrieked, letting out a shrill evil laugh. BluRore looked unimpressed. As did the rest of the villains.

“Really, Rorie?”, IsmaScar asked in clear disappointment, “That’s it?”

“Oh, and one more thing!”, MimRore then went on to say as her smile turned eerie and dark, “Your precious pussycat princess will remain trapped, and what becomes of her will be up to me and my friends!”

This was met with roaring approval from the villains, who already began to plan what they could do with the lioness.

“Just do what she says, 'Rore. She clearly can't be reasoned with.”, Reshmabela piped up through the bubble, hollyhock beginning to grow around her feet, a sign that she was nervous.

“Fine. But Nino, Lacey and Ismael, the ones from MY world, will judge this match. I don’t trust your three witch friends to remain impartial...or not to intervene on your behalf.”, BlueRore said firmly as the three witches in question glared and muttered curses at her, “You’ve laid your terms, and those are mine.”

MimRore pouted but decided to play along, “Oh all right.”, as she secretly held her fingers crossed behind her back.

“I see that.”, BlueRore said sharply.

“Fine.”, MimRore huffed, irritated at the fairy’s vigilance, “But my friends at least get to watch! It’s not fair for you to have cheerleaders while I don’t!”, the witch insisted, the other villains piping up in agreement. No way did they want to miss this!

“You're the one who decided to kidnap my girlfriend!”, BlueRore snarled, only a couple seconds away from strangling this lunatic.

“Whatever, busybody!”, the witch said, sticking her tongue out, before she grinned malevolently and began to bounce on the spot, “Let’s assemble our spectators...and LET THE DUEL COMMENCE!”

—————

A few minutes later, everyone was in the main courtyard, villains seated on one side and heroes on the other. The blue-clad fairy and cackling witch were standing face to face as the two other fairies and genie prepared to judge the match. Snapping to gain everyone’s attention, IsmaGenie began to review the rules.

“Alright, here’s the lowdown: basic junior magic duel standards apply. No turning invisible, no targeting the spectators or judges, no fatal magic attacks. Got it?”, the genie said, BlueRore nodded solemnly. MimRore giggled maniacally and nodded as well…hiding crossed fingers behind her back.

“Okay. Turn back to back, ten paces outwards, then the duel begins.”, Fairy Godbro then instructed, before backing away with the other judges. Everyone watches with rapt attention as the two took their paces…only for MimRore to slowly fade from visibility as she passed behind a tree, making the heroes scowl, and the villains snicker. Their wacky witch had this in the bag…or did she?

The judges were about to intervene, but it seemed BluRore was a step ahead of them. Narrowing her eyes, she aimed her wand upward, deflecting the rays of the sun intensely in the direction where MimRore had gone, causing the witch to let out a yelp.

Following the sound, BlueRore cast her magic towards the witch, forcing her to turn visible again. MimRore scowled and stamped her foot, glaring daggers at the smirking fairy.

“Come on, babe! You can still kick her ass!”, Mireides cheered, with a few of the other villains adding their own encouragement. MimRore straightened up and prepared her next trick.

Gaining a wild and sadistic grin, her hands beginning to thrum with magic. BlueRore’s eyes widened as MimRore suddenly turned towards her friends, aiming some manner of curse. The heroes’ eyes widened as they realized the intent, while the villains watched eagerly to see some carnage.

Acting quickly, she created a glimmering blue disk of magic and flung it in the direction of her friends, just in time for MimRore’s hex to hit it head on and bounce right back at the witch. MimRore was flung several feet before falling back on the ground, her clothes and hair smoking.

“Nice one, Blue!”, Simon Pan yelled, “You’ve got this in the bag!”, earning him glares and scowls from the villains, and a small fireball flung in his direction by the goddess of death.

As Demolition Denise was talked down by their friends from sending the (slightly nervous) goddess flying, MimRore was absolutely seething. How was this fairy so ahead of all of her tricks?!

Having enough, she decided to pull out her trump card! Glowing with a malevolent purple aura, her body began to change as BlueRore watched in fascinated horror. The sorceress morphed into a giant, purple misshapen creature that vaguely resembled a dragon, breathing a spurt of pink flames and sparks.

“WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO NOW, PIXIE PUNK?! EVERYONE KNOWS THAT FAIRIES CAN’T SHAPESHIFT!”, MimRore shrieked, more sparks flying from her lips as she laughed in frantic glee.

To her credit, BlueRore did look nervous for a brief moment, before her eyes sparked with an idea and her demeanor turned steely.

“Perhaps not.”, she said ominously as she aimed her wand, “But we can change others.”

With that, she sent a bright bolt of blue magic at MimRore, and when the flash cleared…a small wooden puppet version of the ghastly creature sat on the ground. A tiny squeal of fury emerged from the toy, as the heroes laughed and cheered with glee. The villains were far less enthusiastic.

To add insult to injury and secure herself the win, BlueRore conjured a small gilded cage around the witch-turned-puppet, that thwarted her efforts to change back, enraging her even further.

“Now, this cage prevents you from using any magic that I don’t permit you to! And if you want me to set you free and allow you to change back…return my kitten to me, now.”, the fairy said firmly.

Seeing she had no real other options in the moment, MimRore hissed, and the dazed lioness appeared in the midst of the makeshift battleground, immediately being tackled in a hug by BlueRore.

“Mir, I was so worried! Are you alright? Did she hurt you at all?”, the blonde fairy babbled, pulling back to check her partner for any injuries. Laughing softly, Miremba grasped her girlfriend’s hands and rested their forehead against hers.

“I’m fine, Baby Blue. Thanks to you.”, before the two shared another hug as the other heroes came to check on their friend. In the fluster of conversation that followed, BlueRore dissolved the cage and MimRore changed back to normal. Pulling her knees to her chest, she sulked over her loss to that prissy pixie.

She suddenly felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to see her girlfriend, giving her an encouraging smile as their hair flickered in the sunlight.

“Don’t worry, Cuckoo Bird. We’ll get ‘em next time!”, Mireides said resolutely, turning and give the heroes a stony glare. No one got away with humiliating her ‘Rore.

And there you have it folks! BlueRore may be proper, but when it’s time to kick ass, she doesn’t mess around! Thanks to Sparky for his help with the opening conversation, and Artzy for the idea of how to end the duel! Keep an eye out for Artzy to release Zoe! Leave your thoughts in the comments and reblogs!

#miraculous ladybug #class of heroes #class of villainy #disney au #mirrorverse #madam mim #the blue fairy #aurore boréale #aurore x mireille

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radioactivepeasant · 10 months

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Fic Prompts: Meddling Mar Monday

About time we checked in on the Demolition Brothers! The chapter index can be found HERE

Alma's kitchen was full of spices and vegetables that Jak had never seen before -- or maybe he had, but they'd been pickled and preserved beyond recognition in Haven. These were fresh, filling the room with vibrant reds and yellows and greens, and Jak couldn't help wondering what they tasted like raw. He gave his hands a perfunctory rinse at the sink and stood awkwardly beside a long strand of hanging peppers, waiting to be given some kind of direction. Daxter seemed far more comfortable, cracking his knuckles and opening cabinets without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Alrighty, where's your measuring cups?" he asked.

Alma snorted. "Measuring cups? I use the scale! Go get my pot of salt off the table -- black lid -- and don't you dare drop it, Pequeño! That stuff is expensive!"

She glanced down at Mar. "You gonna wash your hands or what?" she asked.

Mar unwrapped his arms from around the caprid fawn's neck and signed, "Or what."

Behind Alma, Jak groaned. Was this what it was like to be Torn? In sharp gestures he warned Mar, "Don't push her buttons, we need this to work out. Do you want to go back to the tower?"

"No!"

"Then be nice! Treat her like she's the Bird Lady or something!"

Mar pouted and wrapped his arms around Cabbie again. Jak noted the disapproval on Alma's face and grimaced at Daxter. They weren't off to a great start. Daxter grimaced back, but held up a hand as if to calm Jak.

Jak might not have remembered a lot of what he'd been like at Mar's age, but Daxter did. And Daxter could hazard a guess as to the root of Mar’s contrariness.

"Sorry about Junior," he piped up in a lighthearted tone, "He has trouble transitioning between activities, especially in a new environment. In my experience, you gotta set a clear expectation and timeline, and then stick to it."

Jak blinked. "Wait, really?"

His best friend gave him a wry look. "You were exactly the same, pal. I have experience."

Alma appeared to be considering this for a moment. At first, Jak thought she would agree to give Mar a few more minutes to switch between tasks. But then she pointed a skinny finger towards a low door at the back of the kitchen.

"If you aren't gonna help make bread, you can take Cabbie and go help with the caprids," she said, shrugging the shoulder that sat lower.

"Don't have to wash your hands for that."

Mar frowned thoughtfully and considered his options. If he helped outside, that would mean he was still playing with Cabbie, right? And then he'd get to see more caprids! So far they weren't much like crocadogs, but they weren't boring like yakkows, either. Mar liked animals, especially the ones that could play with him.

He nodded and pushed himself to his feet. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he asked, "Can I feed them?"

"They've already been fed today," Alma answered, "Don't believe them if they act hungry. They'd eat the house if they could. Just fill the water trough alright?"

Mar let himself out the back, and almost immediately came back in.

"Where's the water?"

As Alma had her back to him, Jak quickly relayed Mar's question. The woman didn't look up from tossing flour and water into a bowl.

"See those big meshes out there? They harvest fog. The barrels underneath catch the water. Use the tap to fill up a bucket -- turn it off before you walk away!"

