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dragon-kazansky · 6 months

Text

Spirit of the sea

Izzy Hands x Reader (GN)

SEASON 2 CONTENT AHEAD!!!

Blackbeard rules the sea. Despite wanting his captain back, Izzy realises his mistake. Protecting the crew is his concern. Protecting you is his life mission. Stede's return brings hope, but there's a lot of work to be done before this crew becomes a family.

{Masterlist}

{Previous Chapter} - {Next Chapter}

Warnings: Spoilers. Izzy's depression spiral. No real unicorns were harmed in the making of Izzy's new leg. Things get a little steamy at the end.

Chapter Thirteen - Loving touch

♡♡♡

Stede had gathered the crew, minus Izzy, to talk to them all. Turns out Ed woke up. You swore under your breath when you heard that. No way is that man going to be happy with any of you.

"What happened to your face?" Pete asked Stede who was standing to a bruise on his cheek.

"Bet Blackbeard did that, didn't he?" Wee John asks.

"It was an accident. Okay? I think Ed just sat up too quickly," Stede says.

"That's what they all say," Roach states.

"As you know, he's gone through quite the ordeal and he does need to regain his strength," Stede explains.

"Yeah. He'll probably get around to killing you after he's rested," Jim says, looking Stede in the eye.

"Yeah, I'd say it's a pretty obvious mistake letting him get strong again," Lucius points out. You nod.

"Kick him off the ship already!" Jim yells.

"We just don't banish people, do we?" Stede says. "That's not us. Let's give him some time, perhaps to rebound a bit."

"Medically speaking, the man can't speak, and his brain is maybe couscous." Roach points out. "Also, gonna need that steak back. It's dinner."

"Right. Yes, aye."

"Maybe we should put it to the vote," Fang suggests.

"Do we have to do this now?" Stede asks.

The crew start yelling.

♡♡♡

Stede got his answers from the crew, that much was clear enough. As you head out, Stede catches up to you.

"You were awfully quiet in there."

"Don't get me wrong. I agree with them, Ed has to go."

Stede's expression falls.

"I know you like him, but that man... he did things. He hurt people like I've never seen before. He hurt Izzy..."

"Ah yes, Izzy. How is he?" Stede asks.

"He's been better."

"Where is he anyway? I didn't see him in there."

"Drinking probably. He, uh, he's stopped talking to me at the moment. He won't talk to anyone."

Stede frowns again. "He's stopped talking to you?"

"I think it's the constant drinking... It's making him... upset. Like, more than before."

"I see..."

You shrug lightly and sigh. "Look, I'm not looking for sympathy. You're the captain, sort this out."

You walk off. Stede watches you go, his heart feeling heavy. Maybe he could have a word with Izzy for you.

♡♡♡

You sit on deck with the wooden sparrow in your hands. After everything that happened it had survived. Izzy had kept it in his cabin. You had found it when you had gone in there to find him. Izzy was nowhere to be seen, but the sparrow was sitting on his desk. There was a slight chip in the wood, right on the wing, but for the most part it looked good.

You sigh as you run your finger carefully over it's little head. Did Izzy even notice it was gone? Probably not.

"The atmosphere around here sucks," Lucius sighs, sitting down next to you. You notice the cigarette between his fingers, but you don't ask. "What's that?" He nods toward the wooden bird.

"Marietta."

"Marietta?" He looks at you with a funny expression.

"That's what I called it. It was a gift for Izzy from me. I dropped the first one in the sea while I was angry at him... so I remade her." You hold the sparrow up. "She's a little beaten, but still in nest condition."

"You carved him a bird?"

"Look, I can't draw like you can. I can't make sew like Frenchie, or knit like Wee John. I can, however, whittle."

Lucius smiles a little. "I like it."

A moment of silence passes while you play with the bird in your hands a little more.

"So, you and Izzy?"

"So, you and Pete?" You reply, sarcastically.

"We're fine," he says defensively. "What's going on with your boyfriend?"

You raise your eyes to Lucius. "Blackbeard abused him. Punished him. Took his leg. He's a little upset at the moment. Rightfully so."

Lucius stands up a little defensively. "We've all been through shit," he says.

You narrow your eyes at him. "I'm not saying you haven't. We thought you were dead!"

"Well, I wasn't." He puts out his cigarette. "I've suffered too and it's all his fault!" He points to where Blackbeard is tied up on the deck.

"He's fucked everyone over, Lucius. Just need Stede to get his ass in gear and do something about it."

Lucius sighs. "Do you think anything will ever go back to how it was?"

"No," you admit honestly. "But I do believe things can get better. In time."

Lucius says nothing. He glares at Blackbeard and then leaves. You sigh and return to holding the bird, caressing it again gently.

"Oh, Izzy..."

♡♡♡

Stede found Izzy at the front of the ship. He was leaning on some of the rope rigging, his wooden leg propped up on the railing. In his other hand was a bottle of rum, of which he was drinking merrily.

He looked a mess.

Stede offered him a smile as he joined him, ignoring the look Izzy was throwing his way. He means over and notices the unicorn is missing it's head.

"He's seen better days, hasn't he?" Stede asks in a lighthearted manner.

"At least he's still got both legs!" Izzy yells.

"Yes!" Stede joins in. "He can't hear you, he's go no head. You've got a head, though, which you should look after."

Izzy down his rum. Stede sighs.

"What do you want, Bonnet?" Izzy asks, not really in the mood for conversation.

"Well, here's the thing. The crew, they're in a bit of a deadlock over the whole banishment of Ed thing and I just thought, seeing as, well, you were the one who kept his body aboard, maybe you should weigh in. You've already murdered him once. Seems like a pretty good payback." He chuckles softly. "So, what do you think?"

"My vote?" Izzy leans in a little closer to Stede. "A rotten let's got to come off."

"Right. Just to confirm, was that a nay or yay on the banishment?"

Izzy just drinks some more.

"Right... I suppose I just mention that our Spirit of the sea is worried about you. You've stopped talking to them apparently..."

Izzy says nothing.

"Don't push them out, Izzy."

Izzy just drinks from his bottle again. Stede sighs and takes his leave.

♡♡♡

"So! We, the crew of The Revenge, have voted and we've chosen banishment, unfortunately." Frenchie states, announcing the result. "So, yeah. Effective immediately. Your complimentary dinghy awaits you portside. Now leave, please."

"Fuck off," Ed hisses, walking past him. You watch him closely.

"Alright, rude."

"Fuck you," Ed laughs softly, walking past Olu.

"First time I've been on this side of a walk of shame," Wee John comments.

"Way to make this awkward, bruh," Archie says.

"Shitty sailing with you." Jim chimes in.

"You're making it really hard to look up to you, man," Pete sighs.

"Hey, made you this sandwich for the trip," Roach says, holding it out to him. Ed slaps it out of his hand and Stede catches it

"You don't want your sammie?" Stede looks sad.

Ed slaps it out of Stede's hand and it hits Lucius in the face. You have to cover your mouth to stop from laughing. Lucius bites back his laughter too. It really isn't a funny moment, throwing someone off the ship, but at least you can find something to laugh about, you supposed.

"Ed, say something at least."

Ed turns his head and looks at Stede.

"You're not a fuckin' mermaid."

You knit your brows together in confusion by that statement. Stede looked equally confused.

"What?"

Ed climbs off the ship and into the dinghy. Stede looks down and watches him, you and Lucius part with the rest if the crew, not hanging about to watch any longer.

Ed was gone. That was that.

♡♡♡

"Is it me or does the energy around here seem off?" Wee John asked.

"By 'the energy,' do we mean him?" Roach nods over to Lucius who was smiling and freaking out a little. "Or him?" He gestures over to where Izzy is still standing at the front of the ship yelling at the unicorn.

"Well, mythical creature?" Izzy yells. You sigh as you watch him from where you stand. He still wasn't talking to you much. "Anything to say to yourself? Fuck you!"

"Or them?" Roach asks, looking at Jim, Archie, Frenchie, and Fang scrubbing the deck of any "possible" bloodstains left over from where Edward had bled out.

"Do you still see blood?"

"Yeah. We'll get it. Just keep scrubbing."

"They're lookin' this way." Fang says.

You tune out the rest of their conversation to watch your stupid drunk pirate curse at the unicorn some more. If only you could talk to him. He would surely listen to you.

It was breaking your heart to see him fall apart like this. Izzy hadn't held you since you got back onto The Revenge. He was shutting you out, suffering on his own.

You hated it.

You try not to let the tears fall as you walk away, letting Izzy do whatever the fuck he wanted.

♡♡♡

Olu had invited you to join the crew for a surprise. Jim had speculated they were planning to kill you all off for being disturbed after sailing with Blackbeard. You thought it was a bit of a stretch, but you wouldn't put it last them either.

You were all guided below deck where the surprise was.

"You gotta close your 'cause it's a surprise." Olu says.

No one does that, everyone sceptical. Frenchie leads you all behind Olu. You find Pete and Wee John waiting.

"Ta da!"

Wee John moves to reveal the surprise.

The crew all jump and startle, hiding the knives they were all carrying behind their backs incase of an attack.

"Fuck!" Lucius sighs, jumpy enough already.

"Guys, it's called a pine-ata." Pete says.

"Yeah. So, you just pull this string and then--" Olu tries to explain.

"And then you hit it with a stick!" Pete demonstrates.

Everyone is triggered. PTSD from the storm, from Blackbeard.

"Time for blindfolding." Wee John tries.

"Stay the fuck sway from me!" Jim yells.

"You won't want to stay the fuck away from this came!" Roach says, brining the cake in.

You feel your stomach churn at the sight of it. It looks like the wedding cake...

"God's sake, take it away!" Fang screams.

You all draw your weapons. Yeah, even you. This is too much, too soon. This how it ends up at a stand off.

"One-half of this room has some serious emotional damage," Jim explains, holding Wee John in a choke hold. "And it's not us."

"Well, it's not us!" Wee John says back.

You have your knife pointing at Olu.

"Right, so, is everybody else's arms and various limbs getting tired?" Frenchie asks.

"Alright, look, look, look, look. I think there's actually an easier way to resolve this." Olu days, eyeing your knife. "Yes? Right. So you all think that we're plottin' against you?"

"Yeah," you nod.

"Which, in hindsight, maybe was inaccurate." Frenchie says. "I don't know, you tell me."

"Okay. So, can we all agree to just not jump the other crew and solve this as fuckin' adults?" Olu asks.

"You're saying this is like a space that is safe?" Jim asks him.

"Yeah, babe." Olu looks at them.

"I love that."

"A safe space."

"Yeah, okay."

You all lower your knives. You take a deep breath. Nearly lost your cool there.

"A lot has gone unsaid," Roach speaks. "I think now is a great time to discuss lingering issues."

"Yeah, yeah, absolutely." Archie nods. "Can we talk about the fucked-up sleeping arrangements?"

"Excuse me, do you even have a name, new guy?" Wee John asks her.

"Yeah, fuck you is her name." Jim starts, drawing their knife again.

"Hey, stupid name for a person," Roach draw his knife on Jim.

"You know my name is Archie," she point her weapon at Roach.

Everyone draws their weapons again. You sigh and point your knife at Olu again, but he doesn't sense any actual malice from you.

The sound of something thudding against the floor draws everyone's attention to the door. You turn and your heart skips a beat at the sight of Izzy. Two wooden legs at his feet.

"There! It's done!" He yells. "Maybe next time he'll think twice about not doing his fucking--" Izzy's peg leg breaks from under him as he raises his crutch and he falls harshly to the ground.

You gasp and drop your knife, hurrying over to him. He shrugs you off.

"Get off me! Fuck off!"

You sit there on your knees as he rolls over and starts crawling down the hall. Your heart breaks watching him.

"Leave me alone! I'm already gone." He mutters. He starts repeating a phrase over and over again. "You're born alone, you die alone. You're born alone, you die alone."

You can feel tears building up again. God, only Izzy could ever make you cry so much.

"Yeah, he's definitely more disturbed than any of us," Lucius says, watching Izzy go.

You try to hide your teary eyes as you get up and leave.

♡♡♡

You're sat up on deck with yours curled up wiping away the tears that were falling. If only you could get that stupid man to talk to you. You just wound to heal his internal wounds, and soothe his external wounds.

You don't hear the door open, but you do hear footsteps coming over. You turn your face away, but you know it's Fang who is now sitting beside you. He has one of the unicorn legs in his hand.

"You okay?" He asks softly. Fang was a soothing presence.

"Spectacular," you mutter.

He look down at the wooden leg and then back at you.

"We, uh, we had an idea for Izzy."

You wipe your eyes again. "Yeah?"

"We're gonna make him a new leg. You wanna help? It would sure mean a lot if you gave it to him after." Fang smiles.

"You want me to help?"

"I think Izzy would like that, don't you?"

You shrug quietly. "I don't know. He's not exactly talking to me right now."

"Aw, listen. He still loves you. He's just hurting, but maybe we can help. Let's do something good for him."

Fang offers you a small smile.

You find yourself smiling back. You reach over and take the leg from him. "Okay. Let me see what we can do."

Less than 30 minutes later the leg is being constructed, the crew are gathered to help. Fang constructs the leg into a strong, comfortable, and practical leg. Lucius had got some gold paint to add something that little bit extra.

You smile as you paint the leg.

"The gold was a gold touch."

Lucius smiles, happy he could help.

You leave the leg to dry and then Fang returns to your side with it. You sigh as you take it, looking it over.

"We sure it will do?" You ask.

"Its been measured and made just for Izzy. It will more than do. Oh don't forget the note." Fang holds out the parchment.

You take the leg and take the note.

"Right..."

"Just leave it outside his door if he doesn't want to talk. I can assure you he'll talk to you again soon."

You nod and make your way to Izzy's cabin.

♡♡♡

As you approach Izzy's door, you don't hear much. It's almost too quiet for your liking. You hover outside the door, the leg in hand. That's when you hear his voice. He's talking to someone.

"And you? What's your excuse?" You hear him say. You lean a little closer to listen, worried about him. "I mean, what even are you?"

You knock on the door hoping he'll answer.

"Fuck off." You hear him shout. You knock again firmly. "Fuck off!" He yells again.

You sigh. Telling him it was you probably wouldn't make a difference. You prop the leg up but the door, tucking the note and Marietta, Izzy's carved sparrow that you still had, into it.

You knock again and hurry away, disappearing down the hall.

"You are harassing a cripple! Fucking twats!" Izzy yells, no longer realising the person has gone from behind his door. He limps his way over and opens it, looking down the hall.

He sees no one.

His gaze drops down to the item waiting for him. He sees the note and the bird. He reads the note first, all emotion clogging up in his throat.

Those little shits.

He cries. Izzy covers his mouth as tears overwhelm him. He looks up down the hall, trying not to break down.

