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se4son-of-the-witch · 3 months

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the only exception - matt sturniolo

in which matt shows the reader what love should look like

matt x fem reader !

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The sound of my mother’s screams ricocheted off the walls as I lay in bed. This was a sound I was all too familiar with, as it happened almost every night. My dad would do or say something to upset my mom, which resulted in a big argument.

However, tonight was worse than it had ever been. The sound of my parents' bedroom door slamming made me shoot up from my bed. Loud steps could be heard going down the stairs. I could hear cries in the hallway, making me get out of bed.

My mom stood at the top of the stairs, mascara running down her face. My heart broke as I heard her sobs. She always held herself together, putting on a tough front for her kids, but tonight she just couldn’t.

Instinctively, I made my way over to her, making her immediately wipe her tears. She wrapped her arm around me, pulling me into her side. She sniffled loudly, occasionally letting out a soft cry.

My dad on the other hand packed a bag and made his way down the road. He was too angry to be at home and needed to get away. He had done this before, so it wasn’t shocking. He was never gone for long, and would usually come back the next day. But this was the final straw.

It had been a whole week and he still didn’t come home. I then learned that my parents had split up that night. Ever since then, I could finally sleep at night, with no interruptions from either of them.

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I stared off at the wall as my older sister leaned on my shoulder, letting out gut-wrenching sobs. Her boyfriend of two years had cheated on her, which obviously made her upset.

My hand rested on her back, rubbing soothing circles on her skin. Her tears rapidly fell on my shirt, creating a wet patch, but I didn’t mind. She needed a shoulder to cry on, so of course I was there for her.

In my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what led to this. They had seemed like the perfect couple. He was always at the house, cuddled up on the couch with her. The picture of her waltzing around the house, waiting for him to pick her up for their date entered my mind.

But there she sat, crying her eyes out over him. Letting tears fall from her eyes and snot drip from her nose as she let it all out.

From that point on, I didn’t allow myself to get into a relationship. I pushed away any feelings I developed for anyone if I even allowed myself to develop those feelings. And I was quite content with that, as other things in life brought me happiness.

I stuck to this philosophy for years, until something changed. During my senior year, I met a guy. His name was Matt. We sat beside each other in history class, which we both found boring. However, we quickly became good friends, which made history class something to look forward to.

As the school year progressed, I found myself developing feelings for him. I tried my absolute best to push them away, but as soon as he flashed me a smile, they all came rushing back.

Soon, prom season came around. All of my friends were excited. They couldn’t wait to dress up, go out to eat, and slow dance with their date. But on the other hand, I couldn’t care less. I thought prom was a waste of time, especially if you went with a date.

However, Matt convinced me to go to prom with him. And safe to say, it was the most fun I have had in a long time. We danced all night, occasionally sneaking off to steal food from the snack table or take pictures in the photo booth.

A few months later, I came to a terrifying realization. I liked Matt. A scary amount. Due to these feelings, I began to distance myself. I would decline hangouts or leave him on read for a few days.

Eventually, this caught up with me. One day he came to my house, quite aggravated. I remember it as clear as day.

I quickly jogged down the stairs, making my way to the front door. I pulled it open, revealing Matt. He wore a slightly aggravated expression, making me knit my brows. “Matt, what are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? You haven’t answered me in three days and you wonder why I’m here?” He pushes past me, leaving me dumbfounded. I close the door and follow him into my living room.

He’s sitting on the couch, leaning forward. I sit on the other end of the couch, keeping a good distance between us. “You can’t even sit near me. Seriously, what’s going on with you?” He looks over at me with a hurt expression, making me feel awful.

“I’m scared,” my voice breaks as I speak.

“Why?”

I look away from him, turning my attention towards my lap. “Because I like you so much it scares me.” I felt a hand on my thigh, causing me to look over to him.

“You shouldn’t be afraid because I like you too. It’s been killing me that you’ve been ignoring me, y/n.” As his words sunk in, my heart couldn’t help but pound. To hear those words took a huge weight off my shoulders.

A few weeks later, Matt asked me out on a date. To say I was excited was an understatement, but I still had my worries. What if it all went wrong? What if I never spoke to him again after tonight? Those thoughts ran through my mind as I got ready.

As our date came to an end, I couldn’t help but smile. I had the best time tonight. Matt picked me up and took me to my favorite restaurant. He paid and even ordered me a dessert.

Now here we were, back at his car. I was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out the window when I felt a hand on my leg. I turned to look at Matt, a blush creeping onto my cheeks.

“I had a great time tonight.” His hand moved up my leg, resting on my thigh. As he began to caress the skin, I couldn’t help but ease into his touch.

I gazed into his eyes, allowing myself to get lost in them. “Me too.” My eyes flickered down to his lips, making him smirk.

Before I knew it, he was leaning in. He placed his lips on mine, his hand gripping my thigh. My hand found his jaw, my lips moving on his. As we kissed, I couldn’t help but smile.

He pulled away, a big grin on his face. “Be my girlfriend,” he blurted. My eyes widened at his words. “Please,” he breathed out.

I thought for a moment, my mind racing. “Of course, I’ll be your girlfriend, Matt.”

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That night changed my life for the better. It’s exactly why I’m in the position I am now.

My eyes slowly fluttered open as the sun peaked in through the curtain. I stirred around in bed before slowly sitting up. My movements were constrained as I felt Matt’s tight grip around me. His arm was wrapped around my waist, keeping me close to him.

I couldn’t help but smile as I looked down at him. He was peacefully sleeping, his mouth slightly open, allowing soft snores to escape. I leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

He stirred beneath me, his eyes slowly opening. A yawn left his lips as he rubbed his eyes, trying to wake himself up. “Good morning, baby,” he said as he pulled me into his side.

“Good morning, babe.” He placed a kiss on my forehead, making me smile. I watched as he sat up, pulling the covers off of his body.

“I’m gonna make us some breakfast. Pancakes sound good?” I gave him a nod. I watched as he left the room, a smile on my face.

Simple things like that remind me how lucky I am to have Matt. Had I let my fears get the best of me, I would have missed out on love others spend their whole life searching for.

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a/n: shoutout to all the girlies with divorced parents and a fear of intimacy…😭 ily

#sturniolo triplets #sturniolo fanfic #matt sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x reader #matthew sturniolo x reader #matt sturniolo x you #matt x reader #matthew sturniolo

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bitchimasnake-sss · 13 days

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Sleep nonnie again. Is it okay if I go by 🦊🌲 its easier.

Anyways I think it would be a funny scenario if you suggest to the op boys to keep their hands warm by putting them between your thighs. I know some boys would just get a heart attack if you suggest that and get a cute blush

say whAT NOW?? NONNIE HELLO AND WELCOME BACK!! (dm me so that we can be friends ur fic ideas are so out of pocket i love it); also, gonna add ace cause i see many ace thirsties out there ;)

let me warm you up ft. the monster trio//ace!

luffy:

💗when he agreed to this, he didn't know just what kind of uncharted territory he was entering. he was simply not prepared. you had given him such a soft smile, taking his hands into yours as gingerly, "luff, are you cold?" he had nodded a mindless yes because you were crossing a terribly cold patch of the sea and his hands were freezing. but then held his hand a bit tighter and whispered, "i can warm them up for you. if you like?" he was too drunk on the idea to see the mischievous glint in your eyes and the way you spurred him on with your honey-like voice.

💗so now, he sat in front of you, eyes blown wide and lips trembling as his hands rested between your plush thighs. you had squeezed your thighs shut around his restless hands, claiming that it'll get him warm in little to no time. but god, this was hard (much like something else) and he was trying his best to keep his fingers still and not do anything hasty, like digging it into your soft flesh and relishing in the way your body molded to his touches. or by trailing his hand a bit upwards and seeing the way you react. 💗"luffy??" you called out and captain shook his head as he crawled out of that daze like state, "y-yeah?" "you okay?" you mumbled, voice far too gentle. you fucking minx. "you seem like you're losing your mind." good catch! because he was. luffy abruptly pulled his hands backwards lest he do something that truly made him lose his sanity. he scrambled off of your bed, heading out the door into the chilly deck in long, skitterish steps. "where ya going?" you called after him but he rushed out, yelling after himself, "JUST GONNA WARM UP WITH USSOP INSTEAD BYE" did ussop have better thighs than you? you may never know.

zoro:

💚zoro was very stupid, very. he was not the smartest tool in the shed when it came to love or crushes or dating or cooking food or social cues or emotional intelligence or— i should stop before this turns into zoro slander [i promise i love him]. but now, the bounty hunter sat with his face flushed and hands tucked between your soft, malleable thighs. he was smarter than this, truly. he knew that when you suggested that he looked cold and you can warm him up, he was supposed to say "fuck no, get out." because having a crush on you was embarrassing enough on it's own. but you had given him such a gut-wrenching, pleading look. your eyes saddened and your lips fell into a pout and oh god, what was he, if not the man who would let you ruin him? 💚ever since he was a child, zoro had always known that he would die a noble swordman's death. he would die fighting, brave, courageous, unafraid. now, he was sure he'd die from the way you squirmed and pressed your thighs shut. "quit movin'" he grunted, looking away from you as your stared at him. but you tucked your arms against your chest and the soft swell of your tits fell forward towards him so deliciously. he must have lost focus and let his gaze travel against your body cause you coughed, drawing his attention back to your face, "quit starin'." he pulled his hands back, ears going red and heart faltering. he should really stop before he gave into the temptations and pinned you to the mattress to— his voice pitched up, "i-i'm going back to my room, bye." "zoro?!" you called after the swordsman as he ran out, "BUT THIS IS YOUR ROOM, WHERE ARE YOU GOING??" [spoiler: he went to chopper and crushed herbs to make medicine. he wanted to get rid of some of that tension but he failed. because he put the pressure too hard and the china dish in which he was crushing the leafy herbs broke, and now chopper was hitting him square in his head, talking about how important it was to be precise in medicine and how zoro will never make a good doctor. "stop hitting me— OW" "what KIND OF A DOCTOR ARE YOU?" "IM A SWORDSMAN!" "YEAH CAUSE YOU CANNOT BE A DOCTOR!"]