"Okay!" Mar hopped back down off the step and into some kind of courtyard between buildings. Metallic jangling and caprids bleating nearly drowned him out.

Alma turned her head. "Close the door!" she called, "Don't let the little criminals in here!"

Upon hearing Jak's snicker, she scooted the bowl towards him. "Here, young-arms. Mix that until it's evenly goopy."

Well, that couldn't be too hard, right?

Wrong.

Jak's first attempt sent watery flour splattering across the counter, Daxter, and anything in range. His dismay must have shown on his face, because Alma didn't berate him. She grumbled about wasted dough, but it was under her breath.

"Not so hard, boy! You aren't trying to kill it!"

Being told not to kill something was a bit of a reversal from what people normally demanded of him. It was all destroy, destroy, destroy. And while Jak could admit -- and would admit freely -- to taking pleasure in the destruction of things, like mining platforms and KG bases, he'd always hated being ordered to destroy people. It was much too close to what Praxis had wanted to make him into. A soldier; an executioner. Made to destroy and good for nothing else.

I can do more than destroy, he insisted to himself, I'm gonna have to if I want to survive out here. How am I supposed to take care of Dax and Mar if I can't even make dough without ruining it?

But he couldn't ask for help. He'd look like some useless city-slicker who didn't know how to work! Gingerly, he pushed his fist into the gooey mixture again. It wasn't a very nice texture, all sloppy and wet. Gritting his teeth, he mixed and pushed until it clung to his hand from every side of the bowl. The texture was awful. He closed his eyes and told himself to ignore his skin screaming at him.

"Is...is this right?" He lowered the bowl to show Alma.

The landlady eyed it critically, rubbing her chin. "Good enough. Now we add the yeast."

Daxter hopped up onto the counter and nudged Jak sympathetically. "I got this. You get that gunk off your hands before you blow a gasket."

Gratefully, Jak ceded the bowl and did his best to scrape his hands off on the rim. The landlady probably wouldn't want him washing this stuff down the drain, he guessed. He suppressed a shudder and rubbed his fingers together under the pump water until the stickiness dissipated. Felt too much like metalhead guts.

"City boy," Alma scoffed.

Jak bristled. "Stick your hands in metalhead entrails a couple hundred times," he shot back, "and maybe you won't like the texture anymore either."

Alma lowered her brows at him. "Don't take that tone with me, chico," she warned.

"Then don't make assumptions about me," Jak retorted through gritted teeth.

Don't snap. Lower your voice. Hands where she can see them. If you're dangerous where people can see you, you'll get yourself and the guys kicked out.

For a moment they held each other's gaze, neither willing to back down in a silent standoff. Then Alma thumped her cane against the floor and scoffed.

"You've got some fire to you, boy. Good. I don't want any mealy-mouthed suckups in my house -- but you still better watch your mouth, eh?"

Jak grumbled an assent and flicked the last of the flour mixture off his fingers with a shudder. Dark eco hypersensitivity was a special kind of hell. It had been mercifully absent during their time in the convalescence ward, but the heat of the day seemed to be drawing it out again.

"I'm gonna check on M-" Jak caught himself at the last second- "My brother."

"Don't let any caprids in the house," Alma warned dismissively.

"And get your things up to your room! We don't have bellhop service here."

Daxter checked the yeast and tossed some flour onto the counter. "Uh...about that. Yeah, what you see is what you get. We don't have any stuff."

Alma half turned and looked around her kitchen skeptically, as if expecting to see a hidden pile of luggage. When no such baggage appeared, she shook her head -- whether it was in judgement or sympathy wasn't clear.

"When they come get you this evening to show you how to get groceries," she said to Jak, "Tell 'em Alma said you need a clothing allowance."

The room the boys would be renting wasn't particularly large. There was a sink, a tiny cook top, and a low table in one corner, a bathroom in another, and everything else was open space. Some hooks on the rafters suggested that previous tenants had divided the room with curtains for a while. That was probably the most privacy Jak was going to get in a place like this.

At least I don't have any extra clothes to worry about changing into. That definitely lowers the chances of Mar seeing my scars.

Pushed against the far wall, opposite the bathroom, was a low, wide, bed. There were no blankets on it, and the pallet was old and worn. But it was better than most places Jak had slept in Haven, and he wasn't going to complain as long as there was room for all three of them. He sank down onto a corner of the pallet and unlaced his boots with a sigh. As much as everyone kept repeating that he wouldn't be put to work, Jak knew it would only last until they saw what he was capable of. Which would mean he'd be able to keep them fed, but in this kind of heat it would probably be exhausting. Better to take it easy while he could.

#meddling mar monday #jak and daxter #fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter mar #meddling mar au #spargan ocs #I'm giving Jak some of my Sensory Disapproval Times because you can't stop me #Alma narrowly avoided a crisis by redirecting Mar. That was nearly an eco-boosted overtired meltdown and nobody wants that.#the goat-deer are little gremlins but coincidentally so is Mar so they'll get along famously #the boys get fresh bread while Damas is in the monks' lab like WHAT DO YOU MEAN THEY HAVE IDENTICAL FINGERPRINTS?!

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toomanybandstocare · 2 years

Text

{Cherry Pie, Warrant}

Program: Summer's coming to an end with the Hawkins town fair under way. While every typical couple seems to be excited about the ferries wheel or the tunnel of terror, you and Billy have your eyes set on the demolition derby. Adrenaline and pride course through veins watching Billy in his element- even if it scares the shit out of you.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x GN!Reader

Genre: Fluff/Suggestive (IDK it's a demo derby, it's gonna be messy but I think it's cute)

Warnings: Couple of swears, pet name (baby), blood, car collisions, steamy make out session, suggestive themes at the end

Length: 1411w

Camp Upside Down Masterlist

Crushing metal spurs the animated crowd and excited announcers to roar to life. The heavy summer evening heat amplifies the sweltering stadium lights shining down on the sandy terrain. Cars revving and out maneuvering each other send a dust cloud in their wake. Fans cheer and curse at the junker car collisions. The echoes of microphone feedback and engine hums ring in the final night of the Hawkins Fair Demolition Derby. Buzzing apprehension jumps from person to person as they sit on the edge of their seats, waiting to crown their tournament winner.

Gripping onto the wire fencing that separates the arena from the crowd stands, your eyes never leave Billy’s car. A flush washes over you and heat tingles in your cheeks everytime you catch sight of Billy's calculating eyes and cocky smirk. His hair flies wild as sweat glistens, highlighting the animalistic expression on his face- ready to go for the final strike against his prey. During moments where the cars circle each other, Billy scouts the screaming crowd in search of you to shoot you a wink. There’s not a doubt in either of your minds who’s going to reign champion tonight.

Turning to refocus his confident gaze, Billy’s eyes widen as the familiar rush of adrenaline is overpowered by the oncoming whiz of his rival. They must have noticed Billy’s looks to this side of the crowd, knowing that someone important was waiting on just the other side of the makeshift barrier. Billy’s left side slams into the door of the car as his opponent t-bones the passenger side and keeps burning rubber, pushing his car into the barrier’s cement foundation. The smell of iron and exhaust invades his system and shoots a dizzying strike to his stomach. The wire fence’s clashing vibrates with the scorching pain throbbing in his skull.

Blinking to clear his dazed vision and taking deep breaths, Billy’s blood boils and rushes through him in a blaze. Anger deafens the crowd’s growing boom. A guttural growl reverberates his bones and pushes past his gritted teeth.

“Billy! Fuck’s sake, Billy snap out of it. Wake the hell up, now. Or they’re gonna pull you out.”

Whipping his head to look out the side window, Billy’s burning eyes fall onto your slightly shaking form: “You alright?” If so much as a hair is out of place on you, the last semblance of control he has is going out the fucking window. Even if his opponent only thought about using you as a weapon against him. Gripping onto the wheel with white knuckles, Billy locks onto your own trembling and raw hands. Before you can even respond, Billy barks, “They’re fuckin’ dead”. Slamming on the gas and turning back to the front window, Billy’s once cocky expression hardens. Rage pricks every nerve in his body and sends him into action, acting on pure instinct and wrath. He’s done playing. Nothing’s going to hold him back from teaching this son of a bitch a lesson and dragging their ass to hell. Victory is only second best to revenge.

Your heart tries to break free of its cage, racing from being on the opposite side of the collision’s impact as well as screaming in concern for Billy. Droplets of blood sprayed from his head wound mix with your own from not jumping away from the fence fast enough. You count your lucky stars with teary eyes that you managed only scraped knuckles and anxiety zapping in your body. Nothing too serious you think, as your knees wobble and brace against the crumbling concrete of the barrier section.

Irritated by the dust, tears burn your eyes as you watch Billy attack his rival with a sadistic determination. The clanging metal fence holds you up when your knees buckle and stomach plummets as Billy’s car rams into the other vehicle. The cuts on your fingers bubble with blood from your tight grip when he backs his car away from the other and waits a moment. Before he skids in a sand cloud, hurling forward once again. Gasping to ease your burning lungs, you yell in encouragement as Billy lands a fatal blow to the hood of the other car.