"Fucking cocksuckers."

He sees the sparrow and picks it up. It's then he realises you had been the one knocking. His finger close around the bird and the tears fall freely.

Shit. He's been really shit to you.

Izzy hold the sparrow against his chest and takes a few deep breaths. He grabs the leg and hobbles back inside his room.

♡♡♡

It's the early hours of the morning.

Izzy stands on deck with his new leg on. It's a good fit. Made really well. His hair is slicked back against his scalp, out of his face. His face is a little cleaner. No rum in sight.

In one hand he's clutching the ring he wears under his clothes, hanging from a string of twine. He smiles as he looks down at it.

In his other hand is the note. His eyes drift over to the words written on it. His heart feels full.

'For the new unicorn.'

Izzy smiles.

With the dawn of a new day comes a new Izzy. A healing Izzy.

He's going to be okay.

No. He'll be more than okay.

He just needs to talk to you first.

♡♡♡

The sun hasn't even risen yet when Izzy wakes you. You've been sleeping with the rest of the crew since Izzy stopped talking to you, so he had to be quiet when waking you. You're startled awake by something hitting your face again and again.

You wake up to find little balls of paper being thrown at you. You look up to see Izzy waving you over. You look at him confused. He wasn't talking to you befkre, and now he wants to?

That's when you notice the leg and your heart begins to race.

You climb out of bed and make your way out of the room, not waking a single person. You follow Izzy into his cabin and enter cautiously. He looks tidier, cleaner, more content.

"Izzy?"

He stands there and looks at you. There are several emotions flickering in his eyes, but he finds his words in no time.

"Thank you."

You stand there awkwardly. "I didn't do anything."

Izzy inhales loud enough for you to hear as he looks down at his leg, his hand resting over his thigh. "You did this."

"It was the crew's idea."

Izzy holds up the sparrow. "I noticed it was gone, but there was only one place it could be."

You nod your head softly.

Izzy puts the sparrow down and walks over to you, closing the distance between you both. You find your heart rate picking up as you look into those beautiful eyes of him.

"I love you," he whispers.

Just like that he's reaching out and kissing you. You're in his arms again. You return his kiss, having missed his lips. Having missed him. You reach out and take hold of him.

The kiss is hot, passionate, desperate. It's significance lies with the fact that you two spend all your time wanting each other, but when you're hurting, you don't reach out for one another.

You remove his scarf, taking the ring around it and carefully placing it down. It belonged to his mother and you know he would definitely curse you if you lost it. You begin to undress him, and he, you.

Clothes land on the floor. The soft thud of his wooden foot taps lightly on the floor as he moves you over to his bed.

Doing this right after the emotional rollercoaster you both has been through probably wasn't the best idea, but this time no one could stop you both, and this was long overdue.

You push Izzy down on the bed and take care of him, admiring him. You notice the other ring around his neck. You had seen it before, but it's origins you hadn't known. He was wearing it last time you did this too.

Still, your mind was focused on other things.

Safe to say, both of you are going to be a little late getting up tomorrow.

♡♡♡

@grippleback-galaxy - @askmarinaandothers - @godlikegallagher - @for-fuck-sake-im-alive - @whiskeyswriting - @lxsm2 - @bloody-bunni666 - @the-chocoholic-writer - @bugbugboy - @callmemana - @the-shenny-of-azkaban - @cool-ontherun-world - @outer-space-beech - @ahewi24 - @grace585 - @innertimemachinegirl - @dmitrytherat - @emilynissangtr -

#izzy hands x reader #spirit of the sea #ofmd spoilers #ofmd s2 #ofmd season 2 #ofmd 2 #ofmd #dragon writes

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axailslink · 1 year

Text

The heart of a man

Rosalie Otterbourne x poc FEM reader

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: You have a diary in which you express how you want to be with a woman it finds its way into Rosalie's hand and she finds herself fascinated because she relates to too many of your words.

Snippet from the fic: “ You turn on your heel to approach the door but Rosalie grabs your arm firmly "with your permission I'd like to read the rest." ”

Everyone in the church scatters like roaches as church service finds itself coming to an end. Rosalie is of course one of the last as she speaks with the preacher asking about his family and well-being. When she turns to dismiss herself from the conversation she bumps into you and you're smitten. You know of Rosalie because everyone knows of Rosalie.

Rosalie is the embodiment of the word "independent" she was well raised by her aunt Salome Otterbourne and is also a bit like her in many ways but they differ when it comes to beauty. Rosalie's beauty is unlike any other her sharp facial features draw you in first then her alluring eyes will hold you in a demanding stare and soon your eyes will find their way to her lightly glossed and very kissable lips. You're brought back to reality when Rosalie speaks in that very distinct voice of hers "my apologies Y/n I hadn't noticed your presence" you shake your head "no you're perfectly fine Rosalie I was just leaving." The pastor sighs "you were trying to leave without my knowledge so I couldn't ask you to sing for the choir next Sunday? I've heard that voice you've got on you girl. Why don't you use it? Come sing for us." You place your leather journal down as you engage in conversation with the very persistent pastor.

🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎🤎

After convincing your pastor you'd make the church burn in flames if you sang, you leave in a hurry to get away before the first lady could try to convince you otherwise.

Rosalie finds herself staying behind to help clean. When she's finally finished your little journal peeking beneath a couple sheets of music papers catches her interest. She knows you wouldn't have left it purposefully so she grabs it before leaving she of course had thoughts on returning said journal but the urge to reveal its contents definitely overpowers the urge to return it.

Rosalie spends many nights reading the pages of your journal finding out who you really are and what you actually want from a relationship. She hadn't expected for these pages to be so intimate. None of these words had she ever expected to come from you.

Shy reserved Y/n you're truly the romantic type.

Rosalie feels like she truly knows you the more she reads she even has favorite quotes from your seemingly continuous daily entries but today she finds one specific entry very interesting it has no title which is odd because all the others do. Unlike the others this seems to be ramblings of your own thoughts and Rosalie's invested. So much that she's cuddled into her couch with a box of cracker jacks with her radio turned off so she can lose herself in your writing.

I truly believe I have no heart because when he smiles at me I feel nothing but HER presence makes me feel everything my heart speeds up and I get nervous. I want her in a way that I can't have her. I want Rosalie Otterbourne. I want to kiss her. I want to touch her. I want to love her the way this man thinks he loves me.

Rosalie shoots up from her spot so fast with no emotion but shock filling her mind. This is the first time a name has been mentioned throughout this leather book and it's her name.

In the earlier pages Rosalie's fingers ran over many words no one should say in the innocence of daylight for example what you'd want to do to a woman how you'd like to please a woman. It's all shocking to her that she's the woman you had in mind as you wrote such sinful things. You Y/n L/n want to please a woman and not just any woman but Miss Rosalie Otterbourne.

Rosalie is left speechless but her moment of shock is cut short when a loud and hard knock on her door breaks the silence of the room. Not used to visitors Rosalie tramples over the many books decorating her floor so well you wouldn't know there was carpet underneath. She makes her way to the closest gown which she pulls over her previously nude body before quickly approaching the door.

Rosalie was so enamored in your journal she hadn't noticed it was pouring down rain so when she opens the door she immediately welcomes you into her home. "Y/n why the visit?" Rosalie centers herself in front of you to avoid your sight of the journal which she isn't aware you had already caught sight of when you first entered. Your eyes take in the beautiful sight in front of you as you rid yourself of your coat "I was informed that you may have something that belongs to me Miss Otterbourne."

Rosalie ponders if she should lie but she chooses not to. Well…not fully anyways. Is making something up on the spot a lie? "Ah you mean the leather book, yes? I meant to return it I've just been occupied…" you don't believe her for a second it may not have taken her long to make herself presentable but the open state of your journal and her nervous expression makes it all clear.

She's read it. She's read every filthy thought that you've had about her. She's read how you want to put your tongue in places it shouldn't be and how you wish you could please her the way no man ever could.

"Was it a good read?" Rosalie's attention turns to the journal just for a moment before it lands back on you "oh yes it was a lovely read I'm deeply sorry that I didn't ask first…I found myself captiv-"

"Lovely you say and what about it was lovely Miss Otterbourne? My diction? Maybe my tone or perhaps it was the mention of your name?" You pick the journal up and look over the page smiling at your cursive and how beautiful her name looks written in black ink.

"I won't tell anyone I never meant to see it. I was curious is all your writing is amazing I couldn't put it down once I had read the first page. I find myself needing to read more" you nod "if you promise that you won't speak a word of this I'll be taking my leave." You turn on your heel to approach the door but Rosalie grabs your arm firmly. She doesn't feel it but your heart quickens from her warm touch "with your permission I'd like to read the rest."

A/n: Part 2 is already in the works and will be a bit longer this is a filler chapter. Also before anyone can say it yes I've not made a fic in a while I know it's just that school is bussing my ass but thankfully my wifi went out so I had some time today.

Taglist:

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pupyr0arz · 25 days

Text

WHILE IM TALKING ABT ROACH here’s my current HC meta:

-he hasn’t talked to his family since he was like, 19. Sorry happy family roach lovers he absolutely loathes them and they don’t like him either. He feels they were more concerned with appearances than actual substance and they didn’t treat him well

-he’s selectively mute, but also genuinely prefers to sign over speaking. He can speak at times, he just doesn’t like it and finds sign or writing is better. When he’s anxious he finds signing and writing more difficult to do and speaking impossible. It takes a lot of coaxing

-I feel like roach masks his issues with humor. I like silly roach a lot that’s him to me and I accept that fanon but I feel like he deflects with jokes and more erratic behavior. He really, really, really does not want to talk about something so he’ll play it off and then drag you to go do something silly. This guy does negative communication. Even if he has an issue with you it’ll wait until he like cannot not deal with it he really needs to be forced to do so

-great cook but hates cooking. Never had any good memories with it, doesn’t find it fun or anything but a hassle that makes a mess. If he does cook for someone it’s a lot of affection going into that though. Doesnt really cook for other people tho, he learned mostly for himself and most of his recipes are to specifically his taste.

-no idea how to dress. Like, 0 clue. Help this man. He likes fashion in that he’s like wow that looks nice to basically anything and everything. Doesn’t get how some things are hated so strongly.

-he had an older brother who he felt a kinship with. The two fought like cats and dogs but they were pretty close and shared a lot of the same interests. The older brother liked Roach but the two would fight and take petty revenge on each other a lot and he let roach make a lot o f the same mistakes he did. The two also kept up the jokes act when they were kids in public and ti was probably to draw attention away from awful parents. Anyways he died and roach does not want to talk about it at all.

-roach really did not like the military until he ended up in the 141. He stuck through it because he’s a stubborn bastard but he ran into a lot of difficulties before MacTavish was his cap.

-roach is the type who will put up thru pain n discomfort for an arbitrary goal any day of the week, casually and seriously. He is never out of hills to die on. Loves having strong opinions on things.

-despises people he deems inconsiderate. Is accidentally inconsiderate a lot. More on that, bc of his closest relationships in the past he assumes a lot of his boundaries are implicit and spin fact explicitly should not be discussed because they make him uncomfortable. It’s hard for him to take violations of those not personally and he has a short temper. He might go out of his way to upset you and then feel AWFUL about it. Or not depending on what you did. If he does understand it was a mistake he’d feel bad, he’s been in that situation a lot but it doesn’t occur to him other people may have difficulties understanding each other like he does. From his failure to pick up on social cues and the treatment of his mistakes as intention he’s got an unconscious bias to assume everyone else does everything intentionally always bc that’s what it seems. When he was a kid he’d break things a lot or frame his brother for something that would get him into trouble or even get into physical fights.

-lone survivor!roach would take things very not seriously. He’d treat the apocalypse as more of a game than anything, eating when he remembers to, taking massive risks to his life without much care. He’s kind of dissociated from himself and any sorts of risks or previous attachments. Would underestimate his need for socialization. Very skilled and very likely to die in some stupid way.

-141!apoco!roach is a lot more serious. He stretches himself thin as a mediating personality. If the group is experiencing social strain he’s working overtime trying to soothe nerves. He’s probably the least suspicious of new members if just because he feels like someone has to, even if he doesn’t like the new guy. Puts most of his survival in the hands of his team. Never really thought of his future of more than a couple days and isn’t going to start now. Not the best with abstract questions but keeps an eye on rations. Thinks group politics with other groups is stupid, advocating for just killing the asshole and moving on.

#.bark #roach #cod #gary roach sanderson #cod Gary Sanderson #he’s so autistic

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bookshelfdreams · 2 years

Note

Thoughts on Stede reading The Hobbit (bonus: to the crew)?

Wish you a cool evening!

i'm gonna sue you for damages that's what i'm thinking

how dare you put this concept in my head

just imagine!! Everyone is captivated from the very first second. Pete pretends to think it's dumb - "What even is a hobbit", he mutters under his breath. What is a hobbit? Stede reads. I suppose Hobbits need some description nowadays. Pete is stunned into silence (and he too has loved it from the very first moment, actually, though he wouldn't admit it under threat of death).

Stede does all the voices. His Bilbo is closest to his own voice, polite and chipper, but passive aggression always at the ready, like a hidden knife. His Gandalf speaks with gravitas, deep in his chest (Ed likes that a lot). All of the dwarves are introduced with their own voices, from excited, youthful, near (but not quite) identical Fili and Kili, to gravely Balin, voice rough and heavy with age.

The first song Stede tries to avoid. He reads up to But the dwarves only started to sing and skips right to and everything was cleaned and put away safe as quick as lightning, but then Frenchie wonders out loud.

"What kinds of songs do dwarves sing, do you suppose?", he asks no one in particular.

"Must be bloody", Pete says.

"It's about dishwashing", Olu says dryly.

Ed leans over Stede's shoulder. "You could have just read it, mate", he says and Stede has never felt more betrayed. "It's right here!"

"What?" Frenchie shoots upright. "Read it then!"

Stede, who doesn't mind reciting poetry but is mortified by the thought of singing in front of an audience, knows resistance is futile. He gives a deep sigh.

Chip the glass and crack the plates, he starts, voice as flat as possible. Doesn't even take to the end of the second line for Wee John to start tapping out a rhythm against the deck with his palm. Frenchie has his lute in hand, plucking out a simple melody.

"Start again", he says and is already humming along. He gets Stede to read through the whole poem twice, and then he's got it.

Chip the glass and crack the plates, and it's bouncy, catchy, a bit like a shanty. A simple melody to keep hands working steady in the same rhythm. The Swede is adding a beautiful harmony.

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates! So carefully, carefully with the plates!, they all shout as one, grinning.

"Can we sing it one more time?", Fang asks.

They don't finish the chapter that evening.

