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ghostheartfelt · 10 months

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*:･｡☆ warnings: heavy gore, torture, hurt/comfort, whump, s/a towards reader, men being gross, gunshot wounds, stab wounds, blood and violence, branding (torture method), waterboarding (torture method), reader (thaye) is a badass, first kiss, dismemberment of fingers, eye trauma, protective!ghost, implications of smut/sex, aftermaths of torture. (there is probably a lot i missed, but idc lol all the other shit should b enough warning!!) 〔☆〕 desc: you and the 141 are deployed to austria with the intel of a drug boss known as rolmuth who is harboring romanian soldiers to the east coast to smuggle illegal mercenary personnel into america. what happens when a rapid snowstorm picks up and you (callsign 'thaye') are separated from the others then further captured and interrogated alongside your lieutenant?

—✩ PHANTOM TOUCH ✩—

word count —15.6k

a/n: sorry for my inactivity! the entire time i was workin on this shit... let me tell you.. this is 51 pages on google docs LMAO so i hope the length and word count makes this fat fucking hurt/comfort one shot worth it.

VIENNA, AUSTRIA.

“Move, move, move!” Price yells.

Snow fell and blanketed the ground beneath you, you were dressed in white camouflage tactical gear.

Your movements were slower as you trudged yourself through the snow, you turned in every direction searching for your captain.

Your lieutenant.

Anybody.

Rapid snowy winds smacked you in the face, nearly forcing your eyes shut as you traveled through the gusts.

“Soap?!” You shout, planting your feet below into the patches of snow,

Your arms raise to cover your face.

“Fuck!”

“Thaye!” A voice echoed through the snow that encased you in a blanket of long silence.

Snow nestled into the ground below—everything around you seems to just slow down.

You traipse yourself heavily through the thickness around you as you snap a clip into your M4 carbine, swinging it behind you like it had been previously.

Thump.

Your head droops down and you feel your heart drop into your stomach seeing the body of one of the men you were deployed with face up.

His head four inches deep in the snow and his right eye completely destroyed, his chest marred with several bullet wounds.

The root of his nose is fractured to the point where it’s flattened into what’s left of his skull.

You swallow the knot in your throat that might have also been barf trying to make its way out of you, kneeling down to peel the soldier’s dog tags off of his corpse.

Hudson “Scooter” Wheeler.

It makes you smile slightly, your thumb dragging over the metal tag to wipe off the thickness of blood that had coated the carving of his name.

“I’m sorry, Wheeler.”

The loss of fallen soldiers leave footprints and engravings on one’s heart that never allows them to be the same, again.

You wished sometimes you could just be without the worry about who you have to lose and who you have to save.

Restless nights followed by mornings and afternoons full of nothing but unpromised resolutions. You nearly felt as if insanity would be a better route than going through the pain of losing the people you stood side by side with, enduring the effects of grief, bloodshed, and war.

Although there were moments of bonding and camaraderie that were forced to turn into utter gore and distrust due to the change of the objective that deemed those to turn against one another in hopes of survival and success.

Pride; a fickle sense that could drive an individual to the depths of madness and create a staked claim to prove more power then they own or deserve.

You didn’t understand it. Nor did you want to.

You were left in a society where the drabness of gray ruled the world and pain of loss clenched to the soldier’s hearts almost desperately.

And yet that perpetual colour of gray; a colour so dull but so compelling, it still lights the depths of hell you lived in by merely a petite dose.

Your mouth had begun to feel tacky with your muscles stiffening as the weather conditions intensify by every fleeting moment.

Inside your combat boots, you feel your feet begin to grow numb; similar to the feeling of stepping on fresh-cut grass and grazing dull needles.

Now, you wonder what hypothermia would feel like. You weren’t used to this sort of weather.

Even under your white half-face balaclava, you felt your lips and their absence of moisture.

Still, you trekked forward, squinting eyes searching for any sign of life around you.

Your face lights up at the sight of a shadow-like movement through the blistering storm and rapid winds once you wipe off the frost lingering on your goggles.

They moved closer—it seemed to be one person.

There’s a tree to your left—your legs manage to jerk themselves through the snow until you're beside it.

You cautiously lower your body into the snowpack below you, clutching your rifle in your grip while your eyes fixate on the moving figure ahead of you.

Your finger grazes over the trigger of your carbine rifle.

A leg comes before the torso, then the face.

The skull mask.

Ghost.

Relief washes over you immediately—raising to your knees.

“Lieutenant!” You call.

His head immediately snaps in your direction, and the time spent staring at each other seemed everlasting, though in reality it was just a few seconds before his large hand was squeezing your shoulder and he was right in front of you.

“Thought we lost’ya,” Ghost rasps.

“What’s the sitrep?”

“Enemy force has ordnance on standby—Price ordered all units to the West Safehouse,” he says.

You nod softly.

“Why’d you hang back?”

His eyes widen under his balaclava and you open your mouth to speak—Ghost tugs you by your vest, pulling you to the side.

“Gh��“

There’s a person behind him.

Sounds muffle around you, complete silence surrounding you as Ghost’s head is slammed with the butt of a rifle.

Your hands reach down to pull your handgun from off of your hip, pointing it towards his attacker, squeezing on the trigger and unhesitantly dropping him to the ground before he can double back and finish him off.

No words leave your mouth as you turn in one quick jerk, the barrel of a L1A1 being aimed between your eyes.

Not even seconds later was the thick handle of a bowie knife met with the back of your head.

Immediately, your body meets with the snow, and you feel the coldness of the snow over your mask.

You struggle to pick up your head, pain surging in the back of your head enough to blur your vision.

Keeping your eyes open was a challenge—they constantly blink shut as you watch the enemy force yell at each other, manhandling Ghost by ripping his weapon sling off of him and dragging him by his fur-lined parka.

His body was dragged up into a Humvee and roughly thrown in before you were picked up by your ankles and wrists and tossed right on top of him.

Your head slumps against Ghost’s bicep as you're washed up by incapacity, your mind fogging against your will. Enervation holds you captive and sweeps you off your feet.

You’re met with blackness, next, yet the only thing you could think of was your failure to protect your superior.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

You awoke to the sounds of struggling—something teetering on the floor.

It takes a moment for you to come to your senses and stir from unconsciousness, eyes fluttering open to take in your surroundings.

The ever-present smell of waste and deteriorated flesh smacks you with reminiscence, the overbearing cold, the taste of grime, blood, and bile in your mouth.

When you go to move your hands, they’re immobile; binded by thick ropes that with your state of exhaustion and physical weakness, would be impossible to escape from.

Your heavy head manages to shift for oneself to observe the room—your gear was purloined, leaving you in your cargos and a tank-top.

Below you, the ground was concrete and stained with blood that led to the large metal door that had a closed hatch.

Vaguely, you recall in short and brief flashes why you were there, your eyes shutting for a few moments before opening once again.

Ghost.

Where was Ghost?

“Lieutenant,” you cough. “Ghost, wh—“

“‘M here, kid.” Ghost wheezes. “To’yr left.”

Your head turns, stopping at the sight of his mask on the concrete, blood smeared across the maw of the skull, over the eye socket.

“Ghost, are you injured?”

“No.”

Slowly, your eyes trace up the ground beneath you until Ghost’s boots are in view.

His soles skid against the ground as he attempts to drag the dentist chair he’s strapped in. “Fuck!”

You shift in your wooden seat in an attempt to reach your hand down to pull up the velcro flaps of your cargos. You couldn’t reach.

Ghost’s boots stop skidding against the floor as the metal door’s rusted hinges creak, the door being flung open to welcome a man inside—three other men were behind him holding military grade rifles with drum magazines.

The man inside the room raises his hand, offering departure in the Hindi language, to which his men shut the door behind him.

His arms were wrapped behind his back, the sound of his heavy boots echoing off of the thick stone walls.

He walks around the room for a while, allowing you to raise your head to take in who he was.

A European man that’s approximately 184 centimeters with long pushed back shaggy dark hair; his eyebrows arched, a bushy beard.

On his cheek, a nasty deep laceration scar that reaches the end of his eyebrow. Under his left eye, another scar reaches the bridge of his nose.

The man is inches from your face, now, a tilt in his head.

“We see how long it takes to break you, Sergeant.” His eyes crinkled as his lips upturned in a depraved smile.

He lifts himself from his bent position, grips the crest rail of the chair, and pulls you farther from Ghost.

“Who is your commanding officer?” He asks, feet spread apart as he looks down at you to assert his dominance.

“Fuck you.” You bite back.

The man’s hand roughly takes hold of your chin, tilting your head up towards the dangling ceiling light.

“I eat boys like you for breakfast.”

Ghost chuckles beside you.

His eyes narrow as he releases a choked scoff, his head swinging back before bursting into laughter.

“My drug ring reigns across the entire country—my men swarm all city.”

His accent is thick, though his English isn’t terrible.

“It is either you tell me now and you and friend die quick, or you die slow of bleeding until we find on our own.”

“Good fuckin’ luck,” Ghost grunts.

You swallow thickly, groaning as the man pulls your head back by the scalp of your hair.

You purse your lips as you collect saliva from the walls of your mouth, spitting just above the man’s eyebrow and watching as the gob runs down over his eye.

He snarls, dragging an open hand down his face. Using that same hand, the male flexes his hand into a fist and socks you in the jaw.

“Hey!” Ghost shouts.

You hear it pop and you immediately outstretch your neck and slam your forehead into the bridge of his nose, arms jerking in an attempt to escape your restraints. “You motherfucker!”

He lets out a groan, his head flinging back as blood streams down his nostrils, his hand trembling over his nose.

“Bitch! Madarchod! Bevakooph veshya…” He hisses through clenched teeth. “Broke my nose!”

His palm smacks you across the face so hard, a pinkish red hue starts blossoming across your cheek. He repeats it again, then again, and again.

You squeeze your eyes shut, bracing yourself as numbness circles inside the flesh of your cheek, a similar feeling to those static electricity globes that you’d get for your twelfth birthday and press all five of your fingertips against.

“Hey! This is between you an’ me, a’right?” Your lieutenant gives a sharp nod, trying to reason with the man.

He stares at Ghost for a few moments, squeezing his fingers in his fist before leaving the room, the door slamming loudly behind him.

You take the moment to actually look at Ghost, your eyes taking in his features entirely.

From his long and messy dirty blonde undercut, to his shade and stubble.

To his bruised and bloodied lips and the thick scar running from his top lip to the underside of his chin.

To his thick and beautiful eyebrows, the scar on the start of his left eyebrow, running down to the bridge of his nose.

To his deep and all familiar brown eyes—long and light eyelashes accompanying their shape.

To the scar that spread out from the right inner corner of his lip and across his cheek as if it was the engravings of a smile line.

There were several scars littered across the male’s face; each one of vast distinction from the other.

Once again, the door thrusts open and the man returns, cotton wads up his nostrils with another male by his side, pushing in a rolling mayo stand with different tools and items you assumed were torture devices.

“Hey! Hey! What’re y’doing?” Ghost jerks in his seat, his eyebrows furrowing as the man picks up a syringe, flicking the glass and squeezing out a droplet of the liquid inside. “What th’fuck is that?”

“You will have your answer soon enough,” he simply replies.

“Agarwal—blade.”

The second man grabs the rotary tool from off the tray, a saw blade in the other.

Your hands tug against their bindings enough to chafe your wrists, it feels as if your skin is being shredded with a cheese grater.

“Paip rinch, ab.” The taller man holds out his arm, to which the man who was now identified as Agarwal hands him a pipe wrench.

“English, asshole.” You grunt.

He slings it over his shoulder and slowly walks towards Ghost as he whistles.

Ghost’s eyes don’t avert from his gaze, even as the pipe wrench drops from off his shoulder to clatter on the floor, hanging from his wrist and dragging along the ground.

“Who…is…your…superior?” His voice is grim, each word coming out as he takes a step.

Using the hook jaw of the wrench, he lifts Ghost’s chin.

“Piss off,” the blonde huffs.

Not even seconds later does the man swing the wrench around and belt it into his stomach. Ghost lets out a wheeze, his body lurching over in reaction to the sudden pain coursing through him.

“No!” You yell.

“Who.” He asks again with spite in his tone—he was demanding, it no longer was a question in his favor.

“You’ll know who when he comes’a knockin’ ‘n blows lead thru th’lot of ya.” Ghost says with a slight raise in his head.

The wrench is swung back into his stomach, causing Ghost to hurl and expel vomit onto his boots.

“Leave him the fuck alone!” You kick yourself forward a bit using your boots. Agarwal’s hands grip the slat of the chair and pull you back towards the tray.

“No, no,” he nearly coos, yanking your head back by the thinner group of hairs on the nape of your neck.

You clench your jaw and subside, lifting yourself up with your hips to help avoid the pain.

His eye’s strain, beads of sweat rolling down the end strands of his hair regardless of how cold it was inside of the formidable room.

“Get me my player,” the bearded man says as he trails his 12” redwood handle knife across Ghost’s jawline.

