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[whateveriwant]

Can you please do Task force 141 finding out they’re having quintuplets! I’d imagine that they wouldn’t plan to have that many….at least not all at once 🧍‍♀️

Ghost

When the technician points out the five distinct dots on the ultrasound, he immediately goes dead silent

I mean, he's always pretty quiet anyway, but this is like quiet quiet

He doesn't utter a single word for the rest of the appointment, nor on the ride back home for that matter

This has you more concerned than you care to admit because you know that, not that long ago, he didn't think he'd ever have (much less want) kids of his own some day

So now that he's learned he's about to have five? You can't imagine what's going through his mind right now

It isn't until you're walking through the front door that you're being stopped with a gentle hand tugging on your wrist

You turn to look at him and, without a word, he drops to his knees before you, rolling up the bottom of your shirt to expose your belly

He'll press the softest of kisses just beside your navel, before looking up at you with expressive eyes that convey the foremost thought in his head: Thank you

Soap

Nearly shits a brick the moment the words leave the technician's mouth

All the color swiftly drains from his face and he has to sit down before he keels over right in the middle of the office

It's not so much fear that has him going paper white but pure shock at hearing the unexpected (yet not unhappy) news

While you'd already discussed having a big family together one day, you didn't think you'd get it done in one fell swoop

However, maybe you should've seen it coming since you both come from families that have had multiples

The possibility of this happening was decently high, so in a way, you're not all that surprised by the revelation

Once he's composed himself and is a little less ghostly pale in the face, he's eagerly requesting the technician to print out an excessive number of copies of the ultrasound

Why? Well, he's gotta send them to everyone, of course! His family, your family, all the lads at work. Hell, maybe your neighbor Charlie would like one too. Better print several just in case

Gaz

"C– Come again?" He thinks he misheard the technician at first

However, even hearing it a second time, he has to stand up, round the bed, and get about an inch away from the monitor to confirm for himself

It's almost comical the way his eyes widen at the screen, darting around the black and white image like he can't comprehend what he's seeing

It'll take some coaxing to get him back in his seat, and as he does, you hear him mumbling to himself – something about nappies, never sleeping again, and *shudders* University

At some point, out of the corner of your eye, you see him messing with his hands

He's putting his palm in front of his own stomach then drawing it about a foot or two away, as if trying to visualize the size your belly is destined to grow

Even when you get back home, it's like reality hasn't fully hit him yet

It's not until you find him at 2am looking up double decker prams that you realize it's finally starting to sink in, and he's more than ready for the challenge ahead

Price

Seems awfully calm when the technician breaks the news to you two

Based on his reaction – a light smile and mere "Oh, that's wonderful" – you'd think he'd just been informed of the weather or something

To be honest, his reaction (or lack thereof) is a little disarming, but you don't comment on it until you're buckling up in the car, mentioning his seeming total lack of nerves about the future

He chuckles and jokes that he already has to look after three big kids at work. What's five little ones at home to compare?

Though you think you can see what he's getting at, his cool-headedness about it all still has you in a bit of a tizzy

Is he not even a little surprised by the news? After all, it's not every day that people fall pregnant with quintuplets

At your question, he smiles and leans to press a bristly kiss to the back of your hand. When he pulls back, he's smirking, giving you the smuggest look you've ever seen from a man

"Told you I've got strong swimmers, love"

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #john mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #gaz x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #simon riley #john mactavish #kyle garrick #john price #tf 141 x reader #task force 141 x reader #cod x reader #cod mw2 #call of duty #modern warfare 2 #wiw asks

[ceilidho]

price the type of guy to see cute tiktoks a single mom makes about her life w her baby (shown to him by a younger soldier or something, the man does not have tiktok) and be like Is anyone going to insert themself into her life in an uncanny and controlling manner and not wait for an answer

dngdkfjkSJHFJSHGKDRF

despite being surrounded by people on base, that man is probably pretty lonely. it's a little too easy for him to develop a parasocial relationship with his favourite mommy influencer when he doesn't even know what the fuck a parasocial relationship is.

too bad influencer single mom reader doesn't practice good internet safety and shows too much of the neighbourhood where she lives when she takes her baby for a walk around the block in the pram and then shows too much of the interior of her apartment. she practically gift wrapped the coordinates to her location for Price.

[peachesofteal]

Alone / Chapter 3

Part of the Sassy series. Chapter 3/3.

Simon Riley/female reader 9.1k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Praise kink. Size difference/kink. Blood and violence. PTSD. Trauma. Panic attacks, night terrors, catatonia, relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort. Medical stuff. Angst. Mentions of having a uterus/children. Soft dad Simon Riley. Simon is a great dad, that's all. Soap is a good uncle. John Price. Simon is living in a nightmare.

If you’re living in a nightmare, then Simon is living in hell.

It plagues his every waking second, invades his consciousness when he’s finally able to get to sleep, envelopes his reality at work, at home, everywhere. Anywhere. The sun has permanently set and there is only darkness now, only the bad, only the evil left, his existence devoid of your golden rays, his life bereft of your warmth on his face. 

It is easy to feel like a ghost. On the days he doesn't have Theo, or he's not on an op, he struggles to keep himself functioning, struggles to make sense of his day to day. The violence helps, when he's with the 141, the familiar feeling of executing, of hunting grounding him in a reality that doesn't seem so far fetched, doesn't seem so outlandish. When he's home, Soap helps by calling and texting incessantly, and Price consistently drops by, inviting him for dinner or asking him to look something over. Everyone makes an effort, to make sure he's not forgotten, to make sure he knows they care. 

This hell, this nightmare, feels oddly similar to being buried alive. It feels comparable to being trapped beneath the ground, dying, slowly, the air around him casually evaporating with every breath he dares to draw. It feels like when the earth tried to pulled him back under, when the clay tried to trap itself inside his lungs, clogging the passages of his alveoli, dirt mixing with blood mixing with saliva, caking itself in his throat and into his very conscious. 

It only feels different, feels less like hell and more like his old life, when he’s with Theo.

Sometimes, he pretends that it is still his old life. That he’s just out with Theo at the park, and when they get home, you’re going to be there. Or, he and Theo are out for “guy’s night”, as you used to call it, at the restaurant down the street, and you’re out somewhere else with Price’s wife, for a monthly happy hour that will undoubtedly bleed into dinner, and end with the two of you on the couch watching some god awful tv show until Price comes to collect her. He pretends when he’s grocery shopping that he’s checking off your list, each section sequenced to reflect the supermarket’s organization, something you always did to help make it easier for him, to get him in and out as quickly as possible, because you knew how he felt about large places with lots of bodies and too many obstacles. He pretends that the house that he rented is actually his home, pretends it the house down the street, the one that you live in, the one that you two of you bought together. He pretends that the bed is empty because you’re just working late again, up with tired eyes in front of your laptop, your brain computing and processing lines upon lines of numbers and formulas of things he doesn’t understand. 

All of these things, they happened before.

Before you were plucked from a springtime walk, Theo left crying in the pram on a sidewalk while you were injected with something that rendered you unconscious until you woke in a concrete room halfway across the world.

Before the phone call. Before the video.

Before the rescue. Before the massacre. Before he snapped. Before his rage, the path of bodies left in his wake, before Soap had to pull him off a corpse that he had pummeled to death. Before he cut off the hands of every single person who had touched you. Before the sound of the men begging for their lives lived in his head, before the intensive, four times a week therapy sessions that had to last hours long just to get him back to baseline. Just to get him back to a point where he could take care of Theo, take care of you.

Before the hospital and the damage from the infection and the complications from the injury to your lung.

Before the catatonia and the night terrors and the panic attacks that left you confused and alone inside your own head.

Before the rot invaded his home. Before its sticky, tentacled ropes of poison spread across the walls. Before it cast its sickly shadow across your face. 

Before, when you still called yourself his wife. When still wore your ring. When you still told him you loved him.

Before he failed.

Before you left him.

Before.

“I hate them.” Your sullen voice crackles through the phone, muffled and distorted. It’s the best reception he’s gotten in eight days, and you still sound like you’re a million miles away and underwater at the same time. He swallows the disappointment.

“They can’t be that bad.” 

“Oh, they’re bad, Si. They’re all helicopter moms. Prissy and obnoxious. One of them won’t even let their kid use the slide because she’s scared about some kind of toxic lining on it. I don’t know. Why did you bring your kid to a playgroup if they’re not allowed to play?” You huff, and he’s glad you’re not on a video call right now, because he’s smiling, his eyes are closed and he’s imagining you pacing in the kitchen, waving something around in your hand for added effect, tops of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of a too big t shirt. He knows if you caught him grinning when you’re all cross, there’d be hell to pay. 

“Is Theo havin’ fun?” 

“Eh. Yeah. He’s bigger than all the other ones his age so he kind of gets to do what he wants.” He chuckles at that, foolish pride blooming across his cheeks, and he can practically hear you rolling your eyes through the phone. “Still struggling with the concept of sharing.” You add, and he nods to himself. It's not a surprise to either of you, and sharing has been a work in progress at home. 

“He’d learn how to share a lot faster if he had a sibling.” He offers, and you laugh on the other end before abruptly going silent, like you’re holding onto to a secret. “Sass?” 

“I did it.” You breathe. 

“You did what?”

“I did, what we discussed. Last month, just before you left. I went to the doctor and… she took it out.” He sits straight up, boots scuffing along the dirty safehouse floor. 

“You got your IUD out?” His bones rattle in his body, eyes wide while he waits for you to confirm it. 

“Yeah, Si. I… I’m ready. I want to start trying when you get home.” 

“Are you sure? I thought you said-“ 

“I am. And I know… what I said. But I talked to my doctor, and she helped lessen some of my anxiety about it. I had an ultrasound to look at my uterus and she thinks the chances are good. I… feel good about it.” He pads the silicone ring with his thumb while he takes long, deep breaths to steady himself. “So, I guess, you better hurry and get home so we can start trying because it takes two, ya know?” You laugh again, but he hears the wet sound in the back of your throat, the thick, syrupy sound of your tears, and his heart clenches in his chest. 

“I-“ 

The timer on his watch goes off. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, and you sigh. 

“Gotta cut the line?” you volunteer, and he grunts out a yes even though he wants to stay on it for hours more, telling you how much he loves you, how excited he is, how he can’t wait to give you another baby. “Be safe, okay?” 

“Always. I love you. I’ll see you real soon.” 

“I love you too.” He presses the end call button and tucks the phone away in his pocket, leaning his head against the wood paneling of the door. Another baby, you wanted to have another baby. 

He’s still grinning like a complete fool when he comes down the stairs to where Johnny and Kyle are hunched over a tiny aluminum table, shoving some sort of MRE down their throats. When Gaz spots him, his brow furrows, and he half hollers with a mouth full of food to Johnny. 

“What’s got ‘im in such a good mood?” 

The hallways in the medical office building are beige, a shade lighter than the darker beige carpet, which complements the brown chairs of the waiting room. It used the bother him, the blandness, but now he supposes he’s grateful for it. It’s less distracting. Less obtrusive. It lets him think, which is exactly what he’s doing, thinking, about you, about Theo, when he pulls the big walnut colored door open and spots you curled in on yourself in a waiting room chair.

He’s surprised to see you here before him. He’s surprised you even showed up if he’s being honest. He knows how you feel about therapy in general, and with the way the last couple’s session went, he’s shocked you’re willing to give it another go.

It burns just the smallest amount of joy in his gut.

Don’t. Don’t get your hopes up. 

“Hi.” You croak.

“Hey, Sass.” Your face is guarded as you nod up at him, everything in your expression haunted and hesitant, the emptiness he knows you’re carrying around inside of you spilling out through your features as plain as day. He can’t stand it. “Sleep okay? Have a good late-night chat with Soap?” He probes and you scowl back at him, fire sparking behind your eyes while he fights the urge to smile. There’s my girl. He doesn’t mean to goad you, doesn’t want to anger or upset you, but he’ll take what he can get.

Besides, he already knows you must have in fact, slept better than usual, because you didn’t call Johnny. And he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to the half a ring-hang up that you’ve started doing in these past few weeks, something that’s developed since the day the two of you watched Moana with Theo, and you fell asleep next to him on the couch after your panic attack. The day that felt like a dream, when Theo asked to go for a walk to the playground, and you shyly asked if he wanted to come along. The day that he’s been replaying over and over in his mind, the day that felt like progress, that felt like something more than this nightmare he’s been living inside.

He’s about to ask how Theo was for you this morning when the office door opens, and Dr. C is smiling at the two of you from the other side.

“Hi guys, come on in. I just need to grab a tea.” He motions for you to go first, and you falter in your steps before you’re brushing past him, your fingertips grazing the hand that lays lax at his side.

This time, he doesn’t hide his smile.

“How is she?” His pacing comes to an abrupt halt when his therapist, Dr. C comes out through the door, a tablet in her hand, lines of her face nearly impossible to read. She motions to a set of chairs, the uncomfortable ones that line the hall, and then takes a seat opposite of him. 

“The staff psychologist here wants to release her to an assisted living facility until she shows improvement.” 

“No.” 

“Mr. Riley, I-“

“No. She can’t go to one of those places. She can’t.” 

“They have places that specialize in care for cases like your wife. It’s not like sending her to a nursing home.” 

“I don’t care. She needs to come home, with us. Theo needs her. I need her. Once… once she gets home, she’ll do better.” Dr. C sighs. 

“She’s catatonic, Simon. She’ll need her PICC line for nutrition and medications, another IV for fluids. She’ll need someone to bathe her, turn her, do her wound care, things you’re not prepared to do.”

“The fuck ‘m not.” He doesn’t know how to do an IV, sure. But he can do everything else. And he knows he can hire a nurse or someone to do the other things, the medications, the tubes, the wound cleanings. “I’m not sending her away.” 

“That’s not what this is.” 

“It’s not happening. She’s coming home. With me.”

“Johnny took Theo to the park today. Bug tripped comin’ off the slide and nearly cut his chin open. He’s okay, just a deep scratch but it scared him. Johnny said he cried for you the whole way home.” He strokes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, watching your eyes for movement from where they stare, straight ahead, out the master bedroom window. You’re curled on your side, knees tucked up to protect your abdomen, hands clenched under the mountain of pillows. 

It's been so, so long since he’s heard your voice. So long since he’s seen you smile, or laugh, or even engaged in a single word that’s being spoken to you. 

He feels like he’s losing you. Like you’re slipping away from him, drowning right in front of him. 

It feels like Theo is losing his mom. 

It feels like he’s losing his mind. 

Sometimes, he wants to scream at you. Wants to grip you by your jaw and turn your face towards his and force a reaction from you. Wants to pull the tube that’s feeding you free from your chest and force you to eat on your own. Wants to beg and plead and cry at your feet, wants to shake you until you have no choice but to tell him to stop. 

Dr C. has told him again and again that it will take time. That you’re healing, your mind and your body is processing an unfathomable trauma, and that what’s happening to you, this catatonia, is the way your brain is helping protect itself. 

