#<- these tags are relevant because they will be lost for god knows how long if this stupid bill passes
Note
Hi!
I just wanted to say that I absolutely love all of your COD fics! Your Price fics made me fall in love with him (I saw a recommendation for See No Evil on TikTok and just went down the rabbit hole from there (it’s also my comfort fic)) and Laughing Poets made me buy Ghosts for Keegan. Your writing is so beautiful and poetic and has inspired me to start writing again after a really bad writing’s block!
I also did want to put in a request for Ghost (because I love him so much) but given his hype, I understand if you don’t want to write for him or if it may be hard. But I was hoping that this hasn’t been done before (much) and that I could read it in your words since you are so amazing!
I was thinking of the reader being a CIA agent that was working undercover to get classified information and 141 was sent in to extract her after she was compromised. And her and Ghost don’t really get along at first, like they don’t hate each other but they could just care less about one another. But then they get separated and one of them is injured and the other fights tooth and nail to get to them, realizing how much they care. I was thinking that her callsign could be ‘Reaper’ but it can be anything else if it fits better. It can be angsty (because that’s the absolute best genre), fluffy, nsfw, whatever you want to do with it.
I know this is asking a bit much and I’m sorry for that. Feel free to change it as you see fit and do whatever you want with it, if you want to do it. I really appreciate and love your work!! Thank you!!
'Til it Hurts
Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader
Synopsis: You thought that it would be easy - moving on and blazing your own trail, but at every step, memories seem to come back and haunt you. And the biggest memory takes the shape of a man with a skull mask. Can you still deny what you had always felt when he stands at your side once more?
Word Count: 12.5k
Warnings: This duology will be 18+ and contain the following: intense gore, blood, violence, vulgar language, angst, fluff, suggestive content, (smut, p in v sex, virgin!reader (relevant to plot) all in part 2), abuse of power in the past, toxic working environment in the past, copious flashbacks, soft!simon because I love him like that (I guess considered ooc), banter, etc...
A/N: Part 2 will be posted tomorrow after I edit it and the link will be added to this part as well for ease of access. But, anna, that's wild that people post about my work on tiktok, lmfao. I'm so glad I helped you out of that writer's block, though! Enjoy part 1, Love (I did change it around a bit)!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You often think of the friends you had when you were six. The neighborhood you grew up in was full of other kids your age, and there was practically a horde of young boys and girls outside at any given moment. Early mornings were ripe for adventures – ears perking up from your pillows at the sound of bird songs and lawnmowers like an instinctual call to cause mischief. Days would run long and nights would end late with games of tag.
It was inevitable, at this point in your life, to not think about where your friends would be now. Were they happy? Starting families and getting married on island resorts; white sand underfoot and a gentle lapping of ocean water? You’d lost contact a long, long, time ago – never bothered to get back in touch, though you know things might be better if you had.
God, you’d never have friends like that again.
Selfless. Genuine. Without competition or a need to stab each other in the back. Friendships built on a childlike innocence that was never meant to stay or grow with the brutal stretch of years. People mature. They harden, sharpen.
They break themselves to fit a mold of what they want to be without even realizing…Or maybe that was just how you grew up.
Your feet pound against the cobblestone streets of Bergamo, Italy, as you make your way through the packed road of the Upper Old District. Under your chin, your fingers go up to grasp the scarf around your neck and pull the thick navy fabric up farther. Fast eyes flicker over faces as a fake plastered smile splays over your lips, and your jaw holds a tension that seeps into your shoulders.
Keep the act up, you have to remind yourself, fingers heavy at your hips, don’t let the facade slip, or else it’s over before it begins.
At your sides, past the unending sea of loudly speaking humans and loyal animals alike, the broad expanse of ancient architecture calls to the history of this city; red-terracotta roofing, extravagant greenery, and pillars as tall as the buildings themselves. A picturesque land filled with mysteries lost to time, stories never told beyond the scratch of a pen and moth-eaten parchment.
A city now filled with killers.
“Sitrep,” you grunt into the open channel, the earpiece fizzling as it sits in the clutch of your canal. No one answers and, slipping past a family of tourists, you glare at the ground; heart going so fast you feel like it could jump-start a car. “Damnit!”
The seconds draw on and as you pick up the pace, now shoving your way through the crowd, you feel eyes on you. Slithering over your skin like oil.
Not good.
Shit. Karver, where did you go!?
Karver ‘Rigs’ Massarini was an informant – someone who’d been giving you everything that you needed to know about the cell in this area; along with a grouping of eyewitnesses to a stash of ICBMs. A stash that could do some serious damage if they stayed here with the wrong people. Intel suggests that those very missiles were going to be shipped off to Mexico in only a few days, smuggled across the border into United States territory with the intent of doing some pretty awful stuff and framing the US.
If you and Rigs weren’t quick with this, so many innocents would suffer.
You’d already gotten into contact with Mexican Special Forces yourself, warning Alejandro Vargas and Rodolfo Parra of a possible breach and to watch for any unregistered shipments on the docks or coming in from the air.
But now Rigs was missing, and you had a funny feeling you were being trailed.
Back alley. You take a quick right, boots slamming to the ground and heart hammering. Get away from the civvies in case someone decides to go trigger-happy.
This cell was known for being deadly, Mr. Massarini had sent the file over to CIA headquarters before you were shipped out; Laswell had set you on it right away without even taking the time to read it entirely.
“Extremely high Kinetic; I’m giving you full Execute Authority on this, Reaper. We’re running out of time. Find those missiles.”
Torture, kidnappings, mutilations, the list went on for this group and how far they would go to keep secrets. No one had gotten any clear insight as to what their motives were – just that they needed to be put down in exactly the ways they had been doing to others. Ruthlessly, before they grew bigger or spread their influence beyond borders, and created a group that could rival what Al-Qatala had been.
So that was where you came in.
God, you wished Farah and Alex were here with you – at the very least you could rely on them to help, even if you sectioned yourself off from others more than a dying cat. There was a reason you preferred being sent in alone with only your wits.
Mostly because of situations like this.
“Rigs, sitrep. Where are you,” you try again, the close walls shrouding in your shadows. Throwing looks over your shoulders, you take down deep breaths, a growl gradually digging itself a hole in your esophagus. Desperately, you say, “I’m heading back to the safe house ASAP. Wait for me there.”
Your right hand gravitates to your pocket, slipping through the fabric and pushing aside the ripped seam at the bottom. The sheath at your thigh pinches you with every step, but you’ve endured it for years, calluses breeding where the leather had chaffed the flesh to toughness. To an ingrained perfection. Flinching when your fingers bump against the handle, the metal adornments feel cool to the touch despite the sweat dripping down your spine; temperature and nerves leaving your palms sweaty.
None of this was going to plan.
You caress the small Dirk blade strapped to you, and when the first footsteps enter the alleyway behind you, your hand clenched into a loose fist around it. Your eyebrows pull tight with annoyance.
Taking a slow breath as the trailing stranger begins to move faster, you take a corner, halting the second you were out of sight. You nonchalantly turn on your heel and lean into the wall, feeling your body conform to the building and the stone dig into your back.
The material is cold, and as you raise your Dirk up, you flip the blade parallel to your forearm, wrist lax, and fingers still. A slow breath flows from your barely-parted lips.
3 seconds. You don’t blink, only gazing out across the space and noticing the dark shadow gaining ground. 2…1…
Your body jerks forward, free hand snapping out and grasping the fabric of a shirt. Twisting your hips, you plant your feet and wrench the stranger around the corner, breath coming out in a loud snarl. Without a shout, you have the person’s back shoved to the building in an instant, blade held above an Adam’s Apple.
A man, then.
“I’m going to give you one full minute.” Your Italian was only surface level – far better at understanding others than speaking full sentences. But you think whoever this man is comes to a conclusion well enough. “Before I cut you open and watch the life spill from your eyes.”
You don’t recognize this person, his sharp face or dark, sly, eyes, and with a quick assessment of his large stature you figure out he’s the basic definition of a man sent to complete a job. One that would have left you dead if you were anything less than a contracted CIA Agent on a job. You had been trained among the best from your time in the Marines – years on Special Ops forces; taking point. Even if they were the worst times of your life, you still learned a great deal from them, particularly, how to know when to cut your losses.
With one look into his smug face, you know that this stranger would tell you nothing.
Your lips formed a grimace, teeth flashing under flesh at the rod-straight form of the man under you. He was smirking with eyes seeming to be laughing at you. Arrogant. Self-assured.
“You’ll get nothing out of me, Reaper. We are already on your trail.” Your head tilts, a numb huff escaping your throat and pushing the individual's hair back as a breeze would. There was a small pause; tiny shiftings of your feet as your blade digs ever deeper.
A thin trail of blood falls from the placement, and your muscles writhe under the epidermis. There’s no thought behind the laugh that enters the air, that cold, dark, thing that’s more of a bark from a hellhound. It was just a realization that no matter where you went, there could never be anything unique anymore. Everyone was always the same.
“You’ll never get it out of me-”
“Break my bones; rip my flesh, you will never make me talk-”
“If you want to see me beg, you’ll be disappointed-”
There were countless memories you could bring to the precipice of your mind and re-live; moments ingrained into your psyche like a tattoo is to skin. So you can only smile and nod, scarf swishing around your neck. The man looks confused now, if not slightly nervous. That self-assured attitude leaking to the ground. Eyes as dark as obsidian beginning to snap back and forth – looking for a saving grace in the make-up of ancient stone that wasn’t going to come.
You wondered how many people had died in this city throughout history. The stories lost to time. Have these alleys seen war? Famine?
Have they seen murder?
But you are a woman of your word. A minute passes in tense silence, your eyes never leaving his own and ears carefully in tune, twitching like an antenna, to the joyous shouts and laughter just a street over. Here you wait like a rat in a trap, though you like to believe yourself more of the metal Hammer than the unknowing participant in a dance of death and wits.
You tighten your grip on your Dirk, shrugging up at the man. Your face is nonchalant as an understanding smile grows. As simple as a server at a restaurant.
“I believe you.” And you run the knife’s edge across his flesh like a match to a striker before he can scream.
Stepping back, you’re suddenly thankful for the scarf over your sweat-slick neck because as the spray of blood splatters over your nose bridge and forehead, you swipe it away with one of the ends of the thick fabric. You let the body drop, watching large hands snap to the gushing wound like that alone would stop the cold grip of death.
Your mark has been met.
The External Carotid Artery was easy enough to cut, though you had to dig deep for it, and it seemed the man had moved mid-slice. Frowning while the man gasps and gurgles; flails as a fish would, you study your work as you flick the blade clear of blood. Your brows furrow.
“Nicked the Thyroid Cartilage, hm.” Sighing and shaking your head, you sheathe the Dirk and twist on your feet, still intent on making your way back to the hotel safe house and trying to find a lead on Rigs. The slumping of a body reverberates a moment later, a grandiose death rattle, and still, only a street over you hear animated conversations – the bustle of traveling feet, and the sound of the breeze.
You often think about the friends you had when you were six. But, now, instead of being the one who fought off the monsters at the ends of the beds, you had become it. The monster. The boogeyman.
The Reaper.
Oh, what would they think of you now?
You swipe at the blood along your fingertips, seeing the red bleed under your nails with such a numb feeling that it scares you more than anything. Taking down a gathering of saliva that feels more like a slug in your throat, you wonder when you lost the ability to value human life. Of course, the answer was slated in those early years in Special Ops, but you don’t dwell on those times.
In fact, it was better if you never thought of them at all.
Taking a left, you hum a tune under your breath and listen to the birds sing as the blood dries.
—
The meeting room wasn’t even a room, just a vacant air-craft hangar that had been fitted out with two rows of metal fold-out chairs and a projector. Shadows danced over the floor, long streaks of darkness over concrete.
“...I’ll be giving you full Execute Authority – but this mission is completely Black. Host weapons only. No Evac team.” Laswell’s voice echoes off the ceiling, and Ghost’s eyes flow over the projected intel, memorizing the faces and locations with nothing more than a blink of his blue eyes. Fluttering eyelashes caress the hard material of his mask before settling.
Task Force 141 was being sent off on another deployment again, deep into Belarus and near the Russian border.
“Time frame?” The Captain asks, standing a small distance away and leaning against a crate of ammunition. His arms are crossed; jaw is loosely set.
Kate looks at him, above the heads of Gaz and Soap, and nods her head before she comments, “one week.”
Gaz huffs from ahead of the hulking form of Ghost, and the silent man shifts his attention back to the group.
“One week, Kate? No offense, but we don’t even know if the bastard’s in Belarus.”
“‘fraid to get dirty there, Garrick? Ah, we’re good enough for it.” Soap elbows the male at his side, and the masked man releases a puff of breath one row back. The Scot twists in his seat, mohawk tendrils falling over his forehead, and smirks. “C’mon Lt. back me up here. We’ve got this in the bag already.”
“Bit confident, Johnny?” Ghost grunts out, accented voice low and muffled from under the black fabric over his lips. His hips shift over the chair, legs splayed and arms crossed as he reclines back; letting the bulk of his gear weigh heavy. “Just wait until you’ve got us sitting on a pile of dry leads and rotting corpses.”
“Eh, nothin’ we haven’t dealt with before.”
“Focus, you three.” Kate interrupts as Gaz rolls his eyes to himself, fixing his ball cap over his head with a fast flick of his wrist at the antics of the other two. “You’re going to be shipped out at 2000–”
An easily recognizable ringtone starts to play.
Blinking in surprise, Laswell takes a glance at the table that had been long forgotten and spies her phone buzzing over the metal. Her light brown hair, kept securely tied back, swished at the nape of her neck. She wastes no time.
Briskly walking over, the rest of the men in the room watched intently, heads perked up. Ghost couldn’t stop the pique of interest at the strange behavior, though his form remains still, only making a noise under his breath in contemplation. In the hold of his crossed arms, his fingers tighten.
“Not the person I’d imagine keeps her phone on for just anyone…” Gaz makes a slow comment, and John slides up beside him, hands hooking onto the sides of his combat vest. Watching.
“Hm,” their command affirms.
Kate picks up her phone and immediately answers, brows furrowed. She shifts her weight as an inhalation reverberates. The conversation on the other side was too muffled, a small droaning the only signal that someone was on the opposite.
Unconsciously, Ghost straightens in his chair as the rolled-back sleeves of his undershirt leave his black ink tattoos on display. A deep intrigue spilled in his chest but otherwise, he was still focused on the previous instructions for the next Op. This was just another cog in the wheel, perhaps a location change for their safe house, or an accelerated timeline. No matter, they would get it done regardless–
“Reaper?” Laswell speaks, and blue eyes slide to stare at the Captain, whose legs had tensed. “What’s happened–”
The Lieutenant knows something was wrong just by the simple fact that he’d never seen their Station Chief talk on her personal phone with that look on her face before – he’d seen it mirrored on the Captain and he’d clocked it from her just as simply. The wrinkled skin at the side of her eyes, and stiff-set lips peeled back in a frown. She’d always been serious, but the air was different.
Reaper? He runs through the database of his mind and ignores Gaz’s and Johnny’s muttered words and glances.
“Now who do you think that is, then?” Soap grunts out. Ghost doesn’t answer.
Brows furrow.
Sounds familiar, the man can’t help but admit.
“Patch me through. Now.” Kate slips to the computer a few steps away and opens a fresh tab, sorting through files and months of intel as if it mattered just as much as a bug under her heel.
“Kate?” Price prompts. The woman only holds up a finger and keeps the phone in between her shoulder and cheek, hands fast across the keys.
Soon enough, a feed pops up on the projector, and the three previously sitting all rise to their feet in an instant.
An open wound is in the process of being stitched and displays itself over the entire available space, violent red internal flesh puckering over the edges of…Ghost narrows his eyes, unphased.
Was that a fabric needle and thread being used for sutures? Resourceful, he admits.
“Bloody fuckin’ hell.” The manchester man levels thought the blandness of the tone contradicts itself. “Where’s this feed from, Laswell?”
“What the fuck…?” Soap growls out, and the Scot blinks at the screen in shock as the Brit beside him lets off a sound of disgust akin to a sick cat.
“Reaper, sitrep.” Kate doesn’t flinch, rushing off into procedure as steady hands delve back into flesh, blood falling from their fingers like water to splatter to a rundown wooden table. The world-away computer was most likely getting a rain of crimson all over the keys at this rate.
Price grunts under his breath.
“Shit,” a distinctly feminine voice wafts out, a harsh sigh held back, though the annoyed tone was noticed immediately, “can’t a girl stitch herself up in peace? Besides, Watcher-1 answer me this, huh?” The computer is jerked, its screen going staticky as Ghost watches with roving eyes to take in the background when the visibility returns. A bed, nightstand, and sitting by the floor of the front door, copious amounts of weapons. The man takes stock – an M13 assault rifle, X12 handgun, and Arctic .50 sniper rifle. Ammunition lines the floor in a way that leaves Ghost’s lips thinning under the mask.
Someone’s in a hurry. But from what?
“…what goddamn hotel doesn’t have mirrors in it?” Kate’s sigh can be heard a mile away. “No, I’m being serious here, Watcher – how the hell does that happen?”
Watching you take a step back, Ghost as well as the other three all blink in surprise when you come into view. Your top was off, only a sports bra covering your flesh, as your focus stays on the digging needle you send into yourself over and over.
Yet again a feeling of intense familiarity strikes the Brit in the chest. Your soft face, your hair, your voice. It was infuriating.
Who are you? The inability to call forth a memory leaves the fists at his sides gradually clenching under his gloves.
“Reaper.” Seriousness grows in the Agent’s voice, and Price lets out a slow chuckle that leaves Gaz turning to him in confusion.
“Sir?” But the inquiry is ignored.
“Still as stubborn as ever, then, Reap?” Everyone sees your hurried stitches stop, head snapping up as they clock a veiled panic behind the iris’.
Your eyes tell all the story they need, and Ghost’s body freezes as the color evokes a physical twitching of his hand.
“Holy hell,” he utters under his breath so silently no one even realizes he spoke; eyelids pulling back before settling like nothing had even happened.
“You know, you're the first person who’s been nice to me out here.”
“...Then I’d tell you to get better friends, Sergeant. I’m not sticking around.”
“I never said they were my friends, Ghost, and I never expected you to stay, anyways. That’s not how this works.”
“You’re right. It’s not.”
“Bravo-06?” You ask, voice sometimes cutting out over the line. A laugh breaks out, and a small smirk twitches the corners of your lips, “Hey, Old Man, how’s it going over there? Been a while.”
“What have you got yourself into now?” Price asks, chuckling under his breath with a groaned continuation, “and how do you need me to get you out of it?”