Agarwal’s hand releases your hair to your relief and he leaves the room.

“Disgusting—“ the male snarls. “Making mess of my floor.”

Your eyes narrow as you watch a pool of blood start to form as he slashes Ghost’s cheek, a groan spilling from your lieutenant’s throat.

“Fuck you ‘n y’r floor,” Ghost coughs.

He drops the wrench to the floor, then uses a rag that was hanging out of his pocket to swipe off the blood from the knife’s blade.

Two men walk in, one pushing in a record player and the other holding a tactical vest and a book.

Your vest and your book.

His name patch reads “Gamble”, the one who throws your vest and the book onto the floor.

“Rolmuth, the woman—she has had access to our radio frequency and has been writing down our shipment codes and locations.”

Ghost’s head raises, his pupils shrunken as he takes in the sight of the morse code book.

The man holding the knife cracks his head in your direction before proceeding towards you.

“Thaye…” he susurrated.

You don’t flinch when his arms raise to swing the knife over towards your temple, a maniacal laugh escaping through the barriers of Rolmuth’s teeth.

The knife lowers to release one of your hands, though before you can reach for anything, he slams your arm backward against the back leg of the chair, the feeling of your bones snapping beneath your skin causes you to let out a sharp, excruciating cry as your now-broken arm falls limp to your side.

“Thaye!” Ghost shouts. “Fuckin’ bastard…”

“How?!” Rolmuth yelled through his teeth, lips drawn back in a snarl as he nearly foamed out of his mouth.

His fist meets with your cheek and your eyes squeeze together in grimace to the pain as he punches you again.

Ghost calls out your name and you can hear the metal of his chair scrape and grind against the ground.

You feel your cheek begin to swell, the tender flesh on your face blooming into purple and blue bruises.

He walks to the record player and takes a record out of its sleeve that was resting on the shelf of the small table the player was brought in on. It has wheels on it—similar to the mayo tray.

Rolmuth blows on the record, though the sleeve looks too clean to hold any dust, then places the record on the platter. After pressing play, he drops the tone arm down.

The record scratching sends chills up and down your spine before the music almost beautifully fills the room.

Why does the sun go on shining?

You watch Rolmuth pick up a pair of pliers.

Why does the sea rush to shore?

You wonder if he’s going to try to rip out your teeth.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

He clasps them around one of your fingers on your broken arm.

Fuck.

The cold metal around your finger makes you nearly want to cry.

‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?

He was going to rip off your finger.

“Who is your captain?” His hand squeezes the pliers, applying pressure to your singular finger.

“Go…to hell—“

A scream rips itself from your throat as you feel your sinew and flesh tear, the pliers tearing your finger from off your bone.

“Tha’s enough!” Ghost jerks and flails in his seat, there’s a sip of panic in his voice. “Get th’fuck off of her!”

Why do the birds go on singing?

Rolmuth wriggled the rest of your finger off, your eyes daring to skim down to look at the bone sticking out from your knuckle.

Blood spews out of the gore, coating your entire hand and dripping from the crevices of your skin into your lap, staining your cargos, turning their white color into several distinct shades of red.

Rolmuth sets the finger—your finger down lightly on the standing metal tray besides you.

Why do the stars glow above?

A penetrating ringing fills your ears; one so loud it felt like it’d be the cause of your tears instead of the pain surging through the entire left side of your body.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

You’re in shock, unable to speak. Your jaw is locked, your teeth are clenched so hard it feels as if you might shatter your teeth.

It ended when I lost your love.

Ghost’s voice echoes in the back of your mind, when he calls out your name, you’re pulled out of your trance. You jerk your slumping head up.

You want to call out his name, but it seems like your throat is swallowing every little word that is being screamed inside of your head.

The room is spinning and you can’t feel your arm, you can’t feel the finger move that was just severed from your hand.

“Look at me, look at me, love…” your lieutenant simpers.

Your eyes search the room until they land on Ghost’s, he sounds far away. You feel your eyes widen as cold metal wraps around another finger once again.

Why does my heart go on beating?

Rolmuth’s lips close in near your ear as he tugs lightly at your middle finger.

“You don’ want to lose this finger, do you?” You feel the man’s hot breath run up the side of your face and brush past your ear.

“Who…is…your...captain?”

Why do these eyes of mine cry?

Every nerve in your body seized, your spine stiffening with every urge to kill the man standing beside you.

Ghost coughs up blood; internal bleeding.

“I’ll fu…cking…skin you…” you croak, your words finally becoming coherent.

He laughs. Rolmuth’s single arm raises in a humorous gesture of surrender.

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world?

Your eyes squeeze shut, though shoot open at the rush of heat, the pliers applying clutched pressure to your finger before Rolmuth started ripping off the second finger, wiggling it until it broke off skin and sinew.

It ended when you said “goodbye.”

“Look at me, Thaye.” Ghost’s voice sounds desperate, so you offer him a short glance as your jaw slacks and your body retracts.

Your strained eyes snapping to the bearded man as he places down your middle finger on top of your pointer finger.

A gag surfaces in your throat and your body twitches as you watch your finger fall and roll almost as if it’s the most natural thing.

Ghost yells your name again.

You finally focus on him, your eyes welling up, reddening and puffing against your will.

“Jus’ look at me, angel,” Ghost’s silked voice calms you, although in a manner you can’t hear him as well as you want to.

Every muscle and ligament inside of you feels tense and stuck.

Why does my heart go on beating?

You had three fingers on your left hand—three fingers.

Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring. Thumb, pinkie, ring.

“Y’ll kill her, she’s losin’ too much blood—she’s goddamn delirious!”

Gamble’s fist barrels into the side of Ghost’s head, you hear a feral groan leave his gullet.

At least I can still put a wedding ring on my left hand. You thought.

Those three fingers trembled and twitched, it was the only movement on the left side of your body besides for your left eye—is he going to take one of my eyes? Your head is swarming with thoughts.

“Ghost…” you slur, still locked onto the blonde’s eyes.

“I know, love,” he says as gently as he physically can. “So proud of’y…”

His speech comes out as a garble, but you’re still able to understand him.

“‘M gon’ get us outta here…alive, a’right?”

Your head slumps at the attempt of a nod.

“Save y’r energy, lovie.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Agarwal grips Ghost’s earlobe, pulling him closer. You’re not able to cognize his words, but you’re aware of the vexation in his countenance.

You flinch once Rolmuth drops the pliers on the metal tray. He removes his latex gloves that were blanketed in your gore and throws them onto your lap.

“Clean them up—she still is of use to me.” His voice grows more distant as he leaves the room.

Gamble injects Ghost with a syringe that was hanging off of his waist, casting him with drowsiness, his eyes struggling to keep open before he’s blacked out.

“What did you do—…what did y’do to him?” Your eyebrows stitch together. “What did you do?!”

They unstrap his arms from the chair, then his ankles.

“Answer me goddamnit...” You seethe, tears warping in your eyes.

“Shut the bitch up,” Gamble nudges Agarwal in the shoulder before he pushes Ghost further out of his restraints, his body still and unconscious allowing the scarred man to bind his wrists with zip ties.

Agarwal simply nods and paces toward you. The stock of his gun smashed into your jaw before you could react.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY TWO.

The woman in the doorway was bedraggled; tired eyes and shrunken tear-stained cheeks.

There’s a light illuminating from the pulled-back curtains—a light so bright it could dry the shining tears that spill out scarlet fluid over the eyes of the miserable.

You feel only patient while waiting for the morning sun to rise over the horizon line of the ocean side.

It’s deteriorating yet caliginous frame of murky grey stone and vast sorrow of an arched entrance sat in disposition from harrowing memories filled with bloodshed, grief, and war.

Your face relaxes at the distinctly ravishing but delicate overcasted ray of light shot down from the amidst along the ruins, the melancholy ambiance nearly sent chills down your spine.

Heavenly cries of forgotten mothers begging for forgiveness of their past sins, children's playful and beatific screams, although it was nothing unknown to you.

Screams were usually followed by split rib cages and bullet wounds—tears, blood, those screams and sweat, you went through it all just for it to lie unheard and forgotten.

You searched the odd and seemingly afterlife-like realm with your eyes, you could only wonder where you were, and why you were there.

Why the flowy white dress draped over your body oscillated with the wind in a gorgeous motion.

You're lifting your head out of the water now.

The taste of salt seems so thick, heavy. Like you could drown in it. Like you could get drunk off of it.

The waves crashing onto shore sound so loud atop the eerie silence, their white crests phasing through your body as if your presence was unknown to them.

You loved the ocean because as opposed to the ones who were supposed to; the ocean loved you and was never afraid to come too close, even at your worst.

As you move farther from shore, the water slowly travels up your body, submerging your frame.

You close your eyes as your head is the last thing the water consumes. You feel the water bubbles tickle your skin and elevate themselves up to the surface.

It doesn’t take long for that familiar burn inside your lungs and that familiar feeling of being gagged by the water to swarm your senses.

Your head jerks up and you let out a loud gasp as you fade into consciousness, slipping into colored imagery instead of just monochrome.

Waking up felt like hell; your mouth was dry and most of your limbs felt unresponsive.

Only when you see Ghost curled up on his side, laying on the floor in front of you, are you able to register where you are and what’s going on.

His knees bucked up into his abdomen with his hands zip tied behind his back and his face battered and bruised.

Specks of dried blood ran from his scalp down his face reaching his compression undershirt.

He was asleep.

There was a gentle rise and fall with his chest—you could still hear his labored breaths from where you were.

It felt colder.

Your eyes wander down to your left hand that was wrapped in bandages that were stained red, your two fingers missing and replaced with nubs that were uneven from each other.

If your arm wasn’t broken, you could use it to break the leg of the chair and wield it against the next person to walk through that large metal door that made you wonder if it was life or death upon you.

If your fingers weren’t missing, you could use them to untangle your restraints on your other hand.

You could barely move your wrist—the pain that swells your entire arm makes it nearly impossible.

Ghost stirs on the floor, his body curling into itself further before his legs straighten out.

“Lieutenant,” you mumble. “What did they do to you…?”

His eyes flicker to yours.

“‘M alive, aren’t I?” Ghost says.

His voice is so hoarse and weak—he sounds dehydrated.

“You are.”

Your eyes close a moment to allow yourself to breathe in the air around you.

The single door breaking up the dull room that held them hostage creaks open on rusted hinges allowing Rolmuth to enter.

Two different men from the day prior push in the same record player and the same rolling metal tray that was stained with your blood.

“Rise and shine,” one says, his boot meeting harshly with the lower section of Ghost’s back.

The blonde’s eyes stay intent on the movements of Rolmuth as he lifts up different record sleeves to read their names. He slides one out and places it on the platter.

That familiar sizzle fills the room before the gentle hum of the music begins.

A short gasp leaves your mouth as Rolmuth kicks down your chair by the back stile, your head immediately jerking forward before it slams down onto the cement floor.

He dismisses the two of his men.

Rolmuth’s hand levitates over the tray and he grasps an old tan hand towel, draping it over your face.

You can hear the buckle of Ghost’s pants tink lightly on the floor as he jerks himself. “Fuckin’ bastard!” He yells.

I don’t want to set the world on fire.

It was going to be okay, you told yourself. You trained for this. Truthfully, you were one of the best swimmers on the task force. You can hold your breath—but if that rag manages to cave in, you’ll most likely panic and lose focus.

I…just want to start a flame in your heart.

“Are you ready for talk, now?” Rolmuth arches over you.

In my heart, I have but one desire…

Your voice muffled, you call him something along the lines of an asshole and a prick, which is quickly silenced by the pressure of water that smacks you in the face.

And that one is you, no other will do…

Ghost watches the man pour a jerry can of water over your face. His breath hitching in his throat watching your body twist and turn trying to evade from the water.

I’ve lost all ambition for worldly acclaim

Your body arches up in protest, head jerking side to side as if it would make it any more easier on you.

I just want to be the one you love…

Focus on the music, you tell yourself. You can barely hear your own voice.

And with your admission…that you feel the same,

Rolmuth’s smile is ear to ear as he continues tipping the canister over your cloth-covered face.

I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of, believe me…

You violently thrust your body, panic surging through you as you feel water invade and swallow your lungs.

I don’t want to set the world on fire…

Involuntarily you gasp and choke in more water, you feel your eyes roll to the back of your head.

I…just want to start…a flame in your heart.

Your throat was burning like scolding lava, your heart throbbing inside your chest threatening to rupture. You don’t dare to make noise.

You’re gagging, gasping, sputtering. That you can’t handle. But you don’t let yourself cry. Not like this.

I don’t want to set the world on fire, honey,

The music is starting to garble.

Why is it starting to sound so distorted? You ask yourself.

I…—you too—uch.

“Stop, y’ll fuckin’ kill her! Bloody tosser!” Ghost grits his teeth before spitting out words.

Now that you have the chance to think about it, that song reminds you of someone.