So, he tries to remember you, like before. He clings to his memories. The videos on his phone. The live photos that feel like stolen snippets from someone else’s life. He carries it all with him, every day. He shows you the photo and videos on a slideshow every night in hopes something will bright light to your lifeless eyes. He rubs your back and holds your hand, tries to comb through your hair as gently as he can, waters the plant that sits on the windowsill. He does Theo's bedtime routine in here now, reads his stories aloud to the two of you, Theo always curled up against him while you lay unmoving beside him. He reads from the stack of books that you have sitting next to your side of the bed, the collection of them that you were working through before you were taken. He massages ointment into your scars, press the pads of his thumbs into the arch of your feet like he did when you were pregnant, lays awake beside you and speaks aimlessly about nothing. He presses his lips gently to your cheek, your forehead, your mouth. Anything, everything he can do to try to bring you back. 

Nothing works. The bed feels like a grave. The house feels like a mausoleum. The only life left inside of either of you is your son.  

He sits there next to you until he hears the front door, the sound of Johnny bringing Theo back after their adventure out for takeaway forcing him to pull your blanket up under your chin, tucking you in gently until he’s satisfied it’s to your liking.

“I’ll be back up, after dinner, okay? I’ll bring Theo in to say goodnight.” 

“So, how have things been?” Simon likes Dr C, a revelation that he’s grown comfortable with in the past year or so. She is easy to talk to. She does not flinch away from the gruesome details of either of your lives. It helps that she specializes in PTSD and war related trauma therapy as well, of course, but she offers him warmth, and understanding in his sessions. He feels comfortable with her. He feels so comfortable with her, that when you were in desperate need of help, he thought of her first. He feels comfortable knowing that you’re seeing her for therapy and that you’re receiving the same kind of care and patience that he has. He knows Dr C is good at her job, and it brings him comfort, in a strange way, to know that someone who has helped him, is helping you, and the two of you now, together. 

“Mrs. Riley?” she tries to encourage you, and you meet her with a half hearted nod and a shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” She looks at him next, the same question bouncing around the room.

“We spent some time together, three weeks ago. Watched a bit of a movie with Theo, and then we all took a walk. Went to the park, even.” Your hands flex and tighten where they sit in your lap, shoulders high and tight.

“That’s great, I’m sure Theo was very excited. How do you feel it went?” He stays quiet, giving you time to talk if you decide that’s what you want. You don’t, and it doesn’t surprise him. Start slow. Nice and easy. 

“It went better than the last time we uh, tried a family activity.” He provides when you stay tight lipped, and you immediately cringe, guilt snapping across his skin. Could’ve phrased that better. He wants to grab your hand, stroke his thumb across your knuckles and press his lips to your pulse point all while telling you it wasn’t your fault. Wants to tell you he loves you, that nothing that has happened, has been your fault, even though he knows your own mind is eating you alive with the idea. He can see it all now, the stuff in your head. The awful, hellish landscape that has become your mind. He wants to take it away. Wishes he could scoop it out of your brain, pull away every piece of dark and infectious rot that plagues you, separate it from your nervous system like he's a surgeon. He can't. He's tried. 

Dr C. allows the room to fall silent for a moment, as is her custom, before moving on. She does it for you, more than anyone. Gives you time to prepare, to switch gears. It also gives you an opportunity to speak, if you choose to.

You don’t, usually.

“We’re at the six-month mark this week.” His heart stops in his chest. No. “We did agree, that after six months, we would evaluate where we are and potentially discuss how you’re both feeling about the separation. Do you think that’s something you might be open to exploring, Mrs. Riley?” He watches your throat bob with a swallow, your gaze shifting from its absent state to something hopeless, something worried.

“It’s not the right time.” He rushes out to ease whatever it is that’s causing you turmoil. The therapist nods at him, acknowledging his words, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Mrs. Riley?” He holds his breath while you look down at your lap, eyes searching for something on your skin, some kind of an answer he hopes you won’t find. The room is dead silent while you slowly lift your neck, head turning so your eyes find his. Just like a hundred times before. 

Your voice is soft, angelic when you finally speak.

“Yes. I would open to talking about it.”

The scream is hard to distinguish. In the dark, it could just be a part of his ever-present nightmares, just another piece of his mind twisting his memories and his reality together to form a special kind of hell. It’s hard to tell at three in the morning, but he’s sure he’s awake in his own bed, your body twisting and turning beside him, terror pouring from your lips while you sweat against the sheets. His pulse thunders in his ears, the broken cries coming from you echoing throughout the room and stopping his heart. 

He rolls onto you immediately, trapping your kicking legs beneath his, a hand coming up to cradle your face and tapping your cheekbone with the pad of his index finger, a gentler way of trying to pull you out, a method that has had varied success in the past. 

“Come on, sweet girl. Wake up for me.” Your mouth presses into the pillow and you scream, your body shaking in his hold, face wet with tears. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright, you’re safe.” You’re terrified, and he can’t soothe you, can’t wake you to bring you into reality, the desperation he feels compounding when your wet cheek presses into his palm. You thrash, arms swinging, and he tries to hold you steady while your voice crests with a sob that shifts in a shriek next to his ear. “Sass! Please. I’m here, I’m right here.” His voice breaks, raspy and raw, but nothing reaches you, nothing matters. You’re not here, you’re still there. In that room with the concrete floor that’s stained with your blood. Your hand moves again, this time making contact and digging into his face, his flesh parting beneath the fine edge of your nails, blood pooling underneath them when he pushes your arm away, pinning it down by your side while you cry. He’s helpless, trapped in this hell alongside of you, drowning beneath the current of your nightmare while you free fall through your terror, unconscious and unable to be woken. He can’t even feel the sting of his cheek, can’t feel the small wounds that are leaking blood down his skin, none of it registers. All he can do is hold you, talk to you as calmly as he can while you sob, your voice eventually falling into soft whimpers as you slowly settle. 

“Daddy?” Theo’s little voice calls from the door, where he’s standing wide eyed and terrified and Simon curses while you shiver in his arms. 

“It’s okay, bug. Go back to your bed.” Theo shakes his head no, unable to look away. He looks so scared and Simon’s heart shatters inside his chest, something he thought wasn’t even possible anymore. 

“Mum?” Theo cries, face scrunched up, hands clutching his blanket to his chest. Your cries are muffled now, and although you’re still shaking, he can’t leave Theo in the doorway, watching you like this. 

Simon pulls the blankets back up over your body, tucking you in as tightly as he can manage and then scoops Theo up, carrying him down the hall while he shushes him, running his fingers through his hair while he cries. 

“Shhh. She’s alright, Mum’s alright. She’s just havin’ a bad dream. Just like we do sometimes, yeah?” Simon coos while Theo sniffles, his face resting on Simon’s shoulder, blanket tucked between their bodies. “C’mere, let’s lay down.” He lays Theo on his kid’s sized bed, curling his own body around him, most of Simon’s legs hanging off the end. Theo holds onto to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to burrow himself in Simon’s body, to hide there from his own fears and nightmares, and he rubs his back soothingly until Theo is blissfully asleep, safe in the arms of his dad.

He clips your nails short the next morning. You stare out the window and say nothing.

There’s a lot of noise in Simon’s head.

He can see your mouth moving, can see Dr. C’s mouth moving, but he can hardly hear either of you, your voices drowned out by the white noise-static sound that’s cutting through his brain, slicing down into his flesh, past his sternum to where his heart beats slowly.

“I don’t want a divorce.” The words ricochet between his ears, and he feels like he’s been doused with cold water, the shock of your words startling him from his stupor as he blinks stupidly at you. You don’t want a divorce. Joy, pure, unaltered, endless joy fills him until he’s nearly smiling, his cautionary behavior going out the window with your admission. You don’t want a divorce. Your voice is heavy with the weight of everything you’re feeling, and it feels sick to feel how he does right now when there are tears spilling over your waterline and down your face. “B-but I don’t know if I can be… how we were. I don’t know if I know how. Or… if I deserve…” you trail off, and he closes his eyes against the sinking feeling in his stomach. You don’t say anything else after that, lip tucked between your teeth, brow creased like you’re concentrating. The therapist says your name, twice, to try to bring you back, and then when you finally make eye contact, she continues on.

“Do you see a path, in your mind? A path forward, for your marriage?”

“I do-don’t know… I don’t know what it would look like.” Dr C. let’s the room go quiet again, and he’s surprised when you lift your gaze to his once more, your eyes seeking something in his. He’s not sure what it is, doesn’t know what to give you in this moment, which is a foreign concept, considering he used to be able to anticipate your moods and moves, your decisions and your ideas. The two of you used to know each other like the back of your hands and now… sometimes it feels like he’s in love with a stranger.

“I have an idea.” Dr C. says and you straight a little, looking at her with a somewhat grim expression. “Have you considered going on a date?”

“A date?” you blurt, and he tenses.

“Without Theo. Just the two of you, somewhere you both feel comfortable. Leave your expectations at home and take the time to talk to one another, one on one. Reconnect.” You’re going to say no. There’s no way you’ll go for this. You gnaw on your lip for a minute while your fingers play idly in your lap. He braces himself for the rejection, for you to say it’s too much, too soon, that you’re not ready, you can’t do it. All of these things, he would not blame you for.

All of these things, make him grateful he doesn’t have Theo tonight, and that he’s got a fresh bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table.

“Okay, well. I guess we can call Price and see if they want to babysit?” He turns to look at you, dumbfounded, mouth slack with shock while you give him the most nervous, the most hesitant smile. It blinds him, momentarily confusing him, like it’s a trick. Like it’s all wrong, and you’re going to change your mind, or something else is going to happen and derail this. It’s also, all right. You, smiling at him, looking like you actually might want to… spend time with him, see him without it having to be the usual Theo pass off. Like you might still want this, want him.

Dr C. clears her throat expectantly, and he stumbles to get his words out, to catch up.

“Yeah, Sass. Let’s… set it up.”

“Mum better?” Theo’s little fingers fold over his board book, eager smile on his face as he tips his head back to squint at Simon. He’s heard you, in the bedroom earlier, arguing with the nurse that comes every morning. It was quite a surprise for her when she got here, to see you sitting up in bed, eyes blinking and brow furrowed, Simon helping you rotate your wrists that have grown stiff and sore. “Pa’cakes fa Mum?” Simon smiles. Sweet lad. 

“Yes, we can make Mum pancakes. She can’t really eat a lot but I’m sure she’d love to have breakfast with you.” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, stroking over a particular raised bump of skin, a scar from an op years ago. You had been running your fingers over it, this morning when he woke up, shocked to feel you turned into him, tucked up against his chest, your hand tracing light touches over his skin. Your voice had been rough, scratchy from lack of use, and you complained that every muscle in your neck and back ached, along with you joints. 

He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

You told him you loved him. 

And then Theo woke up.

It’s a messy process, making pancakes with his son. Theo likes to do everything himself, including pouring the milk and cracking the eggs into the bowl. You usually handle it with such grace, such patience, giving Theo the time he needs to explore the mechanisms of it, feel out what interests him and explain every step to him. Simon tries to embody that part of you, he does, but it’s not as easy as you make it look. Especially when Theo cracks three eggs on the floor. 

“Uh oh!” he yells, and Simon closes his eyes, breathing through his nose until his chest is thoroughly expanded. He wants to be upstairs, with you. Wants more than the two hours he got at dawn before Theo woke up and then nurse came over, wants to hurry it up so they both can be up there, sitting with you, him and Theo. “Sorry, Daddy.” Theo’s sad voice brings him back to the now, and he snaps his eyes open to see his disappointed little face, eyes worried as he looks at the batter bowl. 

“It’s alright, bug. Accidents happen. Let’s try again, yeah?”

Forty minutes later, Simon’s finally got a stack of pancakes on a plate, him and Theo sitting on the bed next to you, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s cutting them one by one into little pieces, and then handing you the fork so you can help Theo. 

“Don’ need ‘elp mum!” Theo exclaims, wrapping a paw around your fingers and pushing the fork into his mouth, chewing with a smile. You laugh and lean over to kiss his head. 

“Where did my baby go? I swear just last week you were saying your first word.” It’s meant to be sweet, to be a throw back to when Theo was actually a baby, but it settles like lead in the bottom of Simon’s stomach, and when he glances up at you, you’re wearing a faraway look, thinking about something he cannot name.

Five days after the joint therapy session, Simon is standing in your living room trying not to feel completely dumbfounded. Or terrified. Or elated.

Or anything. He’s trying not to feel anything at all, because if he does, then it will mean something, it will matter, and it will possess the ability to ruin him. If he lets himself feel it, the hope, the happiness, it will make it all that much worse at the end, when this doesn’t work. When it’s too much for you.

He had even called you later that night, after the session, to make sure that this was something you actually wanted to do, that you hadn’t felt pressured into it by being in a room with him and the therapist. When you had doubled down, he hid his surprise as best he could, and reassured you that he also wanted to go when you asked him in a small, hesitant voice if he thought maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Can I have a kiss?” you ask Theo as you bend down, the curve of your ass displayed in the black cocktail dress you chose to wear. The dress, that had him gaping like a fish when you came down the stairs, the dress that highlighted the ins and outs of your body that he used to be so bloody familiar with. Theo wraps his arms around your neck as tight as he can, little face happy and excited with the prospect of spending all night with Price and his wife, who will assuredly allow him to eat all the cotton candy flavored ice cream he wants and put him to bed late. They’re taking him to theirs, something they’ve done in the past (albeit for far less joyous reasons) which works better for everyone. That way, they can sleep in their own bed instead of your guest bed or his couch, and Theo doesn’t have to be woken in the middle of the night to be carried home.

Price’s wife ruffles Theo’s hair as you hand her his little backpack. Simon pretends not to notice the way John tracks her movements, the way he catalogues everything she does with Theo. He pretends not to the see the brief flicker of something across his face, the flicker of wanting that shadows his blue eyes before they clear again. It’s not Simon’s place, to know these things. To notice them.

Instead, Simon bends to scoop Theo into his arms, giving him a big hug and breathing in the smell of his baby shampoo before placing back on his feet gently, his little boy grinning up at him with a face full of love that twists his heart sharply.

“Thanks again.” You smile at her, and she nods while John takes the backpack, and she takes Theo’s hand in hers. “You know the drill.” You shrug and she laughs softly before agreeing.

“We do! We’re going to have a lot of fun, huh Theo?” Theo nods excitedly and you manage to give him another kiss on the cheek before straightening.

“Alright, well. One of us will grab him, in the morning. I’ll text you.” You’re looking at her funny, something different in your eyes, something he’s not sure how to interpret. It’s odd, but it passes in a blink, and then she pulls you into her arms, whispering something in your ear that he cannot hear. You answer her softly, a quieted hum of words, before stepping away and giving the final nod to Price.

“Alright, honey. You two ready?” John’s hand presses to the small of her back, a reassuring and guiding touch, and then they’re all out the door, Theo holding both of their hands while they make the trek two blocks away to their own house. You watch them until they’ve faded from sight, and then turn around with your hands on your hips, a nervous expression that probably mirrors his, on your face. The hardwood beneath his feet feels like fucking sand.