The spectral man now watches with a newfound fervency, blue eyes boiling so violently that if anyone had seen, they would have thought he was about to attack. Like a split second of eye contact with a wolf before it rushes. The build of his shoulders was still loose, however, and the only indication of shock was his optics; the mask shrouded all.
But there was a subtle movement of his hips, feet transferring over the floor to stand shoulder-length apart.
“Oh, this,” you point to your injury with a free finger, tying off a knot on the last line of sutures. “Nah, it’s nothing. A couple of assholes tried to get the jump on me a block back, one had a knife on ‘em.” Your hand tosses the needle and thread to the table, a muttered, thunk, sounding off. Looking down at your work with a raised brow, everyone watches. “Took care of it – they gave me a name, too, but with the trail of bodies I left today, I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t pan out.”
A pause before you turn your head back up, face now completely serious as you focus on Laswell.
“But we have a bigger problem, Watcher. Rigs is gone; I think my position’s compromised. I’m going black.” Your form leans to the side, and a wrinkled t-shirt is thrown over your head. From your mouth, a stifled groan releases. Ghost blinks in surprise.
The Captain’s lips thin, and he looks at a tight-wound Kate.
“I have a contact in the lower levels, Reaper, meet up with her and she can have you out of the city by tonight. I’ll send over her info.”
“No can do, Watcher.” You sigh, and Ghost simply stares, following your figure as you back up, heading to the X12 and shimmying it into the back of your pants before looking over your shoulder. Kate hums under her breath. “If they’ve got Rigs,” Walking quickly back over to the computer, one of your hands grasps the top of the frame, thumb poking out from the corner. You tilt your head. “I ain't leaving without him right behind me. I’ll be in contact in a month – if I’m not, then I’m dead already.”
Your chuckle strikes a cord through the room and Soap snorts in answer.
“Glass-half-empty kind of person, then?”
“I’d say,” Gaz mutters.
Continuing, you’re about to say something else – lips already partially parted and breath sucked in – before your eyes lock onto Ghost. The atmosphere of the room flips like the page of a book.
You stare at him with what seems to be a million emotions flying past the glossiness of your optics; lids already peeled back and whites showing in a display that showed more than told. The man could only begin to imagine what you were thinking – how long had it been since he’d seen you last? You’d obviously gotten out of your Marines Special Ops unit.
Not quite how I remember you. It wasn’t hard to recall that small branch of the MRR – Marine Raider Regiment – and how they treated you. But that wasn’t any of his business. He’d been there to do a job, and he’d accomplished it. Quite thoroughly, if anyone would have checked the file after it was all over.
Ghost’s life was counted in the sands of an hourglass, small, molecular, bits hitting the bottom one after the other; rarely was that time wasted on pointless squabbles and words but at that moment, he was conflicted.
The Brit had never expected to see you again, and the sand briefly halted when you spoke. Hm.
Yes, he remembered that voice… he’d just never heard you this confident before.
“Ghost.” He watches the emotions on your face settle, and he was thankful for the mask covering his visage because he knows he would have left at least a small twitch of his lips slip. “Long time no see.”
“Mutt.” The Lieutenant nods in a monotone greeting but notices a slight jerk of your shoulders at the name. His eyebrows furrow, but mentions nothing as his pulse slows.
Your neck moves as you swallow, looking to the side as a dark curiosity fills the space in Ghost’s lungs; head nanoscopically tilting to the side like a vulture.
“Nice seeing you, Bravo-06,” You tilt your head toward the Captain before clearing your throat and addressing Laswell. “I’ll be around.”
It wasn’t hard to tell that the title had made you freak, a kind of bad cloud suddenly springing to life above your head.
Seems to bother her more than being in a Hot Zone, Ghost tells himself, the deep well of dark water in his gut still. That didn’t make any sense. He watches your hand slaps over the computer and the feed goes dark in an instant.
The room is more silent than Ghost is.
“Kate, she’ll need our help.” Price shakes his head from side to side; body moving to the front of the room. “I’m not asking.”
The two talk it over as Ghost’s mind trails, head tilting down more towards his chest as his eyelids narrow.
“Hm,” He grunts, arms tensing as his grip shifts. Soap turns around as Gaz goes to join the conversation between the Captain and the agent.
“What? Know ‘er or something, Lt?” The Scot asks, slapping a hand on the taller man’s arm. Ghost eyes lock on the grip before he blinks, looking back up and leveling the Sergeant with a dead stare. Johnny laughs awkwardly and moves his limb back to his side. “Just…didn’t peg you for the type to start relationships.”
The Lieutenant turns down the aisle of chairs and lets out a bland, “negative. Leave it, Sergeant.”
Why did you react badly to the namesake you’d gone by for the entire time you’d been in Special Ops? Mutt was when everyone had called you when he had been around for that short time.
He felt no great concern for you – no hatred or care – you were just another Agent that would probably end up dead like everyone else. Another time, maybe, he’d have gone in a heartbeat, and if the team decided to go after you, he’d follow. A mission was a mission, it wasn’t like it largely mattered.
But there was something in the back of his mind. Intrigue? Yes, perhaps. The blue-eyed Lieutenant wasn’t one to dwell on these types of things, but a colleague was still a colleague.
Whatever the outcome, he’d do his job with all the ruthlessness and tact he always did.
Ghost’s hand goes up to fix the position of his mask and glances at the blank projector stream, eyes boring into it as they darken. A moment later, he was leaning against the ammunition crate that Price had previously been on, arms crossed and ears twitching at the ongoing battle of wills; isolated to himself as his intimidating form towers ever upwards. Spine straight. Bones stiff. Eyes grim.
You’d been nice to him – a person that, for the limited time he’d interacted with, had left an impression that was only just starting to come back full force. Smart and resourceful; not too bad on the eyes.
He takes down a sigh. Stubborn…but undoubtedly loyal.
His thumb brushes your cheek, and you look up at him as if he wasn’t the one in a mask – as if his entire being was laid bare before you. He swipes away the trail of blood with one firm press. The gentleness of your skin is known even through his glove.
“You’ll live, Sergeant.” He utters, teasing in his monotone voice, “now, where the hell are we goin’? Gun’s itchin’ to lay a few out.”
Ghost would have smirked at the way your eyes dilated if he had the ability, but in the end, he brushes past. Because if he hadn’t, you would have seen his own do the same.
‘Reaper,’ he frowns, feeling the ammunition crate dig further into his hip, they never called you that one.
Perhaps the real battle of wills was happening inside of him – not five feet away between his Captain and his Station Chief.
—
You remember every interaction like it was yesterday, and although he might not, you can’t help the memories from flooding as you gather your gear. Stuffing guns into duffel bags and intel into crossbody sacks that weigh you down like boulders.
Fuck, you open the back window and shimmy out into the back streets, knowing that your position is compromised and not waiting any longer to test your luck. Your side burns something awful; horrible stitches peeling back skin as you groan in pain. What the fuck was Ghost doing with Price? I didn’t know they knew each other. And the two other men in the room…eh. Not the problem right now!
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” you pant, swinging your legs out of the window frame and sharply inhaling when a suture tears. “I’m never in the loop.”
In all honesty, you don’t want to be – too complicated. It’s better to just stick around and be told what to do.
Glaring down at the ground with glazed eyes, you only take a breath of hesitation and let off a curse before dropping.
Your knees take the brunt of the force, and the ricochets of landing on cobblestones travel up your ankles and leave your legs shaking. If you weren’t running on adrenaline, you would have come up with a dirty joke to mutter to yourself.
The discomfort can only last so long, you tell yourself, and ignore the spreading liquid on your side, only thinking of Rigs and the mission.
And Ghost.
Gritting your teeth, eyes vulnerable, you turn down the backroad and stay away from others, drowning in memories more deadly than blood. It had been a while since you had thought of it – the lockbox in the back of your mind keeping all under tight watch; guard dogs with metal teeth and chained necks.
But that title; that namesake you’d scrubbed your skin raw over. Mutt and all the others said in cruel breaths. Oh…but Mutt.
Mutt was the worst of them.
Your hands were vibrating, the tremors traveling up your wrists and arms – past elbows and bruised flesh under skin; bloodied nose and quivering lips. Why did they always yell at you? But worse, why did they always make you do the dirty work?
The Captain, everyone just called him Alke, was standing in front of you, berating your accuracy on the last round of target practice. Fortunately, this deep into the Unit itself, you’d found a way to let it go in one ear and out the next, eyes as blank as a starless sky.
You could see the spittle flying from the man’s lips and some even splashes across your cheeks like acid, but there was something artful to the way you didn't react. A culmination of crafted numbness that bleeds like trauma. It was a constant, everlasting, void.
What they were making you into was not what you wanted, but what possible other option was there? Resign? No, this was nearly an unimaginable position to be in at such an age. You deserve to be here. Should you report the blatant unprofessionalism and favoritism in the ranks? And be blacklisted by these people's friends so that you never ascend the line?
Your ears twitch.
“...You’re not sleeping until your marks are perfect – else we’re overthinking your position in this Unit. Can’t have a Mutt in our ranks, can we?” The last sentence is punctuated with a ruffling of your hair almost like a brother would; teasing, but you know that isn’t what it symbolizes. Harsh laughs and mocking remarks from the bystanders. “Least of all one that’s gonna get us killed. Tch.” When you don’t answer, staring off in a daze at his nose in a perfect image of formation, the Captain raises an eyebrow. “Affirmative,” he smirks, “Mutt?”
“Sir!” Your mouth shouts, though the action is more instinctual as your back straightens. He frowns at that, perhaps wanting to torment you more, but huffs and files out, ordering the rest to follow with one last call.
“I expect you to be up for morning drills an hour early. I’ll be checking your shots myself.”
“Sir!”
After everyone’s gone, you blink back to reality. There’s a second of confusion, creases forming in your forehead at the sound of birds and blowing glass. Head turning side to side, your lips thin at the absence of others as if only realizing how spaced out you’d actually been.
Flashing teeth and heated eyes flash through your mind before you blink them away. Signing away the tense nature of your chest, you clear your throat and relax your legs. Your vision slides to the corners of the concrete dugout, snapping past sectioned-off areas for privacy to search if there was someone who might have stayed back.
Not finding anyone, your hands, clenched behind your back, loosen and fall limp to your sides like bags of rock. One weakly goes to swipe at the trail of blood from your nose, wrecking your already wrinkled sleeve with crimson; but soon an identical trail drips off your chin regardless. Licking your lips and tasting copper, you take a shaky breath and nod to yourself.
You knew what shooting all night would bring on – lesions under the firing pad covering your shoulder; deep-rooted pain leading to nerve damage later on. Blisters that leak puss and blood onto your bedsheets. Not to mention the mental strain, the bags under your eyes burn from lack of rest.
Gritting your teeth, you walk over the tossed rifle on the floor and pick it up with shaky fingers, the tips flinching back from the cool metal before encompassing it tightly.
Silently, you get on your stomach and set the weapon in the crook of your already pain-laced shoulder. Your blood splatters the stock.
—
It had been two weeks with no luck in finding Rigs, and you were starting to get paranoid.
Staring at the dead body tied to the wooden chair, you growl and tear your Dirk from the woman’s chest angrily.
There had been increased police patrols from all the corpses you were leaving, so you’d compromised and limited the chance of being caught at the same time.
Bergamo, Italy, was an ancient place, and the underground was what you were now both metaphorically, and physically, exploiting. Sewer systems. Catacombs. You’d lost track of the paths you’d taken a million times over, and had started to hate the constant darkness only kept back by the small hand lamp you’d stolen.
But there were ups to this constant downward slope.
It made interrogations increasingly easier to pull off with multiple feet of stone all around you. The screams don’t meet the surface.
“Catello Tullio,” you mutter, caressing your sensitive side with your free hand and placing your blade on a turned-over piece of rock. The area reeks of blood and gore, a stack of bodies chucked carelessly in the corner beginning to reek something awful; even as you have another to add to the count. It wouldn’t be long before the rats came in droves.
Another given name, another score. But this one was new. Apparently, the title of the one that took Rigs while he was out getting more rations in the market.
You point a finger at the slumped body, “you better hope I don’t find you in hell if you gave me the wrong damn name.”
Grabbing your light, you stalk off down one side of the tunnel back to your camp, dodging drag lines that strike your eyes with their crimson streaks.
The raggedy blanket and gun-sack you’d been using for a pillow take form in the dark, and somewhere in the corridor a rat squeals; feet pitter-pattering until it disappears altogether. You didn’t even want to think of the spiders living down here. Files and notes are strewn along the floor, perfect hiding places for eight-legged monsters.
You couldn’t do anything until nightfall. It was just too risky.
Massaging your side as you bend down, you grimace at the partially healed wound and scoop up your pistol before plopping to the ground with a grunt. With the deadly object held in your lap, you take a moment to breathe and try to push away a growing headache in the back of your skull.
“This has to be one of the worst Ops on record, huh?” your small voice speaks back to you in bouncing waves of echoes as you begin to fiddle over the gun's small grooves and dents. “How did you manage this, Reap?”
Smiling blandly, the overwhelming quiet and nothingness all around you is like a curse. And in those pockets of a void, your mind always trails to him – or at least it had been for your time on the run. Ghost. That dark and brooding mass of horribly bleak humor and…well…you couldn’t call him mean.
Your eyebrows furrow.
He was never mean to me.
There were soft instances where you would question yourself as to if the Brit had possibly had some affection for you. It wasn’t a long shared history of course, but you had sworn that there was something about the way he looked at you…something that you remember so vividly…
You shake your head and stand after a small while, stretching your feet. Placing your pistol in the back of your belt, the weight brings you dull comfort.
Shining your light on the hand-held radio on the ground in passing, you rove back to it after you scan the perimeter. Its black metal mocks you.
No one’s coming to help ‘cept you. One voice says, and another grunts out, get it together, Mutt.
You turn on your heel to go and take a breather to disperse your dark thoughts but only make it three steps before your eyes widen, lips parting in awe. Nearly falling flat over yourself, you whirl around in an instant.
A static enters the air as if the gods above were laughing at you - toying with your fate like it was a rock tossed to the sky. The familiar British drawl causes your chest to tighten, though the sentence is broken and barely understandable.
Someone’s here for me! A smile slashes your face – fierce hope lighting your eyes. You hadn’t wanted anyone to explicitly come for you, but this was a welcome discovery. Someone to talk to!
“--eper…Copy?” Darting like a cat, you move so fast that you stumble over rocks on the way there. “Lead…cafe…red cloth…Out.”
By the time you snatch the small black object, the garbled and firm tone has already shut itself up. Your mouth parts.
“Shit!” You yell, shaking the thing in your hand with an iron grip, hissing like a snake. You look above you at the cracked ceiling of stone and a growled accusation.“I’m too deep…Fuck. Gotta get up there if I want to be able to respond.”
But it hadn’t all been fruitless. Lead. Cafe. Red cloth. You clip the radio to your belt and make sure your shirt covers your weapon; pat your thigh and tell yourself to stop forgetting your Dirk everywhere before setting off in a jog. The light flashes over dead eyes and stiff bodies.
You snatch the blade off of the stone as you pass it, slipping it into your cut pocket and hearing the satisfying clink of it sheathing.
“Let’s just hope I don’t smell too bad…” You say aloud, chuckling, and listening as the sound echoes off the stone. If no other company, you still had the sound of your own voice.
You couldn’t decide if that was a good or a bad thing. But, you were getting side-tracked.
A Cafe with red cloth, then. Not exactly the place you’d go for an intel swap, but if someone had been trying to contact you for more than a week, you’d imagine they were getting desperate at this point.
If I had known…you frown.
Thinking over the multiple blueprints and pictures of the city in your files, you go through your internal cabinet of knowledge for color schemes - not what you’d have thought you’d be using it for, but, oh well. A lead was a lead.
“Golositá!” You laugh, sudden glee on your face as you dodge a pile of large stones; lips peeling back as you take a fast corner. “Gluttony! Of course, that’s the place.”
The bustling business on the upper side of Bergamo with red table cloths as well as red awnings extending into the street. Anyone would be a fool to miss it.
Like blood lining the street.
You force yourself to run faster.
—
You met him last, despite being a Sergeant. The Captain had you up late last night yet again – running the forest trail this time rather than shooting. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it surprised him when you were still up early with the others; from the looks that he was giving you, you just decided that, yes, he was. Or he was just pissed he didn’t have an excuse to get rid of you.
Blinking away fatigue, you keep your stance relaxed as a gargantuan shadow comes to loom ahead of you.
The man everyone had whispered about called himself ‘Ghost’ and, if nothing more, was certainly intimidating. Shoulders wider than a bench, arms as rounded and as strong as boulders; not to mention the tattoos that made him look like he took cross-country motorcycle rides in his spare time. Tan tactical gear and dark patches for the SAS, the red and white British flag. Gloves covered his large hands, straps carried knives on his biceps and thigh. Something akin to a tan cape that was loose around his hidden neck.
But the mask was what really caught your attention; your head tilting with an innocence that no longer lives in you.
Skeletal. Half a visage of a dead and gone intimidation of humanity. Sewn into a hood of black cloth from which only the eye sockets were open…But the eyes there were no different than if the holes had been empty in the first place; as if the person inside was as dead as sun-bleached bone. Was a corpse piloting this suit?
Ice blue. Freezing blue. Harsh. Colder than a grip of a phantom, you thought as you blinked up at him, colder than the nights you would stay awake working yourself to death. You watched this Ghost’s chest move in a steady inhalation and you stuck out a busted-knuckle hand. Foolish, maybe, but there were worse things to be afraid of than a mask. Then of those eyes that made your spine shiver.
But you didn’t look away.
“Pleasure, Sir.” There was a moment of tense silence where your Captain, at Ghost’s side, was frowning at you silently. The man could say nothing as long as this SAS member was here to assist in your next Op overseas. At your sides, your colleagues on the tarmac shuffle on their feet like nervous penguins.
Ghost glances at your hand, and you try not to show how fast your pulse is running when his eyes leave a cold trail as they grace your split knuckles and torn nails. He ends with a slow look at your name patch.
“Sergeant.” He says and slips past without another word. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you inhale smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. Snickers bounce off air particles, striking your ears as an embarrassed heat rises to your cheeks, but that scent stays in your nostrils for days.
Your Captain scurries after.
“Erm, forgive, Mutt. She’s a helluva strange woman, that one.” You keep your sneer hidden, a hiss lodged in your throat and a twitching finger. But your anger isn’t directed at the masked beast that stalks away. That yapping bully of a Captain would hold all of it as long as you were here.
At that point, you were sure you’d seen the last of Ghost until the Op – not really getting the feeling he’s a people person so much as a ‘give orders and follow them’ type.