I just want to start…

Your grandfather—you’d sit on that circular crocheted rug and listen to that song as him and your grandmother baked apple fritter.

A great big flame…

He loved that woman more than life itself; when she’d started to get sick with bone cancer, he helped her bathe, he helped her eat, get dressed.

Down in your heart.

Your mother told you about how he had asked her doctor to keep the fact that she only had three weeks left to live just between them.

You see, way down inside me,

She was still happy. So happy. He wanted to spend those last three weeks with her. He retired from his job and took her to all the places she’d talked about visiting.

Darling, I have only one desire.

She passed away, and he spent every day doing all her favorite things. He watered her plants, he baked. He listened to her favorite songs.

And that one desire is you,

He adopted a puppy—a beautiful Australian Shepherd which he named after her. Your mom would say that your grandma’s being was reincarnated into that dog.

And I know nobody else ain’t going to do.

Would that happen to you too? Who would you want to belong to? What kind of dog would you be?

A deafening ringing fills your ears, you finally stop fighting. Breathing.

“She’s not movin—“ Ghost wheezes. “She’s not fuckin’ movin’!”

He was trained for this. He couldn’t break. He couldn’t.

“Enough!” The blonde yells again.

They could crack him, but they can’t break him. They wouldn’t kill her.

Rolmuth finally puts down the canister and removes the rag from off your face, his body bends over to lift your chair back up.

Your body twitching, struggling to release the water clogged in your gullet

“Wake up, bitch,” he snaps and his open palm cracks against your cheek. Your eyes shoot open.

Your mouth opens, your strained and bloodshot eyes widen with horror as you vomit out water, sputtering between your lips as you hack and gag.

The taste of bile is sickening to your empty stomach.

Ghost calls out your name, catching your attention as you stabilize from your state of stupor.

“So proud of’ya, Thaye,” he groans. “Y’r strong, ‘lright? We’ll kill these bastards, all of’em.”

You can hardly spare the man a small nod before your chin is grabbed by Rolmuth’s uncut nails—blood and dirt caked underneath them.

“You tell who you are work for, I consider sparing life.” Rolmuth runs a blade across your cheek, increasing the pressure slightly to slit your skin—a feeling similar to a paper cut. You moan in pain. “Your friend I can not speak for.”

Blood trickles down from the incise, slowly flaring through your cut and pushing from the barriers beneath your top layer of skin.

“F…uck…—“ your silenced by sudden metal on your tongue, scraping gently like a threat.

“I will carve out ur pretty little tongue, cut it in bits, and feed it to you.” Rolmuth coos. “Would you that, yes?”

“Y’sick fuck, get th’fuck away from ‘er!” Ghost attempts to jerk himself up, the bonding on his ankles not allowing him to, his bruised ribs protesting in pain as he lets out a sharp breath.

Your eyes burn into his, your neck flinching as he slowly pushes the blade farther down your throat, his hand prying your mouth open.

He chuckles lowly, small “ah’s” leaving him as he slowly opens your mouth farther to allow the tip of the knife farther down. You salivate, drool racing down your chin and over the creep’s knuckles.

Ghost’s eyes divert from your face to the man’s hands. Disgust laced in his features.

He swallowed thickly, he could feel his skin boiling. He wasn’t angry.

Pissed.

He was incensed.

More than that.

“G..host…” your slightly muffled voice trembles.

His gaze fixes back on yours, watching as your left eye twitches at each of Rolmuth’s motions.

“I know, love…J’s look at me, ‘lright? J’s look at me.”

It presses onto the skin of your tongue, it’s curved edge digging into the fragile skin and tissue causing the metallic taste of iron to taint your sense of taste.

You still bore into your lieutenant’s gaze.

Saliva and blood dribbles down your neck, the sight no doubtedly arousing the male in front of you—his tongue leapt out to slowly trace along his bottom lip.

You might drown in your own saliva at this rate.

Your lieutenant purses his dry and cracked lips, but he doesn’t look away.

He takes the blade out of your mouth, rubbing it against the cloth of his pants to clean it.

Rolmuth raises the knife and pierces your thigh, the feeling of cold metal hitting you first along with the shock, the sound of cloth tearing.

“I want names!” The man hollered, spit landing on your face just below your eyes.

Ghost watches your pupils shrink, his own eyes widening and slowly shifting to your thigh.

An intense tingling sensation swarms your entire leg, then a heat. A heat that felt unbearable.

Ghost searches for your eyes again, his mouth moving, though you can’t hear anything he says.

He broke through skin and sinew, twisting the knife inside of the laceration.

“Talk, bitch!” Rolmuth’s eyes darken.

It takes a few moments for the pain to surface, and when it does, it’s scorching. Your jaw slacks open as your eyebrows pinch together, a shrill whimper escaping you.

“Don’ look, don’t.” Ghost pleads with you. Even he was struggling not to look at your thigh.

It didn’t take eyes to tell there was blood bubbling from the wound and dripping down your pants and trembling leg.

A narrow vertical split across the midsection of the flesh of your thigh. Your eyes didn’t leave Ghost’s.

Was his hair bleached? It seemed like such an unnatural shade of blonde. Brunette underneath. He must bleach it himself.

Rolmuth gave it one more twist, releasing a thin, raw, scream from your throat.

Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you wouldn’t let them get the satisfaction of that from you. Especially not you.

“They’ll b’ere soon, Thaye.” Your lieutenant says.

“You are weak,” Rolmuth spits. “You will break.”

He rolls his shoulders before gripping your pointer finger and holding a jab saw above it.

Your eyes flicker to Rolmuth’s and Ghost calls your name.

“I want a name!” Rolmuth’s scream makes your head spin.

“Fuck y—“ your voice is replaced with a high pitched cry followed by gasps and whimpers as Rolmuth’s new blade carved through sinew and bone. He lifts up your finger against the blade and with one swift movement, your finger falls onto the floor.

“I’ll fuckin’ kill you, y’bastard!” Ghost’s lips twitching in pain mixed in with a whole lot of anger.

Your body jumps up, an animalistic noise escaping your throat as you swing your head back and wince loudly, the pain in your thigh

“Name! Or I take another!” Rolmuth yells just inches from your face.

You couldn’t handle it—your vision is swarmed by black spots and your head is killing you. Your body is in so much pain you feel so much, but so little all at the same time.

When your eyes roll to the back of your head and lolls, you can faintly hear the man yell ‘shit’ before you’re unable to comprehend what is happening.

Everything fades into a subtle blackness, and the last thing you hear is Ghost yelling your name. Screaming your name.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 4

You wake up to the sound of loud groaning and thumping.

It takes you a few moments to register that you’re awake and you can actually move.

So you do—you upheave your head and take in the light spilling in the room from between the iron barred vent.

It stings your eyes, blotchiness surrounding your peripheral before you’re able to adjust to the light.

Ghost is on the floor taking blunt forces into his lower abdomen—the blonde sputters out a cough as his entire body jerks at the contact.

The man grips the neckline of Ghost’s shirt, lifting his head from off the ground as thick red paste runs down his split and swollen lips.

His legs lift themselves up in an attempt to propel his body up and out of the man’s grasp, but he falls flat as his neck is slammed back onto the cement.

Before Ghost can gasp for air the moment his neck is released, a closed fist slams into his cheekbone, knocking the wind out of him.

“Stop,” you rasp. “Let’im go…”

Ghost is twitching on the floor, blood spilling from his mouth. His entire face is caked in red flakes and black and blue blemishes—the entire left side of his face is fattened with knots.

“No…” you snarl.

The man whirls his head and glares at you, an amused expression of disbelief stamped onto his face.

“No?” He says cockily.

The man paces towards you and cuts off your bindings, bundles your hair in his fist and drags you over towards Ghost, you whine and raise your unbroken arm to try and pry his hands off, but he only tugs harder.

He pulls your hair up until you're positioned on your knees, chin raised up and neck tilted.

You hear a click, it wasn’t a gun.

He unsheathed a pocket knife. It was a fairly decent size. You were tired of seeing knives.

Ghost watches the man’s hand lower to your abdomen, fingers pirouetting across your delicate skin, it sends a shivering fear throughout your entire body like electricity.

“Please…” you meekly whisper, attempting to pull yourself away, your body is so weak from lack of use. Your voice came out as a croak.

His other hand holds a knife that teases the neckline of your shirt.

Ghost thrashes against the floor attempting to wrestle out of his bindings. “I’ll skin you,” Ghost’s voice is hoarse.

“How would you feel If I just…” His fingers trace along the scars on your stomach. “Touch her, ever so lightly…Right in front of you?” The man snickers.

You yelp as his knife cuts a thin line down your blood-stained neckline until your cleavage is exposed.

Tears surface the corners of your eyes.

No, no, no, no…

“Keep y’r eyes on me,” Ghost whispers weakly. “That’s it, love.”

You feel your shirt tear entirely down the middle and fall down your arms, pooling around your wrists.

Your vision blurs and your mouth starts to feel dry, teeth chattering in unison with your trembling lips.

When the knife rests over the center gore of your bra, your breath hitches in your throat and tears bead down your cheeks.

The blade slices through the cloth and immediately your hand rises to cover your nude chest.

Ghost’s eyes stay locked with yours, one half-closed from being beaten beyond his control.

You feel his facial hair scrub raw against your skin, sipping in your fear and vulnerability.

“Team Delta en route for seaside, Corbin, what’s your report?”

His radio.

The man pauses and takes his hand off the midline of your ribcage to grab his radio.

“Delta, this is Pooch on standby—hostages are stable, the woman is awake.”

You release a choked sob, causing the man to release the talk button and bash it against the side of your face, sending you straight onto the floor.

“Thaye…” Ghost croons.

You clutch your chest with your one hand as you feel the right side of your face swell.

“It’ll ‘b over soon,” you tremble, releasing a shaken breath. “They’ll find..us…”

“Shut the fuck up,” his voice is slicked with spite. “Both of you.”

“Pooch, this is Delta, rog that. Don’t kill our intel—0-7, signing off.” It crackles.

You lift your head and turn it slightly, blinking causes the pain on your cheekbone to burn like acid.

“Go to h—“ the radio is bashed into your face again causing your vision to swim and make your head stumble.

The sound of blood trickling and hitting the floor fills your ears, your left palm flattens against the cold floor. Missing fingers wrapped to keep you alive, not because they care.

He punches the radio into your right eye. You keep your head down in submission.

“You wanna act tough? Get treated like you're tough!” He yells.

His hand tugs your head back—you can see your own blood splattered against the communicator before you’re met with the same fate.

Ghost watches as the man beats the right side of your face in with the butt of the radio until it’s practically unrecognizable—caked and blistered. Bruising and swelling so tender on your skin.

He can’t do anything.

He can only watch.

You whimper and cry, hissing through your tears while your jaw clenched, the radio mercilessly landing on the same spot allowing more blood to cascade from the wound.

The last hit is the hardest, sending your numbing cheek staggering back down onto the ground, you wheeze.

If Ghost’s hands weren’t tied behind his back, the man standing above the two of you would be a mangled corpse. He knew that.

Your breaths are shallow and rasped. It feels like hell to breathe—to move your face. Crimson just pools beneath you as Pooch flicks off your gore from his communicator.

He grunts in disgust as specks splatter onto the ‘cleaner’ side of your face. Like water spots on a windowpane or glass shower door.

When you hear the door slam behind you, it makes you flinch.

Your body has broken into tremors now, maybe it’s not tremors—but your spasming.

And your hand is still covering your scar-ridden chest, but you feel like you might pass out again.

Ghost’s own breaths are ragged—you wonder if lunderneath all the blood on your face if you’d look just like him.

“Sleep,” he rasps. “I’ll watch ya.”

You relax as much as you possibly can, your single eye twitching shut in favor of your other one.

All you’ve had these past four days was sleep, yet it didn’t replenish. It didn’t make you feel any less tired or exhausted.

With your bones feeling brittle and sore, it was hard to shift yourself into the mindset of falling asleep, but you tried.

You felt Ghost scoot himself towards you, possibly just to shield your unclad chest and give you a taste of comfort.

Your eyelids feel heavy with pain and fatigue, your body stilling as you allow yourself to sleep.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

DAY 5

Your hands are tied above your head, a gag set between your teeth which you gnaw at in an attempt to drag it down to hang around your neck.

Ghost is a few feet away from you—both of you hanging on metal piping with rope around your wrists.

Ghost’s boots were on the floor, he was too tall to hang like you, where you could swing your feet. Did they take your shoes?

You watch the steel poker ignite in the industrial furnace; the end of it glowing all shades of red, yellow, and orange.

It was two different tools Rolmuth was holding, now. They had two different symbols on each one that you were unfamiliar with. He was choosing.

Rolmuth spun the branding irons with his thumbs and pointers, chuckling dryly to himself as he approached Ghost, setting one of them back inside the boiler.

His boots were so loud, they echoed off the walls of the room they were in—It looked like some sort of boiler room, but you weren’t too sure.

You two must’ve been in a warehouse of some sort.