sanji:

💙breath in, breathe out. breathe in, breathe out. breath in, breath out— "sanji?" you asked, a tinge of worry at his almost fainting figure, "are you okay?!" "my love, darling, sugar pie—" the man caught his tongue between his teeth, trying to stop his head from spinning. the floor seem to sway under him, the lights seemed too bright. was he flying or was it the blood rush?? "what did you just ask me?" you look down at the kitchen floor, mumbling with a bashful smile, "if your hands are cold...i can warm them up." his heart quickened as did his fingers. he chopped the bell pepper so hastily that you were sure you saw sparks flying. "and how would you do that?" "you can keep them between my thighs, if you like?" you looked up, "OH MY GOD SANJI YOUR NOSE—" 💙i hate to cut the story short but sanji 100% fainted and you had to catch him before he fell face-forward into the pot with boiling water on the stove. sorry, he gets no bitches :( but you did look after him on the bedside and let him eventually touch your thighs so... idk, a win is a win!!! ["so, is he like dead?" zoro had asked, uninterested, as you hauled the cook's figure outside the kitchen. you were dragging him to his room as the rest of the crew trailed you. they had heard your shriek and came spilling into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. "did you give him a hug?" nami asked, amused. "hug's too much." ussop snickered, "she probably smiled at him." sanji whipped his head dangerously to glare at them, "i can hear you. and i will be poisoning your food." he looked back at you, "oh don't you worry, im still fainted." he closed his eyes, letting his forehead fall on your shoulder. you smiled to yourself, making a note to warm him up later]

ace:

🧡truthfully, how do you ask a man made of literal fire if you can "warm him up"??? you must have not thought you plan through because you had stood in his room a bit tipsy, locked the door behind you and asked a boy [who was always shirtless cause he was so warm] that question. "huh?" ace's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. he stood up to walk towards you, "what is that about? you wanna warm me up?" "NO!" you bit your cheek when you realized the implications of your words, "i was joking, obviously." "awh, i do love when you humor me." he quipped, "it's kinda cute." "shut up." you glared at him but he gave you an earnest smile back, "if you're cold, you could have just told me." he set his finger ablaze, acting suave, "see, i can warm you up." "you wanna set me on fire?" you seethed. "no?!" "why did you light your fingers on fire?!" "YOU ASKED A MAN MADE OF FIRE IF YOU CAN WARM HIM UP? DONT ASK ME QUESTIONS?!" "i'm drunk" you mumbled. after a beat you looked down at the floor, "and... i'm kinda cold." portagas d. ace just smiled, shrugging in mock nonchalance, "we can cuddle, if you like. i've been told i'm a pretty great heater." you laughed, "hah, hotshot." ace gave you a wicked grin, "how drunk are you?" "not nearly enough." just saying, portagas d ace was better than just a "pretty great heater." he was a pretty great fu-

a/n: i love writing stupid things so much. it makes me so happy because i'm a stupid little girl giggling and typing on her laptop when she should be doing work. tagging the ever lovelies: @bokutosbiceps (resident luffy enjoyer) and @help-i-lost-my-sock (resident ace enjoyer). if you wanna be added to the tag list, please let me know (//tell me your preferences and i'd tag you in those fics)!

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legitimateluffy · 8 months

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I was going to touch on this in my overall thoughts of the OPLA, but then I realised I had a lot to say about it.

This, to me, might have been my favourite moment in the One Piece Live Action:

And here's why. OPLA spoilers under the cut.

Nami and her character arc are the things that got me really hooked to One Piece as a teen. I was 13 and at the time, I had no idea if I'd ever finish (at the time) a 600 episode anime. But Arlong Park cemented me in as an OP fan for the rest of my life.

Obviously the Help Me scene was the thing that really got me in for life. But as I grow, I think it was also the way Oda made each moment with each character feel small while also being grand. The small moments make this arc for me. It's complex, and purposefully so.

Throughout the arc, and even prior, Nami is built up with small throw away lines and actions. Questioning why people do things for others, her over generalisation of pirates, her belief that she has no freedom.

She's an exact opposing entity of Luffy. Luffy IS free. He's the concept of freedom. Nami, by default, is not. She not once ever felt free. Her original village was destroyed, her mother killed due to lack of money, having to work for Arlong to survive. She never had freedom.

There's cases like this all over the manga. She's materialistic due to her trauma of lacking freedom. She has to do what she has to to survive. She will put her desire for money (to save the village) FIRST. Because if she doesn't, she will never be free.

I remember this moment so clearly when I saw this for the first time, the thought ingrained into my mind. When I saw she left and abandoned the crew, I was so MAD. I couldn't express my anger. But when I saw this scene, all I could think about was "I feel so bad for her."

I didn't know what was coming, but this scene alone made me feel so sad. And I didn't even know WHY. I felt gut wrenched for her. Looking back, seeing her finally no longer have to do everything herself and allowing herself to break down and ask for help, it also struck me.

However, this moment, now as I've aged, doesn't hit just because it's a relatable feeling. Finally breaking down and getting hope after you've felt so helpless. So many people want that. I wanted that. And seeing it there in front of me hit me hard. The reason why I think this ultimately made this moment work for me was this theme of freedom. The strawhats made her feel like she was safe for even a short moment. She could forget. Nami, for the first time in her life, even for one second, WAS free. She was!

Nojiko highlights this. It's a small panel. It's less than 5 words but it highlights an important aspect of Nami's character. For one moment, she was free, and that's why leaving them hurt her so much.

Usopp describing something as normal as having fun is something we take for granted. But Nojiko knew that this was an important moment for Nami. She knows she's never been free. Remember, Nojiko & the rest of the village KNOW what Nami is doing. Her sacrifice. Her lack of freedom.

So this bring me back to OPLA. There are so many short scenes of Nami where Usopp and Luffy are just goofing around and bantering with each other. Hell, she's not even participating! She's just watching! And then the moment happens.

She laughs. She's free! This one small moment, this blink and you'll miss it scene. THAT, is pure and utter freedom. And to me, that's what One Piece is. It's freedom. Nami, for the first time in her life, is free.

This scene hit me hard, because immediately I thought to that scene with Usopp and Nojiko. Everyone behind the live action understood the core aspect and themes of One Piece. It's freedom. It's always been about freedom. That has never changed. And seeing freedom be portrayed as such a small and humane action such as LAUGHING, for all of a few seconds, really encompasses what this series is, not just to the characters, but the audience.

#one piece #opla #nami #nami and her arc was also so important to me as a teen #and seeing how arlong park is still one of if not my fave arc this made me feel something #one piece really is special #lozza.txt

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miseries-mistress · 1 year

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A L𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌 H𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖠 𝖲𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝖥𝖺𝖼𝖾)

Paring: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Synopsis: It wasn’t often that the OP went wrong, not after all the planning and hours spent pouring over logistics and floor plans, but the darkness often holds unforeseen powers that wait in the shadows to strike. As a result, you end up injured, and Ghost doesn’t take it lightly, his concern mutilated into a body of rage.

Warnings: gender not mentioned, injury, canon-typical violence, blood, gore, reader is injured, insecurity, self-doubt, slight angst

Words: 2633

Notes: my first ghost fic. just tryna get the feel of writing such a complicated man.

call of duty masterlist

If your eyes weren't so heavy, you might have come to appreciate how light flickers across Ghost's dark irises. They're a pretty dark blue, almost black in the shadows that skimper across them, with flakes of silver breathing life into the soulless window. His long ashen eyelashes are sprinkled with black from his eye makeup, fluttering gently as he blinks.

His stare, however, is anything but gentle. Instead, they pierce you, digging beneath your skin to unravel every secret bound in life's coil. Yet, despite his unrelenting eyes, emotions hide behind the cracked veneer of his facade and let you peek at the ever-boiling concern in his chest whenever your gaze is diverted to him.

The tension is palpable, like a tightrope walker balancing precariously between the safety of their starting point and the unknown depths below them. Every movement could shift them off balance, and the slightest misstep could mean disaster. You attempt to swallow the taste of apprehension as it lingers in the air, your stomach twisting into knots.

The cabin groans, its creaky walls offering you no reprieve from the constant whistling of the trees and the slashing of rain against the dingy pain. You didn't dare to move, worried that the slightest twitch was the very thing to crumble away the safety net the stillness had provided you from Ghost. You didn't dare look at him, but you could feel the dark waves riddled with anger roll off him, drowning you in its smoldering intensity.

After all, it's your fault that you're both here.

Get in, retrieve the package, and get out. That was the brief, in layman's terms, that Laswell had given you not even a day ago. An assignment you had done hundreds of times before. It was all going well, the task force working and adapting to every new command or plan alteration as you and Ghost cleared floor by floor. Synchronization was embedded into every call-out to ensure everything ran smoothly. A perfect plan, too simple to mess up. That's what ran through the floating, gloomy clouds of your thoughts until you failed to notice a soldier engulfed by the buildings shadows, his body fluid with the darkness, his hands grappled on a weapon of death's design. You were preparing to trek the next flight of stairs, your legs heavy with the constant climbing as Ghost radioed Price. A man, the one who proclaimed his life to the cover of despair, took aim at your unaware figure.