The next morning, Stede approaches Frenchie and Wee John somewhat secretly. "There's another song right after the one from yesterday", he tells them, "in case you want to. You know. Not that you have to, of course."

Frenchie is delighted. The Swede is quickly recruited.

The Song of the Lonely Mountain may or may not bring tears to the eyes of a hardened pirate or two, you have no proof.

Everyone is intrigued by the map. Of course Stede has an edition with a nice big map folded up in the back of the book; they carefully take it out and put it on deck so everyone can see it. "What's that?" Ed asks and points at the runes.

"Wait and we will find out", Stede answers, and already knows he will tell Ed later, when the rest of the crew can't hear it, should he still want to know.

The dwarves get caught by trolls and Jim is distraught. "Don't go there one by one, you morons!" they yell, and Olu has to hold their hand discreetly until Gandalf shows up to save the day. Roach has some sympathy for the poor trolls, who have been subsisting on nothing but mutton, but draws a line at squashing the dwarves to eat them later without removing the guts first.

They make it to Rivendell and there is another improv song. Stede maybe hums along. Off key. But he's hardly the only one with no great singing voice.

The mystery of the runes is lifted.

"Moon letters?"

"Oh so it was invisible this whole time!"

Everyone is delighted to have known a secret before the characters did.

The Misty Mountains rise up under our heroes's feet. Far, far away in the West, where things were blue and faint, Bilbo knew there lay his own country of safe and comfortable things, and his little hobbit-hole, Stede reads. It stirs something in Ed, and even though this chapter has an even bigger adventure than the trolls (AND a song! A song that Roach will be heard singing under his breath for days, Clash, crash! Crush, smash! Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!, and Lucius is not avoiding him, thank you very much)

Even though there is plenty else going on, that line still sticks in Ed's head. "Do you miss home, sometimes?" he asks Stede as they lay down for the night.

"Oh my love", Stede says, wrapped up in Ed's arms, with Ed's head pillowed on his chest, "I am home."

They meet Gollum next.

What has roots as nobody sees / Is taller than trees / Up, up it goes / And yet, never grows?

"A cathedral, obviously", Wee John shouts, before Stede can read on.

"Shut up, they don't have cathedrals", Pete says. "Do they?"

"Tall building, anyway", Frenchie backs Wee John up.

"Could be something else", the Swede muses.

"Like what?"

"No he's right", Roach says, "Building is too easy. It's um. A hot air balloon? No roots, it goes up but doesn't grow, does it?"

That earns him a round of impressed nods and agreeing hums. The actual answer - Mountain, I suppose! - is widely seen as anticlimactic.

Stede hisses and croaks as he speaks with Gollum's voice and that placates the crew somewhat. It must have a competition with us, my preciouss, he reads and dredges the sounds out of the back of his throat, speaks with his tongue between his teeth until he truly sounds like a creature that lives in dark, cold waters, eats raw fish and hasn't talked to anyone in centuries.

Every riddle is followed by debates and every member of the crew offers up their own best riddles for the others to solve. It takes three evenings to get through the chapter. It's just as well; Stede fears Gollum's voice might tear his throat to ribbons. It's worth it though.

They make it out of the goblin labyrinths eventually. They meet Beorn and giant eagles and an elven king. They fight wargs, and spiders, and spend a night adrift in a river, clinging to a barrel.

It's a fantastic story. The dragon is terrifying; the hoard everything any of them have ever dreamed of. The attack on Laketown, and finally the Battle of Five armies, has more than one of them hold tightly onto someone's hand.

Opinions on the ending are divided.

"How can he just go home?", Frenchie says, offended. "After everything they've been through together!"

"He misses it", Olu says. "Must be nice, I think. To know there's a home for you to return to."

"Bullshit", Jim says, shifting inconspicuously, so they're sitting just a tiny bit closer to him. "Home can be anywhere. Home is where your - y'know." They do not blush.

"But Thorin died", Lucius says. "It wouldn't be the same without him, would it? Maybe he needs to go back so he isn't always reminded of him."

"That's so deep, babe."

"Thanks babe."

Stede reads the last poem and nobody tries to sing.

It's quiet when he finishes. Wee John sniffles, but only a little.

Luckily, there's that whole business with the auction and Bilbo being declared dead so they end on a high note.

The next evening, Stede tries to bring a different book, but nobody will hear it.

"Read it again!"

Stede protests, but only a little.

"C'me on", Ed says, "they love it. Please?"

Really, there never was a choice.

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit.

#i'm joking about the sueing. thank you so much. didnt expect this to turn so long but its what it is #you have a lovely day/evening too depending on when you read this!#cakeeatingwingedcat #message #our flag means death #tolkien #i wrote a thing #oh yeah ed can read & thats a hill im wiling to die on thanks

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calder · 5 months

Text

i havent had a serious disagreement on nukapedia since i joined but every couple months i choose some inherently farcical wiki controversy & draw a chaotic unironic hardline. currently arguing that we need to change the roach king's gender to roach king. it's the only acceptable answer to the question of the roach king's gender and frankly i'm impressed at the audacity of our cis peers in speaking about the issue. im not rly acting on it tho. but it's good exercise

tho more and more im doing experimental shit like adding a paragraph about the lore and cultural context of the scene where a super mutant pisses at a closed toilet while screaming with his arms over his head.

i wouldnt seriously fight over 99% these things if challenged but i guess im also creating situations where my challengers would have to reveal some subjective bias like "you're theoretically allowed to talk about pee this much, but i think the page should have less pee on it"

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prettybluelites · 7 months

Text

Thoughts: The Curse of the Seafaring Life

Okay, fine, I'll watch Episode 5 one more time.

I have watched this half a dozen times by now and I have straight up howled every time Ed says "this here is a ship, and it's a space ship." The delivery combined with the hand gestures - I'm dead. I'm finished. Fucking genius.

A couple posts down I expounded on the fact that Ed is literally wearing sackcloth, still fascinated by that. Also wondering how much trouble he's having making the change from the infamous leathers to a loose-fitting linen onesie :P

That awkward position of, Do I clap, do I do nothing, or do I give the finger - so real

Does the mad cat on the new flag remind anyone else of the union rat inflatables that striking unions use?

Izzy got a new leg and it turned him into a right little sass pot

"I'm your captain! Wait, I can do it better." This whole scene is awesome and "That's the captain's chair" makes me laugh almost as hard as the space ship bit

Thinking a lot about Ed offering to let Lucius push him off the ship when it soon becomes clear that that isn't exactly what Lucius needs - I guess I'll just leave it at, I love how neatly the show illustrates that everyone heals differently

The shot of Izzy training on the gundeck is gorgeous and I'm not just saying that because of the Pecs of Death. And I love that he took himself down there and set all that up and took up his training his own self, idk, it feeds a lot of my headcanon about what sort of person Izzy is outside the context of Blackbeard - disciplined and fastidious

Love a good training montage, especially one that involves ass-slapping. And I love this new normal where Stede and Izzy, like, hang out and converse.

Will never grow tired of the fact that not one but both of Ed's shoes fly off

Really into geometry, lol. One of those superstitious bitches would have known what a pentagram was

Every girl loves an outfit she can twirl in

Third reliable lol of the episode: "draw me as, like, a steely...lord"

I was so busy thinking about Lucius and Pete each reckoning separately with Ed that I forgot to think about Lucius and Pete reckoning with each other. So glad this is a part of the storyline.

There really is nothing like a peanut butter sandwich. And then to be there when they were invented? Wow. :D

The scene with Ed and Fang in the boat is like Lucius recounting his horrors a couple episodes ago, shouldn't be funny, but...it's funny

Lucius is a man of some learning, he should know that Izzy's shark story is not, strictly speaking, fiction: A metaphor is a figure of speech that describes an object or action in a way that isn't literally true, but helps explain an idea or make a comparison. (Thanks, Grammarly!) Izzy's not covering up shit with that story, he's explaining an idea.

STG if Izzy and Lucius don't make out by the end of this series...

Roach's comment about Frenchie's beautiful body, lmao

Anyone ever see Northern Exposure? There was a great scene in an early episode of that show where Joel was trying to figure out how Marilyn could sit still and quiet on her shifts as his receptionist and he was just boggled that she could, as Fang puts it, sit with herself. I'm not sure if this quote was from that episode, but I know it's a Marilyn quote: Words are heavy like rocks … they weigh you down. If birds could talk, they wouldn't be able to fly. That has stuck with me for a looong time. Anyway, sorry to blather, that's what this bit of Fang and Ed's conversation reminds me of.

Obvs the shirt needed to stay for plot reasons but also glad Stede got to keep it because he looks fine AF

Awwww Lucius and Pete, I love their love. I laughed and cried.

That feeling when someone reacts in all the right ways to all the right parts of your stories ♥

So much to love about this scene, obviously. Much has already been written about the kiss (THAT KISS!!) and Ed asking to go slow and Stede meeting him where he's at, but I am obsessed with the way Ed looks down, ever so slightly surprised, when Stede takes his hand. When, in Ed's adult life, has someone held his hand in a romantic context? It really is perfect.

And all that is to say nothing of Sometimes it's nice to be patient and wait. Jesus H Christ. When those two finally fuck, brains are going to melt and run out of the ears of fans all over the world.

Okay, phew! That was a lot, thank you for reading!

As a reward for your perseverance, here's a bonus quote I found while I was looking up Marilyn's bird quote:

"We are all pirates at heart. There is not one of us who hasn't had a little larceny in his soul. And which one of us wouldn't soar if God had thought there was merit in the idea? So, when we see one of those great widespread pirates soaring across the grain of sea winds we thrill, and we long, and, if we are honest, we curse that we must be men every day. Why not one day a bird! There's an idea, now, one day out of seven a pirate in the sky. What puny power a man can attain by comparison. Compare a 747 with a bird and blush!"

Roger Caras, Birds and Flight, 1971.

#ofmd #ofmd s2 #ofmd s2 spoilers #our flag means death #ofmd s2e5 #the curse of the seafaring life

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samuelroukin · 2 months

Note

I have a gift for you (it's the equivalent of poisoned chocolates)!

It's not like Soap expects Ghost to walk up to the pub covered in gold chains or something.

Even if he wasn't the spooky bastard he is, Soap's been in long enough to know there's no one universal way soldiers finally dress up when they're let loose onto the populace, and that you can't guess from how they are in the field. It's always the ones you least expect that turn up in Hawaiian shirts open to their navel. And the ones you'd think in more layers than a nun.

So it's not the lack of jewelry that surprises him, even if he knows Ghost well enough to know he's not the type to judge a man that wears a ring or six, like Soap and Gaz on a good day. He'd have figured Ghost to be like Price, wearing not a damn bit of flash and closer to someone's Grandad and getting eyes anyway. Ghost is surprisingly low-key for such a huge fucker. Smart enough to not wear all black, just muted colors and old faded-in-the-wash hoodies that won't draw any attention at all, camouflaging his size. But, Soap notices the chain.

It's dark, and thin, not meant to be seen. Probably would have escaped notice, if Soap didn't make it a habit to notice any and all things Ghost. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is… fucked if he knows. A pattern, certainly. Ghost always wears a chain with something on it in his civvies. Low and close to his heart, from the lump under his layers. Not just his dogtags, clearly.

He finds out what it is the hard way, some drunk starting something and needing putting down. Ghost doesn't break a sweat, but the movement's enough. It pops out. No wonder he doesn't wear it in the field.

It's a ring, but Soap doesn't know what kind. Not a woman's ring, the size and shape and design is off, but it's no regiment token either. He wants, very badly, to get his hands on it. If only he didn't think Ghost would cut them off. But it nags at him, and he's looking at the thin, secret line of the chain on the small sliver of Ghost's neck he can see between the facemask and the Henley at the pub when the glass goes flying.

Not his fault, for once, and Gaz is on him in an instant, praising his thick fucking skull. Price and Ghost blink out of his sight and then back in, meaning he's probably concussed. And at an angle; it suddenly dawns on him Gaz has put him on his back and he huffs a laugh at that that makes all their eyes go tight and worried.

Ghost leans forward, over him, and the ring slips out. Soap's eyes get pulled to it, like a hypnotist's token.

"Why do you have it if it doesn't fit you?" he says without thinking, because there's no way it does, not on those massive fucking hands. "Doesn't belong to me," Ghost barks, eyes stricken like he answered just as mindlessly, and vanishes. Soap flails, trying to chase after him and finding himself pinned by Gaz who looks half worried and half intrigued, and by Price who looks gutted.

"Fuck, fuck, I should-"

"You should fucking forget about this," Price says, steely.

"But I need to apologize-"

"If you do, he will kill you," Price answers, "just don't ever speak of it again, alright?" He almost sounds sorry. And Soap well. Soap tries.

(Yes it IS a claddagh ring because I grow ever fonder of North!Irish!Roach)

OUGH noooo 😢 i love how soap is paying so much attention to him that he can't help but notice, and then speaking up without thinking it might not be his to ask about. the pain there, from both sides, is so evident :(

#meduseld #asks

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boxofthings · 1 year

Text

Finally finished a prompt and wrote some GhostRoach (kinda) matching gear fluff :)

I might also go back and do some of the other ideas anon listed

This turned out much longer than expected lmao and isn't as well fleshed out and polished like my two other fics so if there are typos I'm sorry lol (also might be a lil ooc since this was just mindless brainrot writing)

Read on AO3

---

A haphazard smack against his helmet briefly knocks him out of his crouched stance. He grunts softly as he repositions himself near the bushes. Ghost isn't surprised that a task force member got bored and decided to bother him. He's even less surprised when he turns around and comes face to face with Roach, eyes crinkled in a relaxed grin.

"What," he says, unimpressed. They're supposed to be on recon duty, but it's lasted far longer than he thinks is needed, and with the information they've gathered being as dry as it was, Ghost had figured the squad would've started loosening up by now.

He should've figured Roach would be the first one to get antsy.

"Wanted to check up on you," Roach signs. He lowers himself so that he's at Ghost's level and slings his firearm over his shoulder. "Also, I'm bored."

Ghost rolls his eyes. "So I see you've made the smart decision and sought me out to help cure your boredom?" He makes a show of raising his brow even though it won't be seen through the mask.

Roach nods, completely unbothered by his lieutenant's snark.

"Of all people..." Ghost mumbles under his breath, but his limbs feel just a little less heavy than they were a minute ago.

He doesn't follow Roach's example and keeps his gun at the ready, barrel pointed straight in front of him. At the same time, the sergeant starts getting himself comfortable (or as comfortable as one can be in a humidly damp forest) with his journal already out and pencil in hand.

Ghost doesn't bother reprimanding him. It'd felt so long ago that he'd nitpick at every minuscule shortcoming displayed by his subordinates. It'd only feel strange if he went back to that now, especially with Roach, who had definitely played a role in the aversion of that overtly rigid demeanour.