But that was fine by you, it didn’t change anything. You’d been told to go back to the firing range tonight for opening your mouth and ‘making an embarrassment of the Unit’....whatever that meant. All you did was welcome the guy with the barest hint of a good attitude.
You supposed manners were a foreign concept around here.
The world ahead of you was blurring, red circles in your eyes that gloss over with water every minute you force yourself to stay awake. The stars were out, sky dark, and the area was only lit by large lights situated around the base. In some sort of strange way, you enjoyed the sound of crickets and the cold breeze over your bare arms as if the only sense of peace you got was when you were half-passed out, nailing shots from a rifle.
The stock was where it always is, your cheek pressed to the side; staring down the scope at the multiple holes in the paper targets. Dots surrounded by multiple other dots like a slice of cheese. You suppose that made you the hungry mouse in that case.
‘A mouse with a fucking day before she drops.’ You frown, blink, and pull the trigger as the trees rustle. The force lands directly on your shoulder – the kickback is usually not one to bother you, but seeing as your appendage was one bad day away from being dislocated and forever damaged – you took it with a grit of your teeth.
And you took it because you knew you could. Just as you knew that you felt a pair of eyes on the back of your neck. Freezing, you remove your finger from the trigger and loosen your grip. Turning your head to the side, a free hand goes up and shifts the ear mufflers from your head to your neck in a single movement.
You swear your heart jumps to your throat when you see a skeleton’s icy blues numbly watching you; arms crossed while a nice-looking SA-B 50 Marksman Rifle sits against the wall at his side. How…long had he been there? Watching?
“What’re you doing, Sergeant?” Ghost asks sternly, that Manchester accent making him sound harsh. Grating like a rock being run against concrete. “I’m sure your Captain wouldn’t be thrilled at a scene like this, eh?”
Blinking, you remind yourself to breathe before answering – voice tough and hoarse.
“I have my orders, Sir. You’re free to join me.”
You turn back as a grunted huff falls from behind muted cloth. Ghost walks up to your laying form, standing on your left side and picking up the binoculars from the hanging hook in your station. As you look back through your scope you don’t know why, but you hold your breath; waiting for something.
“...Not a bad shot. You’re prone to firing more to the right, judging from the grouping. I’d fix that, less you miss a moving target runnin’ the opposite.” He lowers the object - staring from the side of his eye. From your position, your neck cranes to see his fingers twitch. “Wouldn’t want that, would we?” For someone you’d expected to be quite harsh – though you had no doubt he still was – Ghost was more sarcastic in his mannerisms.
Backhanded comments that wound sting if you got on the other end of them.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Sir.” Shifting your grip, you move the stock farther up your shoulder, feeling an immediate release of tension, though the expansive trauma still leaves needles in your tissue.
“Hm, pay attention and you just might learn something.” You feel yourself quirk a lip for the first time in months; your mouth doesn’t stop to think.
“You mentor a lot of people in the middle of the night, then?”
“Only the ones stupid enough to be awake.” He takes a step back, going to grab his own rifle as his footsteps don’t even make a sound.
‘Quiet for a guy with thighs that could choke me out.’
Your brows furrow at the heated thought, taking a slow breath and flexing your hands as the shadow disappears from over you. Why were your hands sweaty?
Were you…afraid? That…that wasn’t it.
“You’re up too, you know, Sir. Bit hypocritical.” This was the first time you’d had a full conversation with someone since you’d gotten in with this Unit. A mildly pleasant one, at least…you wouldn't really call this bonding.
“I can always leave ya’ to it, Sergeant.” Deadpanning the words, you clear your throat and fall silent at the threat.
‘No,’ you wanted to comment, ‘no, I want the company so badly it hurts.’
You swallow saliva and reposition your ear mufflers back over your head, heart bruising your ribs, as you bring down a calming breath of air to still your nerves.
The two of you don’t speak again, and you don’t ask why he takes the shooting cubby right next to yours, the nose of his rifle peeking out from the concrete wall. You certainly don’t ask why he’s up, either.
And in return, he doesn’t ask you the same.
—
When you find Golositá you’ve managed to sneak through the city unseen, taking every backroad and alley you could as the heat of the day increases to near sweltering. Panting, you stick to the thin shadows of the path across the street, eyes dancing over red cloth and flicking to faces; studying visages as one would a medical report.
Your chest hurts, and you run a hand over your side, feeling the raised skin under your shirt before digging into the aching ribs. All this running around and little food to help keep your normal strength was troublesome, and it would only get worse if this Op from hell continued.
I need new intel. Badly.
About to retreat, not finding anyone you recognize off the bat, a black-shrouded figure kisses the side of your vision as if a phantom.
On the outside table, the farthest removed, a man sits stiffly with an untouched teacup in front of him. Smirking, you can’t help but scoff at the thought of Ghost using the thing – you’d think his thumb and forefinger would break the delicate porcelain in an instant. Like a spine over his thigh.
Your cheeks heat.
He looked almost identical to what you remember – minus the gear, obviously – and your stomach twisted at the thought. Was a simple look enough to bring you to the breaking point? Why were your lungs tight?
As if feeling your stuck eyes, those icy blues shift from people-watching to lock onto yours immediately. As hollow as they always were, it seemed. He blinks and the blonde eyebrows on his sliver of visible forehead move.
Shit. Your hips trade weight. Look at you.
Loose shoulders under a rugged buttoned-down and painted balaclava make your breath go thin, not able to resist sneaking a glance at those tattoos you remember so vividly. Yes, that was still Ghost.
Jesus, is this how it felt to see someone you barely even remembered suddenly appear? Was it elation or caution that was making your heart race?
Ghost doesn’t look surprised. His eyes don’t widen; don’t soften or light up. They blankly watch you as you shake away the shock and raise a brow in return. A sarcastic finger goes to your head, and you mock salute.
What are you doing? You seem to ask, a mischievous expression growing as you start forward when he dismissively narrows his eyes. You look ridiculous. Are you asking to be spotted?
The man leans into the too-small chair he sits in, one hand going to hang off the back and the other resting on the tabletop. Gloved fingers tapping morse in slow measures.
Clear. Come here. He follows you with his gaze, head stationary, as you enter the flow of traffic, smiling at people at your sides and letting off polite greetings when you could. Steadily striding, you weave through groups and individuals like water, legs steady even as your ears pick up every little sound.
A comfortable middle point of visible excitement and strict business. Why were you so…happy?
When you approach Ghost’s table, you slip up beside him with a sly chuckle, pulling out the chair to his right. You, softy, lower yourself down into it, not turning to him but instead simply making sure no one had followed you with a quick scan. His heat only adds to the warmth of the day like a walk through damnation.
“Well, well, well,” you smile, addressing the SAS member with his shadow hanging over you once more; such a heavy thing, though you don’t mind. Your expression mellows to have it above you again. There was a safety to it, you had to admit. The cold comfort of death. “Trip to Italy, Sir? Take a little vacation?”
“Came to bail out a bird from my past,” You smell that scent again – smoke and ash; gun-cleaning solvent paired with a canvas tent. Dirt and metallic blood. “And if I ever went on a vacation, I sure as hell wouldn’t pick this place. ‘Bout to burst into flames; traumatize a few kids and their mums.”
Hadn’t he changed even a little bit?
“Now that’s dark.”
“Never said it wasn’t.”
Of course he hasn’t, you answer your own question, feet shifting and skin pliable, why would he? He isn’t like me – didn’t have to reinvent himself based on atoms and in the wake of silent nights.
There was a piece of you that believed that Ghost had always been this way, though you knew it was false. Nobody in this profession was just born like this, they were led to it. Whoever it was under the mask or balaclava didn’t matter anymore.
They had died a long time ago.
“Not a fan of the history, Brit?” You tease, bringing up a hand to itch at your undereye, finally taking a peak at the form that nearly swallows you.
Your lids try not to peel back, but you didn’t realize how close you’d sat next to Ghost – any closer and you would be in the crook of his arm; the relaxed spread of his knee bumping into yours and arm over the back of your seat. Trying to act nonchalant, you ignore the strange swirling in your gut with a hum and a twitching of your leg.
Stop that.
“Don’t care a smidge, just not a fan of the damn heat.” The gruff man responds with his inked arm on the table flexing, as though he was tenser than he showed. Ghost clears his throat, “needs a good downpour, eh?”
“Try living underground for two weeks. Literally. Sun’ll feel like a blessing.”
“Fuckin’ hell…That’s why the radio wasn’t working, then.” While this was all cute – re-learning each other like a shaken puzzle – there were dangers to being this open. The Brit would be fine, but if you got spotted, well, there would be worse things to worry about than an achy side and a pile of bodies in a tunnel.
“You got something for me, or are we here just to stand out like bullet holes in a forehead?” Feeling his head tilt to you, snaking down your form, your body leans forward, palms sweaty as they lock on the table. “Price with you? The other two I saw on the feed?”
“Negative. Op in Belarus. Sent me in alone.” Your knees brush, delicately; like a touch of down feathers. You refrain from taking in a shallow breath, knowing he’s analyzing every movement with a hidden mouth and gentle huffs of air that rises his sculpted chest. Through a grunted sigh, Ghost tells, “The Old Man insisted. Laswell thought you’d be alright by yourself, regardless,” and falls silent.
What was he doing? Why was he talking with that rasp in his tone? Your heart swells at the comment about Kate, but a confusing feeling settles in your lower body. Why did the air feel thick?
The warmth of the sun was making your skin perspire, leaving a sheen of sweat over your arms. But the thought of heat stroke fled as you became hyper-aware of the man beside you, keeping careful not to touch you, though his gaze still bore into the side of your face like prodding fingers anyways.
He can’t quite figure you out, he admits to himself. So much of you was different – and he couldn’t tell how.
She’s lighter, he tightens his face, not the same as when I left.
But there had been an utter satisfaction when he’d seen you in that alleyway, even if you were different in a million ways, that would never change. Ghost’s body had loosened, his clenched jaw let go, and snappy answers to servers stopped entirely.
Because those were still the same colored eyes that he remembered. He takes a long breath.
Through the haze under your creased skin, a red alarm starts to sound off. Not because of the confusing way you felt the chilled form of Ghost on a near internal level, but because of the hooded individual across the street.
When your eyes lock, they back up three paces and bolt down the adjacent street, vanishing into the crowd. Your expression darkens, and Ghost shifts his attention from your face to the streets.
His eyes blankly follow where you were looking.
“Come on,” you get to your feet, hand snatching at the SAS member's sleeve, dragging him with you as a mother would a toddler. It was ironic – if he resisted, you wouldn’t be able to force him to move, not in a million years, but he slid off his chair with fluid muscles.
He doesn’t question you when he’s brought into an offshoot of the road, vacant of tourists or locals besides a stray cat and a few scavenger birds. Flies jump off garbage cans, buzzing through the air above your heads as you level Ghost with a serious stare.
You nearly stumble over your words when you get to look at those long blonde eyelashes that you remember heatedly, but push through as they move to half-lid his blank eyes. Your heart skips beats as you spare looks up and down the space.
What the fuck is going on with me? Focus. This is serious.
But, Jesus, he should really stop looking at you like that.
“You said you had a lead over the radio – anything on someone called Catello Tullio by chance?” You ask, voice like stone.
“Tullio?” Ghost hums in the back of his throat, all business, hips moving under him as he goes to glance at the street. His balaclava moves as he speaks. “Someone made a mention of it. ‘Fore I put a knife in ‘em, ‘o course.” Nodding, he huffs out, “On me.”
Turning on long legs, he starts to walk farther down the path, and you follow at his side, peering up and eager to gain more intel. “You’ve caused quite a panic around here, Sunshine. Cell’s terrified of the ‘Reaper.’ I’m nearly impressed.”
He briefly flashes an optic to you, heart betraying him as he remains locked on your lips. Rotating his jaw, he turns back forward.
“Oh, my,” smirking slowly, you roll your eyes, “whatever will I do without your approval, great Ghost.”
“Dunno – kick the bucket probably.” Shaking your head in false annoyance, the slow, mocking, stain in the man’s tone leaks into your very DNA; coating it with honey. Like a warm sunrise, you clock a small hitch in his chest and equate it to muted chuckles when you laugh.
“Don’t go placing bets, now. I’m not so easily broken.”
“Oh, wouldn’t think of it, Sweetheart. Wouldn’t be my handiwork if it happened,” his tone goes light, “don’t wanna take credit away from you.”
“Brit.” You spit with fake venom.
“American.” He grumbles back, but you clock the small spark in his iris, cold blue bouncing silver light like snow.
He sounded…entertained? Snide in a sarcastic way.
Your mouth rises in a stupid, dopey, grin as you stare from the side of your vision, chest jumping in easy comedy. What a strange pair you two were, but you find you liked his company even more, this time around.
Or maybe he had changed slightly. Or maybe it was just you.
At the end of the day, you were relieved that it was easy to talk to him. Conversations with corpses are a bit one sided, after all.
Ghost’s lips had to be at least quirked under that dark fabric to achieve mischief like what he was spitting out, you leveled with yourself. At the minimum, the man wasn’t annoyed he’d been forced out of his own primary mission because of you.
You remember he wasn’t averse to cracking jokes – particularly dark ones – but it had…it had never felt like his before.
Strange, you admit with a raised brow and a cocked head, cheeks burning for no apparent reason. You’d gotten him to chuckle? Holy hell, you deserve a Nobel Peace Prize for that. I’d think he would be pretty pissed about being sent here. He’s never been one to fuck around.
You both continue in easy silence until you decide to speak once more, intent on asking where you were being led.
Ghost’s head had perked up in what you assumed to be soldier-like attention, but then his head had whipped behind the two of you. Oblivious to his shift in mood, like a dark cloud, you open your mouth.
“Well, where are we–”
“--Get down!” Hands slap on the back of your arm and jerk you to the opposite wall as a loud echo rings out. Whizzing over your head so close that you feel the breeze of it.
Gasping, the air is expelled from your lungs in one fell swoop; your spine grating over the rough stone as your legs scramble to keep upright. Wiping away the shock quicker than an eraser over a whiteboard, your neck snaps to the problem; brain already hardwired to get over being shot at and the adrenaline that floods your veins immediately after.
Across the way, Ghost’s fast hand was reaching to the back of his outfit – without a doubt going to grab a concealed weapon. Eyes fiery and arms tight. And as though you were seeing it happen in slow motion, you lock onto the hostile in the middle of the alley back the way you both came. And then onto the hooded silhouette ahead of you.
Boxed in.
Hyperfocused, all of it happens in only three seconds, two trained professionals protecting each other without even realizing it.
One, you realize how this will have to play out if you don’t act immediately. You don’t know how you can trust Ghost to take the other hostile while you focus on the one ahead, but you don’t question it. Two, your gun lays heavy in your hand as your legs pivot. Three, you fire double shots with a loose finger and hear mirrored gunfire from the man beside you.
You don’t bother watching him drop.
Snapping your head backward with a rageful expression to see Ghost’s corpse hit the floor with a cracking of a skull, shouts start to ring over the city. When you lower your weapon, you turn to notice the Birt examining your own downed hostile with a satisfied stare. If you hadn’t had his back, he would have been shot in it.
But what you didn’t know was that he was thinking the same thing about you.
Turning to stare at each other, your widened eyes lock; fingers twitching along the cool X12’s metal as those stormy iris’ only seem to darken further when they dart to your lips. Like staring into a wild animal’s gaze and pretending you’re not in a trance because of it – stuck in that moment of infinity and nothingness with not a single muscle moving. Waiting for either a mouthful of fangs around your supple neck or for the beast to turn away with grace and practiced steps.
You swore Ghost’s mouth parted under that damned balaclava, but whatever he was going to say was lost when the world came back in a violent storm of screams. Panicking, you gape at the entrance – seeing multiple shadows shoving through the crowd to get to you.
“On me!” Keeping your pistol in one hand, you bolt, hearing heavy footsteps pounding behind you as your mind begins to run.
Ghost trails without a single doubt in his mind as to why he’s following you, and it makes him cautious.
Catacombs, you decide, get under the city and backtrack to the outskirts. Survey and have Ghost tell me his intel before making a move…yeah!
“Where are we headin'?!” Ghost shouts, keeping right your heels as you turn corners. Gunshots ring over your heads as you jump up small groupings of tile steps, blood pounding in your ears. You try to remember the maps you had stored in your files underground. Left…no, two rights. Shit! I need to be higher – see the streets like a bird would! “Reaper?!”
“Do you trust me?!” You call over your shoulder, and though it seems deranged, a smile forms over your lips. “I’ll need an answer in the next few minutes, yeah? I’m on a time crunch!”
“What are you on, Girl?” The adrenaline speaks to you, propelling your legs faster and faster. You vault over a fallen trash bin and take the shock to your ankles as it travels to your thighs. Snickering, you feel the brooding man’s presence like you always could – just beside you like a loyal hound. His focus excites you as you put your gun away in the small of your back. “Bloody hell! Not giving me a choice?”
“Not if you don’t want to get shot in the ass!” Taking one more right, you find yourself rapidly approaching a dead end, tall walls, a balcony, and a large dumpster – the flap already closed overtop. Not answering the man as he barks out a comment, you throw yourself atop it with a puff of breath and spasming lungs.
Laughing, your hands don’t falter. Reaching up with eager fingers, you grab at the black metal front of the balcony a small distance above and suck down a hot breath. Your arms strain, sickly sweet sweat on the top of your lip, and eyes wide with glee despite the gaining footfalls rising like a battlefield cry. Jerking your body up with only your upper-body strength, you slide your abdomen over the railing with barely a second passing. Once your feet are firmly on someone's property, you twist around and slap your hands to the metal with a twinkle in your vision; face wrinkled with all the animated amusement.
A wide grin is stuck on you.
Ghost stares up with slightly widened eyes from the ground, arms poised on the garbage bin.
Oh, hell, when she smiles like that…
“But I can’t judge, can I?” Teasing, you extend a helping grip with a smirk. “Everyone has their fetishes, hm, Ghost? Maybe yours is just having a gun pointed at you.”
He blinks at that, but knowing the urgency in the back of your throat, he pushes himself up with a grunt. You try not to watch his muscles strain, but spy the way the veins in his forearms grow larger as his alluring hips flex. They situate themselves under him as he crunches before straightening in an instant.
Fuck, don’t drool, you scold, lips lightly parted like seven devils were flying in the back of your mind. Jesus, imagine the weight those things can carry…shit. Wouldn’t mind losing my virginity to that.
A leather-coated hand slaps into your awaiting one. You snap back to a screaming reality and stare down into hypnotic sheens of ice and…wait…did Ghost have fucking green flecks near his pupils?
“You sure it isn’t yours, Sunshine?” He harshly comments, and his balaclava moves with a rising of his eyebrow.