Rolmuth has to look up to look your lieutenant in the eyes.

When they’d woken you up, they threw you a gray tank top, so you weren’t as exposed as you were before.

The Hindi man pulls down Ghost’s gag.

“460 degrees of heat on metal…” he says as he lifts the hem of Ghost’s shirt. “You talk, I spare you more scar.”

“Go fuck y’self, y’manky twat…” the blonde snapped.

An open mouthed yell left Ghost’s throat as the metal is lanced firmly over the middle of his stomach, tugging at his flesh and skin.

Ghost’s eyes squeeze shut as loud whimpers escape from him, ragged winces.

“Stop!” you cry.

God, you’d never heard him in so much pain. You never thought you’d ever hear him scream in agony, in physical pain.

You're forced to watch the smoke trailing up the rod, Ghost’s back arching in tormentation.

“You piece of shit!” You twist and turn your body causing the rope to shred through layers of your skin.

His muscles tense and his knuckles go white from how hard he’s gripping the pipelines holding him up.

Rolmuth removes the metal from Ghost’s skin—it could be described as a flesh eating parasite; the way that his skin sticks to the rod as if it’s desperate for that contact.

A hitched gasp manages to make its way past his lips as he feels a tinge of relief, his body twitching and pained moans and hisses filling your ears.

You jerk your body weight down, kicking your bare feet until you feel the metal start to dent.

Rolmuth sets the iron back onto the furnace over a rack, he’s bending over to adjust the heat, the fire is roaring.

You tug your arms down and you let out a strained whine at the feeling of your wrists starting to bleed.

When the metal gives in above you, it creaks and drops you down.

You slide down the metal and Rolmuth’s body swings up from fidgeting with furnace levers and knobs.

His arms are immediately reaching for his gun while you lift your legs up and kick the heels of your feet into his shoulder blades, hard.

Rolmuth’s head slams back into the brick base of the furnace, he lets out a groan, his form dragging down and slumping against the floor.

Your body lands harshly on the ground, an excruciating response coming from the back of your head.

Black spots cloud your vision as you slowly try to regain your composure. Your vision is blurring, everything sounds far away and echoed.

The gun slides across the floor.

Your jaw clenches as you pick up your heavy head, your eye searching for the gun regardless of the pounding that distracted you.

When you spot the muzzle, you lurch yourself forward and reach, finger grazing the trigger guard before your pulled back by your hair, earning a yelp to leave you.

Your lungs refuse to cooperate in your chest as your scalp is nearly torn from your head.

Rolmuth growls with clenched teeth, pulling you away from the gun and towards him as he kneels himself over you.

This was the first time you were able to get a decent look at his face—if it weren’t for your messed up eye—but you only can see the rage dispersed over his face as his hands gather around your throat.

He slams your neck down, adding onto the pain thrusting through the back of your head.

“Bitch!” Rolmuth snarls.

You suck in your gag, causing panic and adrenaline to rush through your entire body as your binded hands thrash and attempt to push him off of you.

You duck yourself, bend your leg and kick it against his ankle to heave yourself up with all your weight upwards.

He exclaims in his native tongue, some of which you can only recognize as insults and swears.

Ghost calls your name weakly.

Rolmuth’s hands slip from your throat allowing you to breathe and sit yourself on top of him, you tug your body and maneuver yourself until you're behind the man, pulling the knot of your bindings against his throat and crossing them over.

His neck lifts to try and give himself access to air, though you tug and hold his waist steady between your knees.

You yell with your clenched teeth, the fabric between your lips making the muscles in your jaw ache.

Him wheezing beneath you, fingernails clawing at your split and abused hands before he shifts.

“Thaye!” Your lieutenant hollers.

Rolmuth’s hands reach down to his vest to pull another gun, aiming it at your foot and pulling the trigger causing you to let out an agonizing scream, pain racking your entire body.

The bullet shoots clean through, you knew that for sure. It was too close.

Your grip on his neck loosens so you can slap the gun out of his grip.

In three quick motions, Rolmuth’s back atop you with his hands grasping your hair again, dragging you towards the furnace until your face is close enough to feel the heat radiate onto your face.

You feel the thickness of gore engulf your foot and drip down your toes onto the floor.

Your grunting, muffled, and loud breaths make your head pound as the man squeezes your jaw and forces your neck towards the mouth of the forge.

“No…” you snarl with bared lips, kicking your legs regardless of the pain, throwing yourself towards him to keep yourself as far from the flames as you could.

Rolmuth laughs dryly accompanying his guttural breaths, his body stretching yet keeping a firm hold on your mandible as he takes hold of one of the branding rods.

“No!” Your eye widens and your hands reach up to push his face away from you.

“Fuck!” He growls, shaking his face to keep your hands off as he pulls the iron out of the furnace.

He wastes no time pressing it into your side regardless of the thin tank covering your skin, and the cloth does absolutely nothing in regards to the sudden gut wrenching sensation that makes it feel like your entire body was drenched in gasoline and set on fire with a blowtorch.

Your cry is deafening to the ears and the smell of burning charred flesh is quick to fill your nostrils. You feel and you hear your skin bubble up, sizzle, then pop, then stick to the metal and entangle itself around the start of the handle taking the appearance of something similar to chewed bubblegum.

Even trembling and shaking, you manage to find a way to position your hands so you can plant your thumbs into his eyes and use some of the only fingers you have left to press them into his eyes, causing the man to yell.

Still, your screams aren’t matchable as your fingernails gouge into his sockets and claw at his eyelids, shredding through flesh easily as blood began to dribble down his face and over his lips like tears. You still manage to scream louder in anger than the man can in pain.

Your fingers shove deeper into the grooves of his eye sockets, the organs are pushed so far back that blood sprays across your face and he finally releases the rod.

It clangs to the floor, and he starts sobbing in his native tongue, convulsing hands reaching up towards his red-painted face as you pull your gag out.

“Go to hell,” You seethe wobbly as you lift yourself and steer yourself behind him, taking Rolmuth by the nape of his neck and forcing himself inside the mouth, against the grills inside the furnace.

He shrieks and cries, moving erratically as his face is engulfed by the fire. Slowly, yet quickly, his skin is shredded by the blazes and the bottom rows of his teeth are exposed.

It takes him a while to stop making noise before you pull his head out and throw his twitching body onto the ground, then you finally allow yourself to lean against a boiler tank and take pressure off your injured foot.

You propel yourself off the tank by your palms and drag yourself regardless of your ankle to the edge of the furnace, turning yourself around to scrape the rope against the brick.

A gasp releases from your throat at the sudden relief around your wrists, the rope falling to the ground.

“Ghost?” You lift your head.

“‘M here.” He replies.

“I don’t know if I can get up.”

“I know you can,” Ghost urges. “Find…” he sputters up blistering coughs.

“…Fin’a knife, ‘n get me outta these binds, yea?” He huffs. “‘N I’ll do the rest.”

Your eye blinks as you grip the ankle of Rolmuth’s corpse, pulling him toward you to start flipping up his vest and pant pockets.

He didn’t have a knife on him.

Got to be fucking kidding me.

A door is swung open, a singular set of footsteps stepping into the room.

Your eye searches for a weapon—anything that can deal enough damage.

A metal fire poker is hanging off the wall to your right, so you swing your elbows back and lift yourself up by the palms of your hands.

As quick as you can, you hoist yourself up by using the support of a metal deaerator, your arm sliding against it as you limp and throw yourself towards the wall creating a subtle thud.

“What the fuck…?” A man’s voice murmurs.

You silently curse to yourself under your breath as you grab the fire poker off the nails that were being used to hold it up.

Using the heel of your injured foot, you shuffle against some shelving, looking between the gaps for the man inside the room.

He’s holding a Fennec, nothing you haven't dealt with before.

He’s twenty seconds to your left, carefully skimming along the floor with his eyes down the sights of his gun.

You pinch a metal screw off of one of the shelves and toss it into the corner closest to you to lead him your way.

“Fuck,” the younger male jumps slightly. He looked young and lanky, at least from his physique.

When you hear his boots start to rub against the floor, you lift your head slightly to watch him turn towards your direction.

Your fingers and nubs flex on the thin metal, it’s hard to gain a clear grip.

The man comes around the corner of the shelves, the sounds of his tactical gear shuffling alerting you when he gets closer until his helmet is in sight.

You immediately thrust the fire poker into the gap below his collarbone and into his scapula, dampening the fabric of his undershirt in that area as it rips.

Out of panic and shock, his finger grips the trigger and you have to jerk him away before any of his bullets are able to hit you.

“Please!” The boy pleads, gun dropping to hang around his neck as he grips the caps of your shoulders. You only glare at him before plunging the fire poker further into that same spot until it tears and mauls through his back, sticking out on the other end.

He’s gasping out, but it’s almost like no air is exhaling, mouth held agape as his grip on your shoulders releases.

You shout and cry out at every thrust until the hole carved into his skin is able to suck in the hooked tip.

The male’s head falls and you allow his body to slump down and forward, the metal rod holding his stilled body up.

You heave dryly and press a palm on the wall to support yourself, your foot is killing you—literally.

The blown out flesh and puckered skin walls made you want to barf. You could stick a finger through your foot and feel your pulsating muscles just hug around your finger.

You lean down and unclip the knife holster from the gun belt, unsheathing it then hobbling around the shelving towards Ghost who was still hanging from the pipes.

“Okay, okay…” you breathe sharply, struggling to lift yourself up onto the brick platform of the furnace, nearly stumbling off before you catch your footing.

“Keep still,” you say, arching your hand to start cutting at his bondings until he’s dropped onto the floor.

Ghost lets out a loud groan, his arms clutching his ribs. They’d broken one of his ribs, maybe multiple. You both were in bad shape.

It takes him a moment to get himself off the floor as you seat yourself and scoot off of the hearth.

He grabs both of the hand guns that had been dropped onto the floor, holding one out to you.

You unclip the magazine, then snap it back into the chamber at the sight of one missing bullet.

It was the same one that Rolmuth used to shoot your foot.

Ghost’s hand rests on your cheek, gently. “Y’did good, ‘lright?” He spoke with a lilt.

“Can y’walk?”

“A little.” You nod. “Fuckers took my shoes…”

He lets his hand fall to check his magazine, then he nods. “‘Don’t know if I can carry ya with m’ribs.”

“It’s okay, just don’t wait for me.” You reply.

His eyebrows furrow. “Bloody hell, Thaye, I ain’t leavin ya.”

“I know but—“

“No.”

Ghost’s half-lidded eyes glare at you, giving you all the warning to stop.

“Stay behind me.”

He starts walking towards the door, slowly peeking it before leaving with you behind him.

Walking hurt—even while you only applied pressure to the heel on your injured foot, the muscles contracted and the pain was torturous.

One man entered the hallway holding a box from another room, which Ghost took care of by shooting a single bullet between his eyes.

The box had opened and dropped glass equipment, alerting four others who had been lingering in the room he came from.

They yell and communicate in their native tongue, one sticking his head out of the door threshold to aim his rifle.

Ghost fires his pistol and the man swings his head back into the room, still opening fire into the hallway.

“Fuck!” You hiss, dodging the bullets and moving quickly behind a filing cabinet, lowering yourself down.

Ghost’s back presses against a door to your right, pulling himself out of cover to fire at the man.

Two bullets miss and the third causes his head to fling back and smear blood as his body arches and falls down to the floor.

You lift your head and aim your pistol, gasping when your throat is suddenly hooked back from behind you.

When the combatant turns you around and attempts to make a slash at your throat, you manage to extract yourself by gripping his wrist and snapping his elbow out of place, the sounds of bones snapping as he yells.

His knife drops from his hand and you scramble to pick it up from the floor.

You groan as his boot digs into your bandaged hand before you're able to pick it up, then his hand grips your neck to lift you up.

He wraps his arms around you and squeezes you, locking his wrists over each other at your back. You clench your teeth and jerk violently in his grasp.

Ghost is fighting four other men, locking them in the crook of his elbow and smashing their skulls between the doors.

The man holding you in position crushes you in his grasp even with his broken arm. He tries dragging you into another room.

“Let me the fuck go,” you gasp, causing the man to laugh.

“You will regret ever trying to leave your room,” he utters.

You breathe a moment, heart pounding through your chest as you swing your head into the side of his neck and sink your teeth into his skin with all the strength in your jaw.

Crimson liquid seeps into your mouth and down the front of your neck as you yank out the flesh of his throat. You spit out the skin and blood, wiping your mouth and tongue against the skin of your arm as the man’s grasp loosens

His shoulder blades and chest are glistening in red, gore spurting out of the torn spot in his throat as his body stumbles and he’s gargling on his own blood trying to speak.

“Fuck you…” You shutter weakly, eyes slowly skimming down to the knife lodged inside your waist.

Shit.

He must’ve stabbed you before lifting you up, your adrenaline pumping so fiercely you couldn’t feel it until now.

You stumble on your feet slightly, shaking hands lowering to wrap around the handle and pull it out of the slit.