You didn't see the bullet fly or its infamous wizz as it tore like a wild animal through the tissue in your thigh, embedding itself in your muscle. Initially, the gut-wrenching agony you were promised never arrived nor impeded your ability to move as you shot him down and continued to move up the floors, hostile after hostile, falling victim to your violence. It wasn't until the area was cleared that the beginnings of hot ice began to flood your veins, spreading down your leg like a paralyzing sickness. You stumbled, bolts of lightning splintering up your entire leg. Only when a deafening droplet of blood met the reflective, white floor, splattering over the tile, did both you and Ghost finally address your injury.

You almost wished you didn't, from how the angry, gory flesh flayed outwards from the intrusion, grappling to your blood-stained pants. Your hand had fumbled to the spot, blood spewing from between your fingers in your attempt to stop the bleeding. Ghost's eyes grew large, his dark pupils engulfing the humanity in his vision.

The next part was a blurry, nauseating mess of the rest of the force descending into a frenzied, discoordinated chaos of too many bullets and bodies for a stealth OP as you dragged yourself out of the building and to the nearest safe house. Ghost was quick to comm Price on your condition, despite your admittedly weak protests that it was nothing to waste time on. He didn't take your assessment of your condition very well.

At first, the pain was nothing more than a pang that migrated down your leg, bearable for the time being. It's when you enter the forest, shock and adrenaline having run their course, that you all but collapse in white-hot agony, black spots obscuring your vision. Ghost is at your side before you can blink to drag you the rest of the way to the location. He doesn't give you a chance to resist his effort; his firm grip a reminder that you are in no position to argue.

A steady trail of blood, thick with the poison of age, left behind proof of your borrowed time, of death's notorious hand perched at your door, ready, waiting. She's been a constant shadow in the corners of every room, a fleeting wisp, a reminder of your constant flirting. And as you often toy with her, death knocks now and again, beckoning you on the verge of your demise to turn the door handle. But, no matter how sweetly she calls to bring you salvation from the torture the mortal world offers, the hand that touches the knob only does so with innocent curiosity, never with the firm expectation of your end. So when soft knocks echo in an incessant, dizzying pitch, beckoning you towards the void of black, you had half a mind to let her in.

The safe house Price instructed you to lay low in for the night had blended in with the rustling leaves of the trees that skimmed its roof, the forest around you offering Mother Nature's hospitality. It had been by luck alone that a storm brewed during your trek to the cabin and released its continents over the mud, washing away the tracks of your presence. However, neither you nor Ghost could have anticipated the temperature drop, your joints creaking with every body-rattling shiver that rolled over your back in frigid waves. You were chilled to the point where your skin was numb to the touch.

With your clothes drenched, your vest tried to push you into the slug clinging to your boots so much so that Ghost practically carried your limping form to the front door, your body clinging to the deliriousness of blood loss as he let you clasp the wall for support. Even though it's a safe house, Ghost still checks the cabin, weaving in and out of your narrow sightline while darkness creeps at the edges of your vision. The pain has intensified tenfold, your ragged breathing foreign to even you as a loose hand covers the bullet's entry point. It seems like hours before he beckons you in.

The place was a tiny thing, no more than a single bedroom and bath. The wood floorboards shrieked under each footfall, your blood matching the pitter-patter of the rain as it dripped on the floor. Only seconds later, the blood in your leg turned to lead and crumpled beneath your weight. He caught you at the last second, his sturdy hands gripping your flesh to lower you into a more comfortable position against the splintering wood.

Ghost moved to a cabinet, yanking out the first aid kit and returning to your side in a blur. Within seconds, he had it open and out of its bag, spilling its contents onto the ground and allowing him to search through the various bottles and tools. Before you knew it, he had gathered the items needed and was back at your side, cutting the fabric of your pants away. He functioned with an intensity and purpose that you'd never seen before. His motions were a whirlwind, the vigor of his focus never wavering as he worked to stave off the flow of your life from spilling further from your veins, his calloused hands operating with a gentleness that belied their strength. He had seen enough death to know the importance of time, his hands a haze of action as he fought to save you from the same fate.

You bit back every cry of agony as his fingers dug and weaved into the fiber of your being, your blood becoming his second skin. He wouldn't admit it, but his chest ached at the sight of you hunched over, your chest heaving with labored breaths as you fisted your shirt in an effort to ground yourself. Anyone could tell how much pain you were in even without the whimpers that slipped from your lips, and he moved faster, his hands working meticulously to ease the pain.

You were grateful for the thunderous downpour of rain that stomped at any chance of stillness because now, more than ever, you didn't want to fall victim to the eerie quiet that would have surely settled over you if not for the storm. Yet Ghost doesn't seem to mind it, his hands making quick work over your thigh with sharp pokes of the needle pulling your skin back together. His fingers flex over your convulsing leg, keeping you steady while he finishes up. You watch him, pupils flitting over his hands speckled in white raises, occasionally observing the movement of his stare over the injury.

With the urgency of your injury out of the way, there's the heat of the silent rage emanating from his build as he finishes up, wrapping gauze around it, your lungs burning with the thickness of the anticipation that permeates your senses. You refuse to move to address the silence you are suffocating in.

It's now, your eyes fighting sleep attempts, that you take notice of him, all of him. Even his eyes which carry a callous fury.

"That was fuckin stupid, Dove." You briefly recognize the use of your call sign, hungover from the cold bite in his words hurled at you.

"I know." Your voice lacks its usual conviction, crushed, ground into fucking ashes by the weight of your failure.

"You were supposed to clear the room," he continued, a low growl punching from the depths of his vocal cords. "How the fuck could you have missed him?"

If exhaustion, blended with regret and doubt, wasn't creeping in the back of your mind like a morning fog, maybe then you would have recognized the cruelty he carried in his speech was brought from a place of concern but expressed in a seeming ice bath of bitter wrath. His words are laced with contempt and scorn, every syllable dripping with acidic pessimism, shredding your heart with the thousands of knives he plunges into your chest. It's as if all he sees in you is your incompetence, your inexperience. Whether accurate or not, the unspoken words he appears to telepathically send to you- to recognize what he is truly trying to convey under his hardened exterior, fall flat.

Your downturned gaze is the only indication you heard him.

"Can't bloody believe you could fuck up so badly."

The rain screeches outside.

"'M sorry." The wobble in your pupils must indicate the weakness that permeates you and drowns you in a sea of doubt. The notch in his throat bobs for a moment as he sighs through a flared nose.

His razor-sharp stare roves over you as if searching for something. His throat is choked with words of vulnerability. His mind battles against his heart, the beating organ demanding to let you in, to wipe the chest-crushing look of guilt and cleanse your blood-stained consciousness of regret. His mind, however, the very thing that kept him alive, kept him from a deeper, more excruciating pain emotions offer him, urges him to pull away before he can fall to his knees in front of your altar of his design; to protect Simon and him from what will be his destined demise.

He settles on the middle ground and huffs, an indigent sound muffled by the balaclava. "You're better than this."

You can only swallow the wad of failure and spit in your throat in hopes of erasing the fragility that takes shape in mortar and stone to build up the damaged mask of strength and confidence you once clung to. You nod your head, your tongue too heavy for anything else.

"Don't do that shit again, ya' hear me?" It's a coarse murmur coming from his strained vocal cords, but softer, delicate even. Two fingers tap against the meat of your cheek, tilting your head while your eyes roam over the shell of his pupils. Only then does his hardened shell seem to melt, breaking down brick by brick to reveal a whisper of the man underneath, Simon Riley.

His finger grazes the outline of a scar next to your lips as his body shifts into an emotion akin to tenderness. A subtle scatter of shadows in the far reaches of his gaze holds an unspoken understanding, despite the walls of silence he has built around himself. It was as if he could see the turmoil raging within you, insecurities and remorse crashing into each other as violently as the storm outside.

"Could have died today," he huffs, low and ruff.

"I know," it's a soft murmur, acknowledging the fragility of your life, of the threat the job poses. He releases a low exhalation in response, his attention shifting to the dark corners of the dinghy cabin, lingering there for a second. Then, he returns his focus to you once more.

"Need to be more careful, yeah?" The soft pads of his hands meet your face in a gentle touch, a reminder of the blood that flows beneath the flesh, of the pulse in your skin. Your eyes flutter close, the feeling of bliss blossoming beneath his fingertips. It's all the acknowledgement he needs, knowing too well the loss of any real words. They fell a moment later.

Ghost moves silently next to you, his body your only hope of warmth to combat the frigidness of the night. He's warm, you realize, and a benevolent gooey feeling builds from the pit of your stomach. It's easy- too easy- to fall into the trap of wishful thinking, to hope for a friendship more intimate than the bond you already share with the lines so blurred. Your hope, which very well might be misguided, makes your heart beat impossibly faster at the possibility that he might share an inkling of the intimate attraction you feel.

Your limbs are weighed down by sleeps caress, the pain in your leg now subdued to a constant throb. It's easy to forget about the events that transpired today when sleep beckons you so dearly it feels impossible not to give in.

"Sleep." It's a simple, short command, yet it carries the promise of his protection. It's supposed to ease you and make you feel safe, knowing he will protect you from the dangers of the night, and it works. Your head falls to his shoulder, and Ghost, seemingly anticipating the contact, lets you. You don't have the mental fortitude to dwell on the implications of his actions. Only accept them for what they are. The rain, his warmth, and the promise of safety all ease you into the oblivion where dreams and nightmares dwell, and instead of them spitting you out like most nights you seek rest, they never reach you, not with Simon next to you.