Clearing your throat, you murmur a weak reply as your face begins to feel like a blazing fire, squeezing his limb before pulling. He chuffs. Grunting violently, you know he does most of the work in helping himself up, though the Brit still slaps your shoulder in comradery when he’s stable. Kneeling down, he forces himself into the wall behind the two of you, fingers weaving to create a cuff over his knee.
Tossing his head up, he motions with urgency.
“C’mon. Be quick ‘bout it.”
Catching one foot in the basin of his clutch, you force down your illicit thoughts about Ghost and jump, pushing off with your opposite leg on his shoulder and his added boost. Scaling the wall, you arch and scramble - with a growing bite in your side – to the terracotta-shingle roof.
Following after and checking your six, the beast of a man joins just in time.
Shadows dart around the corner far on the ground, and the both of you are speeding animals over the rooftops in the meantime. Against better judgment, boots pounding the tiles, you release loud bouts of genuine laughter.
How long had it been since you’d had such fun? Enjoyed someone else's company like this? Running across homes, you look at your side, only to find Ghost’s eyes already digging into you. Unrelenting. Unmovable. Panting, you smile brightly, giggles making your sides hurt something awful but your pace doesn't slow for an instant.
All it took was a glance at the streets – you know where you are now.
“Enjoying yourself, Reaper?” He asks, arms pumping and barely winded, and you wonder for a moment how he breathes under that covering of his – it had to smell horrible by the end of the day.
“For…the first time in ages, Ghost.” He chuckles at that, and it is a betrayal of his nature. How could someone so violent, so cloaked in oceans of blood, produce such a soft sound? A genuine sound that makes your stomach flip?
His bewitched eyes rove back in front of him, and he can’t deny the simplicity of speaking to you. It wasn’t a chore, just a conversation with a person who he wouldn’t mind having on 141 at his side.
There were few people worthy of that.
You swallow thickly and take point, leading the shadow of death to your home underground so you can re-evaluate.
You can only wonder why you don’t feel nervous as he watches over you, skin marked with horrors but his hand had fit so well in your own. And you also wonder how you can come to care for someone you haven’t seen in ages so quickly, as if you’d both been around each other for years.
Had you really ever forgotten him? Or just tried to push the affection, both emotional and physical, for him out? But that was the problem, you tell yourself with a clenched jaw, that physical attraction. All of that was just…tied into a million knots. Complicated.
You’d never had sex before.
And, Ghost questioned himself as he watched your legs move, did he forget you out of necessity? Because those eyes of yours won’t leave him alone, and he so very much enjoyed looming over you.
He sighs heavily and follows in silence.
—
When you first joined them, they all created rumors. This was long before you were permitted solo Ops, long before half of your file was filled and bleeding with black ink that would shame a warlord. When everyone just thought you were signed up because you were some unhinged kid, brimming with unchecked problems and willing to throw everything away just for the chance to prove yourself. Who got into it for kicks.
They would say you enjoyed it, killing. Reveled in it, really. That it got you off when you were covered in blood and crimson guts as they pooled at your feet.
You suppose that was what turned you away from sex in general – those heavy comments said with no remorse that stuck with you. It was fear almost, a genuine twisting of your mind to make it your fault. It wasn’t your fault, you knew that; you could sleep with anyone you wanted and the comments weren’t a brand on your skin.
You could forget about it. You should.
But the words were so mean. Just cruel for the sense of being cruel. And it stuck with you.
If that was all anyone would see, why try and force them to look away? You kept to yourself, never spoke unless spoken to, and shoved all of it down like a kill switch. No sex, no relationships. Nothing to make you think about the rumors.
Getting off on death? You were horrified at the concept, horrified that people would play around like that with you – with your life!
You just ended up telling yourself you wouldn’t feel it until it hurt too bad. In a way, you were right…but you can only force emotions down for a while until they break forward like a fist to the mouth.
Besides Mutt, they had many names for you – titles and backhanded monikers. Rabid. Demon. Devil. Monster. Sometimes, beast.
But they all had the same meaning. Inhuman. Wrong.
It shouldn’t have bothered you that much. It…It shouldn’t have made you stay up at night still thinking about the way they would laugh and pinch your arms as you were left shaking; drowning in gore not your own because they sent you into the heart of the Hot Zone for a few jokes. Teasing you about how you probably touched yourself because of it.
But it was just an excuse to make you too scared to leave. Your reputation…
“There’s that Devil for ya’, always ready to slit some more throats for us. You think you could do the next few, Mutt? You’ll love it, I know you will. I’ll give you a good report if you do it without alerting the guards – see there… ‘Course you will. Fucking freak.”
Your eyes stare forward blankly, Dirk leaving a dotted fluid trail over the dusty ground.
Why did they do this to you?
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Narrative Power in Arda
An embarrassing number of months ago, I alluded to narrative as an in-universe force within the Silmarillion in my tags on a post I have since lost, which I feel merits further elaboration. The short version is that crafting a story carries meaningful weight and power in Arda, which is not much of a reach considering that 1) telling a story in a certain way has power even in the real world, and 2) music is already well-established as an important medium and means of magic in Middle Earth. I think it is relevant to consider this aspect when discussing the nature and weight of words in the Silmarillion, whether it be curses, dooms, oaths, or anything else.
To begin with, it is difficult to tease apart what I will call in-universe narrative from narrative in the sense that a guy called Tolkien wrote this whole story down, on purpose, with various story arcs that come to various narratively satisfying conclusions. The best illustrative example of in-universe narrative, thus, is Finrod’s duel in song against Sauron, because Tolkien could have had the song battle work however he wanted, but he chose to make it about storytelling. We joke about Finrod and Sauron’s rap battle, but their contest really is a battle of narratives – particularly cultural narratives. To quote:
Then sudden Felagund there swaying
Sang in answer a song of staying,
Resisting, battling against power,
Of secrets kept, strength like a tower,
And trust unbroken, freedom, escape;
[…]
And all the magic and might be brought
Of Elvenesse into his words.
[…]
The sighing of the sea beyond,
Beyond the western world on sand,
On sand of pearls in Elvenland.
This is arguably the story of the Noldor, as told by Finrod – all the beauty and power of Aman, but brought by the Noldor to Middle Earth in their flight to escape the control of the Valar and avenge their king against Morgoth’s evil. This is his choice of story to wield against Sauron, and it makes sense. It invokes the Noldor’s heroism against Morgoth in maintaining the long siege, as well as their rejection of all the higher powers and his own faithfulness to his oath to Barahir that led him to this point. It’s a good story, but Sauron shatters it with a single invocation, because this narrative Finrod spins of the Flight of the Noldor cannot accommodate the atrocity that was the Kinslaying at Alqualonde.
The outcome of the song battle is not decided based on raw power, or skill in crafting magic or spells, or even singing ability. It is won on the merits of narrative: Finrod’s story doesn’t work; he cannot narratively reconcile the reality of the Kinslaying with “trust unbroken, freedom, escape,” and thus Sauron has the victory (1). Thus, we can conclude that “does the story work” is a legitimate part of how magic functions in Middle Earth.
This should not come as a surprise; Middle Earth (and the world itself) were created/predicted by the Music of the Ainur, which is itself a narrative work of music. It, arguably, puts the story in history (2). The narrative of the Ainulindale, moreover, is disrupted by Morgoth in much the same way Sauron disrupts Finrod’s narrative in their contest. But whereas Finrod’s story collapses under the contradictions introduced by Sauron, Eru incorporates Morgoth’s discord into the Music to create a new, greater theme than the one before. This is not an accident, and it shows that Eru, as God and Creator (read: Author), understands narrative better than Morgoth does: any good story has conflict of one sort or another. That’s what makes them stories, rather than a pleasant but boring account of a series of pleasant but boring events.
This is to say, Tolkien makes the necessity of having a plot arc into part of his theological worldbuilding. There is, frankly, a lot you could say about that, but I am not going to, because it is somewhat off-topic from the point I’m trying to make and also I really don’t know where to begin.
Additionally, while Finrod’s own narrative fails, the overall narrative of Middle Earth picks up where he left off and turns his defeat into a fourth-act crisis point, the abyss which makes way for Luthien’s subsequent victory over both Sauron and Morgoth and triumphant retrieval of the Silmaril. Finrod may not have known how to turn Sauron’s narrative disruption to his own ends, but Eru does.
Returning to the Doom of the Noldor, while Manwe is said to be the closest of the Valar to Eru in thought, I would argue that Namo, as the Vala of fate, is the closest of the God-as-Author aspect of Eru. His domain, fate, is closely linked with the Music. I said earlier that Middle Earth was created/predicted by the Music, and that blurriness between creation and prophecy is important for understanding the nature of Fate in Tolkien’s work - there is a careful tightrope walked between free will and determinism (3). I argue that the Music additionally suggests that fate in Arda is really Narrative at work.
So where does that leave, for instance, the Doom of the Noldor? Is it curse or prophecy? Punishment meted out by the gods or natural consequences of an unprecedented violent attack? Framing it in these binaries is reductive no matter which side you come down on. The Doom is neither a curse nor a prophecy: it is a narrative.
The soon-to-be Exiles, led by Feanor, kick off their narrative in maybe the worst way possible (murder). This is, objectively, a very bad inciting incident – stories that start with murder don’t tend to turn out well for the people doing the murdering. Within the Music, and the fabric of Arda’s fate, the Noldor have narrowed their narrative options significantly. “Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be,” for have they not already slain their own kin? But it is very difficult to argue for the Doom as purely prophetic. The text itself indicates in multiple places the judgment or wrath of the Valar as something laid upon the house of Feanor and all who follow them, not simply natural consequences. There is a tangible weight to the Doom, and a sense after the War of Wrath that it is something that can be lifted.
Mandos says, you have chosen your story to be a tragedy by opening with a tragedy. But when this is spoken by Narrative himself, it takes on a weight greater than that of a mere prediction. The Doom defines the genre of the story that is to follow: Tears unnumbered ye shall shed. And they did.
The story, of course, is never truly over. But I’ll leave eucatastrophe for another day.
Footnotes:
(1) As a side note, I am forever thinking about arrogantemu’s fic “Beyond the Western World,” in which Finrod says “I’d staked everything on an innocence I didn’t have.” Credit where credit is due for influencing my thinking on this subject.
(2) Tolkien as a linguist would undoubtedly be aware that the words come from the same root, and that other modern languages have not in fact separated the meanings of “work of fiction” and “account of real events” into separate words.
(3) To write a proper meta on this subject I would have to dig much deeper into other sources, but from my understanding fate in Tolkien’s works works very similarly to the Anglo-Saxon concept of wyrd – there’s a very interesting line in Beowulf, I believe, about how “for undaunted courage, fate spares the man it has not already marked” (paraphrased). I highly recommend reading more about it for a better understanding of fate in Middle Earth.
#the silmarilion#the doom of the noldor#meta#dear god this has been. a long time in the writing#in my defense I had to move across the country shortly after starting this#and my copy of the silm was in a box. which made research difficult. and then I forgot about it
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I posted this before but deleted it both because I was embarrassed and because I was worried I'd severely fucked up Astarion's age for the nth time, originally referenced from This Post. But I've seen many more analyses and I think it's right. I think it is. Anyway!
EDIT: I DID GET HIS AGE WRONG because that is the post I meant to reference. But I'm not fixing it. 232.
I was tagged by @luinen-bluewater to complete this far simpler ship meme: otp, ot3/4.
Here is the template I actually used: ot3. Here's the otp version.
I'll tag a few people to complete any of the templates referenced: Luinen, @the-eldritch-it-gay, @vlwv, @tadpole-apocalypse, @boghermit, @lemonbronze, @littleplasticrat and YOU.
I'll put the above image chopped up below the cut so it's easier viewing for the curious. And I'll ramble a bit more (bg3 spoilers, discussion of vampirism and character deaths).
In my headcanons, Astarion neither remains a spawn nor becomes the Vampire Ascendant, he becomes a vampire, and some hundreds of years later he turns Étoile to a vampire as well (this post / these headcanons need reviewing after the epilogue changes with the Crown, but we'll see).
With this in mind, I was thinking of Halsin being the longest of their lovers and how Étoile could possibly handle his death:
Étoile and Astarion occupied on some adventure / business or other, and when they return, an unaffected or perhaps impatient messenger has come to deliver news of Halsin's death. And it is so long after the others of their relevant, initial, adventuring party has passed (or maybe not. Lae'zel is a wild card (no aging on the astral plane)). Still, i can imagine one of them snapping. I think it's more interesting if it's Étoile, saying aloud that the messenger is mistaken, that surely the message is that Halsin's ill and is calling to see them a final time — Astarion's near shouting in embarrassment and worry, telling the messenger to go, calling Étoile's name, grabbing their arm until Étoile says loudly that they heard them. They heard what they said. And also sends the poor messenger away.
But then I started considering an alternative which I felt was ooc for Halsin from the base game but which I think is more possible / within the scope of his character after the addition of the epilogue. Reminder that Étoile is a paladin of the neutral evil goddess Auril, started bg3 as neutral good but whom I consider neutral evil, and is an Oathbreaker by the end of their adventure:
Halsin at like 820 or older, life expectancy 700-1000, veering wildly between peace with the natural order of things and intense discomfort with things that feel unfinished, the way they always do. And sometime with Étoile leaned against his chest he speaks of Silvanus, the Oakfather, of children and elders in all families of creatures have come and gone, of how his druidic order has changed more slowly than a tree spreads its roots, and how never in all that time did Étoile ask him to abandon his god and his (god's) comfort for the sake of vampirism and eternity.
Fondly, expecting Halsin to imagine it an irritation after his speech, Étoile recalls that Astarion did, three hundred or so years ago. Étoile points out that they know the comfort they found in their worship, and they would never have sought to steal that from him (Halsin).
To be a vampire is unnatural, lost to his Oakfather.
Halsin points out that he has felt that Étoile has wanted to ask before, even if it has always remained unsaid, in the emptiness in their chest (lack of heartbeat), in the slant of their mouth when his (Halsin's) movement is broken with age, in how they've (Étoile has) breathed in his silver hair the more it's overcome him, something that felt respectful once, but now he's past where his end should have been, and the temptation of rekindling old strengths, the hope of another thousand years, through vampirism, shames him (Halsin) greatly. The selfishness of an old mind.
Why wouldn't it have felt like a possibility a hundred years ago, two hundred, more? How could he dare to think of continuing a protection of his forest, of caring for his kin, if he lost all connection to them, and even fears what makes them the same in their morality so much that he would dare forsake it. If he was going to lose his faith, why wouldn't he have done so when he was younger and different, except that he was stronger then, in body and in mind. And yet what difference would there be, feasting upon the wild in the woods?
And Étoile would be blunt about the differences, and about how there are even laws now, that they helped put in place. "They" could punish them both greatly for this, but the transformation itself would be their shared shame. He could be their first spawn, and perhaps their only, but if he wanted this now — that it was no corruption of age, just a changed heart. And they would happily accept him into their home if all beasts and men turned from him as a decree from his Oakfather -- but he would have to be sure, because the fallout could be immeasurable.
Étoile would try to do it permissably, but they would turn Halsin in secret, if need be.
And what if "they" were like. fucking no???? and to ensure you don't do this thing we're going to keep you sealed, either in an area or in a fucking coffin until your druid has passed. (Astarion would lose his fucking mind.)
Abbreviated:
Halsin: what if i've lived long enough to see myself become the villain.
Étoile: well my ship has sailed, and you know, if i meet you in hell then it's not hell
I think though that Halsin's village would have warm, clean shelters under the ground, just below the surface as if to shelter from storms, but well-used and familiar to vampires after years of shared knowledge and resources. They'd be glad to claim him.
OH! And Étoile's birthday is Oct 20th (their date of creation during early access was Oct 20 2020), I gave Astarion Sept 22nd (first day of autumn), and Halsin May 13th (he seems like a Taurus and I figured he'd be worn and irksome about having a birthday that often falls on a day associated with bad luck (Friday the 13th)).
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I've lost track of what migraine day I'm on, but Trigun Book Club persists and so shall I.
Stream-of-consciousness thoughts for TriMax Vol. 13, Chapters 4-6 below.
Chapter 4: Black
Voiceover Narration: Little did Livio know, but both the hat and the cape provided him with a +10 bonus to strength in addition to the moral boost. Someday, he would open up the stat screen for both and discover this, and then he would weep grateful tears that those who had so little gave him so much.
Oh, Elendira's got her own stat boost outfit, I guess.
I love how much tone she has in her voice. Between her body language and the translation, she's just a very easy character to hear in your head.
Ok, this panel is badass.
Ooh, she actually landed a hit on him. Hasn't done that in a bit.
Why's she sizzling? Is it because she's on fire right now?
(Also, she might be in full badass mode, but goshdarnit, she better not seriously injure my Livio. He's important to me and needs to live!)
Aaaand we're back to Legato's monstrosity.
Dude. He has to save some for fighting Knives, dummy. He's not Gojo utilizing Limitless and being able to just go forever. He's going through his Last Run. There's a hard stop to his power and it's coming up quick.
Hahahahaha, these poor guards. Space ships are, like, history bordering on mythology nowadays. They'd be more mythological if their bones weren't scattered across the planet. Seeing an actual functioning one that came from actual space would be quite something.
That's RIGHT, Luida's the one in charge!
Vance? As in advance? I mean, I know it's an actual name, but it's not a very common one and Nightow really seems to like just making names up, anyway....
Ok, so... Knives has always been a bit OP, but what I'm gathering from the Earth Fleet presentation is that this is a bit ridiculous even by the standards of a culture used to Plants.
Ok, I already have questions about how they know about any particular individual. I'm guessing they gleaned a lot of relevant information out of the remnants of Domina, but yeah.
Goshdarn, of course they were hoping to find Vash....
Dramatic Legato pose!
Man, why'd he get so sweaty all of a sudden? That can't be comfortable.
Awww, Legato's little toy got wrecked. TBH, that looks more like Knives' work than Vash's... but that's only because it's hard to tell the curvature of the cut. Knives tends to do straight cuts while Vash destroys things in orbs.
Ugh, Vash might look badass, but he does not look good. Someone get him a sports drink or something to perk him up. Do Plants love electrolytes in this world?
I wonder who the other two were. Knives and pre-bagworm Legato?
Uh, oh. Guess who's back. You done threatened Livio too much, Elendira.
Chapter 5: Battle of the Mystics
Yeah, Raz doesn't fuck around....
It's weird seeing Raz with short hair. Like, Livio with short hair? Not as cool as if he'd cleaned it up but kept it long, but it was so uneven I get it. Raz with long hair and that undercut? Good for his level of chaos. Short-haired Raz? Just feels too restrained for him.
"Some dumbasses," huh? That's a rude (but perhaps not inaccurate) way to refer to Wolfwood and Vash.