And besides, he knows Roach to be startlingly swift when facing a sudden oncoming threat, and with the added security of Ghost still on alert, their chances of ambush were low.

When had he gotten so soft?

He turns to the sergeant–the culprit responsible for that development. A rush of fond exasperation churns in his gut, but he doesn't speak, only watches, as he often does with Roach.

He looks down at the open journal page, a current sketch of the foliage around them, some jotted-down thoughts and a drawing of Ghost from earlier in the day.

It doesn't bother him, but he's always surprised to see Roach's sketches of him, even if it'd been established long ago that Roach, much like the captain, tends to draw everyone.

It just means something else when it's Ghost.

Ghost clears his throat, suddenly abashed, "You and MacTavish should have drawing competitions. Bet he'd enjoy that."

The sergeant looks up, then glances down at his page again, pointedly looking at the sketch of the lieutenant.

"We already had one," he responds. "He won." Roach dramatically hangs his head and clutches his heart in a mocking "woe is me" display. Ghost feels the corners of his lips lift.

"Ah," he starts, leaning over to give a quick pat on the shoulder. "Sorry to hear that. S'pose the captain does have a couple of years on ya."

Roach shrugs lightheartedly, "My creations could definitely use some work." He returns to his previous activity while Ghost turns his gaze back to their targeted area.

He's starting to feel antsy himself, and he's long recognized the source of that familiar precipice. "I like 'em, though," he says, much more hesitant and softer than his tone before, probably hoping the latter won't hear.

Roach's eyes shift upwards and he takes a moment to observe Ghost, crinkled eyes boring deep into his skin, and he feels his body flaring warmer.

He leans forward and gives a quick peck to Ghost's covered cheek, patting the area lightheartedly before returning to his previous ministrations, all too quickly for Ghost to properly process and appreciate what had just happened.

Ghost manages a choked "Mhm" before he's back to steadying his gun in his grasp, albeit a little shakier this time.

They don't say anything else after that–Ghost suddenly hyper-focused on the tree to the left of his barrel, and Roach very obviously content with their current established dynamic.

The silence is, as always, comfortable between them, and it passes for another half an hour before Royce comms in that his area is clear and that there's nothing else to look for.

Ghost stands up, gathering the gear he'd set on the ground, and moves over to offer Roach a hand to hoist him up.

The other closes his journal and brushes off his gear. When he looks up at Ghost, he grins.

"What?" Ghost asks, sensing an aura of inscrutability.

Roach continues to smile as he shakes his head, already turning to trek down the path they came from. Ghost wordlessly follows him.

Once they've all settled into their respective rides, Ghost radios in with Soap one last time to confirm extraction before he signals Royce to start driving.

He's just started to relax when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the side-view mirror.

There's nothing out of the ordinary. Just his masked face as usual, but when he glances slightly upwards to where his helmet sits, that's where he spots it.

A sticker. It's a flower and a soft baby pink, and Ghost stares at it, slightly incredulous as if it appeared out of thin air.

Except–he has a hunch on where it came from, and the earlier smack to his helmet comes back to rattle his brain in a wave of exasperation.

And, of course, Roach chose to ride with Meat in the other car. He'll deal with it later.

Seven hours later and they're finally back on base. Ghost is about ready to pass out in his quarters, but as soon as he steps into the common room, Meat approaches him, no doubt to pester Ghost into joining his evening bender.

Ghost is about to wave him off when Meat pauses and squints at him. "The hell is that?"

For a moment, Ghost doesn't understand what Meat's referring to and, by default, is prepared to say it's his face, but the other's gaze is lifted just a tad higher than where Ghost's ears would be, and he realizes.

"It's just a sticker," he grumbles. He'd almost forgotten about it, "Don't get your knickers in a twist."

Meat only looks more confused. "Yeah, but-" his attention is ripped away by Roach, who makes his way over to the two. "Wow."

"What?" Roach asks.

The other makes a heatless scowl, "So you'll let Roachie here decorate your helmet but if we even suggest you add some personality and glamour to your gear, you just get all huffy?"

It's Ghost's turn to scowl. "I do not get huffy." And he immediately chides himself for sounding like a petulant child arguing with their sibling over who started what. Over a sticker.

"And the sergeant did it without my knowledge." He tries to add with more professionalism, but it doesn't help that Roach is standing next to him, grinning like an idiot.

The answer obviously doesn't satisfy Meat at all--only really exasperates him more. He shakes his head and gives a brief, knowing glance towards Roach, that Ghost heavily glares at, before he gives the lieutenant a light pat as he leaves. "Whatever. Looks cute, L.T."

Before he can respond, Roach is already pulling him away towards the direction of the mess hall.

Once they've sat down with a tray of food in front of them, Ghost takes the time to unbuckle his helmet, deliberately making eye contact with Roach.

"Well?" he says, side-eyeing his partner.

Roach glances down at the aforementioned sticker, then looks back up at Ghost and shrugs.

"Why not?" he signs. "You could add a little colour to your..." he gestures towards Ghost's person haphazardly.

Ghost sighs, placing down his helmet to the side and settling into his seat.

"You know you can take it off. It's all in good fun."

Ghost gives one last glance at the little sticker before digging into his food.

He'll keep it on for now, only because he'd rather focus his attention on his meal over something so ridiculous.

The next time they're off on a mission, it's rather quick. A cut-and-dry track and assimilate.

As Soap handles their acquired asset into the carrier, Ghost takes a quick moment to glance at the pop-up shops around them.

They've been deployed to a small village on the east coast of the U.S., where their target had hunkered up in. During their sweep of the area, he'd observed the various shop stands he'd passed by.

Now, as he studies the goods in front of him, his eye catches on a bright sheet in his peripheral.

He buys it without a second thought. Keeping it tucked in his vest's breast pocket when he meets back up with the others.

It's a slow day. He's reading over mission debriefings in his shared office with the captain.

He'd chosen to look over them during afternoon drills when he knew he wouldn't be disturbed.

With everyone outside sweating their asses off, he'd be granted a couple hours of free time.

He's fifteen minutes into his file readings when Roach walks straight through the door, shoulders slumped from fatigue and half his gear still strapped to his body.

Ghost immediately sits straighter, forgoing his attention on the papers strewn across his desk and taking in Roach's presence. He's back a day early from his latest deployment. One Ghost, unfortunately, wasn't assigned to join.

"Injuries?"

Roach huffs lightheartedly and shakes his head. "Just a few bruised ribs. All good."

He sits down beside Ghost with a heavy sigh and glances over his papers. "How have you been?"

Ghost relaxes as soon as the other situates the other chair, and his hand involuntarily creeps closer to Roach across the table.

Roach zeroes in on it and grasps it without question.

Ghost swallows. "I've been fine. Slow day. How was the mission?"

The sergeant shrugs. "Nothing special, just a week of mostly sitting around."

Ghost nods, gripping Roach's hand just a little tighter.

Roach removes his helmet and places it on Ghost's desk, leaning closer towards him so their shoulders are touching.

"Mission debriefings?"

"Mm. Just going over a few before I give 'em to MacTavish."

Roach nods, leaning his head against Ghost's shoulder.

Ghost snorts, already knowing where this will go. "If you're tired, you should've headed to the barracks."

Roach makes no show of moving, only whispering a soft "Wanted to see you" that makes Ghost's chest feel funny.

Ghost decides to return to his papers, one hand still intertwined with his partner's, but refusing to let go.

Roach has already begun dozing off when Ghost brings the nearest paper closer to him.

Ghost only manages to get twenty minutes of productive reading in when his mind becomes preoccupied. He's read the same paragraph five times before he throws the paper down and rubs his eyes.

The warm weight on his side hasn't moved an inch, and Ghost feels a faint smile graze his lips when he glances down at Roach, dead to the world, on Ghost's shoulder.

When he turns back to his desk, something catches his eye from his peripheral. It's the small sheet of stickers he'd bought on that mission weeks ago, haphazardly sticking out from between two folders.

He'd forgotten about it, was already apprehensive about using them as soon as he'd arrived back with them in his pocket.

But when he turns to his left, Roach's helmet sits innocently within his reach, and his eyes dart between that and the stickers on his right.

He sighs, feeling a little like a small child scheming to steal an extra snack or two from the pantry.

He reaches forward, mindful of not jostling Roach too much, as he grabs the plastic sheet and slides it out of its clear sleeve.

Ghost gingerly peels a little blue flower off the sheet and delicately places it on the same area where Roach placed his on Ghost's helmet.

After smoothing it out for a few seconds, he debates placing another. Just because. But as he reaches over to grab at the sheet again, he freezes.

The soft breathing from his left had quieted substantially, and he slowly looks down to his shoulder to make eye contact with Roach's amused gaze.

"How long were you awake," he grumbles.

Roach lifts himself, extricating his hand from Ghost's and stretching. "Long enough to watch you lovingly decorate my helmet."

"I wasn't-It was just one."

He doesn't respond, only reaches out to grab his helmet and turns back to Ghost, expression almost triumphant.

Ghost can only look down at Roach's mouth and subconsciously leans closer.

It is then that the captain walks right through the door, papers in hand, approaching his own desk when he catches Ghost and Roach in the act.

The smile that breaks across Mactavish's face is almost comical. Ghost immediately wishes he'd just done this in his own quarters.

"That's real precious, lads," he snorts.

Ghost grimaces, prepared for the onslaught of teasing from his commanding officer.

Soap notices his discomfort and quickly reassures him. "Ah, don't be embarrassed, mate. Roach here used to decorate my helmet when he first joined the squad."

For a moment, Ghost feels an ugly bout of jealousy spark through his gut, which is ridiculous because they're just stickers.

Roach quickly pats Ghost's hand and waves off the captain.

"It was my first mission with him alone, and we got so bored we just did anything to pass the time." As if he sensed Ghost's envy.

"Yeah yeah," MacTavish responds. "No need to feel jealous, Ghost. You're still the special one."

Roach sits back down, turning his body to Ghost while intently making eye contact with Soap. "He also lost the helmet that very same mission."

Soap sneers with zero heat as he walks toward the exit. "Think of it as an unpredicted blessing. Now you can focus all that attention onto Ghost.

The door closes, and Ghost wordlessly turns to Roach.

The other's grin hasn't diminished a bit, and Ghost feels warm under all his layers.

Roach leans forward and encloses Ghost's face between his hands, calloused but gentle, and brings his lips to Ghost's in a tender kiss.

His mask is still on, but Ghost reciprocates regardless and cherishes the moment all the same. He closes his eyes and leans fully into Roach's body heat as the other moves one hand to the back of Ghost's neck to lock them in place.

When they separate, Roach takes a moment to caress Ghost's face before pulling back and standing up.

Ghost already misses the contact.

Roach is about to walk out of the office before he turns back, glancing at the helmet in his hands and giving Ghost one last survey.

"It does look cute, L.T."

Ghost only huffs.

#put this into docs and the word count was 2k I really am the worst ficlet writer #my big fic wip watching me spend my free time writing short ghostroach prompts: >:(#ghostroach #ghost x roach #simon ghost riley #gary roach sanderson #prompt #fic #cod #call of duty modern warfare #mw2 #these two mean everything to me #they deserve more fics #also feel free to send more prompts i need an excuse to not do work #ask #box of words #box of asks #box of posts

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sixstepsaway · 2 years

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i would pass away for a "touch me", blackhands, any rating, angsty fic 👀👀

anon when i tell you i started writing this thirty seconds after you sent this because i just. i could just SEE. the scene.

please do not pass away, i want you to enjoy this.

also I SWORE i was going to keep this shorter than the other prompt i've been writing for like a month now but no! they said no!

The Kraken Destroys • M • Blackhands • Also Available on AO3

The Kraken is angry, waves of fury crashing against the shore as it tears apart the already emptied-out cabin. There’s nothing left to destroy, but it tries anyway, wanting nothing to be left when it’s done.

“How can this have happened?” it snarls in Edward’s voice, rounding on Izzy, standing a few paces back, closer to the door than he usually stands, resting partially on his cane. “How did you let this happen?”

Izzy’s face shifts. “They crept out in the dead of night when all the crew were asleep save for Fang on the wheel. He didn’t hear them. They took the dinghy and left.”

The Kraken destroys more. It yanks the curtains down and shreds them, and then it storms closer, grabs Izzy by the back of his neck and bounces him off the empty bookshelves before he can resist, as if he ever does.

Izzy yells in pain, blood streaming from above his eye and down his face. His balance is lost, he tumbles down towards the ground, but the Kraken stops him, yanking him up by the collar and drawing back to strike.

Izzy flinches.

It’s only there for a minuscule second, a fleeting, horrible moment where his face contorts and he tries in vain to jerk back from the grip around his throat, half held aloft by it. He closes his eyes, expecting the strike, and when it doesn’t come he doesn’t open them, doesn’t look to see the face of the beast looming over him.

Ed jolts back, releasing his hold on Izzy and staggering back a few steps.

Izzy crumbles to the floor, falls like a sack of potatoes, his kneecaps meeting the wood with a crack. He lowers his head. He still doesn’t open his eyes.

He’s wrung dry, Ed can see that now. He’s taken and taken and Izzy has let him, he’s let him take until he has nothing left to give. He’s taken his toe, he’s pulled blood from his veins, he’s destroyed him inside and out, all to sate a beast that should never have been allowed free to begin with.

“How do I fix this?” is what Ed ends up croaking out through his suddenly dry throat. “Just— just tell me how I fix this.”

Izzy laughs then, hollow and scooped out. “Fix what?” he says. “They’re gone. They’ve been gone hours, there’s no way we’ll find them on the ocean. We don’t even know which way they went. What do you want to fix?”

They left because of the beast, because of the Kraken, because of what it did.

Because of what Ed did. What Ed did to Lucius. What Ed did to Wee John and Oluwande and Roach.

“You,” Ed says. It’s the wrong answer, he knows that, even if Izzy doesn’t. “Us.”

“Us.” Izzy’s voice cracks. There’s blood dribbling down his chin, a small pip, pip, pip as the droplets hit the floor. If Bonnet— Stede ever reclaims his vessel, he’ll wonder about the stain. Ed considers carving his name above it. The Kraken was here, and he is no longer. “There’s an us?”

Ed wishes the blood was his own, not Izzy’s. Wishes he never laid a hand on his first mate, on his friend, on the only one who never turned their back, no matter how bad things got. “Course there’s an us,” Ed manages to say. “What’re you on about?”

Izzy looks up finally. Behind his bruised face and split lip, he looks tired, pulled apart until there’s nothing left but exhaustion and blood. He doesn’t speak. Ed thinks the image of Izzy like this speaks for him.

“I...” Ed stops, starts. “I thought this was what you wanted. Blackbeard back.”