The runnel of red paste turns into a thick stream down as it drenches your tank top.

You lift your head slowly and throw the knife overhead across the hallway, hitting a man who’s pointing a handgun at the back of Ghost’s head.

It’s blade spades into the back of his skull and makes his body wriggle down onto the floor.

“Ghost…!” You gasp and press your open palm over your soaking top and open laceration.

Ghost steps over both legs of a bloodied man before shooting him dead and advancing towards you.

“Shite…” He huffs, gently removing your hand and placing it back after gaining a clear inspection.

His hands grip the hem of his shirt and roughly tear at the fabric creating a long strip, then he moves your hand aside again to tightly secure it around your wound.

You hiss and groan, hand gripping his shoulder as he tugs and pulls at your body while tying the knot of the fabric.

“I’s ‘lright.” Ghost mollifies as he scoops his arm underneath your armpit.

It offers you some support as he guides you both out towards a staircase.

It wasn’t a warehouse—you and Ghost were just in a basement that was turned into a meth lab.

Boxes and boxes full of lab equipment scattered along the floors.

You’d never seen such a big basement, one with torture chambers and stonework rooms.

Hell, in the corner of the room with all the steel liquid tanks and chemical barrels.

A woman is in bright blue hazmat coveralls and a chemical mask standing on top of a metal stool.

Ghost raises his pistol and you lower it slightly with your palm, his eyes glaring at you with his head kept facing forward.

“You can’t miss, we don’t know what corrosives are in these tanks. Is it worth it?” You keep your voice low, personal between the two of you.

He doesn’t reply, instead he looks forward, then squeezes the trigger and picks the woman off by shooting her in the side of her neck.

You swallow thickly as her body spasms on the ground, the stool getting caught in her ankle as crimson fluid rises and bubbles inside of her mouth.

Ghost guides the two of you up the cobble stairs, one hand dragging up the wall and the other across your lieutenant’s wingspan.

Your eyes flash at the sudden two objects being thrown down the stairs, the sudden silence as they roll down step…after step…after step before Ghost is swinging you up into arms and yelling.

He’s breaching himself through the door, into open fire before the staircase you had come up from explodes into the emitting heat compressed air and blasts behind the two of you sending you both flying forward.

Smoke engulfs the room, giving both you and Ghost coverage to get behind cover.

You're pulled by the back of your shirt behind a deep freezer, bullets flying and hitting the metal.

“Fuckin’ pricks got us pinned!” His head lifts over to fire at three of the men who have ballistic shields covering those firing LMGs behind. “‘N I’ve got four left.”

You can’t see through the thick smoke—you can’t breathe while wheezing into the crook of your elbow. “Seven,” you inform him.

“Cover me,” Ghost grabs your arm for a moment, letting go and serving around the freezer.

You follow behind him with a raised pistol, shooting off at any glares you're able to see through the fumes.

Six…Five…

A man steps out from cover behind a wine cabinet, but before he can fire his rifle, you pop him in the eye.

Four…

Ghost quickly crouches down and shimmies the rifle out of the corpse’s grip, grabbing at a magazine and stuffing it into his vest he’d managed to keep.

You groan and push over a bookshelf behind Ghost once you’re both out of the smoke. He takes aim and opens fire at three men, blowing holes in their chests before he rams into the fourth with a loud yell and slams down the stock of his assault rifle into his face until his teeth and nose are finely pressed into the persian rug.

You finish off two more who try to walk through the threshold of the room, turning your head over your shoulder at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Two…

You jerk yourself away before you get slugged by a riot shield, ascending yourself and shoving your firearm past the barriers of his lips from behind. You pull the trigger and his head flings as the bullet rings out and creates a sizable hole in the back of his head.

One…

Before his body hits the tile, you take hold of his riot shield and deflect the hail of gunfire from the individual who came emerging from the threshold corner.

You walk forward until his clip is empty to drive the shield into his vest-covered chest, stunning him so you can push it aside and fire your last shot into the underside of his jaw.

Zero.

Bullets continue spraying throughout the entirety of the house while you make sure you don’t pass out from the amount of blood you’ve lost.

You grab the TAQ-V from off the floor and click a new magazine into it, shoving a spare into your back pocket before pushing into the same room as Ghost.

He’s piling bodies on the floor, wrestling for dominance over a knife.

You fastdraw another handgun you’d grabbed off of one of the bodies and shoot the man in his knee cap to allow Ghost to gain the upper hand and pierce the man’s temple with the weapon.

“Thanks,” he says gruffly.

You nod softly, inhaling sharply as you feel wet blood pool around your uninjured foot.

They took your shoes for no reason, like they had a use for them.

Maybe it allows you to move around more quietly, but it still disturbed you that they took the time to even peel off your socks.

“What intel did y’know that we didn’t?” His chest is against yours, head craning down to keep the conversation between the two of you.

“Lieutenant, we don’t…” You pause a moment, your head spinning.

Hunger, thirst, the cold, the blood loss. There was so much holding you hostage and you weren’t even able to comprehend how you were still standing—limping.

“Well, Seargant?” His voice is low, still holding the same husky British drawl.

“We don’t have the time for this, for now—“ Ghost shoves you aside before you can finish, raising the muzzle of his rifle to open fire on the men entering the room.

“Fuckin’ riot shields!” He pulls you behind a flipped over tattered blue couch that had already gone through its fair share of bullets.

A bullet flies and hits the side of the couch a hair’s breadth from your face.

“Goddammit,” he curses while replacing the magazine in his gun.

The men brandishing shields push further.

When one reaches close enough, you run in front of the shield and grab the sides before he crashes into you.

You turn him until his body is vulnerable to Ghost, your teeth ground into each other.

“Ghost!” You yell to catch his attention, head snapping in your direction to fire a single round into the back of his head.

You throw the body off of yourself and yank the riot shield to cover yourself, ducking your head as you recoil your fist and punch one of the men baring LMGs hard twice in the jaw.

You thrust the shield into the next, throwing it into his abdomen as he topples, finishing him off by shooting him down in the chest.

One turns with his M4 raised, but you turn your gun around and bash the stock into the base of his chest, then again into his cheek, swiping your leg across the floor and knocking him down then picking his head up and slamming it down on a thick shard of glass sticking upwards to finish him off.

Ghost drops the last body, finishing off a magazine into his vest and throwing the weapon aside. You toss him another one, which he catches with ease.

“We’ll force upstairs, look f’r our shit, ‘n leave.” He says as he picks up a frag grenade from off a vest.

“There should be Skimobiles somewhere around here, the ones they were using in the FFO,” you nod.

“A’right,” he groans while rolling his shoulders. “On my mark.”

He trudges past bodies until he’s at the threshold of the staircase, stepping up slowly with the grenade in one hand and his gun in his other.

You follow behind leisurely, eye down the scope of your rifle.

He pulls the clip and tosses it up, arm stretching behind to press his hand against your shoulder blade.

“Oh shit—grenade!” A man yells from upstairs before detonation.

“Go!” Ghost immediately backs up off the wall and skips over two steps into the corridor, prefiring as he loops around a wall.

There’s already bodies and limbs splayed across the room from the combatants who were hit by the frag.

Your back rubs against the wall as you lean to shoot down the hallway, whirring bullets firing past you.

After a few back and forths between staying flat against the wall and leaning to fire off your gun, bodies drop and you’re able to progress down the hall.

Ghost is somewhere on the opposite side of the house, you still hear heavy gunfire.

You pause at the sight of another man at the end of the hallway and you recognize him immediately.

The look in his eyes and the scruffiness of his face made your lips stretch in almost the most feral look.

Corbin, that was his name. Callsign ‘Pooch’.

Anger burns in the depths of your lungs and stomach as you grip the wall for support, lunging yourself forward to lift your feet over each body that was littered across the hallway floors.

Sweat ran down the sides of your face and splotched down around the neck of your shirt with the blood.

You watch his face twist into a wolfish grin as he slings his gun over his shoulder and walks towards you.

“Alright, sweetheart.” He purrs.

White noise fills your ears.

All you can see through the glossy shine of your eyes is the man who humiliated you in front of your superior.

All you can see through the blinding red rage is the man who beat Ghost and cracked his ribs, forcing you to watch him retract and twitch at every fleeting fist.

Even the hail of gunfire is silent in your ears as you drag your injured foot. Everything sounds underwater, everything feels dull.

His fist intersects and meets with your cheekbone causing your head to shift to the left and your body to stumble where you stand.

You grip his wrist and divert his second punch by lifting your arm and thrusting your knee roughly into his thigh to tamper his movements.

He groans, with grim chuckles following after. “I’m going to enjoy every last second of this,” he coos.

Your body shivers in disgust as you slide your fingers down to your waist, priming the knife stuffed beneath the hem of your shirt. “Go fuck yourself…” you hiss.

His eyes flicker down to your hand and his boot immediately connects with the middle of your torso, sending you across the floor with a loud thud.

Pooch steps between your legs and lifts your upper body by the neckline of your shirt, his knuckles slamming down to beat on your already swollen face.

Drool and blood pour from your mouth, a strangled gasp leaving you at every punch before he releases you harshly back down onto the floor.

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, the pressure and swelling in your face and head being all too much for you.

A boot is savagely kicked into the lower pit of your abdomen, making you gag on air.

“Get the fuck up.” Pooch spits.

You clutch your stomach and turn, slowly feeling for the knife, then quickly lifting the edge trimming of your tank top and grasping the handle, pulling it out and sweeping your leg around and behind his ankles to knock him off to the side.

He yells out swears as you level yourself over him, his legs kicking out to make your chest rest on the soles of his boots.

Both of your hands grasp the handle of the knife making it easier on your lack of fingers. His hands grip your forearms as you cry out and try forcing the knife down on him.

He kicks his legs up and backwards, upending you over him and sending the knife flying.

You hiss and give yourself no time to recover, flipping on your stomach and army crawling with your forearms to grab the knife.

He topples atop your body, planting a piercing slap across your face before reaching for the knife and propelling it downwards into you.

Before you’re able to block, the knife breaks through the skin in your stomach, your hand managing to grab his wrist before he’s able to gut you open.

You seethe and let out a sharp whine followed by a croaked cry, your other hand circling his wrist in an attempt to push him away.

Quickly, you roll your body off to the side and let go of him, causing the knife to pierce into the wood flooring as you grip a console table to succor yourself up.

Corbin abandons the knife and flings himself upwards, swinging his gun into his arms.

“I’m done playing games.”

You advance on him, grabbing the rifle and pushing it into his chest before he can aim it at you.

One of your hands grip the upper hand guard while the other grips the bolt and holds the muzzle up.

You yank his body over towards the window behind you, turning your body then grabbing the man by the back of his hair and smashing his head through the glass.

It shatters from contact and leaves cuts and shards in his skin, a loud yell clawing its way from his throat.

His finger grips the trigger and bullets roll out into the floor as you pull his head back.

You pull the rifle sling from off his shoulder, tossing it aside and disarming him from the X12 tucked into the back of his pants.

He growls at every tug of his scalp as you shoot him in the back of the leg and force him onto his knees.

A loud wail echoes the hallway from the man below you.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” you snap.

“You don’t get to scream.”

“You don’t get to cry and whine like a little bitch.”

There’s no remorse in your voice, no sense of mercy for the man being held on his knees and whimpering.

You smack the magazine onto the base of his nose, blood dripping it’s way down his nostrils as a struggling noise spills from his lips.

“You…fucking….” he chokes on his own words.

His entire body violently trembles at the tortured scream he releases as you squeeze the trigger again, shooting Pooch in his shoulder then proceeding to stick your thumb into the ravage wound harshly.

“Bitch! Fucking bitch!” He strains and pants like a dehydrated dog trying to jerk away from you.

You replace your finger with your foot, lowering his back against the floor as you press your toe into the bullet hole.

Another scream tears out of him as you blow another hole into the other side—his chest convulses.

Blood seeps from his mouth, you hold the grip of the handgun with both hands and sob out loud as you empty the entire magazine into his head until his face is unrecognizable to the amount of bullet holes.

You keep pulling the trigger, even as the gun starts to click announcing its out of ammunition.

The entire floor below you is covered in gore; flesh, messings of brains, blood, skin.

So much.

Your body snaps around as a hand abruptly drapes over your shoulder, your arm raising the gun ready to bash it into the skull of the next man to try and touch you.

“Thaye, Thaye—y’got him! Thaye, he’s dead!”

Someone calls your name trying to snap you of out haze.

Ghost—your eyes soften with glistening tears as he calmly disarms you after deflecting the hit with his forearm, tossing the handgun aside so he can push you into his chest by the back of your neck.

“‘S over, sweet girl.” Ghost says with intonation. “Can’t hurt ya anymore.”

Your eyes are wide with terror, hands bundling your lieutenant’s shirt as you exhale a shaky mewl.

It’s him who releases you first, handing you your custom rifle and radio.

His balaclava is back on his face, along with the skull mask.

“Y’r vest ‘n boots are in the room I came from,” Ghost jerks his head.