I do appreciate how much more intense and unhinged Raz is compared to Livio. Even Elendira seems a bit taken aback by the mood switch in her opponent.
Oh, that's right. He's used to wielding full-out punishers rather than the double-fangs.
He's gonna burn through ammo so fast using them like that. It's a good thing the guns in this series have ammo in plot amounts.
LOL, Elendira is already sick of Razlo's shit.
Uh. That's a lot of nails. I don't like this. She's being mean to my boy.
Oh, gods. I'm not sure even he can survive this.
OH GOOD IT WASN'T REAL. Dammit, Nightow. Don't scare me like that.
Oof, he's still not in good shape. :/
Chapter 6: Tag-In A Person
I feel like... Livo and Razlo are gonna tag-team this fight somehow....
Mmm, seems like Raz can't deal with Elendira's bloodlust.
Elendira! He needed that leg!
Oof, tiny Wolfwood memory....
The way Elendira says this makes me think she has some experience being on the receiving end of this herself.
Look at him. Pumped full of nails again, but still going. He's a freaking machine.
Ok, I love how Nightow has used the dialog bubble to let us know that Livio is back in control here. It's a small thing, but excellent use of the medium.
I love this conversation between Livio and Razlo. It's Livio making peace with himself, with him recognizing his alter and... sort of validating Razlo's existence, I guess? That Razlo is him and isn't him, and that's ok, and they are part of a tandem structure?
Oooh, are they both fronting? Or... like... Livio's fronting, but Razlo's kinda there, too. I'm not sure how much that works with DID, but it's interesting from a narrative perspective.
Again, wonderful bit of paneling here.
Hahahaha, he didn't even bother to remove the nails. I realize this is a way of telling us that someone is a badass, but... like... having holes in your muscles and/or tendons seriously mucks with your range of motion. If you have a healing factor, get that shit out of the way so it can kick in. Otherwise, you're limiting yourself pretty severely. Like, he shouldn't be able to stretch out to his full wingspan with stuff popping through his back like that. Ok, I'll stop. I know I shouldn't expect realistic anatomical consequences in this series.
Wait, where's Vash? I'm worried about babygirl....
Heheheheh, backwards-firing gun trick shot. Again.
Oh, this is lovely. He's fighting right now with a balance neither side of him generally displays.
Ooh, he got a solid hit on her.
Heheheheheh, mind Razlo still has the mohawk. As he should.
Elendira's got her priorities straight. Kill first, ask questions later.
There's something very satisfying (and maybe very important) about Livio praising Razlo. Not just leaning on him when he's afraid, but honoring Razlo's skill and technique and complimenting him on it. Raz wanted so bad to be needed and to be praised, and now he's getting the praise from probably the person he needed it from the most.
Wait. Wait, is Razlo going somewhere??
What's coming next that's so bad that Raz isn't sure he can keep up with it??
Archive
Trigun Vol. 1: Covers + 1-3, 4, 5-6, 7-8, 9-10 || Vol. 2: Covers + Extras, 1, 2-4, 5-6, 7-8
TriMax Vol. 1: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 2: Covers + 1, 2-4, 5, 6-7 || Vol. 3: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-7 || Vol. 4: Covers + 1-2, 3-5, 6-7 || Vol. 5: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 6: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 7: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 8: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5 + Bonus || Vol. 9: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 10: Covers + 1-3, 4-5, 6-8 || Vol. 11: Covers + 1-2, 3-4, 5-6 || Vol. 12: Covers + 1-3, 4-6, 7-9 || Vol. 13: Covers + 1-3
Extra Credit: Trigun Vol. 1: Nebraska vs. Vash's Motivations, Vash's Loneliness, Vash's Depression (pt. 2 of post), Soupy Brains || Vol. 2: Coin Factoids || TriMax Vol. 1: Lina, Vash, and a Haircut || Meryl, Vash, and the Pursuit of Happiness || Vol. 5: Knives, Vash, and Hatred for Humanity || Vol. 6: Coping Series: Wolfwood, Meryl, Vash || Vol. 8: The Uncoordinated Counterattack || Vol. 9: Justice, Punishment, and Mercy, The Tolling of an Iron Bell || Vol. 10: Crucifixion Symbology (pt. 2 of post), Merging of Families, Being Childlike (And Why God Hates Chapel) || Vol. 11: New Hair, New Outlook
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For the tag game, would love to hear about Can't Grow A Proper Branch, or if you don't want to do that one again, Bad Blood (I actually discovered your writing via MacGyver and those stories hold a special place in my heart)
aaahhhh thank you so much that's so sweet :') since i've already explained what can't grow a proper branch is about, i'll just post a clip
Man plans and God laughs.
When Bobby was growing up, the Nash family’s next door neighbour had been a Rabbi and his wife whose older daughter had been his age. Often, when his parents were working late, Bobby would end up at the Rose house, playing with Sarah Rose or doing homework with her at the kitchen table under Rabbi Rose’s quiet supervision. Man plans and God laughs. A Yiddish proverb Rabbi Rose had been fond of. Even though it’s been decades since he’d lived in the house in St. Paul next door to the Roses, decades since he’d last spoken to the man at all, the phrase he’d used so often still pops into Bobby’s head sometimes. It even makes its way out of his mouth now and then.
From the moment they meet, it feels to Bobby like Evan Buckley is God laughing at his plans.
and then i'll talk about bad blood too bc it is one of those like hyper-niche things that i do that i get very invested in but sounds insane from the outside sldfkjs. anyways i posted a oneshot a while back called 'make of us a bridge' which was a peek into a crossover idea i had wherein i looked at patrick jane on the mentalist and i looked at james macgyver on macgyver and i was like. hm. well. you two have an.... uncanny similarity. so now i have a crossover au where mac's dad had a half-brother he had a bad relationship with and didn't talk to or about much at all. and then patrick and mac learn the other one exists. and. boy howdy! clip from that too, but under the cut, bc this is getting long already sldkf
“What’s the hold-up, Jane?” Lisbon asks, hands splayed at her sides, palms up, a nonverbal repetition of her question. He ignores it completely, instead asking one of his own.
“Remember I, uh, remember I told you about my brother?” He’s having a bit of trouble getting the words out at all, like his brain’s slowed down, grinding and jolting its way through the desired speech.
Her frown deepens and when she speaks she sounds completely lost as to the potential relevance of what, to her, sounds like a left-field flyball of a tangent. “The one you haven’t spoken to in…”
“About twenty-five years? Yes, that one.” Still not looking at her, Patrick indicates the young man they’re about to interview. “His last name - it wouldn’t be MacGyver, is it?”
“Yes, actually.” Lisbon flips open the case folder, scanning it for his full name. “Angus MacGyver. How did you know that? I know it’s not because you were paying attention when the officer was giving me the rundown.”
“You’re right, I wasn’t,” Patrick admits instantly. “But there’s one thing I know for certain, and it’s that that boy is the spitting image of James, so either my brother got in a time machine, came back here in his early twenties, and gave us a fake first name, or I’ve got a nephew nobody told me about.”
#gav gab#gav answers#THANK YOUUUUU#writing liveblog#ask box games#fic: can't grow a proper branch#fic: bad blood
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WIP Folder Tag Game
The lovely @insert-witty-user-name-here has tagged me because she knows the absolutely unhinged amount of WIPs in various stages that I have lol. But I also love sharing them out of context and talking about them because that often motivates me so here we go! And thank you!
Rules: reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents (or as many people as you want). Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!'
I went in rough order from most recently created/worked on to older ones so you can see how at some point I just stopped counting my found family and general “Time Crew” based ideas because I lost track lmao.
Sleeping around untrustworthy people 5+1
Gator Pres Reconciliation
Cat chapter 8
Prayer TC
Collapse TC
God of Outcasts Returning
Found Family- Frost Giants
Hugsssss 5+1
Big Sister Sylvie
Do you have a better plan—(the original Drabble is done and posted but there is a part two WIP in the same doc!)
TC- Ghosts
Found family- Guilt
Freeze- TC
Protective- TC
Birthdays- TC
Love Letters- TC
TC- Restored
TC- Playground
Time Crew Fic 9- Void Road Trip
Touch Starved TC
TC Reassuring
TC Unfairness
A few I have mentioned before ina few tag games like this because some have festered in WIP hell for that long 😅 though I’m not including every single much older one, just a few of my favorites and/or ones that actually have something there to work on! But for any new people/people who didn’t see these!!
Sylvie and Peggy Vs the End of the World
Sylkius Christmas
Loki Found Family 5- Boastful
Found Family 8- Kid and Genderfluidity
TC- Kitchen Sink
And a few I haven’t made documents for but I have little notes made about them in one larger document called “All Loki Ideas” where I compile them and highlight different colors based on if they’re done or in progress or new/untouched ideas and organized by category or ship so if I have a particular person/ship I want to write but no solid idea I can go hunting lol. Some descriptions are all I have and others I just put in the first sentence and there is more!
Loki waking up with a nightmare/panic about Mobius not knowing him, and Mobius helping him calm down and reassuring him that he knows and loves him
Exploring the deep empathy and attempts at understanding Mobius felt when having to go through Loki’s life
Lokius inspired by songs/lyrics (there are lyric snippets and/or actual ideas for most of these if anyone is curious! Also yes there is a lot of Taylor Swift, sue me 😅)
Superman-Taylor Swift
Cardigan-Taylor Swift
Happy endings are stories that haven’t ended yet- mayday parade
London boy- Taylor swift
The man who can’t be moved-the script
When the day met the night- panic at the disco
The joker and the queen- ed sheeran
New Year’s Day- Taylor Swift
Delicate- Taylor swift
I’m yours- the script
Haunted- Taylor swift
Loki having a nightmare about Sylvie (and Mobius?) dying, and having to contend with it
Lokius reunion (this was noted before s2 even came out but hey guess it circled back to being relevant 😭)
Mobius and Loki (and Sylvie?) moving into a home together and having small domestic moments like having a “picnic” on the floor
Drunk Sylkius- Sylvie and Loki drunk and arguing about who’s more hedonistic
Drunk Sylkius- Folksy Dope fan club with sylvie and loki goofing off and praising and gushing over Mobius
B-15 and Sylvie spending time together, sorting out feelings
C-20 and Sylvie growing closer after she is rescued
If any of these are interesting to you, and you want to know more/see a snippet (if one exists!) please let me know, I love rambling about all of these ideas and sometimes talking about them gives more inspiration! 💕
Certainly will double tag some people (and am going to tag the originator in her own game lol bc I also want to see her stuff!) but that’s expected from me!
@insert-witty-user-name-here @starport-seven-five @mirilyawrites @lgwilt @dreamycloud @cha-melodius @blackbirdofasgard @loki-is-my-kink-awakening @nostalgia-tblr @bushs-world @queen-of-meows
And anyone else who would like to share!!
#loki#lokius#sylkius#fanfic#fanfiction#WIPs#wip ask game#loki found family#loki series#mobius m mobius#lokius fanfic#ao3 author
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hi!! i was looking through your priapus tag and you talked about how important divination is when worshiping a god we don't know a lot about, i only got into tarot recently and i can't find anything abt this specifically so i was wondering if you had any resources for using it in your worship/to communicate with the gods? alsoo in general thank you!! so much for your posts!! they're all incredibly informative your blog is amazing thank you❣️
Hi!
I mostly use tarot myself, but I don't think the medium matters much as long as it's one you feel the most confident in interpreting.
I don't know of any particular resource, though I'm sure witchtok might have some. My advice comes down to practice and, when in doubt, using an alternative method for double-checking. I tend to use either an oracle tool like the homeromanteion or an oracle deck for the purpose of verifying if I got it right.
Mixing tarot with an oracle deck of your choice can yield more precise results. It's a method I use during the yearly check I do with Dionysus and I've found it very useful to identify epithets. One of the things I ask every year is to have an idea of what will be the focus of the upcoming year in my worship of him, and I will pick a tarot card first, and then pick an oracle card for clarification. This year, two of the oracle cards were "the Rescuer" and "the Liberator". This was obviously striking considering Dionysus has such epithets (Soterios, Eleutherios, Lysios in particular). So, while the tarot card I got with this made sense, the oracle brought up specific "buzzwords" that both clarified the meaning of the initial card but also gave me a very precise idea of what I should be looking up since these epithets have meanings and a history of their own.
Another thing that can help you is paying attention to details in a card, especially if you use decks which use specific imagery. I've noticed that sometimes the gods will choose a card more for what it's portraying rather than the booklet's meaning of it, or a mix of both. To give a concrete example, I am currently in the process of reworking the Artemisia in my calendar to help a member of my family. The aim of this divination session was to present the idea and purpose of the renewed festival and hopefully get some help as to what she wanted out of it. When I asked about it, I got a combination of Strength and the 4 of Wands.
The 4 of Wands here was a great result to have, it's the card of celebrations and well, festivals. Strength was also very straightforward within the context of my request, but it's a card that has so many angles of interpretation that it would be possible to over-interpret and get lost in the possibilities of what it could be about. This is a case where sticking to what the card portrays was relevant: a woman holding a beast in submission.
Here's the thing, I am reworking the festival because this family member of mine has had issues with boars and wolves on their farmland. Strength in this context had the most literal meaning. Not only was it a confirmation that the festival I am brewing for her has her stamp of approval, but the Strength card also led me more precisely to two possible epithets for the event: Agrotera and Pheraia (the huntress and of the beasts).
My last piece of advice is to be kind to yourself. Tarot is like a language, it takes time to learn and even more to reach fluency. Trial and error will be your friend for a while, and that's absolutely normal. If you know another divination method that you can use as a backup to verify your interpretations, you can do that. I find that there is, especially in online spaces, a strange pressure to learn every card one by one as if they were multiplication tables. I personally don't find this approach constructive compared to learning on the spot, with practice.
I hope this helped despite probably not being exactly what you asked for, and I wish you good luck on your learning journey.
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TELL US ABOUT THE THERMONUCLEAR BOMBS LEA (& tag them appropriately please)
God okay I don't even know where to begin I just
I'm gonna ramble a lot about how these bombs work and none of it is going to be very informative probably unless you also want to check out the damn Thermonuclear Weapons wikipedia page at the same time, and even then it's fun to remember that all of this is mostly only how thermonuclear bombs are theorized to work, since the actual designs are obviously all super classified info
Also going to ramble specifically about how the bomb is presented in Lost, so spoilers also abound:
Okay well fun fact, a thermonuclear aka hydrogen aka fusion bomb (which is different than like. a "regular" atomic/nuclear/fission bomb) contains a regular atomic bomb inside it - there are two "stages" to a hydrogen bomb, of which the regular-ass atomic bomb is only the first (fission) stage and is basically only there in order to facilitate the secondary (fusion) stage, which is where most of the power actually comes from (and then from that there's more fission that happens, which might actually be where most of the power actually comes from? idk this is all top of my head I don't have the wiki article open right now lol)
That was something that really kind of blew my mind to learn. Like. The idea of an atomic bomb in most people's minds is (for good reason!) this huge city-flattening thing of indescribable destructive power, and that thing very quickly became irrelevant as anything but the activation for the actual bomb bomb, which is so so so many more times destructive than either of the bombs that were actually used in 1945.
I actually just recently re-skimmed over the wiki article about Tsar Bomba, the biggest EVER thermonuclear test explosion (which was in 1961 iirc, somewhere in Russia/the Soviet Union), which iirc is theorized by some people to have actually been a three-stage design rather than two-stage*, and fucking. The seismic wave created by this explosion circled the entire globe three fucking times over even though it was detonated in the fucking air
*because of the way that the two stages work, it's theoretically possible to just keep adding more and more of the "secondary" type device ad infinitum, but it becomes pretty impractical pretty quickly since (I think?) they'd need to keep getting bigger and with just a two stage weapon you're definitely already in like the 20 tons realm at minimum already, so it's kind of silly to keep adding more and more to it especially when the amount of explosive yield you're getting is already way more than enough than you could ever really need anyway
ANYWAY
None of that is really relevant to what I was ACTUALLY trying to learn about in the first place, which is like. How in the good goddamn the bomb in Lost is supposed to have worked.
(Really the thing I was trying to initially figure out more than anything is what the fuck would the stuff leaking from the casing of the bomb even have been and the jury's still out on that one tbh)
SO okay. Season 5 finale of Lost, we have Sayid and Jack and Eloise and Richard all going to get the bomb to do the thing with the incident. According to Sayid according to Daniel's journal, his plan was to remove the "plutonium core" of the bomb rather than trying to move the whole damn thing.
Incidentally, I have a copy of the Lost Encyclopedia, and like half the reason for buying it in the first place was because I saw online that there were more pictures of Dan's journal/the disassembly instructions for the bomb in it (which I did get this damn thing in like November 2020 so that should tell you how long I've been looking into this stuff lmao)
(a picture of a spread from the Lost Encyclopedia showing several images of pages from Daniel's journal)
So, okay - there are 2 spreads (4 pages) worth of detailed disassembly instructions, over on the right side of the image - idk if any of that is even readable in the image but to summarize: the first pages (bottom right) are the ones we actually see for like half a second in the episode:
(an image from 5x16 of Sayid's hands holding Daniel's journal open to those same disassembly instructions)
According to these instructions, what we are actually removing in the episode and carrying around and dropping in the Swan hole, is the "plutonium primary device from the secondary payload", which. Is not really a thing? The "primary" device in a hydrogen bomb IS the atomic bomb, which is a whole separate thing from the "secondary" device. There is a plutonium "spark plug" cylinder inside the secondary, which I assume is probably what this would be referring to, HOWEVER the second part of the instructions (top right of the Encyclopedia image above) have a drawing of this device, which apparently includes "slow explosive lense", which is absolutely not a thing that would be in the secondary. The explosive lenses in a hydrogen bomb would only be found around the primary, most likely in a spherical shape that creates a series of synchronized explosions to compress a spherical plutonium (or perhaps enriched uranium, but most likely plutonium) "pit" in the center, squeezing it enough to cause it to go supercritical which is what causes the explosion. Then, the heat/radiation caused by this explosion is enough to (in a matter of like microseconds - this is also why the inside of the casing is made specifically to hold together long enough for the reaction to actually happen, because otherwise the explosion would blow everything apart before it reached its full potential yield or whatever) then compress the secondary device, a cylindrical casing (called a tamper) most probably made of un-enriched/depleted uranium (I think? it wouldn't be dangerously radioactive to the touch, which is why Sayid handling the damn thing with only a pair of gloves in the episode is actually probably plenty of precaution) with a rod of plutonium inside it and also some tritium/deuterium (isotopes of hydrogen, which is the "hydrogen" part of the hydrogen bomb) is there.