10. Light headed dizziness makes your mind fuzzy as the announcers begin the final countdown.

9. The crowd jeers and joins to magnify the count.

8. Billy’s car stares down his rival’s smoldering remains.

7. He revs the engine in predatory patience.

6. Tires occasionally spit dirt against the crumbled hull of defeat.

5. The tang of iron kisses your tongue from biting your lip so hard.

4. Triumph tingles through your body as the staff pull the other driver away from his car.

3. Wild cries and waves of excitement flood the stadium.

2. Billy focuses on your buzzing figure and beckons you with a gesture of his finger.

1. His adoring subjects spring to crown King Hargrove, the Ruthless.

Pushing through the rushing spectators, you slip past the staff at the drivers and pit crew entrance. Pumping your legs and kicking up sand into the faces of chasing crew members, you shout, “Billy,” as his body leaps out of the driver’s window. A new high fuels you when his radiant smile grows at your nearing form.

“C’mere, baby. Gotta show you off too”. The victor catches you in his outstretched arms, still twitching from the endorphin rush of a spectacular win. Leading you over to the car, Billy slips into the driver’s seat through the crumpled window frame. His hand soars out to grab your arm and stop you from moving to the passenger side. “Not safe from the crash, s’ completely jammed. Hop on here, baby,” he pats the frame and chuckles, “I’ll hold you nice and tight”. Billy’s smirk grows as your expression warms in bashfulness. “Don’t have a lot of time to waste if you want to join the victory lap, unless you want some carnie to carry you away”.

Tearing your gaze away from his searing look, you see a staff member closing in. Quickly swinging your legs into the vehicle, you feel sparks spreading from Billy’s touch when he wraps his left arm to secure in place. Once you’re situated sitting out the window, Billy’s strong squeeze spurs more flames. “Hold on!” One arm holding onto the headrest inside, you wave the other in conquest as Billy takes a few laps around the arena. Feeding off the crowd’s chanting worship.

Wind nips at your skin as your laughs mix with Billy shouts, crying out into the night sky. The engine trill overpowers the adoring ovation. Your eyes dazzle from all the bright lights and camera flashes when you look down to catch Billy’s smug look. He may be Hawkin’s king, but he’s your champion.

Driving out of the arena and down a winding path to the demo car lot, Billy parks the junker and turns everything off. Both his hands grasp your legs to help you into the car and straddle him, holding you close. You weave your fingers in his damp curls as Billy launches on you. Pushing his lips onto yours in a fiery kiss. All the energy from the night sparks between the two of you and burns as Billy bites down on your lower lip. Nibbling on it and lapping at your cut before he pulls away, Billy darkly chuckles as you lean forward to follow him. Drunk off his touch. Needy for more.

Billy’s eyes look at you in curiosity as his thumb drags across your bottom lip only to dance softly over your small gash. Focusing his gaze on your heaving chest and pleading pout, the sadistic confidence fuels the fire licking at his veins. Billy takes your face in one hand and guides you to hover just before his parted lips.

Wriggling in his lap, you paw at his chest and push further into his hold. Lust and desperation cloud any concerns of being caught and turn your congratulatory words into whines. Billy’s other hand drags up your leg and rests firmly on your lower back, pushing you flush against him. He turns your head slightly to ghost his mouth to the shell of your ear. Hot breath fans flames against your neck, Billy’s voice drops to a deep hum that ignites jolts of tiny sparks tingling through you.

“So, what’s my prize, baby? Better be worthwhile since we’re missing out on all the fun back up there.”

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dark-elf-writes · 1 year

Note

My tumblr keeps crashing so idk if this sent the first time, feel free to ignore if it did.

Shikamaru leaps from the window without looking back, mind whirling with questions and possibilities in equal measure. Naruto, his Naruto, is the fourth hokage’s son.

Channeling chakra to his feet, Shikamaru smoothly touches down on the roof of another building without breaking stride. He doesn’t bother to stop at the faint exclamation of surprise from the window he just left, even if it did come from the Yamanaka clan head. Though why the man is surprised about his chakra control despite knowing his skill with the shadows is something he can consider when blood isn’t thrumming in ears like a second heartbeat.

Naruto, his mind repeats in a mantra. He has to find Naruto. To tell him about his past and maybe, just maybe, secure a spot in the golden haired boys future. At his side perhaps.

In what feels like an instant, Shikamaru finds himself inside an old apartment complex, more suited for demolition than living creatures, and speeds up a staircase filled with cracked wooden boards. He moves into the hallway at the top floor, the only one without a locked door separating the stairwell from the apartments, and comes to a stop outside the one at the end.

The door, he notes as rage swells in his chest again, is littered with kunai marks and faded insults that spoke more of desperate efforts to wash away than time. Just as he raises his hand to knock, a faint shuffle and the squeak of a window sounds through the door before all movement inside comes to a stop.

Lips curled into a frown, Shikamaru raps his knuckles on the door. “Naruto,” he calls out with a near desperate edge to his voice.

Silence.

“Shikamaru?” The battered old door opens slightly to reveal perfect blue eyes peering out of the crack hesitantly.

The sight makes something in the back of his mind settle, even as another part wells with anger. Those eyes shouldn’t have to be wary, not because of him or anyone else in Konoha. It’s the very least the son of the Fouth Hokage deserves. The very least Naruto deserves.

He didn’t even notice that he’d been staring until the door opened completely to reveal a concerned look on Naruto’s vulpine features and a sharp glint enter lovely eyes as he took in Shikamaru’s no doubt ruffled form.

But it’s neither of these things that make the air leave Shikamaru’s lungs for what must be the tenth time that day. Naruto…Naruto was wearing a sunset orange kimono with frayed edges and hemmed sleeves.

Looking up from the slight flare where the kimono is belted tightly around the other boy’s hips, Shikamaru watches as Naruto shifts uncomfortably for a moment before straightening from his defensive curl.

So beautiful, he thinks and for the first time in what feels like ages his thoughts are approaching coherent again.

Shaking his head slightly to clear those thoughts from his head, Shikamaru forces himself to come up with a way to tell naruto about his father delicately. It would do no good to beat around the bush, and of course he would have to avoid being too blunt. But how could he balance the two so that Naruto would take it well? Maybe he would-

“I know who your father was!”

…damnit.

Ahsjndnsn I believe it got eated (bear with me I have a headache)

Shika just blurting it out. Naruto is gaping at him, not entirely sure he heard him correctly (terrified what it means both if he did and did not. Hope was a fragile thing, spun glass more likely to blow up in his face just like everything else has, but…

Naruto has never been one to turn a way from even the slightest hint of warmth, of friendship, of everything Shikamaru was offering)

So he listens, and just like that, with a truth shared between the two of them in a rundown apartment in what passes for konoha’s slum, the world changes.

#the elf talks #Naruto #shika baby has it so bad I adore him

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ajgrey9647 · 7 months

Text

Architectural Reconstruction of the Innermost Self/Painting the Red Door Black

Song Fic inspired by Paint It Black performed by Ciara

Fists hammered in terror upon the heavy door, smears of blood streaking the metal from split knuckles and wildly clawing fingers. The bright, scarlet liquid did not register to Jason in his frenzied mental state nor did the stinging pain from the fresh wounds. Battering the door like a butterfly in a glass jaw was the only measure of relief he could find in the isolation room.

I see a red door and I want it painted black No colors anymore, I want them to turn black I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

The slow cracks etching their way down the beams of his mental architecture was more painful than he’d ever considered. Priding himself on his physical toughness, Jason was left breathless by Drakkon’s cold psychological scalpel. The tyrant was literally driving him insane.

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black With flowers and my love both never to come back I see people turn their heads and quickly look away Like a newborn baby, it just happens every day

The Red Ranger’s innermost self was being eviscerated, the intricate structure of his mind under demolition and reconstruction despite his resistance. The large sunny rooms with their rich red tapestries shuddered and creaked with the steady accumulation of pressure. His core identity, personality, memories, values were weaved upon these unfurled banners.

I look inside myself and see my heart is black I see my red door I must have it painted black Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

Stitch by stitch the red threads began to unravel, row after row, dissolving into nothingness, a blank slate. The agony of this action was indescribable. Jason felt that he himself was fading. The lights were dimming in those rooms, growing ominously dark, leaching the familiar comforting red into oblivion.

The hope Jason had hidden away in this sacred place sputtered and winked out of existence. Drakkon had always told him that no one would ever come to save him and he wasn’t lying this time. His friends already thought him dead, no was coming to rescue a ghost.

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue I could not foresee this thing happening to you If I look hard enough into the setting sun My love will laugh with me before the morning comes

And that’s what he felt he was becoming, as he finally dropped to his knees on the rough floor. Shredded, torn fingers tangled in his unruly, greying mane as wails and screams of pure misery passed his dry, split lips. He yanked harshly at the handful of hair, ripping it from his scalp.

Hateful whispers blew through the darkening rooms of his mind.

‘Failure.’

‘Weakling.’

‘Pathetic.’

‘You deserve to be an animal.’

‘Atone.’

The demented tendrils of Drakkon’s new floorplan seeped into and through the cracks of Jason’s mind, rearranging and shifting and redecorating. The blighted and horrendous updates could not be stopped no matter how his mind resisted and fought. A new color was taking center stage, snuffing out the remaining crimson.

Black.

I wanna see it painted, painted black Black as night, black as coal I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky

The new tapestries glimmered into reality from an unseen loom, weaving Drakkon’s programming into the fabric. They snaked along the black walls, hanging like silk about the rooms above the lush ebony furniture.

Dangers nested within the shadowy corners. No escape, no where to run inside your own mind. The last vestiges of Jason Scott huddled in the middle of the main room, pleading for help in a place where no one else could be found. The swirling, billowing blackness crept closer, teasingly licking the last red glimmer.

‘No! Stop! Please, don’t do this!’