You nod softly and shamble towards the doorway in the direction he’d pointed out.

You pause.

A little boy walks out of the threshold—he’s holding a gun far bigger than his head.

Your eyes widen slightly. “Did these men take you from your family?”

You turn your head over your shoulder to call for Ghost, the sound of a bullet whirring filling your ears.

Ghost wastes no time pulling out his handgun and shooting the little boy in the head before running towards you.

Your right shoulder is screaming at you as time seems to slow down to a crawl. You hear Ghost yell behind you and the gunshot ringing as the little boy falls back and you do too, hitting the ground hard.

The masked man is on his knees in front of you within seconds, lifting your head into his lap.

“Thaye! Thaye, don’t y’fuckin’ die, not now…” He growls, applying pressure down onto your shoulder with both of his gloved hands.

Your lips slant in a tired manner, eyelids feeling heavy. His bloody hand kneads your cheek, smearing gore along your already dirtied skin.

“Fuck! Fuck!” he curses loudly. “Stay awake, love, please…”

God, he was hurting, it hurt to have your head against the burns on his stomach, but he wouldn’t let you die.

“Babygirl,” he says weakly.

All you can see is an uncleanable amount of red seep and cover your shirt.

Your lungs clutch together inside your chest, labored breaths escaping you with a strained noise.

“I know…I know—keep those gorgeous eyes on me, sweetheart.” He inhales a shaky breath, flipping up your blood-crusted hairs from sticking to your forehead.

You whisper an apology, catching his attention as you grip his waist. Ghost’s eyebrows furrow.

“Don’t. Don’t say sorry,” he says. “You did this, you saved our lives, love.”

“‘M just finishin’ the job, ‘lright?” His split and bloody lips find a place on your temple, planting a raw and long kiss to your throbbing skin.

“…’least I got to see your face before—“

Ghost holds you, squeezing your hand as a slight warning. “Don’t talk like that.”

It was a demand.

“That an—“ you spur into a coughing fit, blood spraying onto the man’s vest. “…Order, Lieutenant?”

“Spare y’r energy,” he huffs.

“Simon—“ you slur.

“Stop.” He snarls.

Your ragged breaths start to stray, causing panic to surge through the man above you.

“No,” he growls, squeezing your smaller hand in his a bit tighter than before. “Don’t, Thaye,” he says through clenched teeth.

Your body falls limp in his lap, the grasp loosening on his shirt making his heart pound through his chest, a painful pounding that felt similar to acid reflux.

“No!” Ghost yells, desperately palming at your tangled hair in panic. “Fuckin’ massacre,” he exhales shallowly.

One arm scoops beneath the back of your knees, the other across your shoulder blades with his hand holding your arm.

A loud strained groan claws it’s way from his gullet at the sudden pain inside his ribs as he lifts himself up and off the floor.

His muscles tighten inside his body, a burning sensation in his abdomen as he clutches you close to his chest, feeling your blood seep into his shirt.

☆════━━━┈┈┈┈━━━════☆

The gentle rhythmic beeping and steady flow of air through your nostrils was something that felt unreal and forced.

You slowly flutter your eyes open to light slipping in between the beige curtains. Your eyes are half-lidded and threatening to close against your will as your bandage wrapped hands rests atop the metal railing on either side of you.

It smells of strong floor cleaner and hand sanitizer, a scent that is slightly uneasy on you as you slowly slip back into consciousness.

Your muscles feel tight in your body; pain racking your shoulder and neck as you crane it to take a look around the room.

The walls are spinning and the ceiling above you is spiraling making you sick to your stomach.

On the bedside table to your left—closest to the window—there’s flowers. They’re too withered to try and recognize what kinds, shredding to flakes in your fingers when you caress them between your pinky and thumb.

Your hand drags up to pull nasal tubes out of your nostrils. It’s almost as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe air, throat tightening and lips so still from lack of moisture.

There’s a penetrating migraine in the back of your skull as you carefully swing your legs over the side of the bed, the thin baby pink and spotted hospital gown flowing down your sides leaving you slightly exposed in your thigh region.

Bare and bandaged feet slide along the smooth cold tile, sending chills up your body as you grip the IV stand with your trembling hand, the other holding onto the bed railing for support.

You groan and strain as you struggle to lift yourself up, propelling upwards with your palm and grip on the stand until your knees straighten and your standing up somewhat decently.

Where was Ghost? Is Ghost alive?

So many thoughts coursed through your head along with the punishing feeling of dehydration.

You guide yourself using the wheels on the IV stand towards a counter, your hands gripping the handle of the sink and pulling it upward.

A choked moan manages to break from you as you scoop the water in your hands and swill the rich liquid.

Water dribbles down your chin, which you wipe away before lifting your head to look into the medicine cabinet mirror.

Your hand rests on the wall in front of you as you heave.

They cut your hair shorter, not too short but enough so that it was comfortable. Your entire right side of your face being bandaged, stains of blood being a faint copper color.

Bandages wrapped around your neck and reached down your shoulder you’d been shot in.

Your hair had been taken care of neatly while you were in a coma, that was obvious.

Ghost. Where?

You grip the IV stand and hobble towards the door, turning the knob and gripping the threshold with your other hand as you step out.

A nurse pauses in her tracks, rushing to your side in an instant. “How are you up? Your injuries are critical,” she gasps, palm flattening against the small of your back.

“My lieutenant—…my lieutenant…” you say in an undertone.

“You need bed rest, you’ve only just woken up.” Her voice is gentle yet commanding.

“No,” you bark, shuffling out of her hold. “Please take me to him.”

The woman bites her lip before nodding hesitantly, hand against your back again to guide you towards his room.

It was only a few doors down from you—when the nurse opened the door, allowing you into the room.

You see the back of Ghost’s head facing in your direction, his hair tousled from the bandages wrapping around his head.

“Ghost,” you call.

His head turns from facing the window to facing you, you hear him murmur your name in reply.

“Y’minx,” he breathes. “Hell y’doin’ out ya bed?”

You carefully walk yourself towards him, the nurse holding her hands atop her chest nervously. The sound of the plastic wheels of the stand makes his breath hitch in his throat, the sound of reassurance that you were alive.

“You okay, big man?” Your voice is hoarse from lack of use, but he’s able to that you perfectly.

“D’ya ever worry ‘bout y’self, love?” Ghost asks with a tinge of humor.

Heavy casting was on his right leg, bandages and patches on practically every inch of his body—similar to you.

“Sometimes,” you smile softly and push strands of his hair out of his face, your heart slightly shatters in your chest at the sight of him flinching at your touch.

Ghost scoots himself over slightly, wincing at the sudden movement.

You seat yourself beside him on the large gatch bed and his hand pushes you down to lay beside him.

“Wait, Mr. Riley—“ the nurse takes a small step forward.

“I’ll ‘b fine,” he grunts.

Her eyes blink slightly as she takes a few steps back, her lips separating to speak though no words come out. She simply turns on her ankles and closes the door behind her.

Ghost secures an arm around your waist, pushing your back flush against his bandaged chest.

Your eyes trace his tattoos and the muscles of his arms, every scar and blemish.

“Where’s the force?” You ask quietly.

“Left recently,” he mumbles back tiredly, pressing his nose into your hair. “Y’smell like pomegranate—got y’self a damn spa crew while y’were out?”

You laugh dryly, breaking into a light fit of wheezes.

“Not too hard, Seargant.” Ghost’s finger tucks a loose strand of hair from your bangs behind your ear.

Your wet bandages on your hands rub against his knuckle as you hold onto his hand, he seems to pay no mind.

You turn your body slightly so you can get a better look at his face. “Odd seeing you without your eye black.” You quip.

His closed eyes open to look down at you. “Mm, might as well see m’down in me knickers then, eh?” He chuckles huskily.

“Very funny,” you roll your eyes lightheartedly.

You catch his small glances to your lips, his hand leaving your chest to run his thumb down your bottom lip until that same hand is cupping your cheek lovingly.

His eyes narrow, he’s sleepy, but you still catch yourself propping your body up with your elbow and closing the gap between the two of you.

Instantly, his head cranes and tilts to deepen the kiss, his fingers gently sliding down the side of your face to press his thumb into the underside of your jaw and drag his fingers along the nape of your neck.

Ghost breathes into your mouth, the taste of mint leaf and citrus enveloping your taste buds as his tongue laced over yours.

The kiss was passionate, you feel his eyebrows furrow showing his desperation as you both kissed softly at a gentle pace and motion.

Your eyes flutter open as you feel his warm lips leave yours with a quiet pop, both of you panting lightly with his forehead pressed against yours. Ghost’s eyes are unable to open for a few moments after you disconnect.

When they do open, your eyes bore into his brown orbs, the dark purple hue circling under his eyes showing his deprivation of sleep.

When he feels you buck gently back into his groin, he releases a small grunt, lips meeting yours again for a small chase kiss.

“Not like this,” he says quietly. “I’d take you on this bed right here, right now, but y’ve recently waken up ‘n we’re both still in r’covery.”

You hum in agreement, his hand finding it’s place on your chest once again with the knowledge of your lower abdomen injury.

“‘N to b’honest—‘can barely feel m’damned balls, feels like ‘ve got whiskey dick.” He grumbles, and you bite your lip to suppress a giggle.

“Simon!”

“Don’ you laugh at me, woman.” Ghost lowers his head into the crook of your neck, biting the skin gently

“My deepest condolences, Lieutenant,” you purr, catching his lips in another kiss when you jerk his head upward with your uninjured shoulder. He growls against your mouth in reaction.

There’s a long yet short line of silence as you turn towards his back again, your legs tangling with his as you hold your lips against his knuckles.

“Y’have no clue how strong you are.” He swallows the knot in his throat as he speaks. “God, Thaye, they…they told me there was a chance y’d never wake up.”

“Hey,” you hum. “Stop that, I’m here now.”

His eyes stare blankly at the wall ahead of you, maybe even the same wall you were staring at—if your eyes weren’t closed already.

“I just don’ know what I would’ve done if I made it outta there ‘n y’didn’t make it with me.” He says.

“Y’r the reason I made it out with you in the first place. If y’hadn’t pulled that barmy stunt—“ he pauses, and you feel the rise of his chest and the fall as he exhales deeply.

“Y’survived internal bleeding, trauma to the head ‘n eye, two broken ribs, second and third degree burns, asphyxiation, dismemberment, stab wounds and gunshot wounds..” Ghost squeezes his fist tighter against your chest.

“So did you, Si.” You coo softly.

“Christ…” he mutters.

His fingers interlock with yours best they can, regardless of the most of them being numbs on your knuckles, and it wasn't until your hand rested on his chest and rubbed over the raised scars, that he realized he hadn't been touched so gently in nearly eleven years. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was a feeling that he had craved desperately.

Never had fallen in love before, but he knew you had bad experiences with it—figuring out that your ex-fiancé had cheated on you while on deployment. Someone had to love you, and he was skeptical of it being him, but it was clear you loved him too and now he was scared you’d stop.

But hearing your gentle breathing as you slipped back into sleep hunched into his form led him somewhere he’d never been. You cleared his mind and cleared away his thoughts. For the first time, he doesn’t want to look away from what he has the ability to feel.

#simon ghost x reader #ghostheartfelt #ghostheartfelt writing #simon ghost riley #ghost #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 hurt/comfort #ghost modern warfare #simon ghost x you #simon riley x y/n #simon riley imagine

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five-thousand-loaves-of-bread · 3 months

Text

it easy change my voice on AAC.

easier than mouth speak people.

go to setting. go to voices. look, there entire lists. you can try them on like coats in mall. if don’t like them, in press of button you can have something new.

some, can change pitch. can make deeper. can make higher. can make faster. can make slower.

world in your tablet.

it hard change my voice on AAC.

my AAC. is my voice. is identity.

can change with press of button. but not so easy. we have history. my identity entangled with how AAC sound. how i sound.

change voice feel like loss of identity. feel empty. feel lost. feel like line carve in stone, divide me in past and future.

it hard change my voice on AAC.

do speaking people have to choose from limited list of pre synthesized voices? do speaking people run into other speaking people with same. exact. voice as them, same pronounciation errors, same annunciations, same tone, same exclamation?

do speaking people have to compromise within self and share that same voice with other people, a voice that yours but never fully yours?

it hard change my voice on AAC.

mouth speak people. as they age. mature. grow old. switch context. voice naturally changes. voice grows with them.

mine stops. mine frozen in time.

transition from one life stage to another. should i change a voice? to make pallatable for people around me, more professional, more mature, more “taken seriously,” but lose self in process?

it hard change my voice on AAC.

many choices for “standard” (< white) american (< USA) english. many choices for british english. some choices for spanish.

where my diaspora accents? where my languages?

can my friend not speak their mother tongue?