So basically, the radiation/heat/neutrons of the first explosion of the primary compress/ablate the casing of the secondary, and the neutrons react with the tritium and deuterium from the outside while the neutrons from the fission reaction of the plutonium "spark plug" that's getting compressed inside the secondary react with the tritium and deuterium from the inside, and all of this causes a bunch of fusion reactions, which also release MORE neutrons, which then cause some more fission of the uranium casing that surrounds the whole enchilada, and this is how big big big explosion happen.
All that to say - there aren't any explosives present in the secondary. Taking out the "plutonium core" wouldn't leave you with a detonate-able bomb, it would just leave you with a chunk of plutonium and no way to compress it into supercriticality.
Even so, it does seem like the writers did a non-zero amount of research, because I kind of see what we did here? Basically fudged the primary and secondary together in order to make it so that we can take just a piece of the bomb and still have it be detonate-able. So, we've invented for the convenience of the plot a plutonium core that is surrounded by explosives (in a cylindrical shape, which probably wouldn't really work but the plot demands that it does), which is in essence...just an atomic bomb. Not "in itself a thermonuclear weapon" like Sayid says, but definitely enough to cause a big boom**, which I guess is the goal here. I would presume that the actual cylinder (picture below) itself is meant to be a (depleted) uranium casing, with explosive lenses inside it (that the wires are connected to) encasing the cylinder of plutonium inside.
(an image from the Lost Encyclopedia of the "Jughead Bomb" entry, which includes a close-up of the cylindrical device that Jack drops into the Swan hole in 5x17)
**Incidentally, one of the pages in the first Encyclopedia image above mentions "four kilotons" as the theoretical yield of the plutonium core, which I guess might maybe be accurate if we're just treating this thing like a regular ass atomic bomb at this point? It's clearly a very small amount of plutonium that we're working with - for reference, the "Fat Man" atomic bomb (the Nagasaki one) apparently had 6.19 kg of plutonium in it, which is a little over 13 and a half pounds, and of that only about 1 kg actually fissioned, giving a yield of somewhere between 19-23 kilotons. If we're working with...idk, maybe half a kg of plutonium? A little over a pound? And only 1/6 of it was to actually fission upon detonation, then yeah, that yield could probably get pretty close to 4 kilotons.
Even so even so, the idea of rigging the bomb to detonate on impact would maybe maybe work, but only if there was a way to guarantee that the impact would cause the "explosive lenses" (that we're gonna pretend are there) to explode, in sync. This is something that's ordinarily accomplished by an electrical signal sent simultaneously to all of the outer shell of explosives at once - judging from the wires that are all along the cylinder thing, I would presume that's what we're going with in the episode as well. The notes on the second part of the instructions mention "spring loaded detonation switches" but I don't really know what the fuck that means. My best guess is that it's set up like a Wile E Coyote TNT handle switch thing - mayhaps there's a spring loaded thing at the top of the cylinder (right side of the image above, where the tape is) that completes the circuit either when squeezed down or when un-squeezed (I'm leaning towards that, given the tape?) and that's how it would perhaps be able to explode on impact, if that knocked the thing loose enough to complete the circuit.
In which case, hitting it with a rock on the side of the thing would definitely not do anything.
My way to make it make more sense (perhaps in a future fanfic, who can say) would be if rather than there being any kind of explosives in the device itself, if it's instead the pressure/heat generated by the electromagnetic field of the Swan's "electromagnetic pocket" that somehow compresses the device, to the point that the plutonium inside can reach supercriticality and go boom.
But of course, that's not as dramatic or exciting as hitting it with a rock eight times.
Incidentally incidentally, shooting the thing with a gun would also not make it explode (much in the same way that shooting a gas can with a gun would not cause an explosion), but damaging the wires in any way that would cause a short or anything like that could render it unable to detonate and/or cause an explosion that just sort of spits out plutonium chunks everywhere (dirty bomb), so you still don't really want to bring it into the middle of a gunfight if you can help it JACK
#oh this is so many words for so little information#i can't arrange it in a coherent way really but know that it all lives in my head nonstop#ask lea#anonymous#i don't even know how to begin to tag this appropriately#radiation ??#bombs ???#nuclear stuff ????#long post
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NOTE: This is the first in a series of one-shots that i’m going to write for Aelin involving trauma processing post canon, and my headcanons in relevance to her PTSD and the other issues she faces after the Coffin. That said heavy themes will be present in all of the one shots posted under my tag Popular Monster. Themes of suicidal ideation, death, torture, implied SA (in regards to Fenrys), and other potentially dark themes will be present, you have been warned.
Project Title: Popular Monster
Fic Title: I Just Wanna Feel Okay.
WC: 1074
Sleep was hard anymore.
It often didn’t matter that Rowan was asleep next to her, when the Gods awful nightmares drug her out of the bliss of a deep sleep. Not even the sound of his breathing and his heart soothed her. She was thankful for his understanding, that he understood her on a level not many people could. They’d only discussed it once, briefly, but she remembered. He’d suffered similarly, long before she’d even been a thought to be brought into the world.
Her footsteps echoed on in her ears as she moved through the castle. The padding of each step was like a scream in the silence of the night. But bare feet made their way through the halls from their chambers, and into the throne room. A true throne sat upon a dias now. Not just the most ornate chair they could find in the remaining rubble of her once great home.
It was great again. Terrasen had managed to rise from the ashes of the war. Orynth was beautiful again, as it had been when she was a child at the height of it’s glory. She should not have lived to see it.
She took a seat upon the gilded throne of golden stag horns, made of metal and not the symbolic shed horns of the Stag of the North like the original. It would take centuries to rebuild that piece of her Kingdom’s history.
In the dark silence, Aelin curled up in the throne that was far too large for her. Even with all the weight she’d put back on thanks to her training and regular meals. It still held a certain level of intimidation to her, even now. It was here where reality fell upon her shoulders. It was here, that she had no choice but to embrace the things that had happened to her, because there was no escaping them.
The war was over. She’d survived when she had been destined to die. And she didn’t have nearly enough distractions to keep her from falling into the spiraling pit of what had been done to her. She had no choice but to embrace the horrors of the months she’d lost trapped in an endless cycle of relentless torment that had torn at parts of her she’d long thought laid to rest.
“Can’t sleep?”
Aelin looked up to where she found Fenrys, standing in the massive doorway, down the aisle from her. He didn’t wait for an answer as he made his way towards her. He looked just as tired as she felt, and she knew that he likely hadn’t slept either. At least not well.
She tried to force a smile. “I got a little bit. Had another nightmare though, and then my foot cramped up, felt like it was being torn apart. Couldn’t go back to sleep after that.” She couldn’t keep the smile in place. It fell into a frown as she watched him continue his lazy approach. She met his eyes, and made note of the five blinks. *This is real, you are awake.*
“She’s dead and I still can’t find peace.” A broken laugh bubbled from her throat. How many nights had seen them here? How many of those nights had Fenrys spent apologizing to her, for the belief that he had not done enough to save her?
He hadn’t had a choice, and as selfish as it was, she was just glad he was alive.
“I know.” He answered.
“It’s like waiting for a bomb to drop.” Aelin breathed, as he came to stand in front of her. “The thing that’ll shatter the illusion.” Because there was always something someone said or did that shattered Maeve’s illusions.
Fenrys nodded, then he offered his own explanation. “I dreamed of Connall again.”
Aelin knew what that meant. It hadn’t been a happy dream, no, it had been his mind reminding him of the sticky warmth of his brother’s blood. Of what Maeve had made him do after his death while his body laid lifeless mere feet away.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to blink back the tears that welled up in her eyes. “I wish I could make everything right and still save everyone. I wish I could give him back to you.” Words she’d said so many times they felt rehearsed, even if she meant them every time they fell from her lips.
“I know.” He said again, “I know you’d do anything to make it right, but this is how it is, Aelin. And I would not give you up for anything in the world.”
The tears slipped free in spite of her best efforts to keep them trapped. So few people had seen her weakness. The ones who remained alive, she could count on her fingers. But Fenrys had seen her at her weakest. Had been there to save her life, had stopped that final breaking. Had nearly killed himself to do it. “Not a single fucking thing.” She agreed.
Bound. She and Fenrys were bound in a way entirely unique. He had borne the worst of her weakness and had been her strength when she feared she’d give up. Fenrys had saved her life, just as much as she’d saved his.
“Do you want to try to go back to sleep?” He asked, holding out his hand.
Aelin placed hers in his, and let him guide her to her feet. “Probably smart. We’ve got a lot of shit to do later.”
Before she could take another step towards the stairs, Fenrys pulled her into his arms, a hand stroked over her hair, and his voice was a whisper in her ear as he held her. “I know it’s hard, but we’ll get through it. One day at a time. Until we find our reasons to smile on the other side.”
He released her, and in a flash of light a white wolf had taken the place of his fae form, nudging at her hand.
Fenrys led the way back to her chambers, where Rowan still breathed steadily. She climbed back into the bed, settling herself against him. Rowan shifted in his sleep to accommodate the return of her weight against him. Familiar safe arms wrapped around her, and Fenrys leapt onto the bed, his massive white form settling behind her legs, the warm softness of his fur, and her mate’s heartbeat lulling her back into the depths of a dreamless sleep.
#throne of glass#aelin galathynius#rowaelin#aelin and fenrys#aelin and fenrys are trauma buddies#sjm fandom#tog fanfic#tog#my writing#popular monster
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I posted 14,473 times in 2022
That's 2,616 more posts than 2021!
95 posts created (1%)
14,378 posts reblogged (99%)
Blogs I reblogged the most:
@mossy-scaled-dragon
@astralwasteland
@birdfuckeronline
@natalieironside
@drippity
I tagged 10,566 of my posts in 2022
Only 27% of my posts had no tags
#friend - 2,814 posts
#oh dear - 781 posts
#oh no lol - 722 posts
#oh neat - 624 posts
#oooh pretty - 597 posts
#lol - 586 posts
#awwwww - 514 posts
#pfft lol - 467 posts
#🤣 - 418 posts
#paws.txt - 378 posts
Longest Tag: 135 characters
#does the right thing when it counts but they're a social outcast/grumpy asshole/antivillain/etc because of trauma or repeated rejection
My Top Posts in 2022:
#5
Oh whatever, tumblr search is useless. Excuses to take new pictures! Yay!
Can't see much of the white in the middle and the pockets are kinda useless this way but WHATEVER I'm gay as fuck ^.^
19 notes - Posted April 23, 2022
#4
Why is she like this with these treats we have no idea. But she loves them lol
24 notes - Posted August 20, 2022
#3
I am grateful to the writers of game mods. I used to do that, I know how hard it is. Whether you're doing what the devs should've done in the first place or adding things of your own, I appreciate the heck out of you. Thank you for making our games better.
38 notes - Posted January 31, 2022
#2
I call this a bag plan.
It hacks my brain, disregards rules, breaks blocks, and helps me think about multiple things at once without losing track.
One time in school I needed a break from banging my head against a programming assignment and I went to the only place I ever went off campus: Chipotle. Got my burrito in my paper bag and for whatever reason I decided to dismantle the bag while I ate. Might've just been a little destruction as a treat, idk. Got to the end of my burrito and decided I couldn't avoid thinking about the assignment forever.
I had this nice big paper in front of me that was definitely trash and I couldn't possibly write anything wrong on it because it was already trash, and it was big and there were no lines and no start and I just picked a spot and started writing. Had a different thought and started writing somewhere else. Broke my block, fixed 3/4 of the programming problems without a computer in front of me, moved from the end of the world in my head to a solid idea of what I needed to do in a couple hours and a paper bag.
After acing that group project I got myself a roll of craft paper and just started doing this regularly. I've done this for story scenes, working out different people's needs, designing game levels, shopping lists, whatever.
I used to just keep one of these folded up in my pocket as a notepad (gods I miss clothes with pockets), but it unfolds so I can dump my brain into it if I need to. It's great and I love it.
See the full post
78 notes - Posted March 20, 2022
My #1 post of 2022
Things I would like non-wheelchair people to know
Do not touch my chair. Unless I've lost control of my chair and am rolling into traffic, if I have not given you explicit permission, that is a huge violation of my personal space. Think of grabbing my push handles like grabbing someone's shoulders. That's not a thing you just do to people.
If I don't know you, nothing about my chair, my body, my situation, or what I'm doing is any of your gods damned business. Think of commenting on these things to a stranger like catcalling. (If I know you it's probably fine, as long as you're respectful. Just like any other personal topic you might ask someone about.)
If I decline an offer of help, do not insist. I know what things I need help with a lot better than you do. (Nothing wrong with offering, help is definitely welcome sometimes, just respect my response.)
Okay, things that should be obvious out of the way, here's what the post is actually about:
I still prefer the terms "walking" and "running" for the ways I get around. I might say "rolling" or "wheeling" if the distinction is relevant for some reason, since I am ambulatory some of the time, but in general I prefer the same words as you tall people.
I need a much wider space to turn, or especially to turn around, than I do just to pass through a space.
Ask me, rather than assuming you know whether or not I can do something. I would love to go hiking with you, actually, if the trail is light and friendly enough to wheels. No, I can't ice skate, but I'd still rather you ask if I want to come along than assume I don't want to be included.
Which activities are notably more difficult is often not obvious. Popping a wheelie to get over a small amount of difficult terrain or even climbing a single step (if I have something to pull myself up with) can actually be pretty easy. A long stretch of ground tilted slightly to the left or right takes a ton of effort. Carrying anything that fits in my lap is trivially easy, but transporting anything that doesn't fit in my lap is quite hard (though I recently discovered my vacuum fits nicely on my footplate if I wrap my legs around it a little which is cool.) I am constantly surprised by little things that are or aren't harder than I thought they'd be, or are actually easier than before because I'm sitting.
If you are in my path, you moving suddenly is actually really unpleasant for me. I know you're there, I'm not going to run you over. If you're in my way, please do move! But jerking suddenly makes you unpredictable and I might have to stop suddenly to be certain everyone is safe while I process the change, just like if I were driving a car. Also like driving a car, stopping suddenly is unpleasant and a lot of effort, but the small adjustment to my direction I was planning to make is very easy. (Same goes for bikes honestly, or any other vehicle. That's what the chair is, a vehicle.)
If we're walking around together and need to get past some stairs, it's nice if you come with me on the ramp, especially if that ramp is out of the way. It can be really isolating to have to go a different way than everyone else.
If we need to walk close together for whatever reason, you walking directly in front of me is best avoided if possible. Bumping into your heel with my metal footplate is going to be a lot more unpleasant for both of us than it would be if I were on my feet.
In general, you should let me speak for myself. It's my joints that don't work, not my brain or my voice. But. If someone else is being disrespectful, your voice is likely much more impactful than mine in that situation. Use it.
I'm not expecting anyone to memorize these things; as long as you're treating disabled people like people, that's enough. And if you want to do more than that but don't know how, respectful questions are generally welcome. I just wanted to share these thoughts, for people who don't live with them all the time. There are a lot of little differences to being seated all the time that you just don’t think about until you’re there.
Also, while I think most of this is generally true for anyone in a wheelchair, obligatory reminder that I speak only for myself.
3,127 notes - Posted March 6, 2022
Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →
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hello tumblr, good timezone! a little life update (which was written at 2am? and gets very rambly and long but *shrugs* i tried to break up the walls of text a bit):
1. did i disappear? yes. will i elaborate on that? not really, i don't feel like it. but i will say that once you take a break from social media it is really hard to go back. it's very freeing, and that made me worried about how tumblr would take over the little free time i have if i came back. also hyperfixations are a lot harder to not hyperfixate on when i frequently spend time on here. overall, idk how long i was gone for, but it was a very good, much needed break that was probably great for my brain.
2. idk if i'm back back yet. we shall see. again productivity is doing much better without any tumblr in my system, as much as i do love spending time here.
3. i have read some very inspiring fics lately and am having many writing thoughts! which is great bc i really fell into a slump that i haven't been able to get out of this year like... back in may, or whatever. unfortunately, i have no time between catching up on missing school work from being sick, my job, and fucking moving. so.
4. not very tumblr relevant, but oh my god im fucking moving. again. story of my life basically. it's. fine. just happened really fast and it's weird to process. im officially in moving limbo for the next two weeks. and that sucks. but it's ultimately good for my system, i think, because i was getting restless waiting for the usual regularly scheduled "big change" in my life, and that quota is now being filled and it's relieving.
5. dear lord i don't even want to look in my notifications.. if anyone tagged me in stuff while i was out... im so sorry but it's likely lost in the pile. avoiding my problems on social media is like my specialty, and my notes is currently one of those problems.
6. (if you see me unfollow a bunch of stranger things blogs (hello, i know some of those are mutuals), im sorry but i clogged my dash with st blogs so bad and i cannot afford slipping into that hyperfixation rn. i can't do that to myself. it's not personal or anything. so um. don't mind me haha.. i should really consider the state of my dash before i follow... but alas, i do not. one of the main reasons i typically avoid the hellscape that is instagram! oh and tbh, i knew it was time to come back to this hellsite when i started casually wasting like. an actual amount of time on instagram semi-regularly. that's when yk it's time to go like fuck i do not want to be in a place where i am wasting time on instagram of all places. wasting time on tumblr is at least tasteful. sorry artists of instagram ily but i simply cannot.)
7. ahaha watch me avoid my sideblogs after this (not that's incredibly relevant). i can only involve myself in social media so much rn...
8. more irl news: after, at least of 2022 and then some of saying i need therapy, i'm finally getting therapy! first appointment booked for this wednesday babey :) thank GOD. definitely needed this after discovering that apparently you can have grandfather issues, as if my current parental issues weren't enough.
9. another irrelevant irl update: i got my license! fucking finally! idk if i ever complained about that on here but YEAH. it feels like so much has changed since i was last active on tumblr..
10. as a final bit of news, since this got fucking long im so sorry, im trying out the name kurtis now. seeing how that fits :)
and um yeah that's how my life is going rn. ill try not to go off in the tags about anything, considering the length of this post. sure makes that relatively new dashboard post shortening feature come in handy tho! haha..
#not writing related#ps.txt#goddamn that is long im sorry#but hiiii mutuals im baaaack(?) :)#i missed y'all + tumblr <3
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Josh trivia: my first tumblr URL was the-legend-of-elder-scrolls (I actually can’t remember if the dashes were there though lol), with “the legend of” referring to guess what, and the Elder Scrolls referring to, uh, yeah.
Skyrim’s a game that throughout my life I’ve probably put over 2000 hours in. I don’t actually know the exact number - I’ve played it through I think 3 different Xbox 360s with lots of corruption across them all, and even outside of the Xboxes failing me I’ve had plenty of 200+ hour files where I got bored of the character I was playing or bored by having done every major questline and would just start new files that would get however far they do.