From the depth of a far corner, ember canine eyes opened with a soft swish of a thick, heavy tail. Clack of nails on dark, hardwood floor as the creature rose from the shadows. The large dog’s head came into view first, startling Jason’s surviving red. Sharp, white teeth showed brightly against the lifted muzzle as it bounded to stand protectively around the vulnerable color.

Drakkon peered into Jason’s dark eye, the white left one staring sightlessly ahead. His captive was teetering on a tightrope; he just needed a featherlight push now.

I see a red door and I want it painted black No colors any more, I want them to turn black I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Hmm, hmm, hmm...

“Come now, my good boy,” he cooed. “You’ve resisted long enough. Now it’s time to learn obedience and take your place at my knee.”

#lord drakkon #boom! comics power rangers #power rangers #world of the coinless jason #ao3 author #ao3 fanfic #jason scott #coinless jason #paint it black #song fic #dissociative identity disorder #dissociation

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veetlegeuse · 2 years

Text

THE FORSAKEN ✽ key members

Led by Enzo Foust and Zora Pierce, the Forsaken run Lawmouth City. They are the most notorious gang in town, and they plan to keep it that way. Each member has their own area of expertise.

Warren Knox, AKA Knuckle Duster, is the bruiser. In charge of intimidation, Warren is hot-headed and trigger happy. He was the first member to be recruited into the Forsaken. Enzo gave him a home and a family, and he’s never going to let that go.

Leo Orion, AKA Golden Boy, is the charm. Ever the smooth-talker, Leo always has people wrapped around his fingers. He is known for getting what he wants, but on the off chance he doesn’t, he’s an excellent pickpocket and a master of stealth.

Jack Benson, AKA Boomer, is the demolition man. With a knack for pyrotechnics and explosives, Jack takes care of any and all disposal of evidence, buildings, cars, you name it. He would have been left to rot in jail had it not been for Enzo, who used his connections to get him out at the request of Warren, his only family member left.

Romy Katz, AKA Wildcard, is just that: a goddamn wildcard. When things start to go south, the Forsaken can count on Romy to distract with whatever crazy scheme she pulls from her bag of tricks. In most cases, her impatience gets her in trouble, but her ability to shake things up makes her invaluable to the Forsaken.

Parker Stroud, AKA Siren, is in charge of distraction and seduction. With a voice as sweet as honey and the natural ability to charm, Parker is incredible at her job. She tends to stay away from the action, but that is not to say that she can’t handle herself.

Magnus Bellamy, AKA Deadshot, is the sniper. Like Parker, he likes to stay away from the action, preferring to strike from the shadows. There’s not a lot to say about Magnus as he mostly keeps to himself, but everyone in the Forsaken is very fond of him.

Axel Mendoza, AKA Adonis (the alias he gave himself as everyone else only came forward with unkind aliases for him), is one of two new members in the Forsaken. Caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, Axel found himself all but forced to join the Forsaken, but he likes it. Being in a gang that is on top of the world, undoubtedly, has its perks.

Sullivan Walker, AKA Baby, is the youngest member of the Forsaken by far, just barely twenty-one. Enamored with the Forsaken, Sullivan tried and succeeded in hacking into the Forsaken’s information database in order to learn more about them, and ended up on Enzo’s radar in the process. Warren and Leo kidnapped him and Axel, and they were both very nearly dealt with for knowing too much, but Enzo couldn’t ignore how valuable a hacker could be for the team, so Sullivan was given a place in the Forsaken.

→ taglist: @waterloou @sunlitscribe @hiddenqveendom @akabluekat @arrthurpendragon @asirensrage @decennia @connietheecunning @darth-caillic @kbeescreams @raith-way @eddiemunscns

#the timing is Not Great but i did my best 🤪#fic: how we survive #oc: warren knox #oc: leo orion #oc: jack benson #oc: romy katz #oc: parker stroud #oc: magnus bellamy #oc: axel mendoza #oc: sullivan walker #honeyvee

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annaphoenix1994 · 8 months

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Ch.119 - Pecking Order

Previous Chapter - Masterlist 1; Masterlist 2 - Next Chapter

Simon fires a hostile wrangler from the ranch; Kiera finds the building plans for the building project.

“Blue is proposed water, green is sewer, pink is for driveways, corner buildings are in red, and yellow is for gas. If they were to dam the river, my guess is that it would be up there at that bend.” Tony pointed out while Kiera walked alongside him to view the property for herself.

“That’s exactly where they’re doing it, love.” Simon chimed in as he was holding the copy of the blueprint she had given him to hold on to.

“Is that your property at the bend?”

“It is.”

“Mrs. Riley, I won’t lie to you, but this will have a major impact on your land. Erosion is my biggest concern at this point.”

“My biggest concern is a valley of condos sucking up our river.” Kiera scoffed, a frown decorating her face.

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing that we can do here. On their land, it’s their river.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Tony,” She tilted her head. “That bend as well as the half mile in front of it and behind it runs through our land. 70% of it if I remember right. They only chose the bend because it’s the widest part of the river for the last twenty miles. Guarantee it’s because it’s where it doesn’t freeze in the winter and they can keep sucking on it year-round.”

“You’re probably right, Mrs. Riley, but you can take it to civil court if they propose they operate their mill on that bend if it goes through your land like you say. That’s higher up than what I know, unfortunately, but until then, I can’t stop the river from flowing.”

“I’m not telling you to stop it. We’re going to move it.”

“Wh-? Do you have legal authority to do that?” He asked with genuine concern.

“It’s my land,” She arched her brow. “So since that bend goes through my land, it’s my river.”

“Don’t kill the messenger,” He breathed a chuckle. “You do as you please.”

“I could’ve told you that,” She smirked. “I’ll keep in touch. Thank you for your time.”

Tony nodded, sighing heavily through his nostrils as he watched Kiera and Simon walk towards her truck, Simon opening the passenger side door for her before putting himself into the driver’s seat. “What’re you thinking, love?”

She breathed heavily before looking back at her curious twins in search of her daily reminder to fight for them, smiling at them when Evie flashed a warm smile. “I’m thinking that we’re going to need the help of your demolitions expert.”

“You’re planning on moving the river, aren’t you?”

“Damn right I am. I’m going to ruin his fucking career.”

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle, hearing a scoff come from Kiera’s lips, “I suppose you need to apologize to Baler.”

“Why?”

“You broke the cursing rule.”

“I can break the rule I established, but I can also say it slipped.”

“Mhm, sure you did,” He smirked, reaching over to grasp her hand to bring to his lips, placing a kiss to her knuckles. “What’re our plans for today?”

“Well, it is Saturday. How about we take mom out into town for dinner after Baler gets done with his chores?”

“Sounds good to me. Whatever you want to do, love.”

“Mom needs to spend some time with Baler. She hasn’t seen him all week because of school and his chores. I’m sure she’s dying to get out of the house and do something that doesn’t involve having brunch with Suzanne from work.”

“It’ll be good for her,” Simon nodded. “I’m sure she’s dying to watch the twins.”

“I won’t ask her to unless I really needed to,” Kiera sighed. “I feel so bad for asking her at all. I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring her—”

“Love, one thing she always told me that she never saw it as a problem to watch them. I’m sure she misses raising her own. I know you’d feel the exact same way when our children are grown – you’ll wish ours will have children of their own so you can spoil theirs.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” She chuckled. “Luckily, we have plenty of time – years – before that happens. I’m not ready to see that yet.”

��You and me both.”

They shared a glance at each other before Simon turned onto the road that led to the ranch’s driveway.

“You think Baler is still at the barn?”

“He should be,” Simon breathed a chuckle. “It’s Saturday, so I’m expecting him to finish his chores early and go to the house to play those bloody video games, knowing him.”

“He still needs to be a kid, babe. Besides, Soap got an Xbox too and he and Baler have been playing online together on Battlefield.”

“Of course, he did.” Simon scoffed, rolling his eyes. “So when we go down there to check and see if he’s there, if Johnny is nowhere to be found too, well, we’ll know what’s going on.”

“I guess Johnny needs to be a kid sometimes, too.” Kiera snickered, gazing out the window as Simon turned the truck to take the narrow path towards the barn, seeing a few of the wranglers standing in the circle while two others were in the middle, brawling it out as if their lives depended on it.

“Bloody fucking hell,” Simon scoffed, putting the truck in park before opening the door. “Stay here.”

“Simon, that’s Johnny in the middle of that fight!” She pointed, gasping.

“Goddammit,” He grumbled. “He knows better than that shite! Stay here.”

Once Simon got closer to the fight, the wranglers that were just standing there and letting it happen turned to look at him, fear dressing their faces as they stepped aside. As if his anger couldn’t reach much higher, it was when he saw Baler with a busted lip and eyebrow look back at him. Either he started the fight or got in the middle, Simon didn’t care at that moment. The only thing he cared about was that Baler had gotten hurt and Simon wasn’t there to prevent it.

The same went for Johnny. Regardless of if he started it or not, he was easily smaller than the wrangler that was beating him to a pulp and it was Simon’s job to protect him.

Just like Johnny would do for Simon.

Grasping Brady, the larger wrangler’s waist, Simon effortlessly picked him up and threw him into the dirt, kneeling over him before grasping his collar and forcefully shoving him into the wall of the barn, using his left hand to grasp his collar while his right hand balled into a fist before delivering two hard punches into his nose before he pulled him from the wall and shoved him back into the dirt, using his foot to press against the other man’s neck, “What made you think you could put your hands on someone else, huh?” Simon shouted. “Especially another member of your unit?”

“This ain’t the fucking army no more, man!” Brady panted.

“You better be glad this isn’t the army, you wouldn’t make it the first day,” Simon scoffed.