“Blackbeard never did things like this, not to me at least,” Izzy says. His voice sounds rough but it lacks venom, there’s no bite, nothing left. “Never used to, anyway.”

“I’m the Kraken,” Ed says. “What did you expect?”

Izzy stays quiet. Ed swallows repeatedly until his mouth is dry as a bone.

“Answer me.”

Izzy doesn’t, not for a long few moments that stretch for what feels like eternity, a test to see if the beast will finally strike him, and then he says, “The same as you.”

Loyalty.

Ed sucks in a breath that burns his lungs. “You threatened me,” he says.

“I’ve done that before,” Izzy says. His voice is low and cracked, and the way he speaks is like he thinks he’ll never speak again when they’re done, like he might as well say whatever’s in his head. “Never seemed to hold much weight back then.”

“You left,” Ed counters. “You lost that duel, got in your stupid little dinghy and rowed away.”

“You left first,” Izzy says.

“The fuck you on about?” Ed says. There’s a Kraken-ish bite to his tone. The smallest twitch of Izzy’s facial muscles when he flinches does not go unnoticed.

“You left the second you boarded the Revenge,” Izzy says. “You’d already left. You were gone.”

“No, I— I wasn’t—”

“You never intended to kill Bonnet,” Izzy says. “You only said that to placate me.”

“I did, it— I was going to,” Ed argues. He’s not sure he can convince himself, let alone his first mate, bleeding on his knees before him. Then, with more venom he says, “You were leaving!”

“You left first,” Izzy repeats. He still hasn’t looked up. Ed hasn’t seen his eyes in minutes and, he realizes, longer than he’d care to notice. Izzy hasn’t made eye-contact in weeks, not since Ed slipped into his room that night, not since the Kraken was let in, not since his betrayal.

Ed’s betrayal.

“How do I fix this?” he asks again. “I thought— I really did think you wanted the Kraken back!”

“I wanted you back,” Izzy says. It’s the most passion Ed has heard in his voice since— since— since that night. Ed’s always roughed Izzy up in a bad mood, but it’s never been anything to leave marks, let alone something as permanent as— Izzy speaks again, interrupting his flow of desperate, despondent thought. “You’ve been slipping away for years and I wasn’t ready to let you go. You used to burn, everything you did was with so much fuckin’ fire, I envied that. The person you became, it wasn’t you, it isn’t you.” Ed wants to ask if he means Ed, draped in a red robe, crying over his boyfriend, or if he means the Kraken, slipping into his first mate’s cabin in the dead of night to mutilate him for— for wanting him back. For being… afraid? “It isn’t you,” Izzy repeats, like he’s desperate to believe it himself.

“It is me.” Ed’s voice nearly adds to the betrayal, nearly refuses to function. Finally, slowly, blood still dribbling down his chin and neck, Izzy looks up, cautious, to finally, finally, finally meet Ed’s eyes.

He’s… He’s missed those eyes. It’s been mere weeks since they went away for him, and it feels like he’s been dying a slow death ever since. He wonders if this is how Izzy felt, watching Edward vanish beneath silk, anger and misery, watching him stop caring about everything around him.

“It’s all me,” Ed says. It’s me that kissed Stede, me that mutinied to become captain and became Blackbeard with you by my side, me who mutilated you, me who sent the crew to their deaths, me who chased what was left away in a shitty dinghy in the dead of night. “Ed, Edward, Blackbeard, the Kraken, it’s… it’s all me, Iz.”

Izzy spits blood out onto the dirty wooden floor. Ed’s knocked out a tooth, he thinks, but what draws his attention is the grime between the planks. He hadn’t noticed until now that the floor hasn’t been cleaned in a long time. No one dares to enter Blackbeard’s cabin without invitation after all, no one except Izzy. His floors were spotless once.

“Guess so,” is all Izzy manages to say once he draws his breath back in.

“Just tell me how to fix it, fix this, fix us,” Ed says, his voice quivering. Fuck, Izzy must hate this. He’s always hated the softer side of Edward, the namby-pamby pining for his partner, but he doesn’t know who else to be as he stares, horrified down at what he’s done.

“It’s like you said,” Izzy says, “I wanted Blackbeard back and I got him. What is there to fix?”

“My floors are dirty,” Ed says.

Izzy looks down at them. “I’ll get a mop and bucket.” He makes to stand but Ed lunges to stop him, to argue against his getting further injured if he falls, but stops at the last moment, unwilling to reach out and touch.

Izzy remains on his knees, but his gaze lingers on Ed’s hand, half outstretched towards him.

“No! I— That wasn’t what I meant, Iz,” he says. He tries to keep his voice steady, tries to stop his hand from shaking as he lowers it and Izzy’s eyes fall away. “I meant you used to let yourself in and clean it. You don’t anymore. You’re afraid of me. You flinched.”

There is a small pause, and then once again Izzy says, “Guess so.”

They stay like that for a few minutes, the cabin silent except for the quiet creaking of the boat, buoyed by the waves.

“I don’t care,” Izzy says finally. His head is still down, his goatee still bloodied, his knees still digging into the wood. “I don’t care what you do to me.”

“Don’t lie,” Ed rasps. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be flinching away from me.”

“Instinct,” Izzy says. He raises his gaze, locks it with Ed’s again. “Tryin’ not to piss you off more, make it worse, make you unhappier.”

“I’m not—” Ed stops when Izzy meets him with a challenging expression. He is unhappy. He’s been unhappy for more years than he can remember being happy, as though all the joy and pleasure was bled slowly from him, hollowing him out just like he did to Izzy. “I keep trying to be happy but it doesn’t work.”

Izzy shrugs one shoulder. “I know,” he says. Of course he knows. Izzy pays attention. “That night you choked me, thought you were back. There was fire in your eyes, passion in your hands, you seemed… alive again.” Izzy’s quiet for a moment, contemplative, and Ed doesn’t ruin his moment of thought. “Turns out I just made you more miserable.”

“No,” Ed says, “no that… wasn’t you. It— I did what I did, it wasn’t… You didn’t ask for that.”

Izzy snorts.

“You didn’t,” Ed snarls, and he thinks, when Izzy looks up again, that maybe that hint of fire was back again. “You were trying to help, and I—” His own contemplative pause. “I overreacted.”

Izzy laughs at that, an actual laugh, Ed thinks, not a hollowed out one. “A’right,” he agrees. “I won’t argue with that one.”

“So tell me what I do,” Ed says. “Tell me how I fix this.”

Izzy’s eyes wander again, but this time it seems less to not look at Ed and more to look at his hand.

“Tell me,” Ed says. He’s begging now, he really is.

“Touch me,” Izzy says.

There is a long pause as Ed’s mind spins and reels and Izzy has to kneel with those words hanging between them. Ed can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Ed doesn’t know what he’s thinking.

“What?” he says, looking for clarification, not demanding a retraction.

Izzy’s breath shudders very slightly. “The only time you let yourself touch me is when you’re hurting me,” he finally says.

Ed thinks about the times in the past when he’s struck out, back when Izzy would strike back. He’d hit and Izzy would return the blow, they’d stumble, crash into each other, wrestle out their anger and unhappiness until they were both panting, disheveled and tangled together on the deck of whatever ship they were on. He thinks of how many times he’d been positioned over Izzy, pinning him to the floor, telling him to cry uncle and give in, admit defeat, and how many times he’d been the one wanting to admit defeat, how many times he’d wanted to kiss him until fighting was the last thing on either of their minds.

“Don’t care how you do it,” Izzy clarifies, eventually, once the wheels have finished turning in Ed’s brain, “got nine more toes if you fuckin’ want. Just…” He’s still staring at Ed’s hand, the hand that reached out to stop him getting to his feet, to steady him so he didn’t fall back down. “Just fucking touch me.”

Ed doesn’t want this.

He doesn’t want the blood that’s drying into Izzy’s beard, he doesn’t want the flashes of white that show through the crimson staining his teeth, he doesn’t want the reminder of the toe he forced into Izzy’s mouth rather than his own tongue, he doesn’t want to face up to the years that have driven a wedge between them so deep they’re both breathing sawdust and unable to reach each other across the chasm, he doesn’t want to think about the years he spent looking so desperately for something that could make him happy, ignoring the one person who would literally sacrifice pieces of himself for that end, he doesn’t want a single solitary mote of this.

“Stay there.” He goes into Stede’s bathroom area. He finds the clean water from earlier, the water he was going to use to take the grease from his face, and a rag. He comes back to see that Izzy has lowered his head back down, obediently still on his knees, obediently staying there and waiting, doing whatever Ed tells him to do.

He wonders, briefly, darkly, if had the Kraken told him to die, if he would have obeyed just as willingly. And what if Edward had suggested they do so together? Would he have done it then, too?

He brings the bucket and cloth over and settles down in front of Izzy on the floor, their knees mere inches apart. He dunks the rag into the water, then brings it up, one hand coming to cup the back of Izzy’s head and the other dabbing the rag against the bloodied areas of skin and clearing away the evidence of his misdeeds, revealing pale skin and dark stubble and hair once obscured by blood and gore.

He tries to ignore the way Izzy’s eyes track his face, the look of wonder in them as Ed willingly touches him with nothing but gentleness and almost reverence.

“I wasn’t trying to leave,” he says, once most of Izzy’s goatee is clean, once he’s worked the blood from every strand of hair. “I was trying to stay.”

Izzy’s face takes on a quizzical expression but he doesn’t speak. Ed wonders if he’s as afraid that speaking will stop Ed from saying what he needs to say as Ed is.

“I wanted to die, mate,” Ed says quietly. “I was looking for something to live for.”

Izzy looks at him. Ed wonders if he’s thinking what Ed is thinking, how painful it is that Izzy wasn’t enough.

He daubs the rag against Izzy’s face, achingly careful of the bruise, a hilarious thing that stabs him in his gut, considering he’s the one that gave it to him. He wishes he could un-give it, take it back or put it on himself instead, take away all of the pain he’s inflicted on Izzy over the years.

“You’ve just been trying to take care of me,” Ed says, talking to himself rather than Izzy now, busying his hands with removing all of the blood bit by bit. “I should’ve known that.” His movement falters. “I never wanted you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.”

Ed turns his head. Izzy’s face is so close to his own, it would be so easy to close the gap between them, to taste the blood on his lips, to let himself do what he wanted to do so much all that time ago, when they were younger and things weren’t so dark.

But he can’t. He’s taken enough. He’s hurt Izzy enough. Kissing him now won’t fix anything, won’t take back the things he’s done, won’t fix a damn thing and will, likely enough, make everything worse.

“You are,” Ed says instead of tasting his teeth. “You flinched.”

Another of those half shrugs. “Not fucking afraid of you,” he says, then reaches out and pushes Ed’s shoulder, just one sharp little shove that takes him off guard and topples him over, backwards so he hits the deck on his ass with a yelp. Izzy stares at him. Ed stares back. Izzy laughs.

Ed laughs too.

“Fucker,” Ed mutters and shoves himself back up onto his knees. “See if I tidy your stupid face up again.”

“You messed it up,” Izzy bites back, “makes it your responsibility, eh?”

Ed pauses.

He messed it up, ruined it, tore it apart, destroyed it inside and out, and now it’s his responsibility.

Izzy, that is.

“Mm, guess so,” he says, and stands. Before Izzy can do anything more, Ed reaches down and picks him up like a sack of potatoes, far lighter than he first anticipated but still difficult to lug around for too long.

Izzy yelps, then shouts, then starts trying to twist out of the grip. “The fuck—! Put me down—! What the fuck—!”

Ed carries him across and dumps him unceremoniously down on the once-soft, now dingy bed by the window. “Stay,” he says when Izzy tries to practically vault his way back off the bed, and retrieves the water and cloth, coming back to sit by him to continue tidying him up. “You look exhausted.”

Izzy doesn’t deign to answer that.

“You need some fucking rest before you keel over,” Ed says. Izzy remains silent. “I’ll go, if it helps. I’ll— Fang can stand watch, so you know I don’t—”

Izzy’s hand whips out, grip tightening on Ed’s wrist. It might bruise. Ed will let it. “Don’t.”

Ed swallows. “You want me to stay?”

Izzy nods, once. He doesn’t speak.

“Even after everything?”

There is a silence that stretches for what Ed thinks is eternity, and then Izzy says, “Am I going to wake up to— Are you going to—”

“No,” Ed says instantly. “Never again, none of that.”

Izzy’s expression is strange, fearful, hopeful, disappointed, relieved. There’s so much going on that Ed can’t keep up. He finishes tidying up the blood, and then sets the bowl and rag aside. The water is so red it might as well have poured direct from the vein.

He sits for a moment, losing himself in the water as it settles, the surface a mirror reflecting the candles that flicker nearby.

“Can we fix this?” It isn’t Ed who asks. He looks to Izzy, whose eyes betray everything, now Ed knows to look.

“Do you want to?” He hadn’t thought to ask before, hadn’t thought that maybe what Izzy might actually want is to finally be able to leave, to be set free from this sinking ship.

“It’s all I fucking want,” Izzy says.

Ed exhales. “Then yeah,” he says, “I hope so.”

They sit like that until Ed figures that Izzy isn’t going to rest until he commands it, so he does.

Izzy sighs like a put-upon housewife, but he rearranges himself slowly to stretch out on the bed. Ed doesn’t suggest he undresses or takes off his boots, the former offering far more vulnerability than he’s willing to ask of him just yet, and the latter showing both of them something neither want to think about.

There’s quiet until Izzy speaks. “Bl— Edward.”

Ed realizes he hasn’t moved, that he hasn’t stopped sitting on the edge of the bed, crowding into Izzy’s space. “Yeah?”

“Lie the fuck down.”

Ed only hesitates a moment, but he kicks off his boots and rolls onto the bed behind Izzy, keeping a gap between them. It’s always him who keeps the gap between them. He wonders if maybe one day he’ll learn how to not.

“Edward,” Izzy says again. His back is to him, the dim moonlight casting shadows over his tired face.

“Yeah?”

A quiet pause, like he’s hesitating, like he’s unsure.

“Touch me.”

Ed turns and closes the gap between them.