Obsession went beyond just playing the game as well - my favourite YouTube channel was Fudgemuppet and I’d watch tons of other channels too, especially modded content, I think longing for the PC version of the game while I remained trapped on console lol. I’d stare at the UESP for hours, get into arguments in comment sections, Facebook even had a political beliefs thing you could add in your personal info for some scuffed reason where I established myself as a firm follower of the Stormcloaks. I was too stupid to get dosbox running on my laptop so I couldn’t play Arena and Daggerfall, and I was too “I don’t have a way to digitally use cash at all” to play Morrowind, but I could certainly get Oblivion on Xbox 360 as well and... not quite play the fuck out of it to the same degree because man that core gameplay feel is very rough around the edges, even compared to Skyrim. But still! For a few years I lived and breathed Skyrim and it was the best.
But yeah that, did kinda stop. Primarily because of how long I’d played the game for. It was just very easy for me to get bored of it. “Seen it all” mentality because true enough I’d finished every main guild questline and DLC story and Daedric quest like ten times over. I knew how to game the systems so strongly in my favour that I wasn’t so much “playing Skyrim” as I was just menuing all the challenge out of the game. I was also so committed to roleplaying specific characters with specific equipments that I’d almost lock myself out of doing fun things as well as purposefully kind of cheat the game (as much as 360 allows anyway) to achieve my desired build faster. But that’d mean once I had all the components of a build I’d kind of lose all desire to play that character anymore lol. I just lost the ability to actually enjoy the game anymore.
However, I’d never say I lost interest. There’s a classic question - if you could replay any game again for the first time, what’d it be? - obviously it’s purely a hypothetical you can never really do but, my answer’s probably Skyrim. And while I can’t replay it for the first time, perhaps if I give myself a good few years away from the game, it can feel fresh to me again? And that’s what I’ve done. After god knows how many years, I’ve gotten the game on PC and started finally replaying it. Several times before now I’d considered pulling the trigger and buying the Switch version for ease of accessibility - but the £50 price tag for an 11 year old game is steep lol. So we’re on PC now using Steam’s family sharing thing, since my little brother owns the game. It was actually helping him out with mods that kind of inspired me to push myself towards playing the game again, and yeah, here we are. I have Skyrim on Steam. We gaming.
Since it’s a relevant detail, I am running a couple of mods - but it’s important to me to fundamentally preserve the vanilla experience here. That’s what I fell in love with in Skyrim in the first place, and it’s what I’m here to re-experience all these years later. Accordingly, I’d describe basically every mod I downloaded as just adding a bit of atmospheric and some gameplay flavour. I didn’t even wanna fuck with Nexus so I’ve just gone workshop and downloaded the entire cities and villages enhanced collection, the entire sounds of Skyrim collection, what’s basically an immersive armours substitute adding the armours individually (I deliberately excluded one set that pushed outside the lore a bit too much for my taking) and an actual immersive weapons substitute just to get a couple more weapon types that still work with the world. I actually think the only gameplay mods I really got are a few that make like Daedric and other unique weapons a bit stronger to justify their lore position a bit more. For all intents and purposes though I really am just playing vanilla Skyrim but with a touch more atmosphere by way of sights and sounds. And that’s what I wanted.
Aside from that, the one other rule I’ve really set for myself in order to get the most out of this is just try play it like it’s my first time. By which I mean, let myself get distracted. Don’t lose myself in overarching goals. Wander into that cave. Take your time exploring. Chat with NPCs. I have a character, but I’m not really roleplaying. I’ve not specifically decided on an armour set I’d really like. I’m playing on apprentice even to avoid getting bored by damage spongy combat encounters. On finishing Helgen I walked westward, away from Helgen and that first main story segment I’ve done to death. I’ll get back to it eventually, sure, but I’m not interested in the urgency anymore. Instead I met Angi in her cabin in the southern mountains of Skyrim, where she trained my archery - which is not a thing I think I was ever even aware of having existed. Then I went down to Falkreath, where I learned that the current Jarl is a lazy bastard whose uncle the former Jarl was basically demoted in what almost seems to be an Imperial ploy. It’s weird, a younger Josh got so wrapped up in Tamriel’s version of the creation myth or whatever that I didn’t even really engage with the minutiae of actual current lore in just Skyrim as a place. And sure, reading wiki pages for hours has its charm, but just playing the game itself and talking to people and reading books? This is what I missed. This is what’s making Skyrim fun for me again.
I don’t know if I have a fun or interesting or really at all conclusive way to approach this post. I’m really just playing Skyrim again and wanted to talk about it, for nobody’s sake but my own. I’m just so happy to finally be playing it again.
#29.12.22#skyrim#elder scrolls#the elder scrolls#thing is i might actually have one of those as a tag but i'm not sure which#and either way they're not actually completely up to date at all#i just#eh#want ease of access i suppose
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Excuse me this little discussion about what's on my mind. It is relevant to my blog but it's also personal. No content warnings needed. (skip to "long story short" if you want the tldr)
So ever since I started college in January, my ability to be creative went like 📉. Now I get by on basically the bare minimum which is the rare RP or rambled discussion about SIs, plots or developments (mostly in private). This has shown on my blog. I made hardly any meaningful posts about my ships, SIs or F/Os, aside from small stuff like how I wanna snuggle or lil tag rambles about how pretty they are. These are fine, wonderful in fact, but they don't really do much for me. They don't make me feel happy or satisfied.
I've kinda just been feeding off these tidbits for months and months. Heck, there was even a time where I didnt even talk in the tags (really out of character). Due to this I've essentially lost all the spark and passion I had for self shipping. Which is strange because my feelings for my f/os remain as strong as they have always been.
The lack of this spark has made me feel like I should just pack in my blog and move on. And yes, I did try that. But that only made me depressed. It clearly wasn't the answer. So I kinda sat with this "I wanna be here but idk what I'm doing here" feeling for a long time since.
Coupled with this is the feeling that I need to create ship content. I should be writing fics. I should be making moodboards. I should be posting detailed lore/themes/ideas/plots about my ships. I should be making time for my f/os even though I'm exhausted.
I've cried about it actually. It's so frustrating because I know I don't have to make those things to properly love my f/os, but the fact is I really want to make that kind of content. I want to do all those things and more. Yet I've struggled with the fact that I can't because after college and assignments, and social/family time and adult responsibilities, I have basically no energy left. Especially since I'm disabled too and that's a whole ton of energy expended trying to maintain my additional needs too. The only "spare" time I've really had for self shipping is either during self-care moments or right before I go to sleep or get up in the morning. It sucks.
(especially since my f/os help me cope)
I thought I was okay with this. Like it was some small thing that sucked but I could learn to live with. But something changed. I made that stardew profile. It was the first time in a really, really long time where I actually made something purely for myself. And God it felt good. It made me realise how important making things is for me. I need to create to be happy. It's not something I can really go without. I mean I can, but I'll be fucking miserable.
After that I had the spark again. The desire to create and share. I've been coming up with all kinds of stuff that I'd stopped thinking about. Like yesterday in the shower I made up this whole angel themed magical girl purely for fun. Then I wanted to draw her but I didn't have time. I was okay with that though because I had created her anyway and it was fun. I had stopped doing things for fun. I had fallen into the capitalist mindset of productivity. But no more.
Long story short, I really want to create again. I don't have the time or the energy I used to have, so I need to adapt to that. Make smaller but no less special things. Talk about the stuff I usually think isn't worth talking about, like my idea for that stardew character. Maybe I go nowhere with it or nobody cares for it, but at least I have fun.
On top of this I'm also trying to figure out if I actually want to continue academics into University (sociology) or dedicate my life to what I always valued most, art (creative writing degree). Creative writing was my original plan but I thought doing it for a career or studies would sap the passion out of it. Instead I learnt that not being creative saps the passion out of me.
#something something talking about myself is part of my recovery too#I know this is long and a little rambly but it means a lot to me#sunny speaks
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I would absolutely love to read an essay about the acephobia in the Good Omens fandom bc I know nothing about it (the fandom acephobia not good omens) BUT ONLY IF you use every relevant tag you can think of, thats 100% required
(I better get an A+ bc I used literally every tag that came to mind, my friend. Also I churned this out in five hours and did not edit it, so if there are spelling errors pls forgive.)
Good Omens: An Exploration of Internalized Acephobia
The year is 2019 and the six-part adaptation of Terry Prachett and Neil Gaiman’s Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter has just been released on Amazon Prime and is kicking up controversy amongst Christian moms. The show is critically acclaimed and is nominated for several awards. Headlines cycle through the news for a while--everything from speculating on a season 2 to the hilarious petition Christians sent to Netflix to take the series down--but after awhile the buzz settles down and everyone moves back to scarier headlines like next year's presidential election or that worrying virus cropping up across the world. YouTube continues to monetize Ineffable Husbands compilations, but that’s the most you see of it on public social media platforms.
Except for on Tumblr.
Six episodes of David Tennant being slutty mcslutty demon slut and Michael Sheen being a refined asshole (affectionate) disguised as an innocent do-gooder is apparently enough to keep Tumblr happy for a good long while. Supernatural isn’t doing so great on that gay content, Game of Thrones just ended as terribly as the non-derranged viewers knew it would, and Doctor Who is doing kind of ok, but the fandom is winding down as it approaches the next regeneration.
Everyone goes batshit insane over Good Omens because this show has everything. Enemy to lovers, PINING, m u t u a l pining, sacrifice, EXISTENTIAL CRISISES, recontextualizing your faith, GOD IS A WOMAN, you name it and the fandom has it. Thousands of incredible fanfics on faith and religion and existence start pouring out. The ex-catholics are Thriving. Even Supernatural fans are hopping on this train. Everyone’s having a grand ol’ time with our queer metaphysical beings.
And then it happens.
As it does with every large fandom.
The acephobia is born.
Neil Gaiman Gets Canceled
Okay, to be really canceled, it has to happen on Twitter. Which is where the inciting incident started, however, the majority of the explosion was contained on Tumblr and--to an extent--Reddit. There was some backlash on Twitter, but the real shit went down here.
So everyone is going crazy over Ineffable Husbands, and of course word gets round to Neil Gaiman who has to address that there are mountains of queer subtext in the show.
“Particularly the way that Michael plays Aziraphale just as a being of pure love, I think that gave us something very special, because people of every and any sexual orientation and any and every gender looked at Crowley and Aziraphale and saw themselves in it, or saw a love story that they responded to, and that was completely unexpected.
“Things like this, you can’t manufacture, they have to happen from a fandom.”
And the fandom lost its mind.
Fandom Response and Internalized Acephobia/Transphobia
The backlash was disappointing, but unsurprising. Here are a few favorites:
“[...] IDK how to tell y'all that the complete desexualization of these characters is homophobia regardless of what you think their gender is.”
“good omens is queerbait. full stop. it is a show deliberately crafted to have just enough doublespeak and easily interpretable looks to both have plausible deniability, and appeal to the story’s largely queer audience. creator confirmation outside of canon, much less on twitter, doesn’t cut it. this show came out in 2019 on amazon prime. people had been making their interpretations of aziraphale and crowley’s relationship known for decades at this point. there was utterly no excuse not to have them clearly be in a relationship, at least by the end. but a queerbait was more profitable, and no press is bad press, so they didn’t. insisting otherwise is both disingenuous, and displaying a profound lack of ability to be critical of the media you enjoy.”
I really just can’t get over how breathtakingly bad “this person dresses like a man, uses male pronouns, and is physically exactly like the average man except they don’t have a dick and so they’re not a man” is. This is not woke nonbinary rep folks
And this is where things get really….weird. The majority of these takes are by blogs that are run by fellow ace/trans folk and yet all of these takes still reek of queerphobia.
Have another one for good measure:
“I feel like good omens takes queerbaiting a step further, what with Gaiman’s honestly excessively aggressive statements that they couldn’t possibly be gay. Like if you wanted nb characters write nb characters, writing a fairly romantic relationship between two men-as-default characters and then attacking people who read it as gay by framing us as the villains who are denying the poor nb and asexual people their representation feels like a specifically malicious type of queerbaiting.”
A truly lovely take on that last one. Apparently it's the transphobes who are the victims for bullying the non-binaries who are taking away their representation.
So to summarize, fellow greyace/greygender blogs are all up in arms because Neil Gaiman “desexualized” Crowley and Aziraphale.
They claim nonbinary characters who still use male pronouns and physically presents as a male is bad rep, the show queerbaited--even though Neil Gaiman went on record as saying it was a love story--and the poor naysayers who want to be victimized via queerbaiting throw the blame on Gaiman for the blatant homophobic takes they're spewing online.
The internalized queerphobia reveals itself once again.
Additionally, just because you are nonbinary or trans doesn't mean you speak for the whole community. Queer people are not homogeneous and there is a wide range of perspective and experiences to be taken into account.
The internalized acephobia that emerged is not surprising. Disappointing. But not surprising.
Why These Are Objectively Shitty Takes
There are plethora of takes on Tumblr that could be chosen for this part. The one's that will be addressed, however, are the previously cited quotes.
Aziraphale and Crowley Didn't Kiss
Or, to put it more eloquently, the desexualization of Good Omen's man characters is homophobia "regardless what you think of their genders."
The implication that two characters have to be sexual with each other on screen to be queer is LAUGHABLE. Why, you may ask? How about I direct everyone's attention to the C-Drama Sensation The Untamed (2019).
The Untamed features a queer story about two tragic lovers receiving a second chance at their relationship. Because the show was created and produced in China, they had to tone down certain aspects of the books to get it past censorship. This means exactly zero onscreen implications of a sexual relationship between their main characters beyond the insanely well crafted subtext.
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are a study in desexualizing queer characters. I could write a thousand meta analysis on this show alone, but that's a different post.
The Untamed, in short, is a love story.
Good Omens, in full, is also a love story.
Both have main characters who are "desexualized" and both shows ends with both ships as explicitly canon as Milo and Kida at the end of Atlantis the Lost Empire (sorry that was the first film that came to mind that did not include a kiss between a m/f ship).
The implication that two characters can only be in a relationship if they are sexual onscreen is fucking insulting at best, homophobia at worst. Actually it is good ace rep to have your two main leads not show sexual interest in each other. Actually it is excellent queer rep to have your characters be romantically in love, but show exactly zero desire toward each other or any other character on screen.
And that last line? The "regardless of what you think of their gender"?? Yeah, that reeks of transphobia too. Because Neil Gaiman confirmed that angels/demons in his work are canonically nonbinary/genderqueer and the implication that two nonbinary persons can't be in a relationship without it being sexual is super bigoted.
Good Omens Is Queerbaiting
Queerbaiting is a marketing technique for fiction and entertainment in which creators hint at, but then do not actually depict, same-sex romance or other LGBTQ+ representation. They do so to attract ("bait") a queer or straight ally audience with the suggestion of relationships or characters that appeal to them, while at the same time attempting to avoid alienating other consumers.
-Wikpedia, Queerbaiting
The marketing for Good Omens itself gave the impression that audiences would be getting a story about two enemies who gradually become reluctant friends by the end of the series. A buddy-cop story on an inter-dimensional scale. Instead, Good Omens is about two incredibly old friends too in love with earth and each other to let the apocalypse happen.
Toting Ineffable Husbands as part of their marketing scheme didn't really start until after queer fans started coming out of the woodwork. Is this queerbaiting...eeeeeehhh. Honestly this argument is iffy.
There is also the fact that Sheen and Tennant explicitly played their characters as in love and people working on the show shared that vision. They were telling a love story, albeit a very non-conventional one.
There are several articles out there on queercoding vs queerbaiting, how queer isn't just gay, and author intent that could be cited at this point, but I'm going to go easy on this section and just say this:
“Whatever Crowley and Aziraphale are, it’s a love story.”
-Neil Gaiman
Everyone screams "death of the author" until it's inconvenient for them, and this is certainly the case for Good Omens. Suddenly, author intent matters because Neil Gaiman refused to assign a direct label to his characters.
And why should he? They're his creations. And actually they're damn good representation without the label. The fandom collectively forgot nonbinary queers existed or decided that Neil Gaiman was representing the wrong kind of nonbinary queers.
Final Thoughts
Good Omens is not the first fandom to have rampant acephobia strewn throughout nor will it be the last. Homophobia of all types will always rear it's ugly head, especially in larger fandom spaces where there are statistically more shitty people to go around.
Even if the naysayers were right, the creators of Good Omens, actors and original writers intents were...well, good. It's a charming little story about two close beings who make very little impact on the end of the world, but still somehow find their happy ending.
This is a bit of a sweeping statement, but people love to be victimized in fandom. The truly magnificent gatekeeping that happened on Tumblr circa 2019 is likely going to run a repeat when season 2 releases. Hopefully most on here will figure out how to turn their critical thinking skills on and remember that the block button exists, but it's doubtful.
Let some rep go around for the greyace/greygender queers please. It's not a competition for who's the most victimized, but we would like some solid rep every once in a while without the bigots crawling out of the woodwork.
Look the series ends with a love song playing over them on a date and telling each other how much they LIKE EACH OTHER WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME-
#good omens#ineffable husbands#aziraphale#crowley#crowley x aziraphale#anthony crowley#anthony j crowley#good omens: the nice and accurate prophecies of agnes nutter#fandom discourse#fandom negatively#acephobia#transphobia#internalized acephobia#queerphobia#good omens discourse#good omens queerbaiting#queerbaiting#good omens meta#good omens analysis#ash does fandom#ash does meta#my meta#my analysis#(btw i hope y'all appreciate that i'm talking about a cdrama on main)#(i mean i'm always down to talk about the untamed)#(but i usually reserve that for my sideblogs)
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Misuse of Google
Sun X Reader
Description: Sun discovers the wonders of google. You reminded him he has access to the internet, but was it a good call to remind him of such a versatile tool...
Tags: fluff, fem!reader, programmer!reader, Chad's here again, one shot, established relationship
Word Count: 1538
It took a while, but you finally managed to convince Sun to go and get his processor upgraded like you had recommended. All it took was you agreeing to be there with him the whole time, which you were more than happy to do. Chad would be the one to do the upgrade, so you expected this little interaction to be an interesting one. With three different kinds of troublemakers in the same room, something funny was bound to happen. You just didn’t expect it to take the kind of turn it did.
While everything started out smooth and the processor was replaced with no problem, it was the smaller fixes that allowed for the odd conversation to start up. While Chad was rewiring some of the connections in the joints on one of Sun’s arms, you worked mindlessly on code by the counter beside him. Sun on the other hand was intrigued by everything, asking questions about many things as the maintenance went on. It wasn’t long before the questions shifted from relevant to abstract and silly, landing on the topic of words that kids would use in the daycare.
“Do either of you know what a ‘yass’ is?” Sun asked out of the blue.