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gratisdiamanten · 4 months

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Heyyy so I’ve been reading the new max biography and in there is this passage about Jos’s dad locking him in room as a kid 😭 anyway the entire family sounds absolutely wild so was wondering if you had anymore batshit lore about this family ❤️❤️❤️

Ps tyyy for being the verstappen family historian

This sounds insane but I've never read the biographies (never made myself spend the money). I HAVE heard about Frans locking Jos in the van after bad races and making him cry and scream himself to exhaustion and leaving him there for ages before letting him out. I gleaned this one from a Dutch-language article. It's paywalled, just use 12ft.io. Probably the most formative and gut wrenching part of it was probably reading his childhood nickname 'Josje' which is like. Almost entirely a girl's name. I can't explain how that makes me feel.

Jos en Frans trainen veel en reizen heel Nederland en, later, Europa door voor races. Frans kan hard zijn voor Jos. Als die op jonge leeftijd een keer crasht met zijn kart, wordt hij voor straf opgesloten in het busje waarmee ze de circuits afgaan. De huilende Jos zou met zijn vuistjes tegen het raam hebben geslagen – maar hij mocht er onder geen beding uit. [Jos and Frans trained and traveled a lot all over the Netherlands and, later, Europe for races. Frans could be hard on Jos. When the latter crashed once with his go-kart at a young age, he was locked as a punishment in the van they used to travel to circuits. The crying Jos would have banged his little fists against the window - but he wasn't let out under any circumstances.]

"‘Project Max Verstappen’: hoe een Limburgs jochie wereldster werd": Danielle Pinedo, Steven Verseput. NRC, 2020

#asks #anon #jv #this is a week old ask sorry...

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veilkeeper · 5 months

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No no no, I saw those tags on that post of Astarion's "Midnight Chimes, eh?" Line.

Let's talk about Astarion in a relationship with Tav that he feels is a ticking time bomb, about to explode and then it's over!

Cuz like...that's HEAVY. That's HARD. That shit HURTS. Tav's perspective on their relationship has to be very different than his, and he probably can't even comprehend that it's real for a long long LONG time. And a LOT of that almost DEFINITELY comes from his own insecurities. ESPECIALLY if you get together during the confession scene BEFORE meeting Araj. The GUILT and WORRY he must feel??? Gut wrenching.

to catch people up this is the post and these are my tags:

#literally i got all the break up dialogue just to see and every time he says midnight chimes with that sad little face#its like.... man he really thought it was too good to be true huh#and it adds a lot of... umm.... context. to certain paths that can be taken in the conversation where you get together#because he really does think he doesnt deserve the PC and hes very vulnerable in that convo & in the early days of the relationship i think#*forcibly drags myself away before i add more tags to this innocent ops post*

and i completely agree with you, i think for quite A While astarion is waiting for that other shoe to drop and for his partner to come to their senses and "realize" (heavy air quotes) that he has nothing to offer them. hence why he says "this facade." not because his feelings are fake (theyre not) but because their whole relationship feels like a sham to him because he cant give them a "real" relationship (i.e. one where he is able to provide, sexually, emotionally, romantically, etc). because as he says, he doesn't know what any of this means or what he wants their relationship to look like. and people can hc any number of romantic overtures or whatever (im not your mom) but the text of the game very much implies (to me) that the relationship is progressing at a snail's pace.

and that dialogue, the immediate acceptance when he's broken up with (and his fixation on protecting them in act 3 in the lead up to the ritual), is why i just cant take anybody who says "nah astarion isnt afraid of losing the PC" seriously. because like. no i think he's very afraid. he just shows it/doesn't talk about it in the way other characters might, and he's completely prepared to lose them at any moment because he can't even fathom why he has them to begin with.

#DOES ANY OF THIS MAKE SENSE #HELLO. IS ANYONE OUT THERE.#asks #astarion #astarionmance #bg3

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jreads · 11 months

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A Total Coincidence (Part 01)

Rating: totally family friendly 👍🏼

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Foul language, Mentions of blood, It's pretty angsty

A/N: OHHHHH we're so back. If you're new here, welcome. If not, welcome back! I am extremely excited for this. Comments and reblogs are very much appreciated. You can comment on this post or the masterlist to be added to the taglist!

You work a tiring and thankless corporate job. It pays well but it’s draining. You put a façade on in the office, one of polite, unruffled professionalism, but it slips quite quickly as soon as you push your way through the polished revolving glass doors of the modern high-rise.

He knows all of this because he watches you.

It’s not creepy, he attempts to convince himself, because he goes to that coffee shop too. The cozy, dim-lit one that overlooks your place of work. Granted, he used to only go once every blue moon. He’s there far more often now, in a darkened back booth, at the same time in the day.

A total coincidence.

Simon Riley never used to spend a lot of time in London. He has a permanent address there, under a fake name, just to smooth over certain legalities. He never bothered too much with the details. In between assignments he comes back to ensure everything is as it should be, and to water the small cactus on the windowsill, a joking gift from MacTavish following their op in Las Almas. It’s one of those low-maintenance ones; you should soak the soil once every two months just to ensure it doesn’t turn a duller shade of green. Simon is half certain he could feed the thing gasoline and it would still flourish. But he liked his routine. It was touch and go, busy, never too much time in one place. The injury threw a damn wrench in it all.

The team had been deployed somewhere in the South American jungle, attempting to uncover part of an elusive arms trafficking operation. While the job had been successful, Ghost had been rewarded with one in the gut. Hemorrhage, internal bleeding, the works. They had patched him up real well, but the Captain had insisted he take some time, at least until after Christmas. He hadn’t wanted to. There’s nothing to do. It gets all too quiet when he is left to his own devices. He gets restless. But in this café, under warm string lights and surrounded by chatter, it isn’t as lonely. Especially for the ten minutes just after 17:00 hours when you come in to place your order.

He isn’t entirely sure what had drawn him to you in the first place. I could have been any number of things. The light gait of your walk, the way you struggle with the heavy door, your sweet voice, or the way you treat the serving staff. They all like you. Especially the ginger kid with the glasses… he likes you a bit too much. It could have been the way you shrug off your blazer in the late summer heat, folding it into the crook of your elbow and rolling your neck. It could have been the way you usually fumble to hold everything in one hand, always one cup, one paper bag, along with your purse, jacket, blue light glasses. Peppermint tea, he had found out when he had walked too closely past you one day. You were delicately trying to pry the lid from your cup to let the drink cool and—even through the mask—he had smelled the fresh aroma of it. He lists all the possible causes of his interest as if there is some hidden, puzzling meaning behind them. Realistically, it’s probably just because he finds you real fucking pretty.

Whatever the reason, he has formed some strange one-sided connection with you. You haven’t noticed him, maybe you never will, because he sits in the darkest corner of the shop, hood pulled over his head and medical mask in place whenever he isn’t eating or drinking. He’s been reading a lot recently, James Patterson, John le Carré, but George R. R. Martin is his current. It’s a welcome change of pace. And a good excuse to spend the bulk of the afternoon here, nursing a black coffee and croissant BLT.

It's still summer and in central London, it’s sweltering. The café has their AC blasting, but as the sun dips low between the buildings it reflects off city glass and into the tiny shop, heating it like a microwave. The warmth feels oppressive today, even with his change to an iced coffee. The hoodie doesn’t help. That’s one of the only downsides of being here; he can’t shuck the damn hoodie. The tattoos would draw enough eyes, but the scars would make people stare. If there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s people not minding their bloody business.

The ginger kid, Harvey, as his name tag says, sets an oscillating fan atop the espresso machine. Fat lot of good it’ll do on a day like this. As if in spite of his inner dialogue, its artificial breeze flutters Simon’s bookmark right off the table and to the wood-panelled floor. Reflexes faster than his memory, he bends down to grab it and bites his tongue to fight back what would have been a rather nasty string of curses.

“You’ll have to watch it for a bit. No folding forward or back, or to the sides.”

“So I can’t even fucking move now, hey?”

“Just be careful. The stiches should hold, but I don’t want you testing it, alright?”

Well now he had just gone and bloody tested it. Fucking hell. He had copious bandages overtop, but he needed to make sure nothing had pulled. If it had, he’d be sitting in a pool of his own blood by dinnertime. Masking another grunt of pain and fighting off his dizziness, he heads for the bathroom. No one will bother the shit on his table, the employees are usually pretty good about that.

The fluorescents flicker on automatically as the door shuts. He lifts his hoodie up and inspects the damage. Nothing is showing through, thank fuck. But he bets when he changes the wrappings later tonight, the gauze underneath will probably hold evidence of his stupid mistake.

He hates it, the wound. And hates himself for it. It’s a reminder that he’s not invincible… that he’s anything but. That despite the skull mask and the layers of armour and the assault rifle slung over his shoulder, he’s only human. Weak. He’s had injuries before, stabs and slashes and broken bones. But none quite so severe as one well-placed gunshot wound. Usually he bounces back pretty fast, but this time…

Simon hates the paleness of the face in the mirror. He thinks, just for a moment, of throwing his fist into the glass, just to rid himself of the reflection. Opting instead for a frustrated sigh, he rearranges the sweatshirt once more before throwing the door open and rounding the corner, stopping just inches from where you lean against the wall, waiting on the barista.

Fuck, he hadn’t even noticed the time. Your back is to him and you’re on your phone, texting away. He snoops, just a little. He’ll reprimand himself for it later. It’s your mother. She’s asking if you’ve eaten and sending pictures of a mischievous looking grey cat. He watches your shoulders shake in a light laugh. There’s a lock of hair obscuring the pulse in your neck and he wants to brush it away.