“Well… should we?”

“You don’t get it! You’re not listening to me!” 

“There is no one in your life, on this planet, who understands the way you’re feeling more than I do.” He tries to explain it, tries to reason with you. Tries to make you see that he gets it, that he knows how it feels. You won’t listen, you don’t budge. You only take a step backwards, hand outstretched against his chest as a warning. 

“No you don’t! You didn’t die, Simon. You came back.” 

“So did you.” 

“No, I didn’t. I… I was fucked up before and you know it. Whatever was left was taken. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t survive. It wasn’t enough.” Your voice is high, reedy, and a warning bell goes off in the back of his mind, the memory of your panic attack from last week fresh in his memory. You still have the stitches in your hand from the bathroom mirror glass, and he winces when you make a fist and thump it against your thigh. 

“Hey, hey. It's okay. You’re getting-“ 

“Stop!” you cry out. The haunted expression on your face looks all wrong, and he knows you’re sinking farther and farther into your own head, going somewhere he cannot reach you. “You fought and won, you survived. I was too weak. I c-couldn’t… I tried. But I failed.” You let out a gut-wrenching sob, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “I wanted to die! I gave up. You had to fucking save me, Simon.”

“Sass-“ He tries to reach for you, tries to pull you into his arms, into his body where he can protect you, but you jerk away. 

“Don’t touch me. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes are glassy, chest heaving while you struggle to breathe, fingers dug into your own scalp for dear life. “I don’t… I can’t do this.” You’re gasping now, trembling, eyes wide and panicked, and he steps closer, brushing his fingers along your forearm back and forth until you’re softening to him, slumping forward into his chest.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here, Theo’s here, I’m here. You’re not alone. There’s nothing to fear.” He says it over and over into your hair, lips just above your ear while he eases you to the floor, your fingers tight in his shirt, tears wetting the fabric. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, and your body folds up into his easily, his arm going around your back to hold you firm while he rocks the two of you in the dark of the bedroom until your gasping breaths turn to quiet sobs, and you fall asleep against his chest.

He takes you to the Italian restaurant. It’s the one he took you to after the two of you bought the house, when you first moved over here. It’s dark, and secluded, and only has two entrances/exits, both of which he can see from the table in the back. Most people consider the candlelit, barely lit atmosphere romantic, and it is, but for the two of you, it serves a different purpose. It allows you to relax. It allows him to remove his mask.

Tonight, it allows you to feel comfortable in a dress that clearly displays more skin than he’s seen you show in eight months. The darkness swallows your scars, drifts around you in an inky black cloud, envelopes your shoulders like a blanket. The candlelight flickers across your face, and he watches you sip your wine, putting the glass down and picking it back up again and again, before either of you have even ordered dinner.

“You look beautiful.” He offers it gently, tentatively, unsure of where to start, where to take this. A gift has been dumped in his lap, a priceless, perfect, beautiful gift and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart wants to rip the band-aid off, tear the wrapping paper free, uncaring if he makes a mess or crinkles the paper, but his mind knows better. His mind knows he has to take it crease by crease, ribbon by ribbon, ensuring each fold unfurls correctly, ensuring each edge comes easily. 

“Thank you… you look pretty good yourself.” Your lips curl into a little half smile over the rim of your glass and he can’t help but return it, indulgently sinking into every word you say, every glance you give him. He feels intoxicated, drunk on you, flying high from the way you’re looking at him, like you still know him, like you still love him.

“So.” You play with the fork on the table, turning it from back to front repeatedly and he beats back the urge to reach for your hand and still you, to try to calm your nerves. It's me, Sass. It's just me. I'm right here. 

“So.” He parrots back, and your fingers wave in the air like you’re trying to conjure something. A safe topic of conversation maybe, or another glass of wine, since yours is now nearly empty. The candle sputters and then steadies, illuminating the expression of worry that’s etched into your face, and it spurs him forward, pushes him into momentum until he’s laying his forearm across the table, palm up, waiting, hoping.

He holds his breath.

You stare at him without saying a word for a long time, the restaurant and its patrons moving around you, the world continuing to turn while his oxygen depletes, and he holds himself as still as a statue. You stare, and you stare until-

Your hand lands in his, perfectly curled along the inside of his fingers, thumb pressed to the curve of his wrist, and you blink furiously at your lap.

When you lift your head, there are tears in your eyes, fat, wet tears that fall down your cheeks when you open your mouth.

“I miss you.”

“You don’t understand.” 

“THEN TELL ME!” your mouth drops open in shock and shame licks up his spine, horror icing through his body inch by inch as he stumbles to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to yell, I.." The words trail off when he comes up empty. He has no excuse. 

It’s been a long, long time since he’s raised his voice when speaking with you. The memory of the last time, the aftermath of the op where you intentionally disobeyed him and put yourself at risk feels a million miles away right now, and just like yesterday all at once. 

Except now, it’s not him running away from you. 

It’s you that’s running away from him.

Dinner flies. It feels like a dream, a soft, fragrant dream that he can smell and taste, something tangible, touchable. Something real. You order another glass of wine, and he orders a pour of bourbon, and then another. It lubricates the two of you, easing your tongues and pushing you into conversations that feel safe. You talk about Theo, and Johnny, and Price and his wife. The two of you go back and forth about the finer details of an op you’ve always been fond of arguing about.

His eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He tries to decode your expressions, your posture, your body language, all through the meal and then after the check is paid. He watches you as he leads you out of the restaurant onto the street, clocks your steps as you turn in a circle on the sidewalk, a sly, hopeful look reflecting on your face when you step closer and say,

“Walk with me?”

It’s a long walk from the restaurant to the street where your respective houses sit, but he doesn’t mind. By the time the two of you are crawling to a stop in front of his door, you’ve got your hand in his, your arm pressed to his side, and he can feel the heat of your skin through his jacket. You’re quiet until you’re turning towards him on the front step, his sanity being held together in this moment with some tape and glue, and you step closer into his orbit, fingers lightly holding the front zipper of his jacket, head tilted back, face turned up towards his. You're the sun, you're the sun, you're the fucking sun and you’re not wearing your armor, there’s no vacant expression on your face, no layer of fear or sadness or anger. You look… like his wife in this moment. You look like Theo’s mom, his partner, his bomb tech, his sweet girl.

You look like you’re still his. You’re looking at him like he’s still yours.

Your lips part, and he leans into you, mouth hovering above yours, just out of reach for so many reasons. He shouldn’t do this. It’s too fast. You’ll pull back. You’ll slip away. This is too risky, it’s too much, it’s too fast, you’re not thinking clear- 

“Si.” You pull at him. “Kiss me.” He’s powerless to the command, or request, or whatever the bloody hell it is. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing his mouth to yours in less than a second, the searing heat of your tongue pushing into his mouth sending a cool shock down his spine and lighting every muscle in his body on fire.

Home. He’s home.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t hear anything. No kid’s television shows, no sounds of you or Theo. No happy little boy running to greet him. No sign of you on the couch, no sound of you in the back or in the kitchen. 

He finds you in the bedroom, alone. 

“Where is Theo?” 

“He’s at the Price’s.” your voice is hollow. Empty, like your facial expression. Haunted, like your eyes. The quiet of the house makes him wary. Something prickles along his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck. 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to talk and I… didn’t think he should be here.” 

“Talk about what?” It’s a grunt, a gruff question that he levels nonchalantly while he waits for you to speak as he strips off his boots and sits down on the bed. He doesn't ask you anything further, doesn't push for elaboration. He doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to hurry whatever it is along, uneasiness snaking up his spine while he observes your  uncomfortable posture.

“What do you see? When you look at me?” you ask, and he frowns. 

“I see… you, sweet girl. Theo’s mom. My person, my wife.” You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at your feet, so he says your name, your real name, as softly as he can manage, hoping to pull your attention. 

“Your person is broken.” 

“No, she’s not.” 

“She’s a nightmare.” 

“Stop.” His tone cuts through the air and you jerk, your eyes finding his, the despondence behind them enough to make his head spin.

“I should have died there.” You croak. “I should have died, Si. It would have been better than this. You could have buried me, moved on.” Nausea sweeps him. He feels ill, like he did when he found you in that room, like he did when he loaded you onto the heli barely alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again. 

“This… this will get better, Sass. You’re still healing, physically, mentally… it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.” He tries to pull your hand into his lap, but you wrench it away, standing up from the bed. 

“It’s not that easy.” You pace back and forth, and he wants so badly to stop you, to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. That he understands how you feel, and he promises you’ll feel better, one day. Even if it feels like it might never be true. His skin itches beneath his clothes.  

“I know it’s not. I know that it feels impossible right now and-“ 

“No.” You cut him off. 

“No?” 

“No, you don’t know. You’re not hearing me! You haven’t been listening to me at all.” You whirl on him. “I’m not like you Simon! I’m not… I don’t deserve you, or Theo, or anything. I don’t-“ 

“That’s enough. I can’t listen to this anymore.” He snaps, rising to full height. His temper breaks, his own sadness and anxiety burning together to form something else, something desperate, something afraid. It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant at all. He wants to tell you again, that it's not true. That you do deserve him, and your son, and good things. That you aren't weak, or pathetic, or dirty. He meant to tell you that he doesn't want you to say these things, these awful things about yourself anymore because speaking them out loud just makes them feel all the more true to you. It comes out wrong, all wrong and too sharp, too harsh and you step backwards, pulling the bedroom door wide before he can stop you. 

Your voice is a shattered chime when you whisper to him over your shoulder. 

“Your wife is broken, Simon. She’s gone.”

You’re tangled in one another. He barely gets the door locked before he’s lifting you by the thighs and pressing you against the wall as gently as he can manage, his cock hard for you beneath the thin cotton of his briefs, your hips rocking forward against him while your head leans back to expose your throat.

“Sass.” I love you. It almost spills from his lips, but he holds it back at the last moment, groaning into your skin instead, and you whine his name back to him, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt, your hands pressing to his stomach while he rucks the bottom of your dress up past your hips. It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet. It’s frenzied, and frantic, and spurred on by the way your hands push and pull at him, your mouth desperately seeking his, your nails digging into his scalp as you press yourself against his cock. 

“Please.” You whimper, and how can he possibly deny you anything? He cannot. He would never. You reach beneath the waistband of his pants and grip him, hand stroking up and down his length, thumb pressing across where he’s dripping with pre-come.

“Bloody hell.” You’re squirming where he holds you up on the wall, his fingers pulling your thong to the side and stroking through where you’re soaked for him, circling your clit with quick touches until your thigh muscles are tensing around his waist. His size compared to yours is glaringly obvious in this position, your legs spread so wide before him, the mass of his body overtop yours like you're pinned beneath a mountain. He loves it. Always has. 

“Fuck, Simon. Please.” You beg again, your hips flexing, seeking friction, his hand spread across your rib cage to hold you steady while he unzips his pants and lowers you down the wall a fraction, just to the right height, just so he can-

Your breath hitches when he pushes inside of you, head tipped back, eyes clenched shut with your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Christ." he hisses between clenched teeth. You whimper, the noise something off key and he stills, cradling your face with his palms and lowering his mouth to yours again. "I know." He soothes you. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl." You’re so tight, so warm and wet and perfect for him it makes his head spin, makes his knees feel like they might collapse. You relax around him, softening and he praises you, nipping your bottom lip while he grinds his body against yours. "There you go. Good girl." He fucks you deeper, harder and harder until he's sure he could be hurting you, burning to bury himself as far as he can, burrow himself beneath your skin so you're never without him again. 

His. His girl. His wife. His love. His home. 

You’re home. You’re home. You’re home. 

He feels the swell of emotion rise inside of him, the sum of all his feelings, all his pain, all his hope coming together until he’s fucking crying, pressing his face into your neck to hide his tears.

“I love you.” he chokes, lips grazing along salt dotted skin, and you whimper something in response, something that sounds like I love you too, except slurred together, mushed between moans while he thrusts up into your cunt over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you. 

He pulls you along with him towards your orgasm, his fingers working your clit expertly, the muscle memory searing the two of you together until you’re both gasping, shaking messes, bodies spent from explosive endings that were too much, too soon, when all he wanted was to be notched inside of you forever, fit within you perfectly, like it always was before.

You go languid in his arms, the sheen of your sweat glossing across your chest and up your neck, the corners of your lips upturned while you pant. He says nothing, just holds you there, stares down at you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone gently, like you’re a thing made of glass, fragile and precious, the most valuable thing his arms have ever held.

As the seconds tick by, your smile shifts, fades like the setting sun, and your eyes change from half lidded to alert while your mouth tilts, the smile slipping away into a frown and then… into an o of surprise.

“Oh my god.”  You clasp your hand over your lips and unwrap yourself from around him, standing on your own two feet. “Oh.” You whisper it now, an adject expression of dismay on your face, and he holds his hands up, palms out, to try to contain you where you stand against the wall, like you’re a frightened animal he’s trying to catch.

“Sass.” He levels, keeping his voice even and steady, but you ignore him, stumbling to the couch where his black hoodie is sitting. You pull it over your head with trembling hands, your head shaking back and forth while it falls to your mid-thigh.

“This… I’m… I didn’t mean… I wasn’t-“ You cringe, your hand going to side of your face to cover your ear, like you’re hearing something that’s too loud, and horror washes through him.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” He tries to calm you but it’s fruitless, your eyes are wide and frantic, and they’re darting between where he stands and the front door.

“This… I d-don’t… this was wrong.” The word smarts across his face like he’s been slapped. Wrong? “I… I meant t-to go slow to… not…” He gets within arm’s reach of you before you’re moving away, stepping backwards on hesitant feet, hands clenched together like you’re holding onto yourself for dear life.

“Sass, listen to me. I-“

“I ca-can’t.”  You’re panicked now, breaths coming in staggered gasps, and he wants so badly to hold you, keep you close to him, reassure you, promise you that everything’s okay.

He tries to move closer to you, to reach out to you but you’re already running away. Already moving towards the door on unsteady legs, clips of words spewing from your mouth that don’t make any sense. His vision doubles, then triples, and the world feels out of sync, off balance while air rapidly leaves his lungs and his brain feels like it's being split apart. No no no. Please don't go. Please. He can't breathe. He can't move. He can't do anything but watch his nightmares play out in real life, watch as you hold your head in your hands and slam your eyes shut like you too, are feeling what he's feeling. Please don't go. He's a child again, a small, frightened boy, screaming and crying and begging aloud to no one, pleading with someone to save him, to make it all stop. 

You reach for the door handle and he cannot bring himself to move. He's frozen in time, frozen to the floor, the gleam of his wedding ring mocking his heart and his hope while you tremble, your legs unsteady beneath you, his come leaking out from your body as you abandon him, run from him, leave him. Again. 

When the door clicks shut, he falls against the wall and succumbs to the first panic attack he's had since Theo was born, slumped over in his living room, empty handed and alone. 

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon x sass #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon riley x female reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #cod mwii

[soggy-platee]

Trade Mistakes Pt. 1/2

Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: Din bottles up his anger after a hunt, and you pay the price.