Chad choked and had to pause for a moment, shooting Sun a sideways glance. “What happened to questions about my tools? Where did that come from?” He snorted.
“I just remembered it! A young teen used that word earlier today, and I thought you might know.” Sun explained innocently.
“Sunny, you do remember that you have access to the internet now, right?” You piped up, snickering at his question. “You could google that word and find out without asking us.”
“Oh! Oh you’re right Sunshine! What would I do without you?”
“Lord can you two not do that while I’m working?” Chad groaned.
“Ah shaddap you baby.” You scoffed. “Try doing a search Sunny. I still can’t believe you haven’t tried to do so yet.”
Sun nodded and took a moment to try and figure out how to use the function you spoke of. Eventually his eyes blacked out and displayed the word ‘searching’ across each eye. He mumbled to himself the question he was searching up then went silent again, leading you to assume he was reading a definition of sorts. After a few seconds of silence Sun reached a conclusion and went ‘ooooh!’ quite loudly. Both you and Chad started to giggle like idiots, Chad needing to quit working on Sun because of how hard he was choking back his laughter.
“So it’s like a positive exclamation! Like saying yes, but snazzier.” Sun concluded.
“Yeah. Yeah that’s a pretty good explanation.” You nodded, unable to hide the huge grin on your face.
“This is such a handy function. I’m gonna check all the other words I was curious about!”
Sun’s genuine joy brought a true smile to your face. You got a kick out of him doing this as much as he did, and so did Chad. Witnessing him learn about certain slang words was truly an amusing process, especially when it came to the pronunciations. Chad couldn’t hold himself together much longer and chuckled with his head in his hand. You were able to keep it together for a moment, but lost it when he started listing off words.
He went through lit, swag, slay, and poggers. Poggers was a word that nearly killed you, because you never thought you’d ever hear the sentence ‘that sounds totally poggers dude’ coming from the mouth of your sweet mechanical partner. The way it was so flatly said made it all the more comedic while you slapped your leg and laughed, Chad having taken to banging the counter. Sun was totally immune to your laughing fit, having such a good time with this new tool for knowledge. Eventually he riddled off the word ‘yeet’... and you took that one a little more seriously.
“Oh my GOD. Sunny, please let me give you a live demonstration of yeet.” You cackled.
“Ooo! Please do! All I’m seeing is that it’s a word said when throwing something.” Sun nodded, his eyes returning to normal to watch you.
“Watch this.” You snickered. “Ayo Chad! YEET.”
The poor guy hadn’t anticipated your demonstration to be so sudden and directed at him. Right as soon as you yelled the word yeet, you hurtled a nearby empty can of Fizzy Faz at him and nailed him in the head. With a metallic twang he hollered at you while you and Sun laughed at him.
“Rude! Why’d you have to go and use me as your target?!” Chad complained.
“Cause you deserve it, fool.” You jeered.
You and Chad bickered at each other for a moment while Sun’s laughter died down. While the banter went on, Sun wanted to look up one other thing in particular, and right in the middle of your argument he went into search mode and said the most disastrous thing out loud.
“I wonder what rule 34 is? I’ve been hearing about that a lot.” He said to himself, eyes blacking out to the search mode again.
You and Chad switched up almost immediately. Your smile dropped and was replaced with a look of horror while Chad busted a gut and started laughing uncontrollably without restraint.
“SUN NO. DO NOT FINISH THAT SEARCH.” You hollered, getting up to smack his arm in discouragement.
“...”
“Sun? Sun, don't tell me you searched it…” You pleaded.
“OH.” Was all Sun said in a flat tone of horror.
“NOOOO!” You wailed.
“Ahahaha! You’re too late! Oh my god I can’t believe he did it!” Chad laughed, leaning on the counter.
You wept for the loss of Sun’s innocence as his eyes returned to normal again, an expression of regret resting on the poor animatronic’s face. A bright orangey-pink blush had risen on his features white he thought of what he had just witnessed, you leaning across him on the chair groaning in secondhand embarrassment.
“I think… I’ll take your advice next time.” Sun finally said with a guilty chuckle.
“I am so sorry you had to see that. The internet has ruined us all at some point.” You sighed dramatically, fully draped over him on the chair now.
“Looks like your love bot now has some material to work with for you!” Chad teased, still giggling as he looked over at you.
The way your cheeks went from pale to deep red was almost comical. If you could give off steam, you would, and so would Sun if it weren't for that snazzy new processor upgrade. He held the head he gave off well, but you were beyond embarrassed.
“CHAD. NO. NAUGHTY.”
With your head in your hands you groaned and hid in Sun’s side, trying to snuff out every thought that came to your cursed brain while Chad got one more chance at a laughing fit. Sun was surprisingly doing alright; a little embarrassed but not completely losing it in the same manner you were. There was no hiding how flustered he was though as he too sighed.
“I feel like we’ve all misused the internet at some point in time. Though you two are a little earlier on that one than I am…” Sun chuckled.
“Misuse? Hell no, I do it on purpose.” Moon chuckled darkly in the back of Sun’s mind.
“MOON!” Sun screeched out loud.
“What? What did he say? Does he find this situation funny?” You asked.
“Apparently he’s been using it the whole time… Deliberately searching terms like those. No wonder some of those images seemed familiar.” Sun groaned. “His memory is leaking into mine again.”
“Good lord. I shouldn’t expect anything different from Moon.” You sighed, sitting up to bring a bit of dust off of Sun’s face. “What the hell am I gonna do with you two?”
While you admired your poor robotic partner’s face, you planted a chaste little kiss on his nose that made both of you forget about the misfortunes of a bad google search. Chad on the other hand couldn’t keep himself together and made gagging noises, ensuring he had solid eye contact with you while he jammed his finger down his throat.
“Yeah. LOVE. BOT.” He repeated.
“Shut up and finish your job before I make you choke on that finger.” You muttered. “There are still live wires poking out of his left elbow joint man.”
‘Oop, you’re right. I’ll get right on that, seductress of electronics.” He snickered.
“COME ON.”
Defeated once again with no lines of code to get back to, you let Chad have the final word while Sun comforted you with his free arm that you were currently hidden in. There may have been a couple of unfortunate things to happen, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Sun would just have to be a little more careful with the things he searched. Asking questions first still seemed to be the safest method, but at least he got to see you genuinely flustered for the first time. You were usually so stable, but Chad’s teasing had torn you down.
The misuse of google wasn’t always an unfortunate incident after all.
#sun x reader#fnaf sun x reader#sunny#sun#sundrop#fnaf#fnaf security breach#security breach x reader#fluff#fem!reader#programmer!reader#security breach#oc
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Seven minutes in Heaven with Physics Major Levi
author note :: i lost the ask but anon i do not know what this is. reading it sounded better in my head but physics major levi with reader who likes him is that a good description???? HM ANYWAY enjoy it’s not too great i’ve been revising nonstop for exams but i might as well have finished this off for the anon who requested it :-)
word count :: 2.5k probably... hm who knows maybe 3k
when you and levi become friends it’s definitely unexpected to say the least. everyone is naturally very confused by the peculiar pairing. levi doesn’t really... go out of his way to befriend anyone really??? so for him to approach you in the middle of the library and start talking about how he noticed you shared a class together was out of the ordinary
the flow of the conversation is a little awkward at first, you’re revising for a final exam and don’t really appreciate the disruption but you’re not confident enough to tell him to leave.
at one point an awkward silence drifts between the two of you until he points out you’ve completely RUINED your notes and have been looking over the wrong lectures for the up and coming physics exam
later on into the night levi’s stood sighing next to you. he tells you to take your pick from the pot noodle section — “hey, i know we literally just met but i’m telling you a chicken pot noodle is gonna make you feel better.”
you’re so distraught that he has to pick it up for you and pay
and that is how you and levi become friends !!!
if it’s of any relevance yes you passed the final (all because of levi giving you his organised binder full of notes and telling you to make use of it)
you know it just sorta happens but through all of the all nighters you’ve pulled with levi by your side you become used to his presence nearby. in fact most of the the time it’s difficult to even find you anywhere without him. you’re both practically joined at the hip
levi’s pretty protective of you, hates the whole party scene but is willing to tag along if you’re going. at first you think it’s because he feels more comfortable stepping out of his comfort zone if you’re there with him but his intentions become more evident later on
any time someone makes you uncomfortable he’s by your side, if you happen to get into any sort of trouble he’s the person people call to help you because who else knows you the way levi does?
currently you and levi are at another party, you tend to keep to yourself and only ever talk to your close friends. it’s also not like you to partake in games, you’re far too nervous to play anything like seven minutes in heaven but for some reason you find yourself wanting to take part JUST this once
maybe it’s the fear of never making fun memories to tell your future children about
then again why on earth would you be telling your children about your experience kissing a random man in a closet??
either way, participating shouldn’t hurt!!! you’ve got to loosen up a little!!!
levi’s a little surprised you agree to play nevertheless he still sits next to you, the both of you have your legs crossed on the floor, your knees are touching and you aren’t sure if he feels the same warm sensation that you feel. it bubbles in the pit of your stomach – you feel oddly content
“levi!! anyone you want the bottle to land on ???” hange a mutual friend of yours leans in handing him the glass bottle
levi gives the bottle a disgusted look before his gaze flicks over to you.
“i’m only here because of y/n, i ‘m not playing.”
that doesn’t satisfy hange and they begin to groan complaining that he can’t stay unless he spins the bottle
“look you don’t have to do anything in the closet, okay??” hange’s begging him at this point, he’s still holding up pretty well and for some reason you’re disappointed. it’s almost like you hoped he’d spin the bottle just so it would land on you
levi takes notice of your frown and guesses you want him to be included, he isn’t one for games like these but if it’ll make you happy so be it. there’s still the chance it’ll land on you and his thought process falters for a second.
he thinks he really wouldn’t mind if the bottle landed on you and so he ends up nodding and agreeing to play.
anyway it’s not as if he isn’t guilty of imagining the two of you being a little more than friends
ok wait!!!! it’s completely innocent HE SWEARS!!!!
he’s never told you about it but sometimes he thinks if he was a little more straightforward that day at the library and asked for your number MAYBE just MAYBE his intentions would be clearer and he wouldn’t be stuck in the friend zone for this long
he should’ve used a stupid physics pick up line he knows you love those
something like – “i’m attracted to you more than an electron’s attracted to a proton.”
or maybe — “i’d fall for you even in the absence of gravity”
ok... maybe you wouldn’t have got that one considering you were revising the wrong content and probably forgot about that topic
he can’t imagine himself saying those things but if it would make you finally see him as a potential love interest and not a best friend he wouldn’t mind having to force it out
but still it’s not really a secret that levi has a soft spot for you, literally everyone can see it. when has he ever gone out of his way to save a seat for anyone? when has he ever willingly gone to a party? WHEN has levi actually let someone lay their head on his shoulder??
he only ever let’s you do that stuff
let’s actually discuss the head on his shoulder thing!!!
whenever finals approach you’re always sucked in by huge amounts of work and barely get to sleep, levi’s always hovering over your shoulder reminding you to catch a few hours but of course you don’t listen. you think you’ll be just fine if you rely on an energy drink and two hours of sleep to get by
but levi knows you better than you know yourself. it’s hour seven into the day and you’re already dozing off in your seat. slowly but gradually your head tilts forward. levi’s sitting across you contemplating whether or not he should prop your head back up like a nice friend would or if he should wait for you to smack your forehead right into the solid oak table.
he ends up making his decision last minute, your head flies towards the table and if it were anyone else he’d just let them jolt awake from the harsh impact but it’s you and his body won’t let him ignore you.
on reflex his hand flies out and in the matter of a split second he’s holding your head back. he’s surprised you haven’t woken up and he’s even more surprised he bothered to help you
before that happens levi knows he likes you, he knows he enjoys your company, he’s aware you make him happy but he thinks he’s willing to just be friends with you because clearly you don’t want to pursue anything.
you haven’t even flirted with him before aside from the witty “you remind me of an exothermic reaction” joke that you made one time
oh and there’s also the additional fact that you had a boyfriend up until quite recently so he’s sure you don’t see him romantically
honestly he’s fine with not dating you but something about seeing you overwork yourself like that has him simmering in anger. if he were your boyfriend he would have forced you into bed whether you liked it or not
if he were your boyfriend he’d never break up with you because he “found someone better.” he can’t even manage to imagine anyone better than you.
levi shuffles into the seat next to yours and places your head onto his shoulder. a few students shoot him questioning looks but the deadly glare he sends back is enough to deter them from coming any closer
it’s a little funny actually, by the time you wake up you’re rubbing at your eyes, you don’t even notice how close levi is to you until his hot breath fans across your neck. it seems like he’s dozed off whilst trying to make notes on fluid dynamics
wait
levi. right. next. to. your. neck.
should you move????
no, he might wake up he barely sleeps and you don’t want to mess up his schedule even more
that day you choose to drift off back to sleep as if you never woke up to his breath against your neck.
“OHHHH LEVI LANDED ON Y/N????”
your head shoots up NOW you’ve completely been dragged away from your thoughts.
“lucky for you both. guess you won’t have to do anything and stand there for seven minutes. told ya levi there was nothing to worry about B-)”
hange without warning pulls you both up by your arms, you’ve yet to see levi’s reaction, you’re too stunned to have noticed his slack jaw or wide eyes
“HAVE FUN!”
and with that said and done you and levi are shoved into the cleaning closet
“well, i’m glad it landed on you. i won’t have to do anything.” levi seems happy as can be, you don’t really know why but it stings a little
he doesn’t even seem to stop for a second to wonder if you’d maybe want to do anything
are you just not his type ????
hange once told you levi liked organised people and well,, you’re anything but organised. you’d probably pass out from the work load of your physics lectures if not for levi always helping you out
scowling to yourself you try to ignore just how awkward the situation is until levi plops down on the floor in front of you
“you okay?” he asks looking genuinely concerned
“i- yeah i’m good.”
your eyes dart away trying to look at anything but him. you can’t deny he looks good today, you actually helped him slick his hair back - the entire time he complained about the hair gel feeling weird but he looks great and now you can’t even stare at him for more than a second
“i’m guessing you’d have preferred if the bottle landed on someone else.”
leaning forward without even noticing it you aggressively deny what he says. “NO!!! i like being stuck here with you.”
levi looks stunned by your outburst but nods “oh, did you feel pressured to join the game? we can leave if you want—”
“no, no i– you aren’t– oh god i mean, look. i can explain– do i need to explain???”
completely choking up in front of him and sputtering before slamming your lips shut and saying absolutely nothing is probably one of the most awkward things you’ve done in your ENTIRE existence
levi reaches out for your knee, something that’s usually seen as him being friendly only feels intimate tonight. his thumb strokes comforting circles into your skin. the situation doesn’t make it any better, essentially you’re meant to be making out with him right now
“is something bothering you?”
there it is again. that look. he only seems more concerned than before and you hate yourself for not even thinking about your friendship before you open your mouth.
“do you not want to kiss me because we’re best friends or is it something else?”
there it is. you’ve said it.
you see levi’s face contort from a mix of confusion to what looks like disgust then shock. screwing your eyes shut you know you’ve ruined everything now. he’s never going to speak to you, never going to approach you again. you’re mentally preparing for him to ditch you at this party right here right now
but then you notice his hand still steadily placed on your knee, he’s now stopped with the circles, his grip is bruising
“do you want me to kiss you?”
his question isn’t really expected, it helps you find the courage to look your best friend in the eye.
it’s pretty dark but you can still make out the familiar shadows of his face. the butterflies rush up from your stomach all the way to your throat.
mild regret fills you, usually his curtains obscure his piercing gaze but the way you’ve styled his hair gives him a better view of you, there’s nowhere for you to hide
not even stopping to think about the possibility of him teasing you right now, all you care about is telling him the truth. you’ve come all the way here you may as well finish off what you’ve started
“would you be mad if i said i’d like it if you did?”
levi doesn’t need any more confirmation than that, he swoops in yanking you by your waist. his knees are still pressed against the floor and so you find yourself leaning down into his mouth and craning your neck downwards
his chest is completely pressed against yours. the drumming of your heart is so loud you feel self conscious but levi’s soft lips moving against yours distract you from that
not even ten seconds in and you feel out of breathe but not in an overwhelming way. levi’s pace isn’t at all what you imagined it to be like. he’s soft and slow yet calloused and rough around the edges, some how he still manages to make the kiss sweet
his left hand leisurely travels to the small of your back, the other hand now caresses your cheek. his fingertips are anything but soft but the way he handles you is tender and endearingly delicate.
you smile into the kiss and almost instantly levi’s lips tug upwards too. his take on seven minutes in heaven is quite easily the most romantic thing you’ve been subjected to. instead of a passionate make out you’ve been given a honeyed introduction to a new side of him
the kiss ends much quicker than you anticipate, you open your mouth to whine and convince levi that the two of you should still have a solid minute left before hange returns but he presses his index finger against your lips
“later. i promise.” his voice is heavy and if his blushed cheeks are anything to go by he’s thoroughly enjoyed your session together
at his reassurance you comply and take the time to have a better look at him
his lips are wet – some of your lip gloss has clearly stuck to him. his hair isn’t as well styled as it was before, seeing him like this makes you feel a surge of confidence. you know you did that to him.
so... what is someone to do with a sudden boost in confidence?
hit your new possible love interest with a pick up line :-) !!!
“heyyy so i know the spring constant of my mattress, would you be interested in taking some data with me?”
slapping your shoulder lightly he’s yet to gain his composure back, levi’s genuinely out of breathe now trying to steady himself and your comment doesn’t do him any favours that’s for sure
“my god you have no sham–”
without warning the door to your left swings open you and levi flinch trying to scramble away from eachother only to fail, hange marches in before stopping dead in their tracks.
all they see is levi knelt in front of you, hair disheveled huffing like his life depends on it
then their focus shifts to you, you’re sure some of your makeup has smudged and the entire scenario looks suspicious
levi seems as if he’s about to warn hange to not tell anyone and keep this a secret for now but they sprint away before any of you have the opportunity to ask for some privacy
not even ten seconds later a collision can be heard alongside a series of thuds and then hange’s yelling towards the end of the hallway “GUYS??? THEY ACTUALLY DID IT???”
for some reason the cheers coming from the living room warm your heart
you guess your friends figured out the direction of your relationship long before you and levi did :-)
#levi#levi ackerman#aot#snk#attack on titan#attack on titan levi#aot fanfiction#levi headcanons#levi x reader#levi x y/n#levi scenario#levi fanfiction#levi fluff#fluff#aot fluff#leviiattacks#levi ackerman fanfic#levi ackerman imagines#levi ackerman x reader#levi ackerman headcanons#aot headcanons#aot imagines
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