Enough, you bloody creep.

“Pardon,” he mumbles, pushing past you.

“Sorry.” You press yourself close to the wall as he moves, barely looking up from the screen. He can smell your fragrance. You’re so small compared to him; he can’t stop himself from picturing what his hand would look like splayed possessively over the small of your back.

Fucking hell, he needs to stop.

You’re oblivious to his thought process, engrossed still in the conversation with your mum. Only when the employee says your name do you look up, smiling even wider and profusely thanking as you reach for your cup. He likes your name, he thinks. It suits you. What would it sound like on his tongue if he said it aloud?

He’s going bloody soft. Simon theorizes that Johnny is largely to blame. He had been introverted before that op, preferring to work alone, avoiding interaction with others unless completely necessary. Since then, he found himself missing the raucous laughter of the task force, the cracking of army humor jokes. He couldn’t find it in himself to care much, though. After all, it’s not like it was making him any worse at his job.

His reputation had preceded him in the jungle. Once the cartel had caught wind of 141 touching down, they were talking about him, fear lacing their voices. El Crânio, they called him. The Skull. The kill count had been fucking brutal.

It feels strange to be thinking about that in a place like this. It’s like two different lives that don’t ever intersect. Three even, if he counts his real identity. Ghost, Simon, and William. Will is the name he gives to the barista here, the one on the bills that come to the flat, the one attached to the SIM in his phone, the one on the fake driver’s licence and motorbike certificate in his wallet. He hates it, but he wasn’t the one who got to choose it.

He watches the way you play a coin from your change between your fingers, spinning it over the back of your thumb before catching it. You tend to fiddle with things while you wait: debit card, pens, hair pins, like your hands are aching for something to do. He can empathize. He’s started biting his nails again.

The employees have worked fast today, and you have your tea and biscuit in hand in record time. It almost seems unfair. Five minutes he gets with you, watching at a distance. At least he knows he’ll see you again tomorrow.

And he does. Again and again and again. Over a few weeks, the hole in his gut starts to heal, but it’s replaced with a new one. Something more insistent and far less easy to treat.

One day, you’re late. He starts to ruminate without meaning to but naturally, his mind goes down darker routes. He shakes the unwanted thoughts off, trying not to dwell on just how much they unnerve him. But you show up eventually, smile still plastered on. He wonders if it’s real.

“They’re extending my day,” you’re telling the server. “Not by much, just one or two hours.” Something about an expedited move from digital to hardcopy files. “At least it’s overtime pay.”

He doesn’t like it. The days are getting shorter; it’s getting darker earlier. He doesn’t like the idea of you walking home alone in the shadows of the London streets. Crime is on the rise; there’s all sorts lingering around the city at night. But then again, it shouldn’t bother him. It’s not his commute; you’re not his.

He sticks around most days though, just to make sure you get out alright.

Today is different. It’s different because it’s 19:00 hours and you have dark circles under your eyes and you’re staring at nothing in particular and when the barista hands you your drink you say thank you, but you don’t smile. You always smile. And he’s trying to tell himself that it’s none of his business, that it’s not his problem but it is. Suddenly, it’s his biggest problem.

He holds the door open for you as you leave because it’s all he can do. You thank him, quietly, but don’t even look up from the floor. He won’t follow you; that’s crossing a line, a breach of privacy. So, he turns towards his own flat, looking back only once to see you disappear behind a street corner.

He sees your haggard face in his dream that night.

The next few days are more of the same. Even the coffee shop employees are starting to talk about it. How you look tired, shaky. Harvey talks about asking for your number as a way to cheer you up. The baristas all shut him down pretty quickly.

Weeks pass. He’s almost done the Game of Thrones series. But you’re only getting worse.

It’s October now, and the autumn chill is starting to set in. You wear a black trench over your office clothes, tugging it closed to fight the cold of the wind. Your eyes look bloodshot, hollow, like it’s been weeks since you’ve slept. He knows the look intimately; he sees it enough in the mirror. Ginge has asked for your number anyway, and you’ve politely declined. Ever the diplomat. He feels bad for smiling at the dismayed look on the boy’s face. Luckily, it hides behind his mask.

It rains the next day. Torrentially. It’s the kind that can dampen a thick cotton sweater within seconds, so he begrudgingly takes an umbrella with him. The shop is warm and ambient, a world within a world. The coffee tastes better on a day like today, warm, bitter, and reviving. He loses himself in his book, looking up only to realize that it’s passed your time. He thinks for a moment that he might have missed you, but that’s impossible. He could have blindfolds on and still feel your presence.

You haven’t shown up. There’s a twist of something akin to anguish in his chest and he tells himself to calm down. Maybe they kept you late; you’ll show up eventually.

Except you don’t.

Soon, the workers are wiping down tables and raising chairs. He has no choice but to abandon his station and venture back out into the cold. Something is off. It might seem silly, but he’s learned never to discount his hunches. So, he sets up camp in the courtyard, umbrella obscuring what little is visible of his face, and he waits. And waits. And waits.

It’s nearing 22:00 hours when you finally exit the elevators and break for the revolving doors. He knows something is wrong immediately, your feet are moving too fast and you’re casting glances over your shoulder as if you’re being followed. As soon as you exit the building you’re running, as fast as your heeled pumps can allow.

“Fucking hell.” He’s up within seconds, umbrella closed and leaving him open to the onslaught of rain. He jogs to try and keep up, a safe distance behind but you’re too fast. By the time he rounds the corner, he’s lost you.

He’s checking each cross street, turning back on himself. The patter of raindrops is almost deafening, the cabs sending sprays of sludge up from the gutters as they race down the laneway. But through it all—as he’s been trained to—he hears sounds of a struggle. A scream, half muffled. It’s yours. He knows it immediately. Simon follows it as if he’s tracking you. One block north, one west. A half. Retracing his steps. There’s no sounds past the slick splash of car tires on wet asphalt. An alley lies to his left, no streetlights. He’s about to venture down it when you come hurtling around the corner, straight into his chest. Your coat is ripped, hair soaking, and he swears there’s blood on your clothes. Your tired eyes are panicked and laced with fear, looking at him with desperation. He doesn’t have time to be shocked. Because from behind you comes a hooded man, tall build, muscular, though not nearly as big as him. Taking hold of your forearm, he draws you behind him. The man pauses.

“Can I help you?” Simon asks. His voice is anything but friendly. The man seems to size him up and decide the fight is unwise, turning on his heel and walking briskly back the way he came. Good. He’d go after the guy, but he sure as shit isn’t leaving you alone in the middle of the street.

You ‘re clinging to the sleeve of his hoodie and shaking like a leaf. He has slid into that lethal calm familiar to field work, assessing the location, noting information, protecting. Once the man is out of sight, he’s got your face in his hands and your skin is so soft but so cold.

“You alright?” he asks, already fully aware of the answer. You can’t even speak, barely looking at him, just back down the alley as if your pursuer might remerge. Shock, he thinks. What was he supposed to do with a civvy in shock? Get them to a safe place, speak calmly and stably, check for injury.

“Right, come on.” He pulls you lightly by the arm and you follow without much resistance, probably too weak to refuse. Like hell he’s letting you go anywhere by yourself right now. It’s almost unsettling how small your wrist feels in his hand, fragile, too easily breakable.

His flat is warm, but you’re still shivering. Simon had deposited you on the couch after helping you shrug out of your destroyed jacket. A blanket sits around your shoulders now, and the kettle is boiling. He’s retrieved his somewhat depleted med kit from the bathroom, kneeling on the floor in front of you. Distantly, he curses himself for not replenishing bandages from the drugstore. There’s a nasty cut on your upper arm, open and bleeding, a knife slash. Anger isn’t something he can afford to feel right now.

“Let’s have a look,” he says, more to himself then anything. You haven’t said a word to him. But when he dabs at the wound with clean gauze, you grasp at his forearm, inhaling sharply.

“I know. I gotta clean and stitch it though, alright?” He’s never been great at patch ups, but he has been trained. He doesn’t want to hurt you, but you can’t keep bleeding either. Fucking hell, he wishes he had gentler hands. Or something stronger than ibuprofen.

“You drink?” he offers. You nod. Good enough. He brings you back a glass of whiskey. You down it, wincing at the strength, offering the empty glass back to him. He takes it, placing it on the low table before assessing you again.

Clean. Disinfect. Needle, thread, vertical mattress stich. Under up, under down and tie off. This would be a breeze for the field medic. But his fingers are thick and much less nimble. You keep clutching at his arm through the sleeve, squeezing to stave off some of the pain. His eyes flicker up occasionally to check your face, but your own are tightly shut. He can tell you’re gritting your teeth, but you barely make a sound. Impressive, though it’s probably partially due to adrenaline. He ties off the final stitch. “Done.”

When you open your eyes there’s relief in them. And a loosening of tense muscles that is worrisome because it’s happening too fast. Your upper body is swaying, and your features are going unfocused, and he knows what happens next.

He manages to cradle your head just before it hits the arm of the sofa.

Bloody fucking hell.

You wake up in a bed that isn’t yours.

It’s plain. In fact, the whole room is. Grey-brown drywall and exposed brick. White sheets, white bedspread. The only real piece of décor is a bookshelf, spanning a considerable length of the wall, practically exploding with titles. What the hell?

You rise onto your elbows only to gasp in pain.

It’s a nasty looking cut, red and swollen around the edges but tied together with neat stitches. The sight of it opens a floodgate of memories, one after the other, ending with the man who saved you, shrouded in darkness.