Maker, he pissed you off sometimes. Stomping in here like you and kid didn’t even exist. 

You understood, to some extent. The bounty he had brought it was nothing but trouble, bucking and fighting against Din’s grip the whole time. Just when he shoved the rather ugly-looking blue-skinned creature into the carbon freezer and was about to hit the button, the bounty used his cuffed hands like a club, hitting Din directly in the helmet. To his credit, he didn’t react until the guy was fully frozen, only then cussing up a storm and throwing a gloved hand into the side of the ship. Anger radiated off him as he made quick pacing laps in place and you were grateful the child in your arms was nearly asleep. 

It didn’t happen often, but maintaining such a constant stoic exterior outside the ship made him lose control in those rare moments it was just the three of you. Of course, he never laid a hand on you or the kid in the entire you had been traveling with him (Maker, almost a year now) and he even tried to avoid you seeing him like that most of the time, but it still made you angry. Angry that he felt the need to release himself in that way to begin with. You and Din had a...relationship? You still didn’t know what to call it. There simply wasn’t a word for it. Din and the kid were your world every since he hired you to watch the little monster, and you two were his. You wanted to help him, make it so he didn’t feel that way ever. 

You were mad at your own helplessness, more than anything. 

So, this time you were going to confront him about it. Figure out what you could do, what he needed from you. 

You sat the now sleeping kid in his pram, tightly shutting the lid. Din was stalking toward the cockpit, his usual destination when he was in this kind of mood. In a move even you weren’t sure about, you stepped directly into his path, planting your hands on your hips and producing the firmest look you could. He huffed, hands clenching at his sides as your presence abrupptly stopped him. He titled his helmet down, being close enough to display the nearly head-length hight differance between the two of you. 

“What?” he nearly grunted. His tone was harsh, but you tried to keep yourself calm and your tone steady. “I just don’t want you to have to do this.” 

“Do what?” he replied, trying to sidestep you in an attempt to reach his original destination. A flash of anger ran through at his dismissal of you, and as he passed you, you grabbed his shoulder and pulled. He gave in, swinging to face you as your hand pulled on him, his back now to the ladder. He was tense under your hold, so you dropped your hand. Gesturing vaguely toward the cockpit with your other, you tried not to sound exasperated as you said, “This. All this. Closing yourself off from us after hunts, it’s not good for you, for any of us.”

He straightened his shoulders in front of you, shuffling as if uncomfortable. Finally, he ground out, “It’s for the best.” He tried again to retreat so you once again grabbed him, lower on his arm this time. “No, its not. Dealing with anything like this...its not healty. I...Please-just let me help you. How can I help?”

You tried to force your sincerity into your tone, amplifying it with your wide eyes and honest expression. He stood silent for a moment before raising the hand of the arm your held to grip onto your forearm as well. His fingers were tight against your skin, almost too tight. Your expression shifted, brows knitting together and looking down to see his gloved fingertips digging into your arm. 

While you stared at his grip on you, his other hands came up to caress your face. The feeling of rought lether against your cheek made you raise your eyes to his visor. He was tense, almost too tense, as he stood there. What the hell made him act like this?

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious of the closeness, while at the same time, wishing on anything that you had ever known that this touch would never end. The urge to question him, make him aware of the unprecedented closessness between you, sat on your tongue like an avail. 

Before you would object, he wrenched his hands from you. It was almost like he had lost himself for a moment, shaking his hands free of you slightly before turning and clambering up the ladder to the cockpit. 

As the metal hatch swung closed with a resounding clap, you simply stood there, shell-shocked from the simple touch of your “employer”. 

After all- that was all he was to you. Why did you- why should you care about how he felt after a hunt? So what is he was balling up his emotions, it was hardly your problem. 

As you slowly recovered, that single thought dominated your mind. He was just some man, some man who had the credits you needed to keep you alive in this messed up universe. It didn’t matter that the sight of his helm sent you into a haze, or that the way he cared for the child made your heart flutter faster than lightspeed. The way he made you feel didn’t- it couldnt- matter to you. You had a job to do, and that was it. 

The fading feeling of his hands on your body turned numb as you shook yourself from your space below the cockpit. You tried to block out his stomps of frustration as you stomped off yourself, hurdily checking in on the child you had just layed to bed. 

Unsuprsingly, the child was still awake. Staring up at you with large, unblinking eyes, you couldn’t help but feel that he was judging you for your lact of tact with his surrogate father. 

“What?” you whispered loudly. “He loves you, you don’t even know what its like to be on his bad side…”

You drifted off, realizing the futility of venting to a creature that was unable to speak for itself. Well, at least it made you feel better somewhat. Regardless, your eyes softened and your tone lightened, once again speaking to the child in your care- “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to think of your dad… He’s just so difficult- such a man’s man, determined to let his stress build up until it kills him”. 

Not that you cared of course, as long as you got paid. 

Well- that was what you tried to tell yourself at least. In reality, his attitude made you scared- for him. He came back from every hunt beat up, and wound up. Wound up so tight that you knew it would kill him faster than his less-than-safe hunting stategity. 

But maker knows you would rather die before brining that up to than Mandolorain. Your were his employee, after it. It wasn’t your place to speak to him about his feeling, let alone your feelings about him. 

So you once again stifled those pangs of concern, instead directing that energy into preparing the cabin for the long trip through hyperspace to drop this latest bouty. 

After securing the child, you made your counts around the small space on the lower deck, strapping in equipment and ensuring you had the need supplies to make the days-long jump. It wasn’t unlike Din to forget such physical neccesiciies like food and drink for himself, but it was your job to keep the child, and by extension yourself, alive. 

Moving along the back wall, you counted in your head the limited number of rashion packs you had left. Your mind drifted toward the next time you would see him, most likely handing him up a lukewarm meal into the cockpit, only dreaming of what he looked like when he finally relaxed and had himself a proper meal. 

Before your mind could fall fully into imaganined what his uncovered face looked like, a crash drew your attention. 

You jumped, twisting suddenly toward the harsh sound only to see a blur of movement. Your heart jumped a beat as your eyes struggled to focus in the dim light of the cabin. 

The breath caught in your throught slowly released as you realized the simple issue. A pile of crates had collapsed, toppling over one another right in front of the carbonite freezer. You sighed, trying to dispel the sudden adrenaline in your system. Glacing back at the pram to confirm the child did not stir, you slowly turned to the pile of boxes. 

You told yourself fixing this problem was enough for the night, and began stacking up the mismanaged crates in a pile most likely to stay out of the grumpy Mando’s way. His dismissive demnor once again reared up in your mind as you lifted each crate, making you question the very worth of this gig before you heard a slight hissing noise. 

Just as you turned to look at the pram, sure the child had found his way out once more, a sudden smoke filled the air with a lound whistle. Your sight went a dusty white as you threw your arms out, struggling to get your barings in the sudden fog. 

Before you could grab anything, you felt a wet thing through itself against you. Its weight pushed you to the ground, your head cracking against the metal floor with a deafening thud. Lights flashed against your closed eyelids, and you felt the thing above you slowly find its bearing, slowly find you. Its-his- wet finger slid up your dazed body to find your throat, slippery digits struggling to gain purchase on your slender neck. 

It was all you could do to stay consciousness as pressure began to cut off your air, your blood. Your own fingers slid across those on your neck, desperately trying to pry the grip from your neck. Your awareness was slow, but you knew the sour smell of fresh carbonite anywhere. Din’s bounty was lose, and even as you desperately tried to call for him, you felt no air- no sound- leave your mouth. 

Black dots flashed across your eyes as you thought of the child, thought of his father- neither of which could help you now. Heels kicking uselessly against the ground, you mustered one final shout in your own mind, begging for help, begging for anything- before you heard a familiar, childish coo and a thudding of metal boots.

#din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin/you #the mandolarian #mandalorian fanfic #mando x reader #ao3 #star wars fanfiction

[writing-for-life]

Hey Dear. I highly admire your wisdom and opinions around The Sandman Universe and I’d love to come back to Morpheus’ end and his long way to his fatal fall. Even if he has chosen to go down this road, with all of these alternative exits along his way I still wonder: It all started with that wonderful allegory of „Seeking Destruction“ in Brief Lives. Maybe Neil’s quote „You cannot seek Destruction and return unscathed“ is a key or hint to the question who wanted to destroy Dream? Is it really possible that our good old endless friends Destruction is the one behind? That even when he left his realm it’s still his nature, to destroy (Morpheus) and make something new?! Loki the great manipulator talked about a higher instance that uses him. Was it Destruction? Could he has done it out of what… incomprehension towards Dreams way to rule his own realm or just because of being… destructive?!

Adding as usual: Send me your asks, everyone—I love them!

Thank you so much, friend, and such good questions!

Honest answer: No one truly wanted to destroy Dream apart from Dream himself. Even Desire, who is arguably most out to get him, didn't really in my view. Did they want to teach him a lesson? Yes. Did they want to hit him where it hurt? Also yes. They are just diametrically opposed despite being surface level similar. But when Desire notices it is truly happening, that Dream is on a path with no backing out, they are scared and fairly close to losing their bearings. And their speech during The Wake shows that they just wished they hadn't been in each others' lives and might have both been better for it. Also: They even tried to warn him at the beginning of Brief Lives. And they told Tiffany about it, too. For Desire, the A Midsummer Night's quote also comes true (and how funny is it that we get an explicit mention of both desire and dream here?:

They only see the prize, their heart's desire, their dream... But the price of getting what you want, is getting what you once wanted.

They think they want to destroy Dream (or maybe not even that. It's really cosmic level "throwing dummies out of the pram" with them. They need a get along shirt, is what I'm saying 🤣). But once Desire gets what they want, it's all not that clear-cut anymore.

Who is at fault or: The Endless as concepts

I guess to look deeper into who is at fault, it all boils down to really having to see the Endless as concepts, and I personally don't think it started only with Brief Lives--it started much, much earlier. At least (!) in "The Sound of her Wings"--I think people often misunderstand it solely as Death setting Morpheus' head straight and him being reminded of his function again. Which is true to a degree. But I firmly believe this is actually the issue where Morpheus decides death is his way out. She gave him "much to think about". He "hears her wings". His responsibilities can wait for a moment (that's the only time you'll ever hear him saying that).

Dream has always been closest to Death--she gives him solace and comfort, he considers death a gift. I recommend reading the poem in issue #8 again.

Death is before me today:    like the recovery of a sick man,    like going forth into a garden after sickness. Death is before me today:    like the odor of myrrh,   like sitting under a sail in a good wind. Death is before me today:    like the course of a stream;   like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house. Death is before me today:   like the home that a man longs to see,   after years spent as a captive.

Then look at that last stanza. That is his takeaway. That is what it feels like to him. He is that man who spent years in captivity. He longs to see that home--he wants to die. It's already in plain sight here.

And yes, all the other siblings are conceptual as well.

We meet Destiny the first time in #7, "Sound and Fury", and we already get a hint that he is worried to turn the pages of his book--which could be considered foreshadowing that it is possible for Morpheus to die (which shouldn't be the case from all we know up until there).

We meet Desire and Despair for the first time in issue 10, and while people focus a lot on Desire wanting to destroy Dream, I'd like to propose the following: Dream, at this stage, already desires death. Whether he does so consciously or subconsciously doesn’t really matter. So if we see the twins as purely conceptual, they just heard his call:

He is in a state of despair, and he desires to die.

It's always been in Dream to feel like that, for much longer. But this is where it gets really obvious. He made that choice two issues beforehand. Desire always meddles because that's what Desire does. They hear your call and make you want, no matter if it's good for you or not. We see this with literally everyone they are ever involved in. And sometimes giving one thing to someone takes something away from another. Plus, they flippin' saved the Universe with Dream, so they definitely have it in them to do good (even if not always for the most ethical reason). After the reset, they just remember flashes of the wrong (or shall I say right?) stuff, like using dream vortices to get to Dream.

He goes on a journey with Delirium in Brief Lives to seek Destruction. Why did Delirium choose him? Because he's the only one (unlike his siblings, who all sent Delirium away) who is receptive. One could think Dream is in a mildly delirious state after Thessaly left him. And that's why he is so on and off with Delirium. He has moments of clarity when he knows it's a shitty idea, when he knows it affects other people, when he calls it off because he feels responsible for Ruby's death, when he knows it isn't right. And then Death (!!!) tells him off because he "hurt Delirium", and he keeps going. He still seeks Death. And he finds Destruction.

That's all so deeply metaphorical, I don't even know where to start.

Is Destruction behind it?

No. If we subscribed to that thought, Death would actually be a much more likely culprit, but she isn't either. Or she is. Just like all the siblings are and aren't. Destruction is just what he is conceptually, just like all the other siblings are.

It is Dream himself who orchestrated all of it, consciously or subconsciously (both really). And when you look at when he meets what sibling, it all becomes really crystal clear (I actually have a meta about this in the making, I'll tag you when it's done).

If anything, Destruction wanted to help him, tell him to walk away. He says this to Daniel in The Wake as well--that there's basically a way out if he can't do it anymore. But Destruction's way is not Morpheus!Dream's way, neither is it likely to ever be Daniel!Dream's way.

So I guess conceptually yes, he destroys and hence creates something new (which ties in nicely with him visiting Daniel!Dream and actually being the first one who shows true care towards him). But the impulse always comes from Dream I think. Just like with all his other siblings.

Whenever he is closest to someone or meets one of his siblings, it tells us something about his state of mind. Is this a chicken and egg problem, as in: Does he make them do it or do they make him do it? Well, the Endless exist because sentient beings make it so, not the other way around. So he meets whomever he meets because he calls for them, so to speak. At least that's how I see it.

Who is that higher instance?

I am fairly certain that the higher instance Loki talks about is Dream himself. Loki transgressed majorly in Season of Mists, and Dream twisted his arm into a deal at the end of SoM. We never find out at that point what the deal is, but yeah--it's probably fairly safe to assume it's "that one".

Also: If Dream hadn't commissioned Shakespeare, Puck wouldn't have been on the loose.

And even in Dream Hunters (so even further back in time), he already "learned lessons"--especially about existential dread (the Onmyōji), but also about doing the right thing out of love (both the monk and the fox), even if it leads to your own demise (the monk).

And even in Overture, we get hints that he might have had an epiphany that there's another Dream in the future (that whole "time flies" panel, using the saeculum etc). Morpheus gets an inkling it might be a future version of himself that sends the saeculum back in time. How much of it he remembers and whether it is fragmented after the reset will of course forever stay a mystery; but it quite frankly doesn’t make sense that he doesn’t remember because we get too many hints he does.

Suffice it to say: He's been baiting the traps for a while (and even Death tells him so before she takes his hand), literally hundreds of years, but issue #8 is really where everything is starting to fall into place.

And that’s because the fishbowl changed him. He staved it off for as long as he could stay aloof and detached. But once he entered the realm of human experience, as Frank McConnell called it in his intro to the Kindly Ones, he was done for...

Now, whether he wanted it to happen exactly the way it did—that’s an entirely different question, because I don’t think he did. Maybe he had planned for a slightly more, shall we call it elegant exit, but he backed himself into a corner with his rigid sense of duty until the way it went remained the only way out if he wanted to prevent more damage to what he cared for—the Dreaming.