#the odd thing is idk if i'm happy with this fic?#we'll see what you guys think #dunno #ofmd #our flag means death #blackhands #blackhands fic #izzy hands #edward teach #edward x izzy #ed x izzy #ofmd fic #anonymous #ask #prompt fills #also this is not how i expect this to go in canon #nor how i would want trauma to be explored or worked through normally lmoa #my writing

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samanthamarkle92 · 1 year

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Hey everyone! Some background before the story starts. I am most definitely NOT a gamer, but I had looked at some video game fan art, fics, and trivia videos for characters in my post-apocalyptic story that features a military character. The Last Of Us, Resident Evil, and Call Of Duty were the top ones. It was a major story arc in Call Of Duty: Modern Warfare 2, that got the writer in me. Hope I make the fans happy! Here's the gist; fan-favorite Simon “Ghost” Riley survives getting shot by General Shepard. Stranded in Afghanistan, he is rescued by a local woman and her younger brother. Hope you guys like it! I plan on posting this on Wattpad if I get it finished. Until then, I’ll be putting them here! Much love to @nsharks and @loonyundead ❤️ @cheezbites @ladyelissarose

The heavy odor of gasoline and burning flesh was what brought him back to consciousness. The pain in his chest felt like it was going to rip open from the inside. Then there were his arms, they were covered in blood, the sticky liquid soaking through his clothes. It all came flooding back, the smell, the gunfire, the screaming.

‘Oh, God…’

He tried to move, but pain radiated from his chest. The knit fabric of his mask stuck to his skin from the dried blood. He could feel the heat of flames, and realized he was lying in a puddle of gasoline. His gun still lay beside him. With difficulty he lifted himself up into an upright position. He manage to crawl onto the dry dust. A smoldering charred body lay nearby.

Roach.

Ghost gagged on bile.

‘Sorry, mate.’

Ghost rested his back against a rusted-out truck, trying to get his bearings. He saw the bullet hole in his fatigues. The bullet had tore through his tactical vest, lodging in his shoulder. He felt around his wound. There was no exit wound. Just a jagged, bloody tear through the fabric. If he hadn’t been wearing his vest underneath, then he’d probably be dead. As hurt as he was, he couldn't stay where he was. He saw the path out of the boneyard, leading towards the road beyond. He took one last look at Roach, his face distorted and unrecognizable as anything more than a smear of burned flesh. And then Ghost left the carnage. His legs felt weak, and when he put too much weight on them, a wave of dizziness washed over him. He kept moving forward, slowly. He knew he couldn't trust anyone now; an American leader had betrayed them. Who else was in danger? He thought hard....he was a British SAS soldier....could there be a UK unit out there? He could maybe make it to one of their camps, but if he got there, would there be any protection? He had to be careful not to draw attention to himself.

There must have been soldiers in that area. He just hoped he could find them before his leg gave out. He wasn’t sure how long he traveled through the desert. The pain was worse than the hunger and thirst.

He almost rubbed his eyes to make sure what he was seeing was real; a house. It sat away from the main village, which was further down the valley. It was cement block, with a wall where the yard was. A garden grew outside, sparse and patchy, but it looked relatively healthy. It was dark though. A well! He was too thirsty to think of anything else. The house itself seemed untouched, although it may have been abandoned during the war.

He moved closer to investigate. Maybe some fresh water and food. He didn't notice the young boy kicking the battered soccer ball until he was almost to the well. The boy froze as soon as he spotted Ghost.

‘Fuck. Should have taken my mask off.’ he thought. He lifted the bottom part up so the kid could see his chin, that he’d know it was just a mask and not a blood soaked monster that had walked out of nowhere. Did the kid even know English?

Ghost didn't speak Farsi either, but he guessed it wouldn’t make much difference.

“Hey. I mean you no harm.”he offered with a smile. The boy stared at him for several moments and then slowly nodded, still staring.

“You’re alone here?” he asked. He was starting to feel dizzy, but tried to stay on his feet. That little movement was enough to knock all the remaining energy out of him. He slumped to the ground, feeling the earth shake under him. What was happening? Was this the end? Was that why everything had happened? Because he was losing his shit in front of this kid? The door to the wall opened, and Ghost saw a swirl of bright blue. A woman, covered from head to toe in a burqa, entered. She approached Ghost. His heart stopped. This was it! He was about to die! She’d hand him over to some terrorist group. But then she kneeled next to him, placed her hand gently on his forehead. She spoke softly to him, in English. For the first time ever, he heard someone speak English!

Ghost was exhausted and confused. Had he really died? It was one word, but it was the last thing he heard before he passed out.

“Safe.”

#original character #call of duty #cod mw2 #ghost cod #simon riley #what if #modern warfare 2 #simon ghost riley

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snezi · 2 years

Text

I Care For You (part 2)

Jaskier trembled as the rain and humid wind cut through Geralt’s cloak, and shrunk closer to the Witcher’s warmth. He could feel Geralt’s arms wrapped around him, and it would be amazing if he didn’t feel like such utter garbage.

Geralt, for his part, was attempting to shield Jaskier from the elements as much as he could. Now that the bard was so close, he could sense the pain the bard was feeling — how long had Jaskier been sick? How could he have missed it? For all the shit Geralt gave Jaskier about complaining, the man really didn’t speak up when it came to his health. Or maybe he had, and Geralt had just brushed it off.

His self-reproachful thoughts were interrupted by the bard looking up at him, his striking blue eyes red-rimmed and watery.

“‘M riding Roach,” he croaked.

Geralt knit his brow. “Of course you are.”

“‘S nice. First time,” Jaskier got out, before succumbing to a coughing fit he muffled in the cloak, his body shaking violently.

Geralt felt a wave of guilt course through him, and his arm tightened protectively around the bard. After all this time, he had never allowed Jaskier to even touch his horse. He rubbed Jaskier’s back until the fit subsided, and the bard slumped against Geralt, exhausted. He urged Roach to go faster, overwhelmed with shame and worry.

It felt like an eternity passed before Geralt finally saw the hazy lights of a town ahead. He knew he was pushing Roach, perhaps too hard, but damn it, Jaskier shouldn’t be out in this weather. He’d make it up to her.

They raced to the tiny inn, and with one fluid motion Geralt slid from Roach’s back and gently lifted Jaskier down after him. The bard was still conscious, but clearly out of it. He leaned heavily against the Witcher as the two made their way inside.

“I need a room, preferably with a bath, and some hot stew if you’ve got it. Plus, a stable for my horse,” Geralt said to the innkeeper.

The man flinched away from the “beast in a man’s body”, as his kind were often called, and Geralt glowered at him. “I assume you have the ability to pay?” The man eyed Jaskier suspiciously, who slunk down deeper in the cloak, and Geralt bared his teeth.

“Of course,” he snapped, tossing the coin across the bar.

The innkeeper pressed his lips into a straight line, displeased, but passed a key over. “Second room on the left.”

Geralt nodded to him curtly, and proceeded to gently ease Jaskier up the stairs.

Jaskier made it as far as the threshold of their room before he all but collapsed. Now that he didn’t have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, it seemed his body was fully giving up.

Geralt dragged him onto the bed. “You have to get out of these clothes.”

“Knew you’d wanna get me naked ‘ventually,” Jaskier rasped, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips, and Geralt threw the dry clothes at his head.

“No, you idiot, those are soaked. You’re ruining the bed,” he grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice, too.

Jaskier laughed, but it quickly tumbled into a deep, painful coughing fit. Geralt was immediately at his side, holding the bard upright and rubbing his back.

“How long have you been feeling like this?” Geralt murmured, his golden eyes flashing with worry.

“Dunno,” Jaskier wheezed, struggling to catch his breath. “Day or two?” He slumped weakly against Geralt, relishing the contact.

The Witcher frowned, mentally kicking himself. Jaskier had been coughing here and there, and he had seemed unusually tired. But Geralt hadn’t thought anything of it.

“I’ll draw you a bath,” Geralt said quietly, getting up. “The steam should help your lungs.”

Internally, Jaskier groaned. While a bath sounded nice and all, he was so damn tired, and every joint in his body was aching. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he knew the Witcher was probably right. He let his eyes close while Geralt filled the tub, but too soon, the man was back, pulling him to his feet once more.

Jaskier shakily began to undress, shivering as the cold air hit his skin, and half-jumped, half-fell into the hot water. A contented sigh escaped his lips, dragging a jagged cough with it that brought tears to his eyes.

“Jask,” Geralt murmured, and Jaskier flinched. He had almost forgotten Geralt was there. “Maybe I should get a healer.”

“No, no, I’m alright,” Jaskier choked out, embarrassed.

Geralt frowned at him, his golden eyes soft with concern. “You don’t sound alright.”

The bard blushed as his insides grew warm and mushy, and quickly attempted to deflect with humor. “Awww, Geralt, I didn’t know you cared!” he grinned widely.

It worked, for now. Geralt glowered at him. “Of course I do, you brat.”

Jaskier smiled cheekily, and proceeded to wash his hair with more energy than he felt, his heart still warmed by Geralt’s display of affection.

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fatedevour · 1 year

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♢ — @bogachs asked: you’re jealous , aren’t you ? (pantalone)

dusty toybox sentences: ACCEPTING!

JEALOUS? Him? “ What an absurd conclusion. I have no need for such a thing as JEALOUSY. “ Dottore scoffs beneath the silk touch that traces along his jawline with precision. A gentle touch, like one that inspected a blade’s sharpness - enough pressure to tell but not enough to split skin. Dottore was LOGICALLY plenty aware of this fact. All the little foot soldiers and business partners were little more than insects under the magnifying glass. They could be studied, used, and destroyed in the flames as easily as needed. None of them were truly a THREAT to The Doctor.

Emotions were such troublesome, PESKY things. There was no room in science for them, although a select few were more acceptable than others. Emotions, however, do not always obey the cold logic. Dottore’s ACTIONS speak plenty, with his arms wrapped around the regrator’s waist and his chin resting on the banker’s shoulder. Yet he knows too well the smugness that lurks in Pantalone’s voice even without taking glimpse the speaks of the fact he knows something that Dottore does not. A fox in the chicken coop, so to speak.

If he WASN’T jealous, then what was this seething sensation in his chest that made him yearn to rip those bumbling, arrogant buffoons limb from limb? It’d brought a glare that, had Dottore not been waring his signature mask, it would have sent any victim of it running for the fields Especially that ONE bastard trying to cozy up with revoltingly sweet words and polite gestures. As much as Dottore would have LOVED to turn them into a test subject and let their agonizing screams fill the room, he knew well enough that they were SIGNIFICANT enough that it’d draw attention and potentially cause problems for Pantalone if he did it before transactions and contracts were all completed and finalized. Fingers curl slightly into a more possessive hold around Pantalone as Dottore gives a huff. Damn Pantalone. He’d never had any issues with such emotions like jealousy before him. Or quite a few others for that matter.

FINE. Maybe jealousy WAS the right term for this scorching wrath and irritation in his chest. He wasn’t going to say that though and watch Pantalone’s DELIGHED smugness grow like a cat with the canary. (Even if he knew it would grow anyways with his reactions alone.) Instead, Dottore unwraps one arm from the banker’s waist to lift the hand to urge Pantalone to look towards him. With that, he leans forward to press a kiss against Pantalone’s lips, prying with a dedicated hunger to ease the demand that swelled in his chest. His. And his alone. After all, he never was one to share in anything. He parts after a few moments.

“ I know, I know. Don’t do anything because you still have business with him. “ Dottore mumbles, lips ghosting across Pantalone’s as he spoke. It wasn’t quite an ADMISSION, but it was certainly a CONCESSION that Pantalone was correct in his comment. Even if he’d realized it before the good doctor himself had. Dottore leans his cheek into Pantalone’s gloved hand for a moment before finally relenting to unwrap himself his hold around from the ninth. “ Luckily I still have WORK to do - “ including if he wanted to put that roach through a particularly UNPLEASANT experiment - “ so I suppose I should bid you farewell till this evening. “

#bogachs #so in other words yes FHJDG #pantalone 100% knows before dottore does #dottore's logic says nO but everything else says YES #just 'ah thats the name to the raging wrath'#♢ — ❛ he whom ushers in your darkest hour ❜ ( ic )#♢ — ❛ science is the only thing worth my time ❜ ( main verse )#♢ — ❛ lips stained in the violence of love ❜ ( bogachs | pantalone )

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flowercrown-bard · 3 years

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I have a sentence for you...or a prompt. I don't know what I want you to do with it, but by god please do something:

"He doesn't have anxiety. He just has a god complex and no opposable thumbs!"

My darling nonny. First of all, what. Second of all, I love you and I love this prompt! I made the weirdest noise when I read it. I did not expect that second sentence XD

The thing is, I didn't know what I wanted to do with this prompt either...while being sober, so here's what my slightly tipsy brain came up with :D

word count: 2160

can be read platonic or romatic I think

content warnings: use of the name ‘Julian’ (not by Geralt), one very bad sexual innuendo (nothing sexual happens)

part 2

The spell hit Jaskier square in the chest, before Geralt had time to react and throw himself in front of him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s eyes went wide, though not in fear but in anticipation, as they snapped over to the witcher. “Geralt, what’s happening?”

Helplessly but not overly concerned, Geralt watched as Jaskier’s arms took on an unnatural position, bent at his sides. The bard’s head started to bob.

Geralt blinked at him and turned to the young sorcerer that looked curiously at Jaskier.

“Why aren’t you more worried?” The mage furrowed his brows. “Shouldn’t he be terrified?”

He turned to Geralt, who only shrugged.

“This happens regularly,” Geralt replied and his lips twitched up. “Last month, he’s been hit by a truth spell and the month before, he drank a potion that made him invisible to all but Roach.” His smile turned into a grin. “That was a very peaceful time.”

“Excuse me?” Jaskier squawked, his head still bobbing. “You missed me!”

“I didn’t. I could still hear you.” Geralt turned his attention back to the sorcerer who stared at them as if they were insane. “So, what exactly does this spell do?” Almost casually, Geralt’s hand wandered to the sword strapped to his back. “It better not be anything actually dangerous.”

Jaskier might have gotten cocky with how easily Geralt was able to break curses with all the experience he now had, but that didn’t mean Geralt wasn’t prepared to fight anyone who meant to cause Jaskier true harm. Even if Jaskier thought himself near invincible by now.

“No, no!” The mage held up his hands. “It’s not dangerous. I swear! It’s just supposed to…” he swallowed, his eyes darting between Jaskier and Geralt, clearly trying to figure out which one was more dangerous: The armed witcher or the bard who didn’t seem to be bothered in the least by being cursed but seemed rather giddy at the prospect of finding out what was going to happen next – after all, curses made for the most exciting songs, according to the bard. “It’s supposed to make his appearance match his character.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, probably to say something along the lines of ‘I already am as beautiful on the outside as I am on the inside’, but instead of words, a loud cock-a-doodle-doo left Jaskier’s lips. For a second, he looked terrified, before his expression morphed into one of fury and he let out a tirade of what was probably supposed to be insults.

Geralt exchanged a look with the mage, drawing up one eyebrow, when Jaskier continued to cluck.

“Ah, well, you see,” the mage turned bright red, “Marx was quite sure that he,” he glanced at Jaskier, who suddenly shrunk, his hair turning bright red and rising up and turning into a coxcomb, “was a coward and would turn into a chicken.”