“Bullshit!”

“Prove it to me, then. Get up and show me how you’d fight another man.”

“I already did.”

“Really? Last I saw, you got your nose busted by Johnny over there before I threw your arse in the dirt. Now get up!” He shouted.

Brady huffed before Simon removed his foot from his neck, letting the man stand up while he slowly got his bearings, balling his fist before lunging at the Lieutenant, groaning as Simon grasped the same fist that lunged for him and pushed him back into the side of the barn after delivering a powerful blow to Brady’s gut, punching him in the jaw again before he fell back into the dirt. “Looks like you don’t have much to prove unless it’s running your mouth, lad.”

“Simon, stop!” Kiera intervened, clutching Baler close to her as she cupped his head. “I think you proved your point.”

Simon shook his head as he shook his fist as a last ditch effort to rid the throbbing pain in his knuckles. Panting, he then turned to Johnny, who wiped the blood from his lip on the back of his hand. “Who started it, Soap?”

“Brady did,” Johnny answered. “He tried to push around the kid.”

“What happened?”

“He-He started taunting him and tried to trip him when we were walking back from the arena after putting the horses up. The kid fought back and Brady punched him and then I stepped in and well… You see how that worked out.”

Simon nodded, his anger peaking once more before moving to rough Brady up even more, satisfied by the amount of painful groans to leave his cracked lips, grasping his collar before pushing him up against the nearby fence, “You’re lucky my wife is standing right there or I’d blow your bloody brains out.”

“You wouldn’t do it anyway.” He taunted.

“Don’t make him prove it, Brady,” Frankie commented, crossing his arms over his chest. “He already beat your ass once, don’t make him blow your brains out.”

“Dirk, get this bastard off of this ranch.”

“No, I-I’ll clean stalls or something I—”

“Your last chance was when you decided to push around my son. I’m not having that. Get your shite and fucking leave.” Simon growled, pushing him towards the bunkhouse with a hard shove, nearly making him fall on his knees.

Brady huffed, stumbling towards Baler, who was still being held by Kiera as she wiped away his tears. Scoffing, he then stopped, “You’re lucky your mommy is here to wipe your tears away.” He taunted.

“You leave him alone.” Kiera warned.

“Yeah? What’re you going to do about it?”

Her heartrate sped up when he spoke, the man towering over her in a last-minute attempt to look as dominant as he could after getting beaten into the dirt by Simon himself. “Won’t you put a finger on me and watch me rip your hand off?” She snarled.

Brady scoffed, “I bet you talking back like that is how you got that scar on your face, huh? A lost fight.”

“Hey, don’t talk to my mom like that!” Baler shouted, quickly getting Simon’s attention when he heard Baler’s distress, quickly making his way towards Brady with silent steps, knowing that the man was too stupid to hear him coming.

“What’re you going to do, little lad? Go crying to your daddy?” He taunted.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Simon spoke from behind the man just as tall as him, except Simon was far more broad and damn far more intimidating. Without giving Brady the option to reply, he firmly grasped Brady’s jacket and shoved him so hard towards the bunkhouse that he fell onto his knees, Simon using his boot to push him down again as he tried to get up. “Take Baler to the house.”

“What’re you going to do with him?” Kiera asked, referring to Brady.

“Making sure the bastard leaves and never comes back. That’s what. Take him to the house. I’ll see you in a while.”

She sighed before she nodded, escorting him to the truck before ensuring that he was comfortable enough to walk on his own. Even though he had only gotten punched, a punch from a man twice the size of him directly to his face was enough to stun the teen’s system. “I’m sorry, momma.” Baler admitted, waiting until she began driving before he even said anything.

“Don’t be sorry, baby. You defended yourself and Johnny was going to die trying to defend you. You let those wranglers see what you stood up for and that speaks volumes,” She assured him. “I’ll help you get cleaned up and you can accompany me in the kitchen while I make dinner. I’ll even make dessert first. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good as long as red velvet cookies are what you have planned for dessert.” Baler breathed a laugh.

“I can do that.”

“So… Is dad going to kill him? I heard him say—”

“No, he’s not. He will if he has a reason to, but he’s just going to make sure he leaves the ranch and never puts us on a resume for his next job.”

“But… He did have a reason to, Momma.”

“Yeah, he did, but he knows better.”

“Mom, he would’ve killed him for talking to you the way he did. He roughed him up because he found out he hurt me and Johnny, but he would’ve killed him if I wouldn’t have been there to see it.”

Kiera’s heart fluttered at the thought, knowing that Baler was right with his assumption. “Well, I guess we’re just glad we left when we did then, huh?”

“When we hear a gunshot go off, I think we’ll have our answer.” Baler shrugged.

“Probably. You think you can help me by taking one of the kids in so I don’t have to make two trips?”

“Sure, but can I carry Evie? Jacob drools on me every time.”

“Of course,” Kiera giggled. “Come on, let’s get inside. Looks like a storm coming over those mountains.”

“Thank God I got my chores done…”

“Hurry up, bastard, I don’t have all day.” Simon barked from the door of the bunkhouse, watching Brady lazily pack his only duffel bag.

He was waiting for Brady to give Simon another reason to punch to his gut, but much to Simon’s disappointment, the remark never came.

“Where are you taking him?” Dirk spoke lowly as he approached Simon, Johnny sitting on the couch while Teeter tended to his wounds.

“I don’t know yet. Anywhere far from here.”

“You can take him to the bus station in town, but he’s been here for a few years and has seen a lot,” Dirk shook his head. “With as mad as he is, I’m afraid he’ll talk.”

“Talk about what exactly?” Simon scoffed. “It’s not like we’ve killed people on this ranch.”

“You haven’t, sir,” Dirk corrected. “But before you came along, he did a lot of things for Bud. He got his hands dirty if you know what I mean.”

“Well, would you rather handle it, then?” He asked.

“Of course I can, sir,” Dirk nodded, patting Simon on the shoulder. “I’ll get it taken care of. Get back home to your wife.”

Simon nodded, putting his foot behind him to turn towards the door before he spoke to Johnny, “You need anything, mate?”

“N-No, I’ll be alright, L.T,” He nodded. “You did more damage than what he did to me, I can assure you.”

“Alright, then. Well, thank you, sir.” He said to Dirk, reaching out to shake his hand before Dirk smiled through his mustache.

“Dirk. Sir is too formal for me,” He chuckled. “I’m at your service.”

“Dirk,” He nodded in correction. “Thank you.”

“Ow! Momma!” Baler shouted in pain as he sat on the arm of the couch while Kiera stood at his knees, cupping his chin as she dabbed a cotton swab of alcohol against his busted lip.

“It’s going to hurt, baby,” Kiera cooed. “I can assure you that a busted lip isn’t that bad. It’ll be numb for a bit but you’ll be as good as new after a week.”

“Doesn’t fucking feel like it!”

Kiera pressed the alcohol-soaked swab against his lip again, making him wince at his vulgar language, “Language.”

“I think I remember telling you that you owed the lad an apology, love.” Simon snickered from the door, hanging his jacket up on the hanger before ridding his feet of his boots at the door before meeting her in the living room as she tended to Baler.

“What did you do?” The teen questioned.

“Nothing—”

“Your mum dropped the f-bomb this morning in front of the twins.” Simon answered.

“Ah, ah, ahh!” Baler taunted. “Breaking your own rules, I see!”

“It slipped—”

“Yeah, well so did I just now!”

“Alright, you know what? Simon, hold this q-tip against his lip while I go get some whiskey and a towel for him to bite on—”

“What?!”

“Extra measure. Whiskey will hurt more.”

“N-No, I’ll man up and deal with the rubbing alcohol.” Baler nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” Kiera hummed. “Besides, you’d rather me dress your wounds instead of your dad here. He’d hold you down and not give you a choice.”

“I don’t doubt it…”

“Where are the twins, love?”

“They’re in their crib for the night. I fed them while Baler took a shower. After I get him cleaned up, I promised to make dessert before dinner.”

“I think he’s earned dessert before dinner.”

“I sure did. I may have not been able to take a punch like a man, but I sure did get up.”

“That’s what’s important, lad. You defended yourself and risked it again just to protect your mum.”

“If you can’t, then someone needs to when she can’t defend herself.”

Simon smirked, watching Baler close his eyes as Kiera’s delicate fingers cleaned the scuffs on his face, putting the unused medical utensils away before removing her latex gloves. “You can go to your room to play your Xbox if you want, baby. I have Simon here to keep me company while I make dinner.”

“Are you sure?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have offered,” She smiled. “I’ll come and get you when the cookies are ready. In fact, I’ll even bring you the first one.”

“Cream cheese icing?”

“I’ll bring the fucking bowl.” She whispered, winning a laugh from him before he excused himself towards his bedroom.

“Does that mean I get my dessert before dinner?” Simon whispered, resting his chin on her shoulder.

She hummed, leaning her head against his shoulder as his warmth pressed against her back, keeping her secure. “Of course. After dinner.”

“Always a bloody tease.”

“Gotta keep it fresh, babe.”

“It’s like that even without you testing me, love.”

#simonghostriley #simonriley #simon riley #simon ghost riley #call of duty #callofduty #simon riley x oc #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghost riley #simon riley x og female

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kiwisinlingerie · 1 year

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Honey and Pomegranates

Pairing: Magie/Todger (OC/OC), past Nathan/Magpie Warnings: Mentions of past unhealthy relationship Contains: past relationships, emotional hurt/comfort, semi public sex, pegging, self worth issues Rating: M Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 AU: N/A Word length: 3,042

Summary:

“You can't just kiss me when you look like this… Fuck…" Todger whines, eyes entirely focused on red stained lips, green eyes flicking up to meet brown doe eyes before she curses under her breath once more. "I just want to ruin how perfect you look." "It's sealed." "Huh?" "I can fix my hair easily and my makeup is sealed." Magpie states with amusement, watching the full range of emotions that go across Todger's face. "Sealed and you proof."