Woah, blabbering away as usual, thanks again for the ask!

#the sandman #dream of the endless #morpheus #sandman #sandman meta #sandman bookclub #asks answered #send asks #destruction of the endless #loki the sandman #sandman book club #the sandman meta #sandman spoilers #sandman comics spoilers

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

Chapter 12 Nemo dat quot non habet (No one gives what they do not have) - Cartagena Part 2

I am so sorry for the lateness. Writer's block is a bitch and... well, you know.

Taglist: @glitterypirateduck @letsreadallday @jamesrifftapes @mmyrrhh @sofasoap

My beloved sister @mmyrrhh deserves double the mention because it was because of her push that I could finally finish this... and it got too long to fit in one part, so expect another, I hope smaller, later this week.

Warnings: None, just stupid awkward fluff.

Previous / Masterlist / Next

The day had started with a sour mood for everyone, that was true.

Now, in the late hours of the afternoon, strolling around the ruins of the… Roman Neighbourhood or whatever it was called, it seemed everyone’s mood had improved.

To be honest, Simon had conflicting feelings about undercover operations. On the one hand, he hated them. Being in the open, without the protection of his team, without Price, without visible weapons, without gear.

Without Ghost. As naked as you can be. Pretending to be normal.

On the other hand, he liked the normality. The day-to-day life. Waking up, having a nice cuppa in the balcony of their rented apartment before going down to the nearest café to have proper breakfast. Driving from one place to another, walking to one place or another, sitting down somewhere random to have lunch, just… living.

The light banter, the laughter, Christine’s thigh pressed against his underneath the table. Pretending to be normal.

And now, walking around the open air museum during the late hours of the afternoon, following Gabi, Johnny and Christine, and listening to their endless chatter about this and that, he thought that maybe he could get used to it. To being normal.

If only he deserved it.

‘‘Am starving!’’ Johnny complained, with his arms wrapped around Gabi’s slim waist and pretending to bite her shoulder after moving the strap of her sundress, making her squeal. ‘‘When are we eating?’’

‘‘After we finish the visit, you cheeky idiot’’ Gabi laughed, patting his cheek when he grumbled against her neck something about perishing from starvation. ‘‘You ate two steaks not even three hours ago!’’

‘‘As if that could keep satisfied that pit he has for stomach’’ Christine commented idly, busy taking photos of a mosaic with her mobile phone. Simon stood silently beside her, waiting patiently. She stopped everywhere to take photos of the ruins. A column here, a mosaic there, part of a road, the remains of a house. He just waited, enjoying the quiet hum coming from her, almost drowned by the chatter of the rest of the people visiting the site. She was wearing her mask again because of the crowd, but the happy light in her eyes made up for everything.

‘‘Ah’ll haf ye keen tha…’’

‘‘English, MacTavish’’ Simon grumbled, but when Christine looked up at him saw by the wrinkles around his eyes that he was grinning under his own mask. And she could hear a chuckle when the Scot swore at him and Gabi started to chide him about it.

They walked after the happy couple, in comfortable silence, to the next section of the open air museum. Some people looked at them strangely, and Christine ended up giggling quietly, which made Simon look down at her.

‘‘What?’’

‘‘Nothing, it’s just… funny’’ She shrugged, moving slightly to avoid being bumped into by a small family pushing a pram. ‘‘They are walking in front, all lovey-dovey, and we are following them, with masks on, as if we were the bodyguards or something. People are looking at us weirdly’’

‘‘Bodyguards’’ Simon grunted, earning another giggle from her. ‘‘I’d sooner sell him out to the highest bidder’’

‘‘No, you wouldn’t’’ Christine laughed, nudging lightly his forearm with her elbow, and he rumbled a laugh under his mask. No, he wouldn’t. He would protect Johnny until his last drop of blood. As he’d do for any of the 141, past or present.

‘‘I would’’ He insisted, just so she would laugh again, ignoring the people that moved away to avoid crashing into him. She moved a bit to walk behind him to do the same, with her quiet chuckle.

‘‘No, you wouldn’t!’’

Simon shook his head, still grinning like a fool underneath the fabric. Why was it so easy to just…

His train of thought was harshly interrupted when a rowdy group of young men – in their early twenties, he thought – crossed their path, coming from the museum section they were walking to. Laughing and chatting loudly, not really paying attention to where they were going or who they were bumping into. By the looks and language, Brit tourists.

Johnny was swift to move Gabi away, scowling at them when one of the tourists almost stepped on her feet, but the lad didn’t even notice. Too busy with the mates, maybe even too tipsy in spite of the early hour.

Without thinking, when they were almost upon them, Simon’s right hand darted out and grabbed Christine’s left wrist, pushing her behind him, allowing them to pass. One or two looked up at him, blinking and their faces falling at the dark, cold look in his brown eyes, but they had the sensible thought of just rushing past.

Satisfied, he continued walking, and it wasn’t after some steps that he realized what he had done, and a cold, piercing sense of fear formed a knot in his throat and gut. He grabbed her hand. Without permission or even thinking. What if she was triggered. Hell, he was tempted to tear his hand away as if bitten by a venomous snake, feeling the soft skin of a woman under his fingers and palm for the first time in… he didn’t even remember.

The moment he relaxed his fingers, opening them to release her wrist, her fingers slid softly along his palm, until they were intertwined with his. Her nimble, delicate fingers laced with his rough, calloused ones. Hands that had strangled one man to death together.

Simon almost didn’t dare to look down at her, feeling the heat in his face and his ears burning and for a moment missing the full balaclava, but he couldn’t help it. Christine was looking away, seemingly interested in a wall mosaic as they walked following Gabi and Johnny, but what he could see of her face was red. As a strawberry. Like he was sure his own face was.

But the corners of her eyes told him she was smiling, and that made him feel stupid, and weak… and good.

Half an hour later, Johnny’s hunger was out of control, or that was what he declared dramatically to Gabi, assuring her he was on the verge of starving. Gabi rolled her eyes, not buying it in the slightest, but decided that they better get going and find somewhere to eat, or she’d have a mutiny in her hands.

‘‘Let’s go find Simon and Christine and ask them if we should go find somewhere to have dinner…’’

‘‘Aye, we should’’

She rolled her eyes again, smiling at Johnny’s eager tone, and allowed him to pull from her hand towards one of the last rooms of the museum. She could have sworn she had seen them going in there, and once they stepped inside, her eyes fell instantly on the tall, burly man holding…

Gabi blinked, and then started excitedly shaking Johnny’s hand, and grabbed his arm with her free hand,.

‘‘Johnny!’’ She whispered, with a wide grin. ‘‘Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, look, look, look!’’

‘‘Wha… what is it, what’s…?’’ Johnny looked in the direction she was pointing, startled, and his own jaw fell agape.

Ghost and Riot. Simon and Christine. Holding hands.

She seemed to be deep into one of her lengthy explanations about whatever, gesticulating with her right hand and pointing here and there… but her left hand was engulfed by Simon’s enormous hand, their fingers intertwined, for the little he could see.

‘‘Fuck, fuck, take a photo’’ Johnny fumbled in his pocket, trying to get his phone out, while Gabi gasped and tried to stop him. ‘‘Gaz ain’t gonna believe it’’

‘‘What do you mean take a photo?? If they catch you, you are dead’’ She hissed, looking at the other… couple? discreetly.

‘‘Everyone else is watching… aww shite’’ He grumbled when in that precise moment that he managed to take his phone out and unlock it, Simon and Christine turned around and walked towards them, with her still talking and gesticulating with her free hand, and him looking down at her, listening, with his other hand in his pocket.

‘‘They look so cute’’ Gabi smiled, resting her head for a moment against Johnny’s arm, sliding her own hand in his. He smiled as well, thinking that maybe cute wasn’t the term he’d use to describe his friends to their face, and returned the phone to his pocket, squeezing her fingers affectionately.

‘‘Sorry, you must be hungry, I lost track of time’’ Christine apologized once they were standing in front of them, still holding hands with Simon. Johnny noticed with amazement that they didn’t even seem to be aware of it. ‘‘I mean, it’s early by Spanish standards but we can go look for somewhere to have dinner’’

‘‘And then clubbing!’’ Gabi giggled, and Christine rolled her eyes.

‘‘Tomorrow we kinda have something important to do, as much as you’d like to think we’re really on holiday…’’

‘‘Dinner first, then we talk’’ Johnny tugged from Gabi’s hand, ignoring his girlfriend’s giggles, and raised an eyebrow while staring at Simon. The bastard looked totally ignorant of what him and Christine were doing. ‘‘So… wanna tell me something or what’’

Simon looked down at him, his dark brown eyes soft for once. For fuck’s sake, he even seemed… content. As much as he could look like it, with his face half covered, but Johnny could count with the fingers of one hand the times he had seen Simon’s eyes without the cold, guarded look.

‘‘I guess we should tell you’’ Simon shrugged, with his usual deadpan, gruff voice, and that made Johnny’s curiosity get the best of him.

‘‘Tell me what?’’

‘‘I don’t know if you’ll be able to stomach it, Johnny’’ Christine followed Simon’s lead, her voice just as deadpan. Both bastards looked absolutely serious and Johnny felt cold sweat.

‘‘Out with it, what the fuck have you done’’

‘‘Got married yesterday’’ Simon commented, cool as a cucumber, and next to him, Christine nodded. Gabi gasped, covering her mouth with her free hand. Johnny felt a chill running down his spine.

‘‘What’’

‘‘In Benidorm, when we went to change the SUV and buy knives… I’m sorry, Johnny’’ Christine sighed, her blue eyes looking up at her friend with something that seemed half amusement and half seriousness. ‘‘We saw one of those chapels where you can get married right away and…’’

‘‘Yer…!’’ Johnny shouted, shaking off Gabi’s hand and starting to wildly wiggle one finger right under Christine’s nose, ignoring the looks of the passers-by. ‘‘Ye fucken’ asstards! Yer pullin’ ma leg! Ye’d never!’’

‘‘I’m sorry, Johnny…’’ She tried to maintain the deadpan tone, but she couldn’t. Her blue eyes sparkled with glee and she giggled while he kept wiggling his finger under her nose, sputtering with his thick Scottish accent to the point that none of them understood what he was complaining about. Then, he turned his attention to Simon and his smug look.

‘‘Yer gonna get it. Am her man of honour and ye won’t take that off meh!’’

‘‘Boys, boys…’’ Gabi grabbed Christine’s arm and forcefully pried her away from Simon and towards the exit, both of them laughing. ‘‘I swear, they’re like little kids…’’

‘‘Man of honour, with gown and all that? Or that skirt you Scots wear?’’ Simon chuckled, shaking his head, and even indulged in carefully nudging Johnny’s shoulder with his fist. Awkwardly. Sincerely. The way Johnny’s anger vanished and how his baby blue eyes lit up made Simon feel good.

‘‘Ye’ll find out, ye bastard, ye’ll be at the altar!’’ He saw with satisfaction a flash of surprise on his friend’s eyes, that quickly turned into something else. Something darker, and sadder, and that he didn’t quite like. He cleared his throat. ‘‘But first, dinner’’

‘‘Dinner’’ Simon nodded, both of them following the two women. Before reaching them though, he looked away from Johnny, awkwardly. ‘‘I thought you’d be mad at not being my best man’’

Johnny almost stopped in his tracks, his eyes boring a hole into Simon’s broad back as he continued walking. Then, he rushed to his side, almost tempted to shove him.

‘‘Thought that’d be Price’s place’’

‘‘Well…’’ Simon cleared his throat. Twice. Still awkwardly looking away and feeling the heat in his ears, and Johnny’s eyes still on him. Laughing, no doubt. ‘‘That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want you there’’

‘‘Oh, ah will be’’ Johnny laughed, and slapped Simon’s back with such force that it resonated in the museum entrance and made people look at them. Even Gabi and Christine looked back briefly before continuing walking to go outside. ‘‘I’m her man of honour’’

Simon grunted and rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile underneath the mask.

‘‘You’re going too fast’’

‘‘Ye’were holding hands’’ Johnny laughed and tried to grab his wrist, only to be swatted away firmly. ‘‘Given how the two of ye are, that’s practically a…’’

‘‘Shut the fuck up’’ The Lieutenant hissed, but didn’t really look angry. ‘‘We were blending in. We looked like your bodyguards. We’re supposed to be two couples on holidays’’

‘‘Sure, sure, if that helps ye sleep…’’

‘‘I can hold your hand instead’’ Simon looked down at his friend, and winked. Winked. ‘‘Or I could hold your neck and throttle you until you wipe that stupid smirk off your face’’

‘‘And here ah thought we had something’’ Johnny pretended to sigh, and smiled when his answer was one of Simon’s deep, rumbling chuckles. ‘‘Come on mate, we’re gonna have a nice night today, ah jus’ feel it’’

‘‘Are you talking to your penis, MacTavish?’’ Simon teased, almost feeling scared of how good he felt. Carefree, playful, even giddy. Normal. Damned undercover missions. Never knew what to expect or how to act.

Walking beside him while following their women down the street, Johnny snorted, with his wide, joyful grin. Life was being good.

‘‘Nope, but ah sure am talking to a dick!’’

#call of duty #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #cod oc #cod original character #call of duty modern warfare 2 #call of duty original character #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfiction #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #gabriella gabi cruz #simon riley x christine vega #simon ghost riley x christine riot vega #christine riot vega #christine vega #riot vega #ghost riley #soap mactavish #john soap mactavish #cod soap #cod ghost #cod riot #call of duty oc #cod fic #call of duty fic

[juneknight]

Slow Degrees

Chapter One |

“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.” — Voltaire

OR: the fic where Steven is a practically a blushing maiden and you corrupt him step by step.

About this: fem!un-named original character/Steven Grant. Explicit. 5k

You walk with a purpose that sets you apart. 

This Saturday, the British Museum is crowded. People meander from one spot to another, their steps slow and eyes on the exhibits. Bloody good on them for using the weekend to experience some culture, but it’s bloody terrible for you: side-stepping prams, dodging couples with clasped hands lest you burst through their linked arms, nearly tangling yourself in the leash of one toddler whose mother gives you the stink-eye. 

The gift shop is even worse somehow, and then you see that the stuffed animals are having a two-for-one sale and you feel liable to scream. Fate is like a teenager on the bus, sticking out its foot for you to trip over. But you haven’t come all this way for nothing. Without any sense of pride, you thrust yourself through the ring of children blockading the stuffed animals and begin to wade through the synthetic furs and empty marble eyes. 

“No, no, no,” you groan under your breath. You spot a black stuffie in the arms of a girl no more than six and have to struggle not to snatch it from her—not that it would do you any good. When she turns, you see that it isn’t the animal you’re looking for. No tall, sleek ears nor a long muzzle. You can’t help but look up towards the heavens and mutter, “Why are you punishing me?” 

“Can I help you?” 

You whirl.