Shit. This wasn’t good. None of this was good. You need your phone, but all of your belongings had been in your handbag, lost in that alley. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, onto cool tile. Tiptoe out the doorway, taking in pieces of the quiet apartment as you go. Industrial design, morning light, a view of the city, a tiny cactus on the sill.

“You’re awake.” The Manchester accent is heavy and laced with concern. You spin on the source only to stop dead.

His brown hair is so light it might as well be blonde, eyes dark with the shadow of lowered brows, skin peppered with pale pink scars. Prominent ones over his left eyebrow and bottom lip. The hint of a tattoo peeking out the collar of his t-shirt. Though eerily beautiful, his face is one that might send people running. But you find you aren’t afraid of him, not in the slightest.

“You wanna tell me what happened back there?”

If you liked it, please let me know! 🩶

#simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley fic #simon riley fanfic #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod mw fanfiction #ghost fanfiction #ghost x you #simon ghost riley angst #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #cod x you #cod mw x reader #my fic #jreadswrites

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kyros-tha-soldier · 6 months

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Oda: *presents another DILF character with a gut wrenching backstory, fatherly warmth, burdened with emotional trauma and mentally conflicted with the fattest male tits you can ever imagine*

Oda: do you like him?

OP fans: y-yes, we do!

Oda: Well too bad... I AM ABOUT TO MAKE HIM SUFFER

#Oda: *creates Kinemon Kyros Kuma King and Corazon*#Also Oda: *gives them the most fucked up stories*#Well #Some of those cited may not have 100% criterias but hey... At least King may have helped raise Yamato #And kinemon was acting really fatherly towards momo in punk Hazard #Oda might be self inserting as hot buff awkward but strong DILF characters #So far he's made three dudes with curly black hair; tan skin; unique looking jaw/goatee; two of them are stronk af and all three-#Are fathers to three btfl girls #It's not much that he did this for three characters but it's too odd that he did it three times 🤔#Bartholomew Kuma #kinemon #Kyros one piece #King one piece #Alber one piece #Corazon #donquixote rocinante

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cetaitlaverite · 11 days

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Why All This Music?

Masters of the Air - Rosie Rosenthal x OC

link to the masterlist is here <3

10. Lost Puppies

Freddie had been in training for Operation Corona, as she found it was called, for a week, and she felt she’d finally found her place in the war. She’d liked being a wireless operator, had been proud of the small bits of comfort she was able to afford the pilots before they went out on a mission by being the last voice they heard before setting off, but it had never felt overly interesting to her. Important, she knew - the British government wouldn’t have been spending so much time, money, and resources making it happen otherwise - but she’d always secretly felt like she could do more if given the opportunity.

And now she had been. Her promotion to flight officer quickly became a promotion to squadron officer as it became clear she was a better fit for the job than anyone could have guessed. She’d spent so many years by now listening into German radios she picked up that she’d inadvertently retained their ordering patterns and found, even with the lack of use, she was able to slip into her German seamlessly. There was also the matter of her being the only trainee who had ever actually spoken to a German pilot. Her experience and expertise became invaluable. Suddenly she found herself a leader.

The other wireless operators in the operation had little to no experience working with radios. As such, Freddie helped them. A great majority were Jews who had fled mainland Europe once it had become clear Hitler would stop at nothing until he’d gotten rid of them - Endlösung der Judenfrage, they told Freddie he was calling it. The final solution to the Jewish question. None of them knew all too well what this solution was but they’d had a couple of letters from family since coming over to England which had hinted at horror. Those letters had now stopped coming.

It was grand to get to speak to these people. Gut wrenching to learn of what they’d had to endure to get to Britain, even more so to understand their fears about what was happening to their families, but it was important to Freddie to know. And it was wonderful to get to speak German. Proper German. She only ever got to speak German when she went home - it wasn’t, of course, a skill one liked to advertise - but now she was surrounded by native German speakers who asked about her Viennese accent and gave her updates on the last they’d heard about the city.

Freddie was amongst the first wave of trainees to head out into duty. She was reassigned back to Thorpe Abbotts, as she’d been assured she would be. It was a condition of her signing on; she’d told her recruiter in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t be offering her services if she wasn’t allowed to stay where she was. So, once her week of training was up, she was put back on a train, accompanied by a compartment full of green, freshly trained, native-German-speaking wireless operators, only recently promoted out of civilian life, who hung onto her every word about what to expect of life at an airfield and how to keep calm even when you were talking to the enemy.

She was also returning with a third promotion. She was now proudly displaying the insignia which identified her as a wing officer. The w/op girls were going to lose it when they found out. Now she outranked Jones.

When she stepped out of the jeep which had come to pick her up from the train station - her own personal escort! A perk of her new rank, the driver had told her - she breathed in the air of Thorpe Abbotts and marvelled that at some point over the two years she’d been there it had become home.

The girls would all have been working in the tower at this time of day, Freddie knew, so she headed to her new hut to set up her bunk. She had first pick of the beds and chose the one in the far corner, the most amount of privacy she was likely to get as well as furthest from the rushes of cold air which would fill the room when someone came back from the officers’ club late and, notably, furthest from the bathroom and all of its accompanying smells. She made up her bed with the fresh sheets folded at the bottom, unloaded the bag she’d travelled to training with, then went between her old hut and her new one transferring her belongings.

Someone new had already filled her old bed, she found with a start. Someone else’s belongings were in the footlocker at the end of the bed. But her old footlocker she found right beside Millie’s, sticking out into the walkway which Freddie was sure a few of the girls had complained about. And the pictures Freddie had stuck to the wall above her bed had been moved to the wall above Millie’s. Freddie had no idea why, but the thought of Millie sleeping beneath photos of Daniel and her dogs and her parents made tears fill her eyes.

Carefully, Freddie unstuck the photographs and transferred them, along with her old footlocker, to her new bunk. She stuck them carefully to the wall above her bed and frowned as she wondered who Meatball would live with. He’d always slept on her bed but maybe he was better off with Millie and the other wireless operators he already knew instead of trying to acclimatise to all of the new faces Freddie would be accompanied by.

All of a sudden it was difficult to be so excited about her new post. She was doing something useful, she knew, something that would save bombers’ lives. Something that might go on to save Rosie’s life. It was silly to be upset by things such as where Meatball would sleep and the fact that she would no longer fall asleep beside her best friend. She would be doing a lot of good. She had to hold onto that.

The Operation Corona wireless operators had to have dinner earlier than everyone else because their first briefing had been set for the normal dinner hour. Freddie was more than just a little bit upset about this; she’d been missing her friends for a week and as soon as she was back in their sphere she was being kept away from them. Indeed, the base may as well have been empty for how few people she’d seen around. But dinner passed quickly, all of the new w/ops too nervous about their first briefing to want to talk much, and then the briefing came and went. Their first real mission briefing would be tomorrow, they were told, and their first assignment the day after that. They were less than two days away from directly sabotaging the enemy and nerves were running high.

Freddie did her best to reassure them all and managed to cajole them into going to the officers’ club that night. With no bombing mission set for tomorrow there was bound to be a party.

Freddie herself couldn’t help but feel jittery as she got ready. She had new insignia to show off and a new glow of responsibility. She wanted to look pretty, look distinguished in a way befitting her new rank. Really, she was anxious to see Rosie again.

No one was more jittery than the girls in Freddie’s new bunk, who were so anxious to meet the airmen on base they spent the better part of an hour just on their hair.

By the time Freddie and the others made it out the door she was all but worn out, too tired from deciding on countless hairstyles and helping to set curls and the like to feel much nervousness anymore.

She led her new charges to the officers’ club, smiling to herself at the sound of excited chatter which followed her. Almost the instant she stepped into the club she was met with a shriek.

“Fred!” Millie cried, running at her. “You’re back!”

A wide smile split Freddie’s face. “Mils!”

They tackled each other in a hug, holding on tight and swaying from side to side. A week was longer than they’d been separated since they’d met two years ago. The longest they’d ever gone was three days when one of them would go on leave.

A loud, insistent barking fought for dominance with the gramophone’s music as Meatball came bounding over to them. “Hi, buddy!” Freddie cheered, crouching down to hug him as Millie let her go.

Meatball kept on barking as she hugged him, then covered her in kisses when she pulled back to hold him at arm’s length. “Oh, my sweet boy,” Freddie cooed, understanding suddenly that his excitement at seeing her again was likely because he’d expected not to. He’d already lost one companion and he’d expected to lose another when she’d gone away for training all of a sudden.

She pressed kisses to his head and his cheeks, taking his paws as he offered them to her and giggling as he started to run circles around her, still barking as loud as he could in his excitement.

“Come here, my darling boy,” Freddie cooed, catching him in the midst of yet another circle and wrapping him in another hug. “I’m not leaving you, I promise,” she spoke into the fur on his neck. “Okay?”

“Looks like he missed you just as bad as we did,” Jem said as she came over.

Freddie laughed, rising to stand and hugging her, too. “Missed you, Jemmy.”

“Missed you too, Fred.”

“Come on,” Millie cut in from behind her. “Come see everyone else.”

Freddie acquiesced, linking her arms with Millie’s and Jem’s.

And this, Freddie thought as the three of them made their way over to the bar with Meatball weaving excitedly around their feet, was home. She hadn’t realised how badly she’d missed it while she’d been away until she got it again.

“Who are your lost puppies?” Jem asked as they came upon the bar.

Freddie stifled a smile as she glanced back and saw her charge of newly trained wireless ops trailing dutifully behind her.

“These are my wireless ops,” Freddie said, unhooking her arms to gesture to them proudly.