- thank you for give me outlet for voice, but you all that i have

from nonverbal full time aac user

(as in nonverbal all the time)

#loaf screm #aac #aac user #aac device #nonverbal

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russellsppttemplates · 8 months

Text

One step at a time (Charles Leclerc)

A scare pushes your family even closer and, fortunately, it all turns well

Note: english is not my first language. I've had these requests in my inbox for a really long time, and I've debated on if and how I should write them, because it is a sensitive topic that I feel huge respect about and I hope I have written it in a respectful way. In a way, this is based in stories I've heard, so I hope it is a good depiction as I'm not a doctor nor someone who has experienced this.

Thank you so much to everyone who likes and reblogs, your feedback is appreciated 🤍 and I'm taking requests so if you have any ideas or concepts you want to share, feel free to do so as I'll try to get to them the best I can!

my masterlist

Tw: depicts a potential pregnancy loss for the reader (mentions pain, cramping, anxiety, blood, hospitals)

"Do you have his bag, Charles?", you asked your husband, looking around Hervé's room for his cardigan, "yes, I have it here!", he said back to you from the kitchen. Charles had a full afternoon with meetings and you happened to be needed presently at your office just the day that Hervé's pre-school had an unexpected problem with the electricity and that they wouldn't be able to keep the kids for today. Luckily, Pascale had the day off from her salon, so it was only a couple of minutes of you and Charles running around like headless chickens before you realised the small issue had a solution.

"Ready to go to grand-mère, my love?", you called for your son, helping him put the soft piece on before he grabbed his backpack, "have a good day, buddy! Give grand-mère a big kiss for me, okay?", Charles noted, kissing the top of his son's head and getting up to face you, "and you too, amour, have a good day", he kisser your lips.

Grabbing your bag and Hervé's hand, you saw Charles bend down to face your bump, "and you, little one, I hope you have a good day too, no messing around, okay?", he gently caressed your small baby bump. To anyone else, you probably looked bloated, but Charles couldn't help himself anytime he was near you. After all, you were once again making one of his dreams come true and he wanted to love on you as much as he could, especially when this time around, morning sickness was more of an all day thing.

"Have a good day too, handsome. I'll see you later!", you headed out of the door first, helping your son into his car seat before safely strapping him in and getting on the driver's seat.

Arriving at Pascale's, you knocked on her door and she quickly answered it, "hello, mon petit! Are we going to have a big adventure today?", she laughed at her grandson's excitement upon seeing her, "again, thank you so much, Pascale, you're our saviour", you thanked, kissing her cheek as you bid them goodbye, "be good for grand-mère, okay my love?", you ruffled Hervé's hair, kissing his forehead and helping him inside, "Can we bake a cake?", he asked his grandmother, "That's a lovely idea! To the kitchen we go! Have a good day, chérie!", she yelled, closing the door quickly with one hand as her other hand was being pulled to the kitchen.

The workload for the day wasn't a lot compared to most days, and the morning meetings had been quite okay, and for what felt like after a really long time, you had been able to keep your food down despite the cramps you felt. After all, food barely got that far on your system, so much so that your body was unsure of what to do.

The afternoon meeting was going at a slower pace because the matters in discussion required it, "but I think this would be better for all the patients that work until five. I won't the the one for all of those appointments, and maybe I can't assure the ones until eight or nine o'clock at night, but I know Emilia prefers the later hours", you turned to her, "yes, for me personally it's easier if I get here later and leave later, my daughter's school is flexible, and my wife can pick her up", she reasoned, "so, like this, we can get to more people", one of your other colleagues smiled, writing down the ideas so you could close another topic.

You adjusted your position on the chair, hoping to find one more comfortable when you felt something on your underwear, "did you just pee yourself, Y/N?", you mumbled to yourself, excusing yourself from the meeting so you could go to the bathroom.

Reaching the stall, you untucked your shirt from your pants and pulled them down, underwear included to see a red stain. That was not good, you thought, seeing that it wasn't some small skin knick from the elasticated fabric.

Trying to stay as calm as you could, you called for Emilia, "what's up? Do you need me to unfasten your bra again? I told you your boobs grew at least two cup size- oh", she stopped as soon as she saw your trembling lip, "what's wrong?", she wondered, "I'm bleeding, it's not a lot, but I don't think this is the spotting they say. Can you take me to the hospital, please?", you murmured, accepting her hand as she helped you out of the bathroom.

"You guys carry on with the meeting, okay? I need to take Y/N to the hospital to get checked out", Emilia announced to the room, receiving a million and one questions, "let us know if you need enything, okay?", Nora, one of your older colleagues said. Unlike the most of the team, Nora was already a grandmother and almost like a mother to everyone who worked with you, and she had been the one to tell you to take a pregnancy test, and now, to catch on what was happening, "Y/N", she called for you, seeing your scared face, "everything is going to be alright, yes? You're one of the strongest women I've ever met. I know its difficult, but try not to think the worst, okay. We love you and we are here for you", she smiled reassuringly, kissing your forehead.

Seeing Emilia leave the meeting room with your phone and wallet, "I have your documentation and your phone here, let's go", she calmly said, not wanting to add to the turmoil of emotions you were already feeling.

"I'll ruin your seats", you thought out loud once you got to her car, "here! Let me put this down", Emilia thought fast, grabbing what looked like her daughter's towell, "Laura said that she doesn't like it anyway", she tried to get your mind off and distract you as you sat down and she started driving, "claims it's not sparkly enough and it doesn't match her personality. Can you believe that? A towell doesn't match the personality of a five year old!", she smiled apologetically, "are you in pain?", she questioned, "just cramps, but very small ones, they're barely there if I don't pay attention honestly", you breathed out, "it's two minutes to the hospital", she checked.

Arriving at the hospital, the emergency room was packed and you looked around in a fret, knowing that it would be a while for someone to get to you. Emilia saw someone in scrubs and that was enough for her, "sorry, excuse us, doctor! My friend here is bleeding", she yelled through the room, hoping to catch his attention, "I feel it down my pants", you gulped as the effort you had been putting on not crying long gone as tears fell on your cheeks, "I'm a nurse, let me", he encouraged you as he bent down to carry you, placing one arm under your knees and one around your back as he walked as quickly as he could into the corridor, "pregnant woman, early thirties, bleeding in what could be a potential miscarriage!", he yelled, grabbing the attention of some of his colleagues as they took a good look at your situation, one of them grabbing a wheel chair and approaching you, "Hi, we are going to take care of you two, okay? I just need your ID", she soflty said as Emilia handed it to her, "now let's go and see what is happening here", the male nurse wheeled you to the room where they kept the emergency ultrasound, "there's a lot of blood", you mentioned, not enjoying the silence despite the rush around you, "Hi, Y/N, let's see, okay? Yu know this could be a-", the doctor who had just arrived began, "A miscarriage, I know, I- I can feel that I'm bleeding a lot", you whispered, "I'm going to examine you now", she informed, working up the machine and looking at the screen, "Oh, here they are", she pointed to the screen, urging one of the nurses to use the cardiac monitor so you could hear the baby's heartbeat, "this is your baby's heartbeat, Y/N. Your baby is here", she showed you. And it triggered you to cry a little bit more, looking at Emilia as she squeezed your hand.

"Still,", the doctor noted, cleaning up the device before she made room so the nurses would help with the rest, "this could mean two things: you could've had a placental abruption, and they tend to solve on their own with bed rest, but it could also be the start of a miscarriage. Medically, we can't tell them apart until it happens, there's no medication we can give you that can help, so I'd like to keep you for observation", she stated, earning your nod as you felt the nurses help you into a clean wheelchair, ready to take you up to a room.

After cleaning and freshening up as you could, you looked at the clock and gathered that it was time to call Charles, "I've texted the team to let them know how you were doing already", Emilia said as she handed you your phone, "thanks", you mumbled, taking a deep breath before hitting the call icon so you could speak to your husband, knowing his meeting was finished by now, "Hello, amour. I was just about to call you and ask if you wanted me to pick up Hervé", your husband said on the other end of the line, "Hi, actually, you might want to put that off. When I was at work, I noticed I was bleeding in my underwear, so Emilia took me to the hospital and they're keeping me for observation. But I heard the baby's heartbeat", you said all in one go, "are you feeling good?", you heard the strained tone of Charles' voice, "yes, but, I want you here", you gulped, "I'm on my way, mon amour. I love you, okay? I'll be there in a bit", Charles said before he dialed off the call.

"I'll be here until Charles gets here", Emilia pointed as she felt you were about to brush off the whole situation and tell her to go home, "besides, Laura would probably tell me that her backpack doesn't match her personality and, quite frankly, the day is not calling for it", she attempted to make you smile, smiling too when the corners of your lips lifted a little.

You must've have fallen asleep because you woke up with Charles' lips kissing your forehead, "hey", he called gently, "I'm already going, Y/N. I hope everything works out well", Emilia smiled as she blew you kiss, closing the door behind her.

Charles pulled the chair as close to your bed as possible, sitting down and holding your hand in his, "hi", you murmured, unsure of how to begin the conversation, "I'm glad you're here".

Your husband was quick however, "of course, my love. I texted my mum and she said she doesn't mind having Hervé spend a few days with her", he began, "and how are you feeling? What happened?", he asked gently.

You were explaining what happened, from the moment you left the meeting until the doctor examined when you heard a knock on the door, the nurse and doctor that had checked you in asking if they could check on you.

"This is Charles, my husband", you introduced, seeing him shake their hands, "thank you so much for what you've done while I wasn't here", he thanked them, waiting for them to continue and explain what had happened to you so he too could hear it.

"So now we just wait?", he questioned, "yes, unfortunately we don't have any other way to deal with this situation other than bed rest", she explained, "from the scans we did earlier, it seems like it's not a big situation, but I understand your worries and doubts. This is a worrisome situation, but we are doing everything we can to make sure your baby stays safe in your uterus", she smiled, looking at the CTG machine, "your baby looks comfortable, and their heartbeat is good, very strong", she allowed you to hear the sound, knowing it usually calms the parents a little bit to hear the noise, "the bleeding seems to have stopped to", the nurse conforted, too.

Your doctor was paged for an emergency, leaving you with the nurse that had initially helped you, "I wanted to thank you for what you did to my wife, I really appreciate it", Charles said, "my wife and I also had a scare like this, so I know how it is to be on the other side. Now we have a three year old boy that resembles a storm everywhere he goes. Just take this one step at a time. By the looks of it, you should be going home tomorrow", he said, "I'm sure it will be a little better to be at home rather than here", he excused himself.

After one last check-up, your doctor didn't see the need to keep you at the hospital since things were looking up, prescribing you bed rest for the foreseeable weeks.

"Here, amour, are you comfortable like this?", he asked, arranging the pillows on the sofa, "I am, thank you", you whispered, kissing his cheek when he sat next to you, "one step at a time, okay?", you reassured, "is your mother still bringing Hervé? Or do you need to go and pick him up?", you wondered.

"Mum texted me saying she would leave in a few minutes, so any minute now", he smiled, "I've sent an email to the team, and now that there's a break, they need me a little less so hopefully I'm home more often than I am not", Charles explained, hearing a knock on the door, "must be them".

Hervé was quick to run to greet you on the sofa, "Grand-mère said you were not feeling good, mama. Can I give you a kiss?", he asked, bring weary of approaching you, "it's okay, mon ange, I'm okay. You can sit here next to me", you smiled, opening your arms so he could cuddle your side, "I told him he needed to be careful now and that he should be even more well behaved now so he could help mama get better and help papa, too", Pascale added, approaching you and kissing your forehead lovingly, "all will be well, chérie", she whispered, leaving you three.

"Mama, I made you a drawing", Hervé announced, grabbing the sheet of paper from his backpack and showing it, "it's a sun, some clouds and a rainbow. Because even when it rains, sometimes you see a rainbow", he announced happily, "That's right, my love", you cheered, feeling Charles sit next to you on the sofa, "I have you boys with me, there is no rain that is going to bring any harm", you expressed your gratitude, feeling Charles embrace you both while Hervé picked out a movie for you to watch.

Hervé walked hand in hand with his gradmother after she picked him up from pre-school, "I'm going to see my mama and my sister," he announced to anyone that they crossed on the hospital corridor, his big brother badge earning many smiles and compliments on the labour ward, "mama and papa are in that room there, but do you remember what I told you, mon petit?", Pascalr asked softly, earning a nod, "mama needs to rest, and I have to be careful with her tummy because that is where Amélie came from", he said, "And your voice?", she smiled, "quiet voice", he nodded before she knocked on the door, Charles coming to open it and greet his eldest and his mother.

Hervé curiously looked around, taking everything in and seeing you on the bed with your daughter sleeping on your chest, "Mama", he whispered, approaching you.

Charles helped him up to sit on the bed next to you without hurting you before greeting his mother, thanking her for looking after the little boy, "Hey mon petit, how are you?", you brushed his soft hair with your fingers, not receiving an answer as he was mesmerised with the little baby on your chest, "can I touch her cheek?", he asked, his little hand stretching, "of course, mon ange", you urged, seeing Charles and Pascale sit on the sofa by the window.