“Maybe,” you admit while you fish your phone from your pocket, glancing at the nametag pinned to the employee’s lapel. “Donna. Don’t ask why, but I’m desperately looking for this stuffed animal.” 

She glances at the phone and steps around to the other side of the 360-degree-display. Face twisting, she points to an empty section wedged between stuffies resembling alligators and hippos. She gives you a look of contrived sympathy cultivated through years of customer service no doubt. “Sorry,” she says. “Looks like that’s been a popular one.” 

“You’re out?” you ask, fingers itching to grab her by her business-casual blouse and shake her. “You’re positive? Because I need this; I’ll pay double, triple whatever the marked price is. I’m desperate.” 

“I can see that,” says Donna dryly. “But—” 

“I’m sorry,” another voice breaks in. “Maybe I can help?” 

Your eyes track the sound of the soft accent. Standing just a few feet away, boxes of indeterminable tourist-trap merchandise in his arms, is a man. The first thing you notice about him are his eyes—tired. Dark brown, dark bruises beneath that hint at many sleepless nights. The next thing you notice are the curls: inky, charmingly chaotic. A small, wary smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he glances between you and Donna, shifting on his feet to try and make the load in his arms more comfortable. 

The last thing you notice: he is so absolutely handsome. 

“You, help? Doubtful,” Donna says, just as you say, Absolutely. 

You tilt your phone towards him. His face lights up in recognition, and for a moment, the seed of hope in your heart blossoms, threatening to break through soil. He’s going to be able to help you. You can feel it. But then his eyes move past you towards the display and his smile falls. 

“Oh, no,” he murmurs. “Let me just pop these behind the counter and then I’ll help you look, yeah? There might be one hiding amongst the others. Kids don’t always set them back where they’re supposed to.” 

“Steven,” says Donna, voice tight with disapproval. “The display is empty.” 

“Please,” you grit through your teeth at her. “I said I would pay, didn’t I? I have eighty pounds on me, and if you direct me to a cashpoint, I can withdraw even more.” 

In the face of your insistence, Donna gives in, though you can tell by the thin press of her lips that she isn’t happy about it. Rolling her eyes, she waves a dismissive hand at the both of you and turns away, stalking off to some other part of the gift shop. 

“Pleasant, isn’t she?” You glance at Steven, your mood already lightening at the earnest kindness on his handsome face. “Are you her boss?” 

“Am I her—oh god, if only she’d heard you say that.” 

Together, you and Steven scour the display from top to bottom, but to no avail. 

“Can I ask, why the urgency?” he calls, elbow deep in stuffed scarab beetles. “Not a lot of people offerin’ to empty their bank accounts for Egyptian-themed stuffed animals.” 

“It’s for my nephew,” you admit. “He has autism, and he’s absolutely fixated on Egypt right now. Has been for years, really. Last time they were in London visiting me, my sister bought him that stuffie, and apparently he’s grown quite attached. Yesterday, she called me about an electrical fire at her building in the flat below hers. I guess they won’t let anyone back in until they know it’s safe, not even to get their effects. They’re staying with our mum in Leeds, but he’s taking it so hard, being in a different place and all that without anything familiar. She asked me if I would try to find another of these loveys for him and send it through the post overnight, but she couldn’t remember the museum she’d bought it at. You know how many museums there are in London?” 

“Too many, by your count I would imagine,” he says in sympathy.

“Spot on. Do you have any nieces or nephews?”

He smiles, eyes looking a little distant and wistful. “I’m an only child. Always wanted a sibling though. I guess my mum had her hands full enough with me.”

Usually, small talk is a form of torture, but you can’t help but want to press, to know more about him. Already you have begun squirreling away facts about him. His name is Steven, with a V. He works at a gift shop in the British Museum. He is an only child. “Were you rotten when you were young, then?”

“Aren’t all teenage boys?” He smirks, a quirking of his lips that makes him look years younger. Mischief makes a home in him, you can tell. But you can also tell that he isn’t rotten, not at all. Not many grown men would wade through stuffed animals for a stranger. Bruised, maybe, like an apple that has been dropped too many times by careless hands. But aren’t those apples just as sweet as any other?

“You don’t strike me as someone who has ever misbehaved a day in their life,” you tease. All at once you realize that both of you have stopped rifling through the toys. Perhaps it is just in your head, but electricity bounces between you two, charging the air until your hair feels liable to stand on end. Your voice has dropped on instinct into something smoother, warmer, the voice you usually reserve for flirting. Steven doesn’t blush per say, but his mouth can’t seem to close and he looks a little warmer than he was a moment ago. 

A little girl jabs her sharp elbow into your side, working her way in between the two of you to get access to some falcon shaped animal on a lower tier of the display. The look she casts up at you suggests that the ache in your ribs is entirely your own fault. 

“Well,” Steven says, clearing his throat. He can’t meet your eye. “Unfortunately, it looks like we’re fresh out of your nephew’s favorite.”

The moment and whatever charge had been growing between you two has popped like a soap bubble. Your eyes burn. How will you have the heart to call your sister and tell her that you’ve come up empty handed? 

“There’s one last place I could check,” he says. “But if Donna finds out I took you, she’ll have me sacked for good. Come on then, let’s be quick.”

It is cooler in the stockroom, wall-to-wall Egyptian goodies hibernating under the fluorescent lights. Out of respect, you linger just inside the doorway, unwilling to take advantage of his generosity by looking around in an area where customers clearly aren’t meant to be. 

Steven disappears for a long time behind some boxes—knocks over a stack of overpriced, bagged gummies that you nearly enter the room just to help him pick up—before reappearing looking even sadder than before. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says. 

You try and scrape together a smile for his sake; he looks about as devastated as you feel. After the three other museums you had visited across the city today, one would think you would be used to the disappointment. “It’s certainly not your fault. Not unless you’ve got a stash of Bastet stuffies you’re hoarding at home. There are a few more places I can—“

“Sorry, so sorry—Bastet? You showed me a picture of Anubis.”

You blink. “No. Here, look—says right here on the website that this is Bastet.”

“Bastet takes the form of a cat or sometimes a lioness depending on what dynasty you’re—well, anyway, that’s not a cat, is it? That’s Anubis, a jackal. Website must have it wrong. You never saw the stuffed animal?”

“Once, the day they bought it, but it’s been ages.”

“Could he be mistaken about the name then?”

“I’d trust him more than I’d trust myself when it comes to such matters.”

“Then,” and he pulls from between the counter an extremely similar stuffed animal to the one you showed him on your phone, except the ears are curved and feline, the muzzle not nearly so long and thin, “this is your goddess. Cheers.”

You clutch your heart, flooded with relief and triumph so keen that a happy shout bubbles up in your throat, just barely able to be swallowed. “Thank you so, so much, Steven. I really can’t explain how much I appreciate you going above and beyond for me. It’s going to make a big difference to my nephew, that’s for sure.”

The praise flusters him, that not-quite-warmth growing high in his cheeks as he looks away, unable to meet your eyes. The angle only emphasizes the sharp line of his jaw. On instinct, you glance at his hands which fiddle with a nearby mountain of ankh-shaped erasure. No ring. 

He takes you back to the gift shop and rings up the stuffed animal, only charging you the normal price despite your insistence that you would pay more. Passing you your receipt, he gives you a smile and the most endearing wave you’ve ever seen. Maybe it’s in your head, the sweet sadness you see in him. The reluctance he has to part ways. If it is, then oh well. You’ve never been one to shy away from a risk when the reward could be so sweet. 

You pluck a ballpoint pen from his side of the counter, turn over your receipt, and scribble down your name and number. “If you’re interested, I would love to take you out sometime. To repay you.”

He looks at the number with wide eyes. “Oh, that’s—really, you don’t have to. It’s my job, innit?”

Firmly, you slide the number back towards him. “If you’d rather not, just toss it. After I leave though. Then, if you don’t call, I can just pretend you lost it.”

Without another word, gift bag in hand, you turn and begin to sift your way through the busy shop. You spot Donna by a stand of puzzles and make sure to stop and point to Steven, insisting, “He deserves a raise!” Her face twists as if she’s swallowed something sour. Her own tongue, hopefully. 

Before you’ve even made it out of the building, you have your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, calling your sister with the good news. 

*

Days pass, and then a week, and then two. Sometimes Steven crosses your mind: when banners go up advertising a new exhibit opening at the British Museum, when you spot a man of similar build ahead of you in line at the coffee shop. He never calls, which you understand. Perhaps he has a partner or you misread the situation. You try to just be grateful that he helped you find what you were looking for, and you put the handsome gift-shoppist from your mind. 

Until he does call. 

Another Saturday, though this one doesn’t find you with blisters on your heels from running all over London. Instead, your feet are curled up beneath you, a bowl of sugary cereal balanced on your lap while you alternate between spooning breakfast into your mouth and scrolling through the news on your phone. It’s a bloody morbid way to start the day, thanks to the state of the world, but it’s a habit that is hard to shake. 

All at once, a news story about the latest political drama disappears, a strange phone number lighting up the screen. 

“Really,” you mutter to yourself. “Telemarketers even on Saturday? Don’t you people bloody rest?” 

Swiping to answer, you tuck the phone to your ear and noisily slurp a bite of cereal. “City morgue,” you chirp. 

Silence on the other end, and then Steven says: “Sorry, I must—did you say city morgue?” 

You choke, inhaling milk and sugar and nearly upending the bowl on your lap as you scramble to set it on the table beside you. Wiping milk from your chin with the back of your hand, you clear your throat as quietly as you can. 

“Steven? Is that you?” 

“Oh, it is you! I thought I recognized your voice, but then I thought maybe you’d given me the wrong number on purpose which, well, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it? Would be strange for a person to go around offering fake numbers, they usually just give them out to creeps who won’t take no for an answer, don’t they?” 

“They do, and you are far from that.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m rambling aren’t I? It’s just that I can’t believe I actually called you. Not that I haven’t been thinking about it, got the number memorized by now. But when I picked up my phone, I swear I was just thinking about calling my mum like I usually do on the weekends, and somehow I must have dialed your number instead–” 

“Would you like to hang up so you can call her?” you tease. 

“I’d like to take you to dinner,” he says, pleasantly surprising you. 

“Yes,” you agree easily. “But I’ll be the one taking you to dinner. I offered, didn’t I?” 

The two of you agree on a time that evening, considering neither of you have plans (and you’ve waited long enough for dinner with the gift-shoppist, thanks very much). 

Before you say goodbye, you tell him: “Steven? I’m really glad you called.” 

“Me too,” he breathes. 

After hanging up, you can’t help but spread yourself out on the sofa, stretching like a satisfied cat who has caught the canary and drank all the cream and whatever else cat’s enjoy doing. Thank you, Steven Gift-Shoppist’s mum, you think to yourself. 

*

“Lookit you,” Steven says, standing from the table when the maitre ‘d leads you across the dimly lit restaurant. It has a cozy atmosphere, perfect for couples with secluded tables tucked into nooks to give the illusion of privacy. Steven’s eyes trail over you from head to toe, lingering on the soft curves of your waist, the dress that clings to your figure. You’re showing a little more leg than you’re used to, but it’s worth it for the way his throat bobs at the smooth expanse of skin. “You look amazing.”

“So do you!” And he does—dark slacks and a form-fitting dress shirt, the collar open to reveal a glimpse of his tan throat. You see the chain of a necklace, though it disappears inside the fabric. His curls may be tamer by a fraction. Gods, he really is handsome, you think. How are you going to get through this dinner while thinking about setting your teeth into the warm, soft skin of his neck? Or tangling your fingers in his hair so that you can guide his mouth between your legs? 

It’s been too long since you’ve had sex, and far too long since you’ve had sex with someone who you felt so attracted to. A part of you—the part not including the bits between your legs—cautions you against coming on too strong. 

Slow and steady, you think, while he kisses both of your cheeks. He smells softly of cologne, and you have to let a measured breath out of your nose. Easier said than done. 

“I almost thought I had the wrong place,” he admits while helping you into your seat like a gentleman from an old black and white film. “Never been somewhere so fancy.”

It ends up being one of the best first-dates of your life. Steven’s humor is witty and sometimes biting, his education not formal but nonetheless robust. If there was any doubt that he was interested in you romantically, it fades in the face of his sweetly clumsy flirting. How a man so attractive and enjoyable could be out of practice dating is beyond you, but you’ve never been one to question a good thing when the universe drops it into your lap. You talk about every topic under the sun (that’s appropriate on a first date), and with every new detail you learn about the man, you find yourself being more and more charmed by him. 

Between the appetizers and entrees, you pull out your phone to show him a picture of your nephew asleep among a sea of blankets with Bastet tucked under one arm. Steven lights up, even looks a little choked. “Not often do I get to make an actual difference to someone with what I do,” he says. “Just a cashier, aren’t I?” 

“I’d like very much to see you again,” you say while he walks you out of the restaurant on his arm. There are only a few minutes until your cab arrives, so the two of you linger beneath the restaurant’s awning watching the busy London nightlife pass you by. 

“Really?” Steven asks.

“Of course.”

“I—I would like that too. Very much.” 

You shiver a little from the cold, goosebumps blooming on your exposed legs. Steven tucks you closer to himself, suffusing you with his warmth. The wine simmers sweetly in your belly, so you can’t blame the way your head swims on him entirely. But you feel a little drunk on him as well. The smell of him, the feel of his body beneath the thin dress shirt, the burning heat he throws off. When you glance toward him, your breath brushes against his neck. It’s his turn to shiver. 

It rests on the tip of your tongue to invite him back to your place. You’re a modern woman, if the connection was right, you would have no qualms about sleeping together on the first date (and Gods is the connection right). 

By your sides, his fingers brush against your own. Keeping your eyes on the busy London street, you take note of how very still he has become, as if he is holding his breath. Another brush, his calloused thumb brushing over your knuckle. Turning your hand over, he lets his fingers lace with your own. He lets out a sigh of relief. 

Here you are thinking about getting his trousers off, and he’s trying to scrape up the nerve to hold your hand. 

Slow, then, you think. You meet his eyes, dark like ink in the dim light, and he grins. Butterflies spread their wings in your tummy. I can do slow. 

*

But it isn’t just slow, is it? 

It’s glacial. Your fourth date arrives, and short of holding hands and the breathless, closed-mouth kisses he bestows on you before he sees you safely into your cab, there has been no forward momentum. 

There are benefits to the pace, though; the intimacy is divine. Tonight finds you both swimming beneath a blanket in his apartment, fingers tangled together while you watch a French drama. Steven has the subtitles on for your benefit, though you wouldn’t mind him translating, murmuring the lines to you in his warm voice. 

As the movie progresses, your positions meld together until he is mostly reclining with you nestled into his side. His every breath moves your body, his hand resting on your own, thumb making sweet passes over the pounding pulse of your wrist. 

The movie begins to pass in a blur, subtitles blending together. All you can think of is Steven beside you. The obscene warmth of his body. The masculine, clean scent of him. You angle your face upward into the hollow of his throat, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not close enough to kiss him. 