Big shout out to the folk on Twit who encouraged me to write and post these, esp @robynrileyart and @hurrraaid. Im constantly rambling about them over on twit so feel free to go bother me here

Because It’s undoubtedly gonna be brought up. I am aware that Todger is english slang for cock, its part of a joke as her partner in crime has the call sing tadger, the scottish equiv.

[AO3]

---

This was an abuse of power.

It's not the first time her father had pulled a stunt like this but it's the first time she'd been the denied the opportunity to tell him to fuck off by her superiors. The ability to throw your weight around shouldn't apply to other branches of the military yet here she was, an island in a sea of naval officers.

She had been granted one relief, the same one she was always given. Allowed to bring one guest with her to suffer the night with her however her usual victim of mutual sufferage was busy.

Occupied in the med ward, Dylan had protested he was fine enough to attend, that any spontaneous bleeding from the bullet wound would simply make the night more interesting. As his friend and nurse, she'd considered it momentarily before outright declining him.

Magpie had asked Todger to join her in the end.

Whilst she adored the giant Geordie, the demolitions expert had never crossed her mind for this. A level of decorum was expected at these events, something Magpie never expected from a woman whose call sign was slang for cock.

But, as always, Todger proved her wrong.

She'd been less bothered since arrival, Magpie usually swamped by those wanting to win her father's favour or utterly besotted by Dylan. But not this time. Everyone had more or less given her a wide berth when with her companion, waiting until the other departed for drinks to approach her and quickly excusing themselves whenever Todger returned.

There were only two exceptions to the rule.

The first was her father, Crow, who had enthusiastically introduced himself to Todger, asked of her rank and proceeded to laugh mirthfully as it was given.

He hadn't shirked at Todger's proclamation of "i'm here with the most beautiful woman in the world," he'd just nodded in agreement and said she got that from her mother.

It gave her hope, in a way, that things could be fixed between them. A strained relationship these past two decades, if his only discrepancy was forcing her to attend this celebration of him then it was progress.

The other was Nathan. Charismatic and handsome, she'd once fallen for his charms years ago before things fell apart into utter catastrophe as she consistently failed to keep up with his expectations of her.

"Miss Haigh." His voice sends a chill through her, not fighting it as Nathan takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, brushing his thumb across her knuckles in a way that would have been soothing from anyone else. "I see your guard dog wandered off, is that why you're so tense?"

Yes. No. Partially. She circles her response in her head, knowing full well she'd be less tense if Todger was here but also that the cause was the man before her.

"My companion is getting us drinks, she'll be back shortly." It's a subconscious thing, the way she softens her voice and accent, still striving to please him even after all these years. Her attempts to remove her hand from his only results in his grip tightening." Nathan, let-"

"It's not too late, you know, to live our lives as we planned." Nathan speaks against her skin, taking one step closer to her and placing his other hand on her waist. His hands aren't cold but she feels it, a numbness that blooms and spreads from where he's touching her. "You don't have to keep up with this silliness, these hands were never meant for bloodshed."

He doesn't even know what you do, she thinks, frowning as he continued to gaze upon her with such faux fondness. Nathan loves an idea of her, one based off her as a teenager, that grew into something so far removed from the truth it was tragic in its existence.

"I don't want that, I like helping pe-"

She's interrupted by a laugh, another chill down her spine as the desperate need to run, to run and hide, begins to drown her. "You don't know what you want, my love, otherwise you'd never have run off and joined the army. Never have abandoned what we have."

What we have?! They have nothing. They've been nothing since she was 25, when they'd argued over the phone and she'd ended it all. It's been 5 years. 5 years of freedom for her and he just saw it as something akin to misplaced confused rebellion?

She feels queasy. Stomach churning wildly, panic swelling with the rapid beats of her heart. Where was Todger? Why hadn't she come back yet? Magpie wants to look for her but she doesn't trust the naval officer enough to take her eyes off him.

Her saviour announces their presence with a hand on her lower back, so warm it eased off the effects of Nathan's touch. "Am I interrupting something, Captain?" Todger's voice eases the tension in her, the static of her mind telling her to run easing down to a comfortable, soothing silence.

"Not at all, Sergeant." Magpie slips out of Nathan's hold as his grip momentarily slackens, pressing herself back into the taller woman as if it would hide her from him. "You were just leaving, weren't you, Nathan."

"Of course." He's not happy, a tenseness in his jaw she recognises from when they dated and a placed smile that stretched a little too wide. "I'll be sure to find you later, Maggie, to continue this conversation."

She doesn't relax until he's out of sight but, even then, Magpie is still on edge. What did he mean by that? There was no conversation to continue bar the one involving only his force of will attempting to manipulate his way back into her affections.

The hand on her back moves, Magpie frowning, turning slightly to look up at Todger only to find the geordie looking somewhere to their right. She barely has chance to comprehend the missing contact before Todger takes her hand, strong and reassuring, gently leading her away from their spot and out of the hall.

"Where are we… What…What happened to drinks?" She's never sounded this unsure of herself around Todger, has she? The way the dark haired woman pauses in her step to turn back to her, brows tilted with concern saying all it needs to.

"They were all fancy shite and you looked like you needed a breather." Her voice is soft but it's all Magpie can hear, a subtle affection to it as Todger smiled warmly that serves no purpose bar to make Magpie's heart stutter.

It's as they start moving again that Todger asks the question Magpie is almost certain she's been desperate to ask. "Who was that weirdo anyway?"

"That was my ex, Nathan." She confesses as they leave the banquet hall, wincing as she collides with Todger's back, the sergeant having come to an unexpected stop. The incredulous look she's been given brings a grin to her lips.

"Damn… No wonder you let Tadge hit it." The almost sage tone of her voice has the medic laughing lightly to herself, as if Todger finally understood the secrets of the universe all of a sudden.

Music from the hall is near silent now, existing more as a low thrum in the background, the only people spotted fleetingly being members of staff who just nodded to them both like they knew something Magpie didn't.

Their final destination is a bathroom, exhibiting near zero evidence of being used this night. Todger doesn't let her go until they're before pure counter space, taking off her hat and running a hand through her hair, choppy mullet springing back to its usual messy state under her hands.

She really was a handsome woman.

Magpie slides up onto the counter as Todger pats it, feeling a role reversal as she gently holds her face, leaning in as she inspected it. Like Nathan had physically laid his hands on her rather than simply unnerve her.

It's endearing to say the least, the furrow of her brow, the gentleness of her touch as she gently manoeuvres her face. She can't help herself, Magpie closing the gap between them, deep red meeting scarred lips as she kissed her.

They've fucked before, more often than the field nurse would freely admit. Trysts that grew more intimate, lasted much longer, the now a precursor to post coital cuddling that Magpie had long since grown affection for.

So, this wasn't crossing a line, was it?

Apparently not. The mirror is cold against her exposed shoulders as the force of Todger kissing her back hits her, hand weaving into Magpie's hair to prevent her head from hitting the mirror whilst the other slid up beneath her dress and gripped her upper right thigh. Tightly, almost desperately.

"You can't just kiss me when you look like this… Fuck…" Todger whines, eyes entirely focused on red stained lips, green eyes flicking up to meet brown doe eyes before she curses under her breath once more. "I just want to ruin how perfect you look."

"It's sealed."

"Huh?"

"I can fix my hair easily and my makeup is sealed." Magpie states with amusement, watching the full range of emotions that go across Todger's face. "Sealed and you proof." Confused. Considering. Conflicted and, finally, excitement in the face of her bold statement on her makeup's longevity.

Knees part further as she's kissed once more, Todger settling between them as she did it. It's passionate but slow, accompanied by hands gently mapping her body as they slowly stripped her.

No urgency to it, the clasps keeping her dress around her neck barely audible as they're tugged apart, deep green dress falling limply around hips and thighs as the zip is pulled down. Hips rock up so the dress can be fully removed, leaving Magpie in naught but panties, lace topped stockings and heels.

Todger removes her own jacket, rolling up her sleeves to the elbow and undoing the first few buttons. She swallows as Todger kneels between her thighs, eyes locking with Magpies until she pressed a kiss to nylon coated calves, hands gently easing off her shoes.

Why was she flustered? She wasn't some bashful virgin, heels placed somewhere to the side before Todger began to trail kisses up her legs, from knee to hip, gentle in her ministrations, heart fluttering with each one.

"Let me show you what love really feels like." Todger whispers, cupping her cheek and kissing her, slowly and deeply, a moan easing from her throat as Todger's other hand found their place on her chest, teasing sensitive flesh with a mix of gropes and pinches.

Magpie's hands blindly fumble with both belt and fastenings, pulling away only as she felt something unexpected, dipping her eyes down to observe what she felt only to giggle as she saw the harness.

"Dylan's idea, I was all for arson if things got too boring." Todger states with a laugh, answering the question Magpie had yet to fully form in her head. The toy, Magpie realises after Todger shimmies a little to make her trousers fall, is strapped to her thigh.

"You're ridiculous, you know that right?"

"I've been informed by others that it's charismatic and a point of interest." Todger laughs. "We don't have to use it though, it's just an option."