Jaskier gave the mage one final indignant glare, probably cursing his rival’s name, before his mouth turned into a beak and his face was no longer that of a human, capable of expressing such emotions.

“Your employer was wrong,” Geralt deadpanned. “Jaskier is anything but a coward.” With the corners of his lips twitching and a glint in his eyes, he added, “But he definitely can be a cocky bastard.”

Jaskier, the cock, fluttered with his wings in indignation and let out another crow, looking up at Geralt. Though Jaskier could no longer speak or make facial expressions, Geralt knew exactly what the pleading look Jaskier sent him meant.

Geralt knew a hundred and one ways to break a curse. But more importantly, he knew Jaskier.

And so, Geralt knew exactly what Jaskier needed him to do.

It was ridiculously easy to break into Valdo Marx’ quarters at night, even while carrying a rooster that never stopped clucking and fluttering his wings excitedly in one arm. Jaskier could count himself lucky that he hadn’t turned into a peacock. It might have been more fitting, if Geralt had anything to say about it, but it would have definitely made scaling the building and squeezing through the window together, much harder.

Once inside the troubadour’s rooms, Geralt set Jaskier down gently.

“Do your worst,” he said with a grin and watched Jaskier ruffle his feathers in excitement, before he darted across the room, tearing at Valdo Marx’ notebooks with his beak, tearing at the decorative pillows on the armchair and plucking the strings of the lute standing against a wall harshly enough with his claws that they nearly snapped.

Geralt grimaced at the sound, but leaned back against a wall with his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching in amusement as his best friend wreaked as much havoc in his rival’s rooms as possible.

The noise must have roused Valdo Marx from his sleep, for a muffled curse came through the closed door, presumably leading to the troubadour’s bed room. The sound of Valdo Marx jumping out of his bed and hasting towards his now destroyed living room was interrupted by Jaskier, who crowed again and fluttered his wings in an attempt to make himself taller, preparing to make an impression when Valdo finally saw him.

The door was flung open and a dishevelled troubadour appeared, staring in horror at the mess that was his living space.

“What in the name of –“

His eyes fell on Jaskier first, then he saw the witcher still leaning against the wall, pointedly casual. Realisation dawned on Valdo’s face, followed briefly by a flash of triumph, that instantly turned into regret when Jaskier began hacking at the notebooks with more glee than before, preening under the horrified attention of his new audience.

“Witcher,” Valdo said breathlessly. “Put a stop to this, this instant!”

Geralt lifted a brow. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“Yes, yes, I proved Julian is a coward.” He waved his hands through the air, his voice turning shrill with every second that his panic grew. “I get to see him anxious and he’s reacting very poorly and I have to face the consequences. I get it. I shouldn’t have hired that mage. Is that what you want to hear?”

Geralt let out a low hum, drawing it out longer than necessary, simply because he knew how much Jaskier enjoyed witnessing Valdo’s growing despair.

“You’re right, you’re the one who has to face the consequences for cursing him.”

Relief flooded Valdo’s face. “Great. Now make him stop!”

Jaskier looked Valdo directly in the eyes as he fluttered onto the table and ruined the remaining notes the troubadour had carefully arranged in neat piles on his desk in the least dignified way a bird could ruin something. Though Jaskier’s voice was stolen from him, the mess he left on the notes couldn’t have been a more obvious statement: Valdo’s songs were shit.

The slighted troubadour’s face turned red with fury.

“How dare you!” Valdo took a step towards the destructive rooster but thought better of it almost immediately. He settled on pointing an accusatory finger at Jaskier instead of risking coming anywhere near him. “You’re a cad and a coward! I should have known how poorly you’d react to being cursed – becoming panicked and being unable to control yourself!”

Geralt tilted his head to the side. “See, that’s the thing,” he said slowly, his voice even enough that only Jaskier would be able to tell how much he enjoyed this as well, “That’s where you are wrong. Jaskier isn’t a coward. His fluttering around and destroying things right now? He’s not having anxiety. He just has a god complex and no opposable thumbs!" Geralt gave Valdo a shit-eating grin. “And he’s got a crow to pluck with you.”

“He-“ Valdo visibly had to restrain himself. “Help me, witcher. You can’t just let this monster destroy my property. He…he-!”

“You want me to get rid of a monster for you?”

Valdo nodded eagerly.

Geralt exchanged a look with Jaskier and shrugged.

“I don’t work for free.”

Valdo spluttered. “You can’t be serious.”

Geralt remained silent and Jaskier took a threatening step towards the open door to Valdo’s bedroom, obviously with the intent of destroying Valdo’s bed in any way he could think of. Panic flashed across Valdo’s face.

“I’ll pay you!” he shouted quickly. “I – I’ll write a sing about you. If you help me, I’ll sing about…” his eyes darted around the room, clearly struggling to come up with something on the spot. His gaze found Jaskier, before he grabbed Geralt’s arm, licking his lips nervously, or perhaps in an attempt to look seductive, “ – about how masterfully you handle cock.”

Jaskier froze and Geralt could see the moment when Valdo realised that he had said the wrong fucking thing.

If cocks could look murderous, Jaskier definitely did in this moment.

Geralt couldn’t tell if his rage came from the prospect of Valdo writing a song about this encounter and making a profit out of it, or if he was indignant because Jaskier had had the exact same idea for a song. Or perhaps he had a problem with Valdo’s barely concealed attempt at compromising Geralt, something Jaskier himself had taken great joy in doing with the worst possible pick-up lines, since the day they had met.

Whatever the reason for his anger, Jaskier took a deliberate pause, in which Valdo had enough time to regret every decision that had led up to this moment, before he charged at the troubadour, fluttering his wings and jumping up into Valdo’s face, clawing at his curls and tearing at his lacy night shirt.

“Witcher!” Valdo screeched, not unlike a rooster himself, and waved his arms to shoo Jaskier off – unsuccessfully. “Make him go away! Break the fucking curse! I – I’ll pay you! Twenty crowns!”

“Seventy,” Geralt deadpanned. No one in their right mind would pay that much coin, but Valdo Marx was evidently desperate and his decision was helped along by the rooster, who’s beak came dangerously close to tugging at the troubadour’s moustache.

“Fine! I’ll pay you seventy crowns.” Valdo’s voice broke in his blind panic. He would likely be unable to sing the next day, from all the shouting he did. “Just get him off of me!”

Geralt waited another heartbeat, granting Jaskier a last moment of rightful – and undoubtedly petty – vengeance, before pushing off the wall, opening his arms invitingly.

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier clucked in disappointment and pecked one last time at Valdo’s hair, before fluttering into Geralt’s arms.

The witcher left the troubadour’s rooms with his best friend, still in the form of a very smug cock in his arms, seventy crows richer and an experience he and Jaskier would laugh about many times over the next years.

As Geralt sat the rooster down on the bed at the room they had rented and let himself fall onto the bed next to him, Jaskier looked incredibly pleased with himself, preening and making noises, as if recounting the happenings, though Geralt had witnessed them first- hand.

When Geralt tilted his head in amusement, Jaskier seemed to realise that he still had no voice – or opposable thumbs - and let out a rather loud and obnoxious noise.

“Sorry,” Geralt said with a shit-eating grin, “I have no idea what you want from me. You’ll have to speak more clearly.”

Jaskier glared at him and fluttered closer to tug at Geralt’s hair impatiently.

Geralt chuckled and ran a hand over Jaskier’s soft feathers, making the bird-bard relax under his ministrations, though it was clear that Jaskier did so very reluctantly and would hold a grudge, if Geralt didn’t break the curse in the next five minutes.

Geralt hummed thoughtfully as he petted Jaskier.

“Just for the record, I thought taking revenge on Marx was a terrible idea,” he said, and when Jaskier clucked reproachfully, he added, “but it was quite impressive. And I had a lot of fun watching you.”

Geralt hadn’t known that cocks had the ability to look proud, but Jaskier somehow managed to do just that.

“In fact,” Geralt said slowly, already knowing that Jaskier would agree, once he heard Geralt’s full proposition, “how would you like to wait just a little longer before I break the curse?”

Jaskier pecked at Geralt’s fingers and glared at him.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt said, flicking his fingers lightly against Jaskier’s beak. At his words, Jaskier perked up, cocking his head to the side curiously.

“Last winter, Lambert destroyed my room with a moon dust bomb. The damn silver shavings are still everywhere.” Geralt’s lips stretched into a wolfish grin. “I’m sure, as my ‘best friend in the whole wide world’, you wouldn’t mind returning the favour and wreaking a little havoc in my brother’s room. I couldn’t imagine anyone would be better suited for that job than you.”

Jaskier fluttered excitedly into Geralt’s lap and the sound he made in response to Geralt’s words could only be described as incredibly cocky.

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kueble · 3 years

Text

Hold My Hand (Oh Baby, it's a Long Way Down)

Written for @witcher-trick-or-treat’s prompt: monster. This is a collaboration with @justhereforeskel who was kind enough to talk through the fic with me and draw This Amazing Art.

18+ under the cut, Warnings: monsterfucking, Jaskier has two dicks. 4,200 words. Geralt/Jaskier/Eskel

---

For once Geralt doesn’t have to negotiate the contract, and it’s refreshing to let Eskel take over and deal with the business side of things. They never mean to meet up, but it’s been happening more and more lately, and Geralt likes to think it’s just destiny’s way of making up for all the shit in their lives. Sure, contracts hardly ever actually need two witchers, but if Lambert can travel with his Cat, then Geralt and Eskel can do the same.

It’s nice to let his guard down a bit, or to have someone to talk to instead of silently cleaning his weapons by the campfire every night. As good of a listener as Roach is, sometimes it’s nice to have someone speak back when he talks to them. The fact that Geralt is completely, devastatingly in love with Eskel has nothing to do with it, either. Hell, they’ve been inseparable since they were kids, and time did nothing to break them apart.

Truth is, witchers can have plenty of feelings, and Geralt got over that emotionless bastard image years ago. All he wants in life is a full stomach, supplies for Roach, and Eskel curled up around him at night. It’s well worth all the knowing smirks Lambert gives them, especially since Lambert is a hypocritical bastard. Geralt smirks and covers it up with a cough, because the Alderman is droning on about some beast by the river who is luring out helpless townsfolk, and he should at least try to be a bit sympathetic.

“We can take care of it,” Eskel tells him before reaching out to shake on it. Humans don’t seem to flinch away from Eskel like they do him, and Geralt would be more jealous if he’d rather not be touched in the first place. It’s another reason to travel with Eskel, since his politeness seems to put people at ease. Geralt is well aware that he communicates through sarcasm and grunts, and not everyone can handle that.

He stays silent as Eskel leads him out of the building and doesn’t bother speaking until they’re at the edge of the village. “River monster? They couldn’t be more specific?” he asks, and Eskel lets out a dry chuckle in response.

“If they knew more, they wouldn’t need to send witchers after it. No one is hurt, though. Seems like the town is just spooked. Maybe we’ll get lucky and we can just talk it down,” he says, shrugging as they make their way towards the river that runs past the town.

“It’s possible I zoned out,” Geralt admits sheepishly. “Did he mention where the creature is typically seen?”

“Got more air in your head than brains,” Eskel says, but his tone is fond and he leans over to ruffle Geralt’s ponytail. “The river is dammed up about half a mile outside town, and whatever it is likes the pond it created. We should be able to do some scouting this afternoon and come back tonight. Seems like mostly pairs have run into it. The Alderman mentioned something about youths at night, so maybe it feeds off the lust? We might get lucky and just find a lonely succubus.”

“Keep your monsters to yourself,” Geralt teases, laughing as he bumps their shoulders together. “I never get drawn in the way you do. I’m hoping for a friendly rock troll. They’re dim, but they’re easy to relocate.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it,” Eskel says with a shrug. They fall into an easy silence for the rest of the walk, and Geralt can’t sense anything in the forest around them. The afternoon sun is high in the sky, and he wishes he’d worn lighter armor. Chances are they won’t have to fight anything until later tonight, and the sweat is starting to gather between his shoulders.

Any chance of a quiet scouting mission dies as soon as they approach the dam. There’s a voice in the air, but surprisingly it sounds human. Geralt can’t make out the words, but it’s a haunting tune, full of longing and sadness. Eskel looks at him, and they have a conversation with their eyebrows before deciding to continue on.

The closer they get to the pond, the more Geralt realizes this can’t be human. His medallion starts humming faintly, and he can feel the tug of magic flowing through the music. It’s calling them closer, and might be enough to draw them to whoever is singing if they weren’t heading there anyway. Eskel shoots him a confused look, but he just shrugs and draws his silver sword. As much as he’d like to avoid violence, an unprepared witcher is a dead one.

They move as silently as possible, and Geralt knows he spots the creature before it notices them. The creature looks mostly human on top, just a smattering of colorful scales breaking up its pale skin; a cluster in the center of his chest and patches on his cheeks and arms. His pointed ears peek out from below disheveled brown hair, and his wide eyes are an eerie blue. At first he thinks it’s some sort of mer, but the tail doesn’t have any fins on it.

With a start, Geralt realizes the bottom half is all snake. He doesn’t look like the sketches of nagas Geralt has seen in ancient texts, mostly because he seems too small to fit. But there’s no denying the beast is curled up on a warm rock like a snake in the sun. Its tail is a rich blue with light green highlights. It stops singing as they approach, but makes no move to attack them.

“Oh! Er, hello,” it says, awkwardly raising up a hand in greeting. Blue scales start at its elbows, darkening to the deep blue of its tail as they travel down its arms. The claws at the end of each finger are so dark they’re nearly black, and Geralt really hopes he doesn’t have to fight this. Normally sentient beings tend to not want to be killed, so he’s still pretty hopeful.

“Definitely not a succubus,” Eskel says before eyeing up the creature in a way that has Geralt blushing for him. He elbows Eskel, who just laughs and continues, “Your song. It’s a mating call? Is that why the villagers are so up in arms about you?”

“Shit,” it grumbles, scrunching up its nose before bringing an arm up to rub at the back of its neck. “It’s...it’s a bit embarrassing actually, but I’ve lingered too long away from home. I was supposed to make it back in time for the mating season, but there was a bardic competition in Novigrad and I couldn’t possibly miss out. Same thing last year...and the year before. So basically...I have a problem and no way to take care of it.”

“You need to mate?” Geralt asks, and he can practically feel Eskel vibrating next to him. How does he end up in these situations?

“Going a bit mad without it, actually. But where are my manners? Jaskier the bard at your service,” he says with a little bow.

“You’re not a naga,” Eskel points out, eyes narrowing as he studies it...him.