You sigh shakily, breath fanning across his skin. His throat bobs. A kiss couldn’t hurt, right? Your lips positively buzz with the urge to feel his skin beneath them.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you think, leaning in so that your softly-parted mouth can brush against his throat. Steven keeps clean shaven, but you have the feeling he’d be able to grow an amazing beard if the stumble beneath your lips is any indication. You’re close enough to hear the sound of him swallowing, his jaw clenching. 

“Is this okay?” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. 

“You’re killing me,” he whispers back. But he tips his head back to rest it against the couch, baring more of his throat to you. 

This time you press a kiss to his pulse. When you feel his heartbeat hammering beneath the thin skin, you nearly groan. His smell here is potent, the clean scent of his cologne, faded throughout the day. It’s enough to make your head go light and fuzzy. All of the sudden Steven gives a punched-out noise above you, and you realize that you’ve lapped your tongue against the hollow of his throat. 

“God in heaven,” he says. The hand which had been resting against the armrest clenches into a tight fist. 

“Should I stop?” you ask. Part of you is only teasing him, but part of you needs to know the answer. You’ve been working so hard to take things at Steven’s pace, but you were beginning to think that he needed you to make the first move. Either way, you didn’t want to be strongarming him into this; you wanted him to be a whole-hearted participant.  

“I–do you want to stop?” 

“Honestly? No. Not unless you’d like to, in which case, yes.” 

“In what world would I want you to stop?” he laughs breathily. “I mean, your mouth—oh god, I shouldn’t have said that. Now all I’m thinking about is your mouth.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve ever thought about my mouth?” you murmur. 

Steven goes stiff. You draw back, sure that you’ve made him uncomfortable. The flush on his face, clear even in the dim lighting of the flat, tells you that it isn’t that. He’s embarrassed. When he speaks, he stammers over his words: “I—do you mean?—well of course it, I mean—” 

You let him circle around the subject for only a few moments before your smile fades away. Is this normal shyness? You’ve had many partners in the past (though it has been longer than you’d like since your last), and you had never classified yourself as a blushing virgin. You couldn’t classify any of your past partners in that category either. But part of you wonders if Steven’s hesitance isn’t more than typical first-time-with-a-new-partner jitters. 

“Oh, no, I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Steven says when you draw back. “I just, I’m not sure what the right answer is, love—”

“No, no, you haven’t offended me, honest.”

That’s how the two of you end up cuddling and talking about your past sexual histories. Steven seems to find it easier to talk when you’re facing away from him, nestled in the hollow between his body and the couch, both of you watching the lights flare and dim just outside the flat window as cars come and go on the street. 

“What was your first time like?” you ask him.  

“I—well, to be honest, I don’t really remember.” 

You glance up at him, looking for any tells that he’s lying. But Steven isn’t even looking at you; his eyes are still on the window. Distant, brows a little low as if he’s racking his brain. Is it even possible to forget your first time? you wonder. Even if it was the most lackluster, boring occasion, don’t most people remember something? 

“Maybe it’s best that you’ve forgotten,” you jest weakly. “My first time wasn’t all that special.” 

“It wasn’t?” 

“Not really. I don’t even think I began enjoying sex until I was much older.” 

“Does it bother you that I’m not very experienced?” he asks. 

“Not at all. Does it bother you that I am?” 

He smiles. “Not at all. Someone has to know what they're doing, eh?”

“I know plenty that I’d like to do,” you tease. You test. 

Steven swallows, his eyes dipping down to your mouth for a moment. “Yeah?”

You hum. Shifting a little, you move to rest on top of him, your forearm braced against the armrest that his head lays on. Earlier, he said that you were killing him, but you don’t think he has any idea how much he’s killing you as well. Just having him beneath you, curls a mess, mouth parted as his breathing picks up, eyes unable to linger anywhere that isn’t your mouth. He already looks on the verge of being fucked out. 

“I am absolutely going to wreck you, you know that?” you murmur. 

Then you relax into him, letting your body rest against the hard, warm planes of his own. He’s already hard, shockingly erect and sizeable even beneath the restricting denim of his pants. His eyes slip shut at the pressure of your hips against him, at the crush of your breasts against his chest. Leaning down, you cover his mouth with your own. He meets you eagerly, all tongue and gently nipping teeth, tasting so sweetly of the dessert you had shared at the end of your dinner. When he groans, it vibrates through your body landing squarely between your legs. 

“God I want you,” you pull back to whisper against his lips. 

“I want you too,” he whispers. “I think I’d like to take things slow, though. Savor you. I don’t ever want to forget this.” 

“I like the sound of that. Should we stop, then?” 

“Bloody hell, no. Kiss me again.” 

So you do. And you do. And gods, you do. Your mouths are swollen, lips raw from the kisses you share. When you trail your burning tongue across the sharp angle of his jaw, Steven moans, a sound that has you groaning as well into the hollow of his throat. Besides the sound of your wet, slow kisses and the heaving breaths you share, the flat is silent. 

Opening your mouth, you drag the sharp line of your teeth across the stubble of his throat gently, and his hips jerk upwards, hard cock dragging along your lower stomach. 

“Ohmygod, do that again,” he gasps. 

You whine, shifting upwards so that the next time you drag your teeth against his skin, his cock presses against your aching center. It’s enough to have you gasping, toes curling in your socks. God, you’re wet. You can’t remember the last time someone made you this wet from foreplay, even, much less just some sensual kisses. But every reaction of Steven’s is so raw and honest and wrecked that you can’t help but tighten the muscles in your thighs, lean up and grind down against him hard. 

“Fuck, oh—oh fuck!” Steven’s hands grip at your thighs, knuckles turning pale. 

“You’re so hard for me, love,” you breathe just to watch the way his eyes squeeze tightly shut. You drag your clothed pussy along the hard line of him, relishing in the muted friction against your clit. You’ve never been the kind of person to hold back from something that feels good, so you let your body chase the feeling, grinding yourself against him again and again just to feel the zap of pleasure. “Gods, I’m so wet for you.” 

“You are?” Steven gasps. 

“Soaked, can’t you tell?” 

“I—” 

“Won’t be surprised if I soak your trousers. How the hell are you this bloody sexy? Your cock feels so good and you aren’t even inside me—” 

“Love, I—” the frantic lift of his voice combined with the sharp surge of pressure where he grabs at your waist has you freezing, lifting yourself up and away from him even if your cunt aches at his absence. 

“What is it? Are you alright?” 

His grip on your hips tightens as he urges you to rest your weight against him again, the cords in his neck standing in sharp relief. “Fuckfuckfuck don’t stop, oh fuck I’m cumming, I’m so sorry—“

“Fuck,” you breathe, resuming the ocean-like drag of your hips over his spasming cock. He’s cumming. From just a little dry humping. Like a teenager. 

God, you’d never been so turned on in your life.

#steven grant x reader #steven grant x oc

[melancholicheart]

All This Time- Chapter 1

cw: trans male pregnancy (mentioned), angst

“Creepin’ Jesus I wish someone told me how expensive this shit is.” A sigh.

“Stop swearing!” A small voice snipes.

“Sorry, love.”

Johnny isn’t wrong though, if someone had told him how expensive kids stuff was, specifically the school uniform and supplies, he might’ve accepted that offer to move back home.

He turns his nose up at the thought, he’s an independent person and he sure as shit doesn’t need his mother breathing down his neck over his parenting techniques.

“Papa look at the baba!”

Johnny follows his daughters gaze to a tiny child in a pram, the small boy grasping at his feet and pulling his socks off.

Johnny chuckles, “You used to be that little, y’know?”

A scoff, “Nae way Pa’, I big!”

“You are now, yeah, but you used to be so tiny. I still have your newborn outfit, the one I took you home in, I’ll show you when we’re home.”

“Don’t believe ya’ Pops.” She says indignantly.

Johnny chuckles. He’ll sure show her!

He pays for the astonishingly priced clothes and shoes for his girl, holding her hand with one hand and the bag of clothes with the other, heading back to the car to go home.

“I wan’ try!” She shrieks when Johnny goes to buckle her in, him taking a step back to let his daughter attempt it herself before securing her into her car seat.

Johnny gets into the front seat, heading towards home when he flicks a gaze at his daughter. She looks troubled.

“Elizabeth, babe, are you okay?” He asks, turning the radio down so he can hear her.

She nods and toys with her fingers, “Yeah Papa- s’just. School’s soon, yeah?”

“Yes, next month, are you nervous?” He asks.

She shakes her head, “I just- I wanted Daddy to come.”

Johnnys heart breaks. No, it crumples into tiny shreds and leaks out of his chest like blood from a bullet wound, “Oh Lizzie, love, I’m sorry. If he could come, I’m positive he would be here.”

She sniffs, “Wanna meet him.”

“I know, I want you to meet him too. Someday soon, darling, okay?”

Elizabeth nods, toying with the belt around her shoulders and leaving the conversation there.

They arrive home soon after.

Johnny carries his daughter inside, slung over his hip as he drags the worlds most expensive shopping inside in his free hand.

Opening the door is a struggle but soon he is inside their small two bed apartment.

He sends Elizabeth upstairs, asking her to take her new clothes and shoes up to her room.

Johnny sits on the couch with a thud, thoughts of Simon whirring around his mind. He eyes his lacklustre apartment, thinking back to the deal he and Simon had made.

‘You always have a place here, Si’

‘And if you move?’

‘I swear to stay here for at least five years, love, so don’t forget about it.’

He massages tension from behind his eyes, groaning in his own pity. Four years have passed, no word from Simon. No word from anyone. For all he knows, Simon could be- he grimaces.

Never did he imagine his love life being so pitiful that he’d still worry for a man he hasn’t seen for four years whilst raising the daughter he has no idea about.

Another groan.

Johnny grabs the box from beneath his coffee table, containing his photo album and a bunch of loose photos, equipment for tacking the pictures in and expensive pens for writing under the photos. Beneath it are all the letters he sent to Simon, envelopes taped back together with big, red ‘Return to Sender’ print on the front.

He flicks it open and stares at the very first photo, his beautiful daughter, the day she was born.

He laboured alone (for sixteen painful hours) before she was finally born (via an emergency c-section, nonetheless) on October 26th at 9:15AM. One of the wonderful nurses he had took photos of him meeting her for the first time.

Johnny hated seeing himself in some of them, his face red and tears streaming down his cheeks, but it was all worth it just to see her.

Elizabeth Ada MacTavish was a curious baby, staring at her Father intently the second she saw him, and immediately her first came down on his bare chest, holding onto him with her screwed fists.

Johnny smiles at the photo, running his finger over it, before flicking to the next page where there’s a photo of him and Simon.

The only photo, in fact, of him and Simon, and beneath it is written: Made it to The Big City! (Manchester)

Johnny chuckles at Simon’s scribble next to the photo and almost jumps out of his skin when there’s a knock at the door.

Living in an apartment means most deliveries are left in his own mailbox downstairs so it isn’t often that the door sounds.

He jumps to his feet and rushes to the door in case it’s his Landlord or the Receptionist out front (her name is Sarah, both their girls are the same age and she lives in the block too, they are quite good friends at this point).

As he swings it open without a care in the world, his previously liquified heart nearly pours out of his mouth with the guest beyond the door.

“Hi Johnny.” Simon Riley says. Maskless, clad in black, and with a loose bandage around his wrist. He has a slope to his posture, be it shame or hurt, Johnny isn’t sure.

What he is sure of though, is the growing sound of footsteps and the thundering of his daughter racing to find her Papa.

Johnny turns to the side, cutting off Simon who was soon to speak again, in an attempt to stop his daughter.

“Elizabeth, sweetheart, wait a sec!” Johnny shouts, louder than intended when a small body careers into his side, brown curly hair bobbing at her shoulders when she crashes into his leg.

She looks at Simon and Simon looks at her. They both look like they’re figuring something out for just a moment before Elizabeth yells:

“Daddy!”

#call of duty #ghostsoap #mw2 #mw2 2022 #soapghost #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #soap and ghost #trans man #trans mpreg #family

[blaiddfailcam]

Sound and hearing in Bloodborne's cosmology

Eyes may be the dominant motif in Bloodborne, relating to the characters' obsession with truthseeking and insight, but a while back, I noticed something odd about the One Third of Umbilical Cord. Despite its rather evocative name, it more closely resembles an eye-laden human cochlea, or the inner ear.

Sound as an arcane force

Mechanically, sound is used as a diegetic medium for the player's abilities within the game world. Bells and chimes are employed to resonate with fellow Hunters, allowing them to cooperate or even battle across worlds. Runes that represent the inhuman spoken words of the Great Ones are memorized to enhance one's attributes. Even the established currency, blood echoes, seem to be a formless medium drawn from slain enemies, and not the blood itself.

In fact, one of the very first runes players are likely to find is Formless Oedon.

The Great One Oedon, lacking form, exists only in voice.

While we never encounter Oedon himself, he is evidently revered by the city, as indicated by the Tomb of Oedon and Oedon Chapel.

Venturing further, we locate and defeat Rom, the Vacuous Spider, and are promptly greeted upon our return to the city by the omnipresent wail of Mergo. Ultimately, Mergo is revealed to be a formless Great One like Oedon; though their crying emanates from a lone pram atop the School of Mensis, the carriage itself is empty.

Mergo is promptly scooped up by the Wet Nurse, whose body is invisible amongst its billowing death shrouds. Upon defeating her, Mergo's crying fades into silence, and we are awarded the One Third of Umbilical Cord. From then, we are free to leave the night of blood and beasts at last at Gehrman's mercy.

Sound as a science

For the modest price of 19.99 USD, an Amygdalan Great One will transport players to the Hunter's Nightmare where they can peruse Yharnam's dark history. The Nightmare Grand Cathedral serves as ground zero for the cruelty inflicted upon citizens in the name of cosmic inquiry.

The Research Hall within the Astral Clocktower is populated by the demented and discarded test subjects featured in a twisted experiment to facilitate contact with the Great Ones.

In the early days of the Healing Church, the Great Ones were linked to the ocean, and so the cerebral patients would imbibe water, and listen for the howl of the sea. Brain fluid writhed inside the head, the initial makings of internal eyes.

The unfortunate products of this experiment suffered a grotesque transformation as their heads inflated to resemble an oversized raisin. Many of the patients were deemed failures, while others retained some semblance of sanity.

A common trend amongst them was a fixation on a "plopping" sound heard from within their own craniums. Those whose heads had inflated to completely absorb their bodies remark on the sound's resemblance to rainfall or the stirring of the ocean. (Should the player equip the Enlarged Head headgear, they can hear for themselves a periodic dripping sound ever so faintly.)

Perhaps the most successful of these damned souls was Saint Adeline, who, after administering multiple Brain Fluids, transforms likely into one of these bulbous heads.

I see a shape. My guide, I see your voice clearly as it bends and bleeds. My own revelation... just for me...

This produces the Milkweed rune, which allows the player to alter their form, turning their head into a lumenwood serving as a nursery for slug-like phantasms.

A call to the bloodless

Beyond this abominable laboratory and prison is the Fishing Hamlet accessed solely by stepping through the face of the Astral Clocktower. Just as the doomed patients envisioned in their maddened rambling, the village floats atop a rainy coast populated by icthyomorphic fishermen. At the far side of this tragic residence lies the carcass of Kos.