Todger is ridiculous but she's also sweet. Not living up to her call sign at all, when was the last time a lover had been so low pressure, so conscious of her own wants and needs. She could get used to being put first, she thinks.

"I want to."

"Take your panties off for me then, beautiful."

She does as she's told, waiting until Todger had let go of her to slip off black lace and cotton, stuffing them into the breast pocket of Todger's shirt when the dark haired woman settled back between her legs.

They usually take more time to reach this point, Todger usually so dedicated to making her climax through foreplay alone but it was different today. Hands lift her thighs, tilting both them and her hips to gain better access.

The gasp from her lips is extended, drawn out and broken, hands gripping both Todger's shoulder and edge of the counter as she pushes fully in, pelvis to pelvis.

"You can move." She breathes more than speaks, relaxing her grip on Todger's shoulder to further prove her point.

The pace is slow to begin with, intimate and gentle, it's almost easy to forget they aren't back in the hotel they were staying in for the event, like there's no risk of being interrupted at any moment. Thighs clench around Todger's waist as the demolitions expert braces herself against the counter, Magpie's arms wrapping around broad shoulders as she buried her face into Todger's neck.

It's all a bit too much. The juxtaposition of dealing with Nathan, a former lover obsessed with a version of her he created, versus Todger, versus Jade, who had no reason to be this tender with her. How… How was she so capable of being besotted with her when the only other person to love her like this was never in love with who she was to begin with.

"Don't be shy, darling, I want to hear you." Todger encourages, pressing a kiss to light brown hair, fingers gripping into her dress shirt as she became more vocal as thrusts speed up. She's not normally shy about it, but this felt different. It didn't feel like just sex anymore, it felt more than that.

"M-more, please. I need… I need you-fuck!" Magpie's plea finishes in a whine, a hard thrust having the medic's thighs tighten as teeth sunk into where shoulder met neck. It'll leave a mark, she knows that, anyone could tell from both the pressure of her teeth and the sharp hiss Todger gave.

"Please, Jade, p-please I want to… I'm gonna…"

She orgasms, tensing before relaxing against Todger, steadily calming breaths fanning out against lipstick and bruised stained skin.

"That's my girl." Todger hums, rubbing Magpie's back as she pulled out, hands moving to cradle her face before kissing her softly. "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

She's confused, emotionally at least, watching as Jade cleaned her up, any words spoken falling on deaf ears whilst brief kisses between tasks were shared. She doesn't want this to end, this intimacy, this feeling she can't quite place yet, opening her mouth uselessly to try and convey it all only to close it again moments later.

"You should wear this sort of thing more often, it's really pretty." Todger states, holding up her dress post clean up, the taller woman having taken bare five minutes to clean and redress herself, the only evidence of what they had done being the blooming love bite on her neck that was barely hidden, if at all, by the open collar.

"Aye, catch me wearing heels and a dress on the frontlines." Magpie states, biting back a laugh but not a smile at the sour look on the others face. "Nothing says urgent medical care like a bitch looking like a wedding guest."

"I meant out of work and you know it." Todger grumbles, offering her hand to Magpie as the smaller woman slid off the counter.

They start with the dress, Magpie turning and moving her hair out of the way as Todger fastened her up, neck first then the small of her back. A kiss is placed on her shoulder as the dress tightens around her waist and the feeling is back again.

Like she's drowning whilst floating effortlessly.

Her makeup is still fine, despite the transfer, her hair a little distressed but it was doubtful anyone bar she would notice. She turns as Todger kneels behind her, redressing her first with underwear then shoes, a kiss against lower thighs each time a new item of clothing was added.

Magpie returns the favour, buttoning up the shirt and fastening the coat when Todger puts it back on, reaching up to try and tame messy black hair before simply shoving her cap back on. She looked more herself like this, more like the woman she had grown ever so attached to.

"Ready to go back? I promise not to leave your side this time."

A kiss to her knuckles like what Nathan gave her only it feels warm, warm and accepting, not arguing as it became hand holding, loose but firm. Secure.

"How did you know that toilet was back there?"

"I was gonna set one of the bins on fire if things got boring." Todger states casually as they walk back towards the banquet hall, shrugging.

She cant help but laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand before bumping into Todger's back, a parallel to their initial journey.

It's Nathan. Of course it is.

A sour end to an otherwise pleasant moment, feeling as small as she did when they snuck away some minutes ago. "I:ve been looking for you, the staff said they'd spotted you head this way and," he sighs, looking simultaneously heartbroken and disappointed. "You used to have such integrity, now it seems you'll let anyone fuck you."

She barely realises her hands been let go of, the sound of crunching bone that kick starts the medic part of her brain being quickly silenced as Todger snarled. "Stop slut shaming my girlfriend, cunt."

My… What?

She's stunned, not fighting as her hand is retaken, following blindly as Todger pulled her away from the crumpled form on the floor holding his nose. My girlfriend. She called Magpie her girlfriend.

Its only when they come to a stop, back in the banquet hall, does Magpie get the other's attention by tugging on her sleeve, hands still firmly leaked. "I find, personally, that having someone as your girlfriend works better when you ask them first."

She watches. Watches and waits as Todger first frowns in bemusement before her face colours, the rage she had show Nathan mere minutes ago replaced fully with flustered explanations that barely made sense.

If this was love, or as close to it as she could get, then maybe it wasn't too bad afterall.

#call of duty modern warfare #COD ocs #Maggie Magpie Haigh #Jade Todger Smith #TodgerMagpie #rating: M

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ramblinganthropologist · 1 year

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Aftermath

Summary: After an adventure with a dragon, Kaaras has a headache. Here comes Dorian to make it worse. Damn it, you think he’d take “I’m not a mage” for an answer...

---

It was a lovely day and he wanted to stop existing.

“You’re shitting me, I missed him taking the dragon out?”

Iron Bull’s voice boomed over the tavern and rang in Kaaras’ ears. Normally, he didn’t like going to the Herald’s Rest. When it came down to it, he wasn’t a fan of noise. Plus, the place smelled like spilled booze. That was another reason he tried to avoid it at all costs. Unfortunately for him, he hadn’t had a choice in the matter that time. Once the Qunari had spotted him, all bets had been off – in he went, tugged by his favorite in-law to be without much chance of protest.

Thus he found himself at a table with the rest of the Chargers, a mug of mead in hand and a head poised on a migraine. Bull had recovered remarkably well after his encounter with the dragon – he didn’t even have any scars. No doubt he was disappointed about that. He often said the scars made him look even more badass. Unfortunately for him, first aid had been one of the trainings he had failed the least at.

He had still failed, mind you, but not as bad as he had failed at being a hunter’s apprentice. He still had nightmares about that.

“Yeah, it was pretty sick to see him throw the bomb into its eye socket like that.” Jackel was perched on top of a seat, the better to observe and to be closer to her lover. She too had a mug, though smaller than his. She could do a lot, but they definitely had different abilities to drink. Still, she could hold her own.

So… that was what they were going with. Good to know.

Kaaras allowed a careful sip as Rocky’s appreciative eyes found him, and he nodded back. Sometimes, he forgot his cover story. Sure, he knew explosives better than anyone in Clan Lavellan and had been the sapper of Valo Kas before winding up Inquisitor, but it had all started as a story. After all, if things exploded around him, it was a good excuse.

People didn’t need to know the real reason.

“You’d have to be insane to throw a bomb into a dragon’s skull.” The dwarf nodded towards him. “What’d you use, Adaar?”

The whole table groaned – probably because they were expecting a tech talk between two demolition nerds. They weren’t the only one – Kaaras paused as his mind scrambled. What had he kept in his pouch that day? Would it have been enough to blow things up? Would it even blow up in the combo he suggested? Would -

“I believe it was something small that packed quite a punch. At least, it looked that way to me when he threw it.”

A new voice made his ears pick up. Kaaras’ heart jumped to his throat as he saw Dorian approach at an easy enough pace. For a split second, he relaxed – but then he saw the man’s eyes. There was a question there, one that he didn’t want to answer.

He wouldn’t try it in the tavern, would he? He had more tact than that…

Jackel’s form stiffened as she watched him make his way over to the table. Her knuckles were white around the handle of her mug, either to keep herself from throwing it at him or stabbing him when nobody was watching. At least she paused to take a drink – hopefully she wouldn’t spit it at him as a distraction.

“Well, looks like the staff nerd pulled through.”

Her words held daggers in them, and the look in her eyes promised they’d never find the body if he said the wrong thing. Kaaras had seen the look countless times, and even witnessed the after effects. She was… creative.

He liked Dorian, but… well, he might have to agree with his cousin.

If Dorian picked out the meaning, he didn’t mind. He just smiled in that way that made Kaaras’ stomach churn horribly. “Yes, the healers here are quite advanced. I see they managed to get Bull back to working order as well. Too bad they didn’t leave any scars, no?”

“Yeah, they’re a little too good.” There was a hint of a sulk in the Qunari’s voice, but he lightened up. “You here for a drink, Pavus? We could find a place at the table for you, looks like the boss has some space by him.”

An appreciative low chuckle rumbled through the Chargers. Like their boss, they weren’t blind – they saw how he and Dorian interacted. No doubt they all thought they were doing him a favor, maybe they considered it a way to work a bet to their pocket’s advantage. Unfortunately for them, Kaaras wasn’t in the mood. His heart was pounding way too fast for that as he swallowed down the rest of his drink.

It was a bad idea – there was a reason he didn’t drink much. Immediately, his head began to pound. His tongue loosened, he groaned slightly and held around the area of his left horn. Looks like he was getting that headache after all.