“Your wireless ops?” Millie echoed with a smile. “Bit presumptuous of you, Fred.”

“Well,” Freddie replied, grinning, “it’s actually not presumptuous of me at all. Last time you saw me I was being promoted to measly flight officer status. I’ve been promoted twice since then.”

“Shut up!” Amy cut in from across the bar. “You’re a squadron officer?”

“I’m a wing officer,” Freddie corrected her, giggling at the absurdity of it. “You should all be calling me ‘ma’am’ and saluting me on sight.”

Freddie accepted the congratulations from all of her former colleagues, laughing as they took it in turns pressing kisses to her cheeks. “I bet I’m all covered in red lipstick now!” she objected when Paddy wouldn’t stop.

Paddy only laughed. “It’ll wash off!”

Congratulations received, Freddie turned to introduce her new wireless operators and smiled as she watched her old friends and her new ones greet each other. In turn, she was introduced to the girl who had taken her place, a twenty-one year old named Cecelia who had been transferred from her boyfriend’s base because she’d gotten in trouble for flirting with him over the radio. Freddie giggled when she heard the story and decided immediately that she liked her.

She was immersed in conversation with Cecelia and Amy, Meatball sitting on the toes of her shoes, about how the girls were trying to hook Amy up with one of the rear gunners of one of the replacement crews when a light hand came to rest on the small of her back.

Turning, Freddie grinned at the proffered glass of lemonade and the smirking face above it.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she joked. She accepted the lemonade from him and placed it on the bar in favour of getting up on her tiptoes and wrapping her arms around his neck, giggling as he wrapped his own around her waist.

“Hi, Fred,” Rosie said, his smile audible in his voice.

“Rosie,” Freddie replied, grinning, “I missed you.”

“You did?”

“Of course!”

He held her just a little bit tighter. “I missed you too.”

Freddie smiled as she pulled out of their hug and picked her lemonade back up, taking a sip. “Thank you for my lemonade.” Rosie smiled and brushed her thanks away. “I hear you went to the flak house - how was it?”

Millie had updated her hurriedly on everything which had transpired on base since she’d been away, informing her that Rosie and his crew had been forced, much against Rosie’s will, to go on rest and recuperation at Coombe House, not-so-affectionately nicknamed ‘the flak house’ for how crews tended to be sent there when their commanding officers feared they were getting ‘flak happy’. In other words, Coombe House was intended to give the crews a place where they could talk to a therapist about how they were handling everything without everyone else having to know about it, while maybe also playing a few games of tennis here and there while they were at it.

Rosie scowled at the mention of his visit to the flak house, opting to take a big gulp of beer before even attempting to answer.

Freddie laughed as she watched him consider his words. “Everything you hoped it would be and more, I see,” she observed.

Rosie cracked a smile at this. “It was fine,” he said diplomatically. “I got something for you.”

Freddie visibly brightened. “You did?”

Rosie’s smile widened at whatever he saw on her face. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “I didn’t think you’d be back tonight, or else I would’ve brought it with me.”

“So sorry not to give you advance warning,” Freddie teased him. “I was let go from training early because I’m just so very good at it, see.”

Rosie grinned. “I’m sure you are. And ‘it’ would be..?”

Freddie laughed, sipping on her lemonade to keep him waiting, purely to entertain herself with the way he watched her do it. “Oh, you know,” she finally answered, fiddling with the straw in her drink, “this and that.”

Rosie groaned. “Fred…”

Freddie giggled. “Give me my gift and then I’ll tell you.”

“Your gift is back in my bunk.”

“Oh, well.” Freddie smiled innocently.

“Wing Officer Leroy!”

Freddie turned, smiling as she came face to face with one of her new recruits.

“Ma’am -”

“You can just call me Freddie when we’re not working,” Freddie cut her off, smiling, “remember?”

“Right,” the girl, Anneliese, replied, then promptly forgot this information as she continued, “ma’am, are we allowed to fraternise with the Americans?”

Beside her, Rosie snorted.

Freddie fought to hold onto her laugh. “Well,” she began, “not officially, but people do.”

“If I get caught fraternising will you bail me out, ma’am?”

This time, both Freddie and Rosie actually did laugh. “Anneliese, what kind of fraternising are you expecting to get caught doing?” Freddie asked, her jaw just slightly agape at the insinuation.

Anneliese shot a quick glance at Rosie, conscious he was listening in, and then started to speak in German, “One of the Americans - a bomb-aimer, he says - is very handsome. But he lives in a bunk with all of his crew, and I live in a bunk with all of you. Where do you suggest we go as an alternative?”

Freddie laughed, rolled her eyes, and rested a hand on Anneliese’s arm. “I suggest you wait for a weekend pass.”

Anneliese perked up. “Will you give me a weekend pass?”

“You haven’t even been here for a day yet!”

Anneliese sighed with all the air of a teenager being grounded by their mother, even though she was only a year younger than Freddie. “Fine.”

“If you get caught fraternising it’ll be out of my hands,” Freddie warned her, not entirely convinced she was about to take her advice.

“Yes, ma’am,” Anneliese answered, saluted - all of these new recruits loved to salute, Freddie had found, just because they were excited to be working for the military - and then turned on her heel to walk away, presumably off to find her American bomb-aimer.

Rosie waited a moment before speaking. Freddie sighed and started sipping on her lemonade as she awaited whatever comment he was about to make.

“Enjoying your new promotion?” he finally asked.

“You mean am I enjoying wrangling a bunch of civilians into military duty, forcing them to keep their mouths shut about what we’re doing, and also trying to keep them from running off every five seconds?” Freddie sighed, shut her eyes, and sipped her lemonade again. “Why, yes, Rosie, I’d say I am.”

“Looks like you’re good at it,” Rosie observed. “They’re clearly all fond of you.”

Freddie smiled at this, glancing over at a group of them still huddled together by the wall, joined by some of the boys in their outfit now, too. “They’re good people,” Freddie told him. “Most of them are Jewish and had to flee the mainland when war broke out. They’re happy to finally get to do something. They’re going to do a lot of good.”

“Do you like your new post?” Rosie wondered.

Freddie smiled softly to herself and turned back to him. Of course he’d noticed she felt conflicted about it all. “I’m happy to be getting to do something bigger, something more directly important. But it’s lonely, leading them. I haven’t even been back a day and I miss my old bunk and I miss hanging around with the girls and I know I’ll miss talking to all of you over the radio before you go out on raids.”

“We’re all still around,” Rosie reminded her softly.

Freddie nodded, even though her smile had gone sad. “I know. I just worry you won’t be close enough.”

#watm #my writing #mota #hbo war #masters of the air #masters of the air x oc #masters of the air fanfic #masters of the air fanfiction #hbo war x oc #rosie rosenthal #robert rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #rosie rosenthal fanfic #rosie rosenthal fanfiction #rosie rosenthal x reader

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faorism · 1 year

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thinking about @bisexual-enby-jellyfish talking about the lack of time travel fic in the fandom, and got me thinking that since canon is satisfying, instead of fix its, we gotta have break its.

BITTERSWEET CANON COMPLIANT PONDERINGS AHEAD

canon lev:red era and pardison is out on a mission for alecs non-leverage side hustle, and they are going to a specific town which they remember distantly eliot talking about it, from years back, how that was a moment of decision for him early in his military career. it was there—eliot admitted when he was feeling especially vulnerable, with a smile that was supposed to be funny but really wasnt—it was there that put him on the path that lost his soul. that comment has a lot more weight now, after eliot saying he has lonely he has been for years (which still haunts parker), and how apparently he told sophie he cannot be redeemed (which is now haunting hardison), and because of all the hitting eliots body is starting to betray him (which scares them both). maybe before they left, they had a tense argument. eliot wanted to go with them, but pardison was like?? you legit told us this is #trauma for you, no. and eliots shrug of a response to what it would put him through sat ill with them.

the memories of eliots unhappiness gives pardison the willies but they try to move on, but something feels... off? anyway MAGIC the resonances of eliot's soul-ache draw the two in to a long abandoned military coup base and they get sent back to around 20/21ish eliot (with alec around 35, the age difference between them but reverse in of s1).

they dont meet right the second they land, but its close: eliot finds pardison in the active base, and he rescues them because he thinks hardison and parker are his retrieval targets. (parker... was under the impression eliot wasn't able to get in time to save the real target in his timeline?? hardison just grumbles uhh.... multiple universes are a headfck irl.)

eliot is on an extended mission, one of his first serious solo ones, one that is clearly testing him out for recruitment for special ops. so hardison and parker can't be whisked away and has to stick around eliot For Reasons with an assumed identity. pardison realizes that eliot's mission can be better resolved (aka little/no bloodshed) with a con, and they convince eliot to go along. they aren't there long per se, but there is a lot of thrills and suspense and tension and idk plot stuff, i hate plot stuff so imagine that's happening in the background.

throughout it all, hardison and parker treat eliot like they normally would... which is utterly familiar and intimate, which throws young eliot. and by throws i mean seduces accidentally. eliot gets all heart-eyed, which hardison and parker don't notice right away because they miss their home time, but also eliot just always kinda acts like that. eliot is falling so hard but he tries to be respectful because obviously pardison is together, but a man can dream...

hardison and parker have Talks about how important it is to not change the past, as much as their presence undoubtedly has changed something. but as much as hardison is genre aware, it's harder for him. the rawness of eliot's confession—that he doesn't think he can ever be redeemed—sits heavily on hardison. and he also is like... why are we here, why were brought back? maybe we are supposed to heal a hurt, right a wrong, maybe... parker just wants to go home.