“Indeed I am not,” Jaskier says, giggling as his tail slides up, wrapping around his own waist. Geralt can’t take his eyes off the smooth slide of scales over tanned skin, and he knows he’s going to offer himself as a potential candidate before he overthinks it. “I have other forms, but this is my favorite. If I feel like sharing later, I can show off my fins or my legs...provided you’re not here to kill me, of course.”

“Of course,” Geralt agrees. He slides his sword back into its sheath and sees Eskel do the same out of the corner of his eye. “I think maybe we can come up with a better solution. You’re not actually causing any harm here, and we don’t kill innocents.”

“Thank you, though I’m hardly innocent,” Jaskier murmurs before wetting his lips. Geralt’s eyes go wide at the forked tongue, and he takes a step forward before he realizes his feet are moving. What the fuck is wrong with him? It normally takes more than a pretty face to get him this eager, but there’s something stunning about Jaskier that has his blood running hot in his veins.

“Thought you told me to keep my monsters to myself,” Eskel chuckles, and Geralt can feel his cheeks heating up.

“There’s more than enough of me to share, if that’s the suggestion you have,” Jaskier adds helpfully. He slides closer, moving off the rock with such liquid grace that Geralt nearly swallows his tongue.

“Seeing as you need to mate and we’re willing, it seems the smartest course of action,” Eskel confirms, and Jaskier smirks at both of them.

“I accept, but I like to know the names of my lovers, if you will?” he asks and Geralt can’t believe they’re talking about fucking and haven’t offered their names yet. He’s tripping over his words, his tongue thick in his mouth and his palms sweaty, like some kind of blushing maiden. He’d suspect magic, but the earlier pull from Jaskier’s song is long gone.

“Geralt,” he manages to grunt out before Eskel cuts him off.

“I’m Eskel, and you’re a Nixe, aren’t you?” Eskel asks, and the bestiary flashes through Geralt’s mind. Of course. Nixes have several forms, and though the females prefer fishtails, most of the men take a snake or human form to lure lovers in.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jaskier says, his words slurred a bit as his forked tongue curls around the human language. “If I’m to have both of you, I think it’s best if I stay partially in the water? There’s a lovely rock along the banks that would give us the leverage we need.”

“Both of us at the same time?” Eskel asks, tilting his head as Jaskier giggles before stroking a hand down his own chest.

“This is my favorite form, mostly because snakes have two cocks,” he tells him with a wink, and Geralt can’t help the groan that slips out. “Looks like you appreciate it as well. Now I’d hate to get your gear all wet. Why don’t you two give me a little show and undress each other for me? We can’t do an actual mating dance, but I do love seeing a well-built man strip.”

“How do you know we’re like that?” Geralt asks, but Jaskier just laughs again. There’s almost a melody to it, and Geralt could see himself getting addicted to the bright sound.

“Oh please,” Jaskier says, sticking his tongue out like a snake scenting the air, “You simply reek of each other. Thank you for finding room for a third. It’s not every day I get two gorgeous mates, after all.”

“Mate sounds a bit permanent,” Geralt says, eyes narrowing, but Jaskier just laughs again.

“Only as much as you want it to be. Don’t worry, darling,” Jaskier assures him before gesturing for them to get on with it.

Eskel just smirks at him like a cat in the cream, and he looks so smug that Geralt has to kiss him. He hates poetry, but kissing Eskel is like coming home. Their mouths slant together, Eskel’s large hands cupping his face, and Geralt can’t help sighing against his lips. He slips his tongue into Eskel’s mouth, deepening the kiss as he starts to undo the buckles on his armor.

Eskel returns the favor, nipping at Geralt’s lower lip while his broad hands shove under Geralt’s gear. It’s a dance they know all too well, and soon they’re both topless, their armor tossed to the ground. Eskel’s chest is warm under his hands, heated by the midday sun high in the sky. He runs his hands lower, teases the hem of his trousers before tugging at his laces. Eskel helps him by bucking into his hand, and Geralt bites his lip roughly to chastise him.

By the time they step out of their pants, Geralt is panting and can’t stop touching Eskel; can’t stop raking his fingers down his broad chest. He moans into his mouth, and Eskel reaches down to wrap his hand around both of them. It feels so good that Geralt nearly forgets they have a purpose - have an audience - and he gets lost in the rough slide of Eskel’s palm against his prick.

But then Eskel pulls back and pats him on the shoulder before looking over at Jaskier, and Geralt is so turned on by the thought of sharing this creature that he forgets to be embarrassed. They walk towards the river, but not before Eskel snags his cloak and lays it down on the bank. Jaskier slithers over, his tail still in the water and the sun glistening off his damp skin.

“Sadly I don’t make my own slick, so we’ll need something,” Jaskier murmurs, and Geralt’s feet are moving towards their abandoned gear to fetch oil before he even registers it.

When he turns back, Jaskier and Eskel are kissing and he almost trips over his own feet hurrying back. They look stunning together, all tanned and dark, and Jaskier wastes no time finding Eskel’s nipple piercings. Geralt palms himself, rutting against his hand as he watches Jaskier tease Eskel. He tugs lightly at the piercings, forcing a stream of broken moans out of Eskel.

They look so good together that he’s hesitant to interrupt, but as soon as he nears them, Jaskier reaches out and drags him into a rough kiss. Geralt melts under his mouth, groaning as that forked tongue slides past his lips. Jaskier’s fangs nip at him, and he shudders and tries to get closer to him. His skin is sun-kissed and warm, and the pattern of scales on his chest feels amazing as it rubs against Geralt’s nipples.

“I’d like to eat you out,” Jaskier tells him as he pulls back, and Geralt nearly comes right then and there. Just the thought of that forked tongue inside of him is enough to have his prick twitching against Jaskier’s scales.

“Fuck yeah, ok,” Geralt growls before looking to where Eskel has spread out on the cloak. He snags the slick from Geralt’s hand and shakes it at him with a wink. Jaskier places his hands on Geralt’s hips and guides him over to where Eskel is laying. It takes a moment of maneuvering, but they end up with Geralt bent over Eskel and Jaskier half in the water behind them.

“Get him ready for me,” Jaskier orders, and his words send shivers down Geralt’s spine. He nods and holds out a hand for Eskel to pour oil into. Jaskier watches, his arms around Geralt’s stomach and his chin over his shoulder, but this is an act so familiar that Geralt couldn’t possibly be nervous.

He brushed his fingers around Eskel’s hole, spreading the oil and teasing him just to see him squirm. He starts slow, just one finger to the first knuckle, giving Eskel plenty of time to adjust to the feeling. Only Eskel shoots him an impatient look, and he chuckles before sinking in deeper, giving him the whole finger. He should have known Eskel would be fucking greedy for it, since he knows how the man feels about monsters.

“Keep going,” Jaskier tells him before sinking down into the water, leaving a trail of kisses down the center of his back as he goes. Geralt spreads his legs and shoves another finger beside the first, smirking at Eskel when he arches his back and groans loudly.

But then Jaskier is spreading his cheeks and lapping at his hole, and Geralt can’t concentrate, can barely think at the first touch of that snake’s tongue on him. Eskel chuckles and starts fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers, gloating while he stares up at him. Jaskier sucks at his rim, and Geralt lets out a howl, his head bowing forward as he tries to keep himself together.

It’s so easy to get lost in the sloppy slide of Jaskier’s tongue as it pushes inside of him, though, and Geralt is thankful Eskel has the foresight to clamp a hand around his wrist and start thrusting against his fingers. He clings to Eskel’s thighs and whimpers as Jaskier licks deeper inside of him; so much deeper than he’s ever felt before.

He loses time as Jaskier skillfully works him open with his tongue, his saliva making a mess of his eager hole. There should probably be some fingers involved, but Jaskier’s claws would get in the way, and Geralt doesn’t trust himself to try right now. Eskel is bucking up against him, head thrown back and eyes wild as he curls his fingers inside of him.

Jaskier sucks at him like he’s dying for it - like Geralt’s the best meal he’s ever had - and he can’t handle that. He sobs, eyes wet as his cock twitches against Eskel’s hairy thigh. Somehow he managed to get a third finger inside of him, but all he can focus on is the wet thrust of Jaskier’s long tongue inside of him.

“Fuck,” he growls, nearly losing his footing on the wet rocks beneath his feet. “I’m ready. Get in me,” he orders, and both men chuckle dryly at him.

“Sure you’re loose enough?” Jaskier asks, hissing over the s’s.

“Yes, get on with it,” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier giggles against the small of his back. He nips at the dimples at the base of his spine, making Geralt shudder and whine deep in his chest.

“Like we’re a chore. How do you feel about that, Eskel?” Jaskier asks as he pushes back up on his tail and looks down at Eskel over Geralt’s shoulder.

“He gets rude when he’s desperate for it,” Eskel says with a shrug, and Geralt has enough sense to slap him lightly on the knee. “Oh shut it, you do. It’s a good thing you’re pretty when you beg for it. Get down here.”

He wraps a hand around the back of Geralt’s neck and tugs him down, catching his mouth in a harsh kiss. Geralt’s too far gone for skill, and he whines into the kiss as Eskel slips his tongue past his lips. He can feel Jaskier at his back, and can make out the distinct press of two separate cocks against him.

Fuck, he wasn’t kidding.

“Slick?” Jaskier asks, holding out a hand for Eskel to coat with oil. They both turn to watch him, and it’s well worth the crick in his neck.

There’s a slit in the navy scales, and they split open a little bit beneath the smooth line where skin meets tail. Jaskier’s twin cocks are dark blue and purple, and Geralt can make out bumps and ridges down the staff as he spreads the oil over himself. He sucks in a breath, overeager and needy, and lets Eskel pull him back down again so that he’s laying on top of him.

Jaskier starts muttering praise, sweet words dripping from his lips and he runs his hands over Geralt’s back and down his thighs. He can’t see anything, but fuck he can feel it as Jaskier guides one of his cocks to Eskel’s entrance, the other brushing against Geralt’s balls. He whines and lets his head dip forward, resting his forehead on Eskel’s solid shoulder as he listens to the breathy moans he makes as he’s breached. The slide of Jaskier’s second cock is almost too much of a tease, but Geralt just shivers in anticipation as it moves against him.

Looking down at Eskel, it’s easy to see how good it feels. His eyes are practically rolled back in his head, and he’s chewing on his lower lip while he writhes under them both. He can’t help leaning forward and kissing him quickly, breaking off in a moan when the head of Jaskier’s second cock brushes against his eager hole. With Eskel’s hands on his hips and one of Jaskier’s palms on his lower back, Jaskier slowly slides inside of him.

Geralt plants his hands on Eskel’s chest and arches back, crying out wordlessly as Jaskier fills him. He’s still tight enough that there’s a pleasant burn; and ache that lights him up in such an amazing way. He shudders and has to focus on not blowing his load too early. The thick press of Jaskier’s cock combined with Eskel bucking beneath him is enough to have him on edge already.

“You’re both taking me so well,” Jaskier pants out, and Geralt’s cheeks redden at the praise. Eskel grunts below him and shifts just enough so that their cocks line up. They’re both leaking steadily, making a fucking mess between them, and it’s easy to slide together as the three of them move.

Time slows down, and Geralt just gets lost in the overwhelming feeling of everything. Jaskier and Eskel hold him up, and it seems like there’s hands everywhere; brushing his nipples, his spine, the curve of his hips. He tries to do more, but it’s all he can do to hold himself up with shaky arms while Jaskier plows into him.

He looks down and sees Jaskier’s tail wrapped around Eskel’s ankle, spreading his legs wider as he fucks them both. With a whimper, he has to look away because he’s struck with an intense need for it to be him, for Jaskier to be wrapped around him as well. There’s a brief thought of how the tip of his tail would feel inside his ass, but then Jaskier picks up speed and all higher thoughts leave him.

Eskel comes first, shouting himself hoarse as he coats Geralt’s and his chest with his seed. He looks so blissed out - just completely wrecked - and Geralt feels his own orgasm crash through him. He comes in endless bursts between them, his ass clenching around Jaskier’s thick cock. It doesn’t take long for him to follow, hissing as he floods Geralt with come.

He collapses on top of Eskel, barely able to move, and loves the way Jaskier keeps thrusting through his orgasm. He’s babbling, a constant hum of praise and filth as he rocks his hips and pumps them so full of his seed that Geralt doubts they’ll ever be clean.

When he’s finally empty, Jaskier bends down and presses kiss after kiss to Geralt’s neck, his clawed hands reaching around to stroke Eskel’s cheek as he does so. His tail is wrapped around them both, and he seems so pleased that he’s almost vibrating with it. Geralt feels boneless, but he knows they can’t lay here all day, no matter how nice it feels.

Eventually Eskel makes them move, and they wash up the best they can in the cool water of the river. Jaskier hurries off somewhere, calling out that he’ll be back, but leaves them to get sorted out on their own. Eskel just shrugs and starts pulling his armor back on, so Geralt follows suit.

“Are monsters normally this weird after sex?” Geralt asks, and Eskel snorts at him.

“I have a feeling Jaskier is his own special experience,” Eskel says, chuckling before turning to see someone walking out of the woods. “Jaskier?”

“The one and only,” the man - in human form and everything - answers. He smirks and slings what looks to be a lute case over his shoulders. “Shall we then? Where are you off to?”

“To collect the bounty from clearing out the menace,” Geralt says dryly, and Jaskier giggles at him.

“Rather be a menace than a beast.”

“You’re uh...you mean to come with us?” Eskel asks, gesturing at Jaskier’s case and bag.

“Well now that I’m not tied down, I figured you might be amenable? Having a bard with you might boost your image - though you both look very fine indeed - and I have to admit that I’m quite taken with the pair of you. What say you?” he asks, looking a strange combination of scared and hopeful that has Geralt tripping over himself to speak.

“You said the whole mating thing is as permanent as we want? So yes...we, I want,” he clarifies, and Jaskier beams at him. They both look at Eskel who just pulls them both into a tight hug before kissing them on the cheeks.

“Only if you keep your fucking hems away from me,” he jokes, and Jaskier giggles again while Geralt tilts his head looking for an explanation. “Seriously, you need to brush up on the bestiary. Nixes can appear human, but you can tell what they really are by their constantly wet hemlines. See?”

Sure enough, the bottoms of Jaskier’s trousers are damp, and there are thin wet lines at his wrists. Geralt reaches out and traces his fingers across the thin skin over Jaskier’s pulse before looking away with a shy smile. It’s taken him years to get comfortable showing affection around Eskel, but he supposes they have time. The one thing he remembers about nixes is that they have long lifespans. He’s pretty sure he read something about them mating for life, but he’ll have to do some research when they retire for the winter. For now, he’s content exploring whatever this is.

#my fic #collaboration #monsterfucking #geraskel #geralt x jaskier x eskel #geralt #eskel #jaskier #threesomes are more fun #especially with a monster #the witcher #witcher TorT

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