“You don’t look too good, Kaaras.” Dorian’s voice was soft as he extended his hand. “I can walk you back to your quarters if you want.”

He wanted to say no, but the headache lowered his ambitions. In the end, he pushed away from the table and made his way over to the mage. His ears burned at the sound of a wolf whistle from one of the Chargers – or maybe it was Sera? It sounded far away – but he ignored that in favor of leaving the Herald’s Rest behind.

Outside, it was quieter, and a cool mountain breeze blew through the open space between the tavern and Skyhold proper. Apart from the distant noise of plate mail clinking in the distance from a guard on patrol, it was quiet. His head was glad for it as he sidled along, keeping his eye on the ground.

“You really don’t handle your drink well, Kaaras.” Dorian’s voice was soft as they started up the stairs to his quarters. “I guess you didn’t drink a lot when you were a mercenary.”

Kaaras risked a shake of his head – at least it didn’t make things worse. “No, I don’t like how it makes my head feel. I need to keep my wits about me anyway.”

Control was part of his cover too – if it slipped, bad things happened. He had learned that well enough over the years.

“A respectable line of thought.” They entered his quarters and Kaaras found the bed. Dorian stood by the desk, giving them space to breathe. “Though… I believe you know I had ulterior motives to walking you back.”

Of course.

Kaaras felt his stomach shift, and it wasn’t from the booze. The events of a few days prior flashed through his mind – the dragon, Dorian’s staff, and the energy that coursed through his veins as he aimed a clumsy spell at its head. If not for the mage’s proper barrier, they would’ve been hurt.

After all… he wasn’t a mage. He just had a few special effects.

“Jackel’s story about the bomb was inspired. No doubt she’s telling Rocky what kind now.” Dorian frowned. “I don’t understand why she lies about it, though. I thought the Dalish admired mages.”

He winced despite himself. “We do, they’re our leaders.”

“Does that mean you’re going to lead your clan one day, or does that honor go to your brother?” The man cocked his head to the side. “Why hide your magic, though? It isn’t as though you’re Andrastian like the rest here.”

Kaaras’ heart was pounding so hard he was sure his binder was the only thing keeping it in. Right then, all he wanted to do was run away and hide. This was something that never ended well for him to say the least.

Ataashi had never spoken to him again after he’d found out…

His mouth was dry as he tried to speak. “I’m not a mage, Dorian.”

“Kaaras, I know walking bomb when I feel it.” His eyes were sharp. “I felt your energy on my staff.”

Fuck.

There was no way out of this – Dorian was near the exit. The balcony led to the mountains – he’d definitely die if he jumped. No doubt the man would’ve stopped him anyway if he had tried, and even with the size difference he’d probably be successful.

So he was trapped.

“Kaaras?”

The qunari’s shoulders sagged as his strength left him. He felt his weight sink into the bed, as if he weighed a thousand pounds. Time had slowed in that moment, as if the entire world had stopped spinning.

This was why he tried not to develop feelings for people. It always ended badly.

“I… look, there’s five mages in clan Lavellan. We have enough.” He swallowed hard, as if he was trying to get down ground glass. “I’m just… an oddity, I guess.”

Oddity – that was the best way to put it. After all, he had been nearly 17 when he’d first had that disastrous blast of magic. Mages developed long before that – his brother certainly had. By the time they were his age, they had control. They were proper spellcasters, not idiots with a bit of strange energy that set things on fire by mistake.

He needed to remind himself of that more often.

Kaaras shrugged and regretted it as his head ached. “I worked with my Uncle Boralas. Neither of us are mages, but he knows how to keep accidents from happening around explosives. Along the way he taught me demolition.”

Why he was using Uncle Bori’s full name, he wasn’t sure – it felt odd on his tongue. Maybe it was how serious the moment felt.

“The Chantry isn’t going to be thrilled to hear the Dalish know their way around explosives.” Dorian’s tone was hard to pick out, but he didn’t sound too annoyed by the prospect – maybe it was due to him being from Tevinter? – but he wasn’t finished. “But… that was magic, Kaaras. You might deny it, but only a mage can use a staff like that.”

He could still remember how it had felt clutched in his hand, how the grain of the wood had dug into his palm, calling for his meager energy. It was like the call of the void, only stronger as it pulled him into oblivion. Wordlessly, it had screamed to him – use me.

It was hard to ignore, even now. But he had to – the alternative was far too dangerous to even consider. So he pushed it down, back to where it stewed, hopefully to stay put this time. The last thing he needed was for it to come out again.

“I’m just strange, Dorian, there’s nothing more to it.” He did his best to offer a fake smile, but even he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. “Besides, could you imagine the reaction if it were true? It’s bad enough I’m half qunari, how would the Chantry react that their Herald was a Dalish mage?”

Heads would roll, possibly literally. As much as he would’ve wanted to see it happen… reality was another story.

Dorian frowned a little, but in the end he sighed. “I suppose that is true. You are on a bit of thin ice with the faithful.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Kaaras allowed a snort of self-depreciating mirth, which only made his head throb. “Oww… shouldn’t have done that.”

Next to him, the mage shifted and allowed him to lay back. “I’m going to guess that’s not a preemptive hangover brewing there.”

Another shake only made his head hurt worse, but he did it. “No, it’s been brewing since we got back. I should probably try to sleep it off, I’m no good to anyone like this.”

Or in general usually… but he wasn’t going to say that. He had learned from his time in Valo-Kas that people didn’t like when he talked about himself like that. They got weird looks on their faces and he usually got a lecture after.

At least Dorian turned to allow him to shrug out of his binder and crawl back under the blanket. Much to his relief, the mage dimmed the magelight hanging by his bed, allowing him some comforting darkness to sleep in. With the whistle of the wind outside, it was almost comfortable.

Almost, as long as you ignored the pounding in his head and the fact Dorian knew now.

“Sleep well, Kaaras. If you need me…” he hesitated, and from the sound of things he was by the stairs. “You can find me in the library. Your brother’s pulled ahead in his reading and I cannot let that stand unchallenged.”

He would have laughed, but his head hurt. Instead, Kaaras felt his eyes close as he did his best to sleep off the headache blooming behind his eyes. At least like this, he didn’t have to worry about what was going on or anything other than the pain. For once, he welcome that as he slipped away into a dream. He needed that much.

---

The next time Kaaras was conscious, the sun had shifted behind the mountains and the sky had gone dark. From his window, he could see part of June’s Hammer if he squinted – though that was mostly from memory. After all, he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

Yawning, he sat up. His head still hurt, but it wasn’t to meltdown levels. Like this, he could get work done if need be. And oh, did he ever – after all, he was technically leading a holy army of Andrastians.

That alone was a headache, but he pushed it aside in favor of glancing around.

Like Dorian had said, he had left to go battle his brother in the library over who had finished what book first. It was a stupid competition, but it kept them busy, and their head librarian didn’t mind digging out the rare volumes to sate their spiteful curiosity. If they found out something useful, all the better. He just hoped they kept their gloating quiet – they tended to bother the other people in the library.

“Maybe I’ll go see how he’s doing.” Kaaras bent down to grab his binder, but paused as he glanced across the room. Even in the darkness, he could see there was something there, propped against his desk and waiting for him. “What’s that?”

Curious, he left his binder on the floor and padded across the room. Just like he thought, there was something set there for him. His heart leapt straight to his throat as he picked out the details, wondering if this was just some bad dream.

But no. It was a long piece of wood with metal fittings and a dark purple stone on top. Even worse, it came with a note.

“Dorian, I swear to the Creators…” Kaaras’ fingers trembled as he untied the note from the staff, the light brush enough to cause tingles up his spine. Unsurprisingly, the note was in the man’s neat handwriting, and even in the dark he could read it.

Kaaras,

Forgive me for my insistence. I said the staff was for your brother when I got it, something about him breaking his, so there’s no need to worry about others finding out.

While I don’t understand, I felt enough power that day to know you need proper training. I found a book from the library that should help you, but if you need further insistence we can work something out. You can find me in the library.

- Dorian

Despite everything, Kaaras grit his teeth as he glanced down at the book and staff waiting for him. He might have liked the man, but Dorian was pissing him off in the moment. Right then, he wanted nothing more than to throw both off the balcony and forget it had ever happened.

But he didn’t. After all, it was a library book. Trevy would want it back unharmed. She’d get it tomorrow – he’d think of an excuse as to why he had it later.

“I guess I should have explained better.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I don’t have any need of these, I’m not a mage…”

It was easy to say with the years of practice behind it. He could almost believe it most days. But that was the thing about his little accidents – the chance of them happening again after a dry spell went up if he was annoyed. And oh, was he. Maybe that was why he wasn’t too surprised when the paper in his hands caught fire, bringing light to the dark room.

At least he had the sense to throw this in the fireplace before it burned anything, his hands included.

“Elgar’nan’s balls…” Kaaras shook his head as he picked up the staff and tucked it out of sight, far in the back of a closet where he wouldn’t have to look at it. If anyone asked, it was his brother’s. “Maybe I should just stay in until I calm down… can’t have any more accidents.”

The tingle still dancing under his skin was proof of that as he sat back down on his bed to breathe and remember what his uncle had taught him. As much as he trained, he would always have to risk accidents.

Maybe it would’ve been easier if he was actually a mage – but then again, that probably would’ve made his job harder. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place…

#ramblinganthropologist's writing #Kaaras Adaar #he's a mage he just has trauma about being a failure attached to it #Trespasser will fix that #baby will eventually be a force mage spec

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