Though Kos herself is long dead, the gastly Great One known only as the Orphan of Kos emerges from her womb, carrying a savage weapon that many understand already to be Kos's placenta, still attached by a pulpy pink umbilical cord to the orphan's abdomen. After slaughtering the Orphan of Kos, a black, wraith-like figure appears from Kos's remains, still attached to her bloated belly. By severing this connection, the child is returned to the sea, and the rain promptly ceases.

Returning to the entrance of the Fishing Hamlet, a shaman villager mutters to himself, cursing Byrgenwerth and the Hunters for their sins. If the player has completed Saint Adeline's quest, they can equip the Milkweed Rune to reveal further dialogue:

"Listen for the baneful chants. A call to the bloodless, wherever they be. A call to the bloodless, wherever they be. Fix your ears, to hear our call."

True enough, should the player position themselves near any of the barnacled shacks in the village and strain their ears, low murmurs of unseen inhabitants recite an entrancing curse. This spite is what fuels the very nightmare and seals the Hunters in a generational cycle of misery.

Conflict of anatomy

What mainly struck me as fascinating about the One Third of Umbilical Cord's resemblance to the cochlea pertained initially to etymology. "Cochlea" is the Greek word for "snail shell," and the inner ear is so named for its resemblance to a whorled gastropod shell.

Snails and slugs are of course a common sight in Bloodborne. From the tiny phantasms regarded as augurs of the eldritch Truth to the Great Ones Kos and Ebrietas, these slimy angels harbor great spiritual significance to the various schools of Yharnam's esoteric leaders. Stranger still are the snail women, the mermaid-like enemies who are often found attached to large, whorled shells not unlike the One Third of Umbilical Cord in appearance.

The second linguistic comparison to be drawn relates to the central depression of a whorled shell, referred to as the "umbilicus," relating back again to the One Third of Umbilical Cord's origins.

A great relic, also known as the Cord of the Eye. Every infant Great One has this precursor to the umbilical cord.

Use to gain Insight and, so they say, eyes on the inside, although no one remembers what that truly entails.

Throughout the game, the player has the potential to collect four of these fetishes, despite only three are required for the secret ending. Two of them are obtained directly from infant Great Ones, the first being Mergo, and the second from Arianna's child. However, the Orphan of Kos, another "infant," lacks this special artifact.

...Well, not exactly, anyway.

Looking closer at the weapon in its hand, it certainly doesn't resemble a placenta, no thanks to the blade-like cutting edge. In fact, its shape is strangely reminiscent of, well, a human ear, or perhaps more accurately an ear shell.

If this was truly the intention behind its design, the attachment to a literal umbilical cord would be a fascinating spin on the One Third of Umbilical Cord's visual similarity to the cochlea.

For later ramblings

I'll admit, this sounds like a lot of pointless drivel. The truth is, there's plenty more I want to write on this subject, in particular why I think they would want to use ears as a symbol, as well as how it would relate to the greater mysteries of the narrative. But that would be too much to hope for anyone to read at once.

Until then, I suppose I'll just plant the seed and water it later with supplemental observations and theories.

Tl;dr:

#bloodborne #from software #my ramblings

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

We are beyond excited to present for the first time in Australia a tribute to the cast of Outlander... Hublander - A visit to the Highlands!

This is a convention style event, with one day each full of fun, festivities and fantastic guests not to be missed, in both Sydney and Melbourne.

Hublander will feature Sam Heughan and other Outlander guests live on stage for stories and anecdotes as well as Question & Answers. Purchase merchandise and exclusives from the dealers, or pick up rare items from the amazing raffles and auctions. Do not miss out on your chance to meet the guests and acquire autographs and professional photographs! Along with the main event, there will be an exclusive VIP panel and guest meet & greets plus so much more!

All Guests will be appearing

- in SYDNEY on Saturday 24th February 2024 - approx running time 9am to 5pm (plus at the special Platinum event on the evening of Friday 23rd)

- in MELBOURNE on Sunday 25th February 2024 - approx running time 9am to 5pm (plus at the special Platinum event on the Sunday evening)

*Note: All guests appear health and work commitments pending.

Tickets will go on sale on this website, on the following dates:

MEMBERS PRESALE: On sale 27th November 2023 - 12pm AEDT

GENERAL TICKET SALE: On sale 28th November 2023 - 12pm AEDT

This event is not recommended for persons under the age of 15, based on noise, long periods of sitting, and mature language and/or topics.

All attendees require a ticket if over the age of 2. If under the age of 2 they can sit on your lap, however you will need to contact us after purchase so we can seat you in a special section that allows easy exit from the venue. No prams are allowed in the venue.

TICKETS - ON SALE SOON

This is a seated event. All tickets include access to all general panels, including Sam Heughan's general panel. All tickets allow you the opportunity to purchase photos and/or autographs with every event guest (until photo and autograph allocations are sold out).

Please make sure to read all ticket inclusions for any ticket type you’re considering. All ticket types and prices are listed below.

Tickets are posted by mail approximately 2 weeks before the show. International ticket orders are to be collected at the door.

Payment is by Credit Card only. A $5.95 ticket handling fee and 1.74% credit card transaction fee applies to each order. There will be no manual payment options available for this event.

Tickets will go on sale on this website, on the following dates:

MEMBERS PRESALE: On sale 27th November 2023 - 12pm AEDT

GENERAL TICKET SALE: On sale 28th November 2023 - 12pm AEDT

Please note - Seating is allocated by when you purchase your tickets, so the earlier you book the better your seats will be.

The Members presale is limited for this event to 4 tickets per member. You can purchase membership via the menu on this website.

This event is not recommended for persons under the age of 15, based on noise, long periods of sitting, and mature language and/or topics.

All attendees require a ticket if over the age of 2. If under the age of 2 they can sit on your lap, however you will need to contact us after purchase so we can seat you in a special section that allows easy exit from the venue. No prams are allowed in the venue.

Ticket purchases are non refundable. Please refer to our Terms and Conditions for more information.

—-SYDNEY Standard Day Ticket - $200

These are ONE day tickets for the HUBLANDER event on Saturday the 24th February 2024 in SYDNEY.

Standard Day Tickets include:

– Entry to the event for full day of programming and panels on Saturday, including Sam’s general panel (no VIP panels are included in this ticket)

– Access to merchandise vendors at the event

– Opportunity to purchase autographs and professional photographs on the day for all guests.

Please note that Standard Day tickets will be seated behind the VIP ticket section. Seating is allocated based on when you make your booking.

As photograph and autograph opportunities may be sold at the event on a row by row basis, early booking is strongly recommended.

+ SYDNEY VIP Ticket - $1,100

+ SYDNEY Platinum Ticket - $1,800

+ MELBOURNE Standard Day Ticket - $200

+ MELBOURNE VIP Ticket - $1,100

+ MELBOURNE Platinum Ticket - $1,800

Sydney, Australia - TBA

Melbourne, Australia - TBA

Please note: Venues are announced after tickets have gone on sale. All event venues are typically close to the City Centre and easily accessible by public transport.

SYDNEY

HUBLANDER SCHEDULE – TBA

To see an example of a typical Hub Event schedule please click here

Approx running times for a typical event are between 9am and 5pm for Standard Day ticket holders.

VIP and Platinum ticket holders may be asked to arrive anytime between 7am and 8am.

VIP Panels are scheduled during the day.

Platinum evening events generally start anytime after 6pm and can run between 1 to 2 hours.

MELBOURNE

Can't get to an event? No problem! We can provide absentee packs of autographs from the actors appearing at our events. Absentee packs will be made available within one month of each event after any preceding events have finished.

This is a great opportunity to have your photograph taken with the guests! Each photograph token purchased is good for one photo opportunity and includes a physical copy of your photo which will be made available on the day for collection before the autograph sessions start.

Please note that photograph tokens are limited and there are no other photograph opportunities with the guests.

Photograph Opportunities are purchased at the event on the day, and are sold on a row by row basis! You can purchase tokens using cash (no additional charges) or by Credit Card (1.74% surcharge applies)

Photograph Token Prices:

- Sam Heughan - $190

More guests coming soon...

Autographs are a great opportunity to say a quick hello to your favourite guests and get a piece of memorabilia signed! Each autograph token purchased is good for ONE autograph and you may either bring a personal item or photo to be signed, or choose an 8x10 print provided by Hub Productions at the autograph tables to have signed.

All Autographs are signed in person by the guests and are sold on a row by row basis at the event on the day. You can purchase tokens using cash (no additional charges) or by Credit Card (1.74% surcharge applies)

Autograph Tokens may be limited and guests may, or may not, choose to personalise their autographs.

Autograph Token Prices:

- Sam Heughan - $160

More guests coming soon...

———

ABOUT US

DCA Enterprises’ The Hub Productions is an Australian owned company based in Sydney, that provides opportunities for fans to meet the actors, artists and behind the scenes stars that contribute to the TV shows, films and comics that we all so love and adore. more

———

The non-stop flight from the UK to Australia takes over 16 hours. A visit just for two days in Australia, He’ll need more a day to recover for each time zone crossed 🥴🛫

THE HUB PRODUCTIONS

[angelasscribbles]

Unbothered Chapter 3: Back to Unbothered

Series: Unbothered

Fandom: The Royal Romance

Pairings for series: Riley x Drake, Liam x Madeleine, Liam x Riley

Rating: MA

Warnings for this chapter: Mature Themes

A/N: This concludes all my ideas for this little miniseries. Though, I am always open for asks, questions and suggestions. At this point, it's a three shot (was supposed to be a one shot lol)

Word Count: 1,036

“Where’s Kiara?” Madeline had gotten used to seeing her at dinner, she enjoyed having someone to talk to that wasn’t Riley or Drake or even Liam. Her husband was perfectly fine when they were discussing matters of governance, but when he was around that American harlot, he acted like a teenager in love, and it annoyed the hell out of her.

“Oh, she moved out.” Drake answered.

“Why? What about the baby? I thought you guys were going to coparent?”

“Turns out, it wasn’t mine after all. She was further along than she originally thought so it couldn’t be mine. She moved to Terrana to be with the father, Gordon somebody….”

“Wait. Gordon Price? Their prime minister?”

“Yeah, that sounds right. The wedding is next year, she sent me an invitation.”

Riley and Liam entered the dining room together, her arm looped through his, giggling. Madeleine rolled her eyes. Drake smiled at both of them, “How was the press conference?”

“Fine, just general updates on the health of the baby.” Liam answered.

Cordonia was ecstatic about the little apple in Riley’s womb, the shock that it was the king’s mistress and not his wife that was pregnant blew over in two days. The public was one hundred percent on board and invested in every minute detail from morning sickness to pram choices. Leaked sonogram photos had sold for a ridiculous sixteen million dollars. No one knew who had leaked them. Riley suspected Drake but since she had access to all his accounts, she didn’t care. Not that it mattered, since Liam transferred a stupid amount of money into her personal account monthly. For the baby.

Riley and Madeleine had been photographed lunching together. It was better to present a united front the press secretary had told them.

“I trust everything is well with the baby?” The queen inquired.

It had bothered Madeleine at first. But she really wanted nothing to do with her husband sexually and she’d never really been interested in motherhood. Riley providing the heir freed her up to focus on the truly important issues pertaining to governance. Of course, her father was displeased, but since her ascension to the throne, she had stopped caring what her father thought and felt. She wondered if he was aware of the irony that the very thing he had forced her to seek was the thing that had ended his iron clad control over her life.

Liam might not be in love with her, or she with him, but he had stood up to her father, telling him in no uncertain terms that the queen of Cordonia answers to no one but the king and that father in law or not, he could and would be banished from court if didn’t cease and desist his constant harassment. As Madeleine grew into the role of queen, she found that she possessed a strength and confidence of her own. She had stopped taking her parents calls.

“Yes, everything is wonderful!” Liam beamed down at Riley as he answered Madeleine.

Liam was finally happy. Madeleine was a good queen; he had done his duty to Cordonia and still been able to keep the woman he loved under his roof and in his bed. Her marriage to Drake was a minor detail. He couldn’t blame her for marrying another man after he’d married another woman. He had been heartbroken, thinking he’d lost her, right up until that night in Vegas. Once he’d realized she still had feelings for him, he had pressed that advantage until she agreed to move into the palace.

Liam continued, “The baby is right on track developmentally and Riley is over the morning sickness! Right, love?”

Riley patted his arm, “That’s right, my king.”

Madeleine slid her eyes over to Drake, but he was busy shoveling food onto his plate, oblivious. He looked up at Riley and said, “I had them make the chicken parmesan you like, babe.”

She rewarded him with a brilliant smile. “Thank you! You’re a good husband, I’m so lucky!” She told him as she took her seat next to him. He was always doing little things like that for her. She was lucky.

“No, I’m the lucky one!” He told her, “I still can’t believe you married me!”

“Oh my God!” Madeleine exploded, “She’s carrying another man’s child! And he flirts with her constantly right under your nose! Are you really this clueless?”

Drake shrugged as he reached for his glass, “I’m not clueless about anything, Madi, but she loves me. That’s all I care about.”

“I heard you tell her that you couldn’t keep living here if Liam kept flirting with her!”

He took a long drink of his iced tea, then returned the glass to the table with a thunk, “I changed my mind.”

“Why? How?”

“Oh, ah, Maxwell introduced me to something called hot wifing and turns out, I’m into it.”

“Hot whating now?”

Riley answered, “It’s when a man gets turned on by the idea of his wife with another man. So, he allows her to sleep with other men while he remains faithful to her.”

Madeleine’s eyes widened as she looked at Drake, “And Maxwell introduced you to this?”

“Yeah.” Drake said as he scooped more food into his mouth.

“Wait.” Liam dropped the roll he was buttering onto his plate, “You’re not sleeping with Max, are you?”

“Of course not.” Riley looked at Drake and shook her head slightly.

“Yeah, right, no.” Drake agreed.

Riley took his hand and squeezed it under the table. He smiled back at her. He was ready for dinner to be over. He was going to watch her with Liam tonight. He was excited.

Riley changed the subject, “Madeleine, do you remember Liam’s cousin, Cassie?”

Madeleine froze as panic and desire flared through her. She tried to maintain her composure, “Yes….why?”

“Oh, I’ve invited her to come visit. I hope you don’t mind. She said she’s looking forward to seeing you again.” Riley smiled knowingly at the queen. Someone needed to loosen Madeleine up and Cassie was just the person to do it.

With any luck, Madeleine would soon be as unbothered and as happy as the rest of them were.

#unbothered #angelasscribbles #trr #the royal romance #the royal romance fanfic #liam rys #drake walker #choices stories you play #choices fic writers creations #choices #cfwc fics of the week #why choose #trr poly

[fruitmans]

Okay guys... i found the coolest stroller/pram set for a good price on fb marketplace.. really hope they will sell it to me🥹🤞🏻

#asked a bit lower price #but will buy it anyways #omg #wish me luck #bells be speaking to herself