but she is the one who breaks. eliot is shot at and hurt while protecting them, and the screams from parker and hardison are just... gut wrenching. and as hardison is patching eliot's shoulder up and parker is wiping down eliot's dirt and sweat-drenched face, eliot is like... something aint right with you two. hardison tries to deflect with a joke, but eliot is like, no. you... know me. you care about me. please—he interrupts, when hardison is about to deny harder—the truth. and hardison and parker look at each other. she nods so hardison tells him. some of it, but enough. he tells eliot that they know him from the future. they work together, but it's more than that. parker and hardison arent sure how they came back, but they know some of the why. maybe. they are gonna help eliot, and maybe they get back to their time. maybe not. but they aren't gonna abandon eliot here if they can help it.

eliot gets quiet and is like... do you... are we... and hardison furrows his brows. eliot decides to be brave, braver than he may have ever felt before (and thats saying something) and he asks, are we together? and parker is like, yeah he just told you, we are a team, have been for years, we're family and eliot is like no not... hardison and parker are like what?? and eliot just shakes his head and is like, when you say family, you mean...?

hardison pauses from his stitching to say, you two have a permanent kill switch for my computers in case i go evil mad scientist. and parker says only you and alec can look over my harnesses before i jump. i don't double check your work anymore. hardison says you... and what can he say that would make sense to this eliot? what would have the weight? you let us take care of you.

eliot's eyes go wide, hardison's observation landing just right, and here is where parker meets her limit. dont enlist, she says

and eliot, stunned, tries to make a joke to cut the tension choking him: he looks over his gear and is like, little late for that, darlin'.

and parker is like, don't join black ops. go to aimee back as soon as you can.

parker breaks because... parker sees this eliot, this softer version of himself and parker loves eliot, her eliot, but also this one. she didnt know what eliot had lost but now she knows. she knows and she has the power to do something. she can't hoard eliot away when things can. be. better. for. him. she knows what make us us, but...... us is a lonely eliot. us is an eliot that feels damned. us is an eliot who deserves so much more, everything, anything. they can promise him robot bodies, but there's something else they can give him. a life beyond what he... what he had to make with them. a life with whatever eliot calls a soul.

hardison gasps parker but doesn't disagree with her, and if eliot had doubts they were from the future or had some special knowledge about him, this was proof enough.

and what'll happen if i dont?

parker hugs herself tight: you can have a good life, el. the one you want.

what do you know what i want? and god, he sounds so much like their eliot but also so much his twenty/twenty-one years.

it's what you've told us, hardison says.

and what about what we got? parker and hardison don't say anything. i don't think its enough? i ever say that? exactly that?

parker and hardison want to say yes, but they can't. they also cant quite say no. both hurt. the lack of clarity burns.

as parker and hardison try to find the words to convince him, eliot just sighs. in your time, did i even tell you i love y'all two?

and parker... okay, look there's a lot going on and she is very very sad and she is always very very shocked. so she responds, you don't love us.

eliot gets that... that fucking martyr smile of his: the way you treat me? respect me? and... you two are gorgeous. funny. smart. there's no way i aint in love.

and parker is like. you can't know that.

eliot is like, i can because im halfway there myself. more than halfway, if im honest.

and parker and hardison are... floored. no, you can't love us, hardison repeats. he is sure of this. he has to be.

eliot: future me or now?

hardison: either. both. eliot, you can't love us. eliot can't. that... that doesn't make sense. no. god, what have they been doing for fifteen years if... no. god no. if eliot loved them, he would have said something. they would be together. no. this eliot is so green and young and unbroken and... this eliot doesn't know their eliot. he's wrong. he... has to be.

eliot frowns. so i trust you with everything i am but i aint in love, you aren't enough, and... and you want me to take a different path. away from y'all

hardison: it sounds awful when you say it like that.

eliot: it doesn't sound like a good situation, from where im sitting

parker: we just want you happy, eliot. even if it means we cant have you.

eliot sobers. nods. i won't promise you i will. but... i will consider it.

and that's what parker and hardison want but they are just… spooked. but so is eliot. he withdraws and says he has it from here. hardison and parker try to insist they need to help, but eliot gives them a stare down until they take the out.

after that... things are heavy. but the con is rolling along fine, and above all else, they are professionals. as the con is wrapping up, parker is planning out the last details about the gloat and she's like, we won't be there but you should... and they are like oh. yes. that.... that's gonna happen. that will be when they leave.

the con goes well until inevitably they hit a snag, so when they are gonna break up for separate parts of the con, the departure is on a much more sudden time frame than they expected. they three look at each other because they know they won't see each other again, not like this. maybe not ever again.

as parker and hardison try to find the words to leave eliot behind, eliot just sighs. i told you i would consider leaving the army but you gotta answer me and don't lie.

parker: anything

eliot: is there a time you are alive now because i was there? not... not any hitter. specifically me.

oh. tear well up in parker's eyes. not fair.

because parker thinks about a sunken cavern of ice. that one shouldn't even count, any other hitter would probably have just told her to leave the body from the beginning. parker does not care. eliot saved her in more ways than just convincing her to climb out of the cave in the end.

and hardison thinks of that second day, technically the first twenty-four hours.... thinks of eliot pulling hardison up before the warehouse blows up. maybe the choreography of the day would have meant hardison didn't fall, or maybe he did live but was injured, or maybe a million things. eliot steadied hardison, was his friend, his confidante, the one who held him first when hardison came up from the ground.

so the answer yes then?

parker: it's not that simple

eliot: why can't it be?

parker makes an unhappy sound. the time is running out. they need to get to position. now. but...

hardison holds eliot by the neck, as eliot once did him, and says. you once told me all i had to do was to show you the way and you would save the world for us. we want to show you the way to save your soul, whatever it takes, whatever happens to us, because... that's what love can look like, too. we just want what's best for you, whatever that looks like. just think about it. okay?

eliot looks like he wants to resist, but hardison squeezes desperately, trembling.

okay. i'll think about it.

hardison draws eliot close, into a hug. thank you.

eliot clutches him back. goddammit, he whispers, no explanation.

parker is there when hardison pulls back an inch. eliot hugs her too, and says into her ear, make sure he doesnt get into too much trouble without me, alright?

parker does not say anything at first. says, goodbye, eliot, with their cheeks squeezed together, that's how hard she's hugging him.

bye, park.

and so.

they part.

they finish the con, and parker and hardison are so incredibly anxious about what the repercussions are gonna be (they are willing to take them, for eliot) and also are already like, mourning eliots place in their lives because they love him

they finish out the con and they feel the tug and they get back to the present. its done. they did it.

parker and hardison are shaking and things seem similar enough, that means eliot had to have chosen them.... no, no, they can't get their hopes up.

......they had to have found a way without him. they had to, because that's what eliot would have wanted from them in exchange for his soul.

but just as they get their bearings, there's a sound just a little away. they stiffen; parker gets ready to fight. but it's...

oh.

eliot holds them close and he's like, god, it's been weeks i've been checking every day

you can't be here, hardison says

you promised you would consider it, parker says, distressed

and eliot... doesnt respond with confusion, i... knew it had to be around now if it really was you but i was never sure it was real before

parker, face tucked squarely into eliot's neck: you remember us?

i didn't or... i didn't include you in my mission report. there was no proof yall existed and then the next deployment, the very next one, they... they got me. held me for months. i was convinced yall were a fantasy to give me hope. over the years, i thought maybe, maybe it was... but no, it couldnt be. but since y'all vanished, it's been coming back. eliot's fingers dig into them where he's holding them. its been coming back, ive been remembering, and ive been here, waiting

hardison, tears flowing: we told you to go home. we warned you. you could have been okay.

eliot pulls back to meet hardison's eyes: when you left, i imagined my life if i went back. it... wouldve been nice. married to aimee, likely, but that would've never lasted. not forever. too the same, all passion and no patience. mightve gone to work for my dad. itd be comfortable. a decent life.

parker: it would have been good. safe. you would have been happy.

eliot shakes his head: i chose the army first, before you showed up. it was always gonna be what i did. i was stubborn, then, and i didnt understand the scope but i was following it to its ends.

hardison: so it was all for nothing.

eliot: no, fuck. no. you showed me a way to keep my soul, but whatever happened to it, a way i couldnt take, but i at least knew, somewhere deep inside... eliot stops, tries to untangle them.

hardison: what did you know?

eliot: i'm here that's what matters

parker: please

eliot: even then, i knew at least... my soul might be lost but i would always know where my heart was

parker: oh. you love us

of course, darlin'. eliot swallows.

you never told us

you never told me

hardison: we didnt want you to leave

eliot: i never wanted to give you a reason to push me away

parker: we're so stupid.

hardison puts his forehead to eliots. like really really stupid. you said you liked us because we are smart, but we're so dumb, man

theres so much to resolve. so much doubt, so many feelings to untangle, too many misunderstandings to air... but for now, when eliot laughs and says at least youre still pretty, and hardison huffs offended before trying to tickle eliot saying oh did you say petty? i heard petty did you hear petty parker? and parker is like, oh i think i did and they overpower eliot with tickles and ninja attacks that lead to cuddles and kisses.

and the soul-pain will always linger for eliot, that won't ever go away. not quite. but in the warmth of their silliness on a spot that once hurt so bad, there... their laughter brings something that has been there longer than eliot knew to look: a heartsong of devotion, of care, of love... and that? that wont ever go away

#eliot spencer #parker leverage #alec hardison #leverage #faorism fic #faorism work #leverage ot3 #thiefsome #whoops wrote a very rushed fic draft #posting because i wont ever clean this up so here it is #leverage redemption spoilers #leverage redemption #the crown achievement job

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