"Her skin is so soft", he noted, earning chuckles from everyone, "it is, very soft", Charles agreed as he watched Hervé completely mesmerised with his sister, "is she going to join us when me and papa go see the karts?", "when she's older, yes. For now we'll stick to laying on us, letting her sleep and some tummy time later".

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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jennelikejennay · 8 months

Text

Nobody asked for this but it's time for an essay on Spock's body temperature.

Some people say Spock would have a hot body temperature because he is from a hot planet.

Others say he would have a cold body temperature because he is from a hot planet.

It seemed to me that we could test this thesis! Do animals from hot climates have a hotter or colder body temperature than animals from cold climates?

Humans have a roughly average temperature for mammals, 98.6 F (37 C).

Penguins have a core temperature of 100-102 F. Polar bears have a temperature of 98-99 just like we do. They can maintain this temp even in 40 below zero temps!

What about hot weather animals? The camel can vary from 93-104 F—a huge range, but on average around the same as ours. The elephant also has a large range, 95-99 F.

The coldest-blooded mammal is the echidna, at 89 F. The hottest is the hummingbird, at 107. Neither of these is from an extreme environment. It's more about the metabolism: the echidna's is slow and the hummingbird's is fast.

And yet, you see the range is not very great among mammals. This is because many enzymes work efficiently at these temperatures. Above about 104 F, some start breaking down. By 131 F, there's not much enzyme activity that can happen.

Okay, so: Vulcans. We know that they will not have an especially warm or cool body temperature because of the climate. Since they're warm blooded (an assumption, I admit! But I will defend it later) they will have an ideal core temperature their body will function best at and have features to maintain that despite the heat.

Note: Vulcans can also survive more extreme cold than humans; that's why Spock has to help Bones in a blizzard in All Our Yesterdays. This makes sense to me, because desert climates like Vulcan are prone to extremes. It might get very cold there at night with little moisture to trap the heat. This is one reason I think Vulcans are warm-blooded—a cold-blooded creature would have been useless in a blizzard. The other reason is that cold blooded creatures have a slower metabolism in general, and Spock could not possibly be described as slow moving or slow thinking.

Okay, so what is the Vulcan metabolism? Is it faster or slower than humans? My guess is faster, because of their fast heart rate, strength, and quick thinking. That said, we don't have solid proof either way. It might make sense for them to have a slower metabolism so that their body produces less heat and is less likely to get into the enzyme denaturing zone on a hot Vulcan day.

Which brings us to another question: how do they beat the heat? They seem perfectly comfortable in their climate, they're not using behavioral practices to stay cool as humans from hot climates do. They must have ways to efficiently radiate heat from their core. Those ears, for instance. Remember elephants? Their huge, flappy ears are a major cooling mechanism for them. They are able to push more blood through the small capillaries of their ears in hot weather and restrict it when the temperature drops at night. This is called vasodilation—controlling blood flow to either shed or retain heat. We do it too, though not as much. When you're hot, your ears will be hotter. Out in the cold, your fingers and toes will get much colder than your core.

Like camels, elephants can maintain a larger range of body temperatures than humans can. That's another coping technique they have. Other ways to shed heat include sweat and panting.

I never really imagined Vulcans as very sweaty. In a desert climate, methods of cooling that involve water loss wouldn't be ideal.

Here's my guess: they are extremely efficient at regulating core temperature by controlling blood flow. In hot temperatures, their skin and especially their ears would be hot, but their insides would be maybe 100 degrees. When it cools down, their skin would be very cool to the touch, but they would keep a core temperature in the 90s. They might also be able to speed up and slow down their metabolism somewhat to control their temperature.

So. On the Enterprise, which is kept at a comfortable temperature for humans...I think Spock would be a little chilly to cuddle. If you want a warm cuddle with Spock, go to his quarters, where he keeps it nice and toasty.

This has been my xenobiology deep dive for today.

#star trek #spock #spirk #vulcans #biology #vulcan biology

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fun-k-board · 7 months

Note

Hey again 😄😄😄

Thank you so so much for the smoke headcanon I really enjoyed it, I was wondering if you could do it again but this time with reptile please ??

Syzoth / Reptile Friendship / General Headcanons

Note(s) : You're a regular human and not a champion, it's implied you're friends with the human kharacters and meet Reptile through them.

Reptile is extremely anxious around you at first because you're not a champion, you're just an Earthrealmer with no fighting skills or prior knowledge on Outworld, and he finds himself a little confused on your presence most of the time.

As such, he finds himself explaining to you a lot of things that he would believe are just common sense. He doesn't get annoyed though, because he realises his constant questions on regular human ideas must be strange too.

He's still a Zatteran despite his ability to shapeshift into a human form, and so, any human social cues you've mastered will probably be strange to him, and vice versa.

Syzoth will typically eat bugs like cockroaches, spiders, flies, and forgets that some human cultures don't have that normalised, but he's extremely overjoyed when he finds out that certain places consider bugs a delicacy. He basically begs you to take him to those places.

If Johnny invites you to be in a movie, whether acting or stage hand, Syzoth, and by extension a large chunk of the Kast, will a million percent also be there after being coincidentally, also invited by Johnny! He's interested in Earth culture, and after watching Predator, which scared the daylights out of him, he wants to know the process behind movies.

Hundred percent asks to see movies with you, apart from horrors, never show him a horror movie, he will not be able to sleep for weeks.

Movie nights are incredibly common, a lot of other non Earthrealmers join in as well! It becomes very cramped very fast in your house, let's hope Johnny is nice enough to lend you all his mansion for the night.

He's a big fan of superhero media, there's always an invisible person, although he finds the fact a lot of them have to strip incredibly strange, or some type of half human half animal hybrid, he feels at home a lot of the time watching those types of superheros.

He can't stomach human food, so if he ever stays at yours for a sleepover or just to hang out for a day, he'll be an exterminator for you and eat any bugs he can find as his lunch / dinner. It's very helpful during summer.

Speaking of summer, he always wears his usual attire even in unbearable heat, he's uncomfortable with his human form and he feels awkward to show more of it. Besides, he likes to keep warm because he gets cold too easily, and when he's cold he gets slower which is impractical and annoying.

After the death of his wife and children, he's been looking for a distraction, he needs some form of comfort and he feels talking to you and his other friends is a huge help. Especially if you've experienced a close loss before, even if you don't know ways to help cope, you can always find ways to help each other heal together.

He tries to ask you for dating advice with Ashra, this most likely goes over well no matter how horrible your advice is, because Ashra and Syzoth are the best couple and are so wholesome nothing could offend either.

Syzoth is always awkward around dinners, whenever he's invited to Madam Bo's by one of the Kast of you, he sort of just sits around and tries to talk instead of eat. Reptiles learned after a while that it's impolite to humans when you just eat bugs out of the air, which he doesn't understand, and so refrains from eating at most public dinners.

He really wants to bring you to Zattera, but he knows far too well that they don't take kindly to warm blood, and while he understands his people's reason, he's still disappointed.

Luckily! He can visit your home in Earthrealm.

He does unfortunately get a lot of stares when he visits your home, your family and even strangers on the street always assume he's a cosplayer.

After he gets roles for a few of Johnny's movies, he becomes a micro celebrity of some sorts, including you if you decide to star in them. People recognise him on the streets and he gets rather embarrassed, but also very appreciated, he feels a lot of love around fans.

Apart from the weird ones... He tries to tell people that he's taken, with a wonderful girlfriend who'd he'd never betray, but... He needs you to chase them off a lot.

I imagine at first, your family and friends might think he's really weird, like, not even 'wow that was strange' weird, but 'never invite this man to be close to my vicinity again' type weird.

He's always looking around suspiciously, eyes wide, sweaty, sometimes he looks like he's going to speak but then holds a hand over his mouth, always when there's a fly near...

But, it only takes a day of knowing him for them to switch up and genuinely adore him.

They invite him around all the time, he's sweating buckets and terrified of messing up, but they're so taken aback by how goddamn sweet this guy is they don't notice.

Once again, you become his saviour and help him whenever they get too talkative about where he's from. They don't know about Outworld, and Liu Kang would prefer it if you didn't spill to everybody.

He finds human fashion a bit strange, but he actually really likes hoodies, especially the ones with short sleeves, they feel comfortable and he can move around a lot without it being a hassle of detangling and annoyance. He also likes wearing fingerless gloves everywhere.

Introducing him to Earthrealm music is... Interesting, to say the least. He really enjoys a lot of them! Especially classical, they're closer to what he knows from Outworld, but, he's also surprised at how much he likes a lot of modern music.

I'm spreading my Britney Spears fan Syzoth agenda and you can't stop me.

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ailithnight · 1 year

Text

Aheem... prompt from @regonold

16 Hours

Danny remembers the first time something shorted out his powers. Vlad with his stupid Plasmius Maximus thing. Well, 'remembers'. Mostly he remembers the aftermath.

Apparently Vlad hadn't known at the time exactly how Danny ended up half ghost. He thought it had been a slower progression like his own development. It hadn't occurred to him that Danny's original death had been much quicker.

Danny remembers a short, light shock. Really, the spector deflector was worse. But this shock... suddenly his muscles were seizing, his heart stuttering, his Lichtenbergs burning. And then, nothing. A blank space in Danny's head that apparently spanned 3 hours.

Next thing he knows, they're in some kind of vehicle. There are sirens outside (a police escort, Danny would later learn). His mom is driving like her life depends on it. And Vlad is giving him chest compressions, looking grieved and panic striken. He's crying. They both are.

"Please tell me you didn't have to kiss me." His voice comes out pained and raspy. Mom almost crashes the vehicle.

"No, Little Badger. Thankfully, you kept breathing. Just your heart that was struggling." Vlad chuckled, guilty yet relieved.

It was another hour before they made it to the nearest hospital from the stupid hunting cabin. 6 more for all the stupid medical tests. "An accident," Vlad told them. "Small shock, but with an already weak heart..."

Any other time, Danny might have argued. Tried to make Vlad admit more guilt. But the whole ordeal had exhausted him to much to care then.

The second time was marginally better. At least with the Fenton Crammer, it was a steady loss. And Danny managed to fix it before his healing factor fully failed. It still hadn't been pleasant, fighting Skulker and dealing with Dash while phantom echoes of his death arced across his body. But he'd managed.

This. This is so much worse. Danny thought it would be like the Crammer again. A steady decline. But it isn't.

And it isn't like the Maximus either, a one then done, pain then nothing, dying then dead, moment.

No. This is more like the blood blossoms. This is torture. This is hell.

The suppression cuffs let just enough of his power bleed through, just enough healing factor, to keep him alive. Alive and in agony for... hours? Days? Weeks? Minutes? Danny couldn't really tell. His thoughts had long since turned to nothing but static and pain. All he knew was that time was passing around him while he was here, suffering on the absolute brink of death yet unable to embrace it.

Oh god he wanted to die. Please just let him die already! It's too much. A death that should only last a few seconds drug out into an eternity. His muscles ached with the strain of being locked up. His insides were broiling from the electric heat. His heart stuttered and stopped and started and stuttered. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts!

He might have been screaming. He might have been Wailing. Or he might he been choking on weak uneven breaths. Danny didn't know. Didn't care to know. Didn't care if he ever found out the details of his time in chains. He just wanted, no needed, it to end. But it just dragged on and on and on. And Danny was lost in it.

Too far gone to even realize when it ended.

Batman hadn't been there when the new meta appeared, quite literally materializing from nowhere in the conference room mid-meeting. He had been dealing with a mass Arkham breakout at the time. So he wasn't there. An unfortunate fact which will haunt him for the rest of his life and possibly beyond.

He should have been there. If he had only been there...

He didn't blame his team mates. They didn't know. Who would have guessed that simple power suppression cuffs could ever be an instrument of torture. He'd never considered it possible.

He didn't blame his team mates. How could he blame them? Batman wasn't even the one to connect the dots. Red Robin figured it out. He always was good at stringing together thoughts know one else would think to connect.

Red Robin asked the right questions. He figured out in 5 minutes what the rest of the league and the best doctors -not technically- on earth had been agonizing over for 16 hours.

16 hours too long.

He should have been here. Should have come sooner.

"Don't know, B!" Flash had met him at the Zetas, already rambling at top speed before he could reorient himself after teleportation. Everyone else had gone home, unable to help and needing to tend to their own cities and responsibilities.

"He just- He appeared out of nowhere while we were in meeting. Didn't trip any alarms or nothing. Just popped up. We figured it had to be teleportation, but he'd have to know where the Watchtower was to do that.

So we figured, you know, random kid teleporting into the Watchtower during a Justice League meeting. Not good. Big threat. Bats would tell us to detain. So we did.

But before we could get him to a holding cell, there was this flash of light and he changed or something. He had white hair and green eyes and some sort of jumpsuit on when he appeared.

But after the light he had black hair and a t-shirt and jeans and I actually didn't see his eyes cause he just collapsed on the spot.

Started convulsing or seizing or something. And screaming. God, B, the screaming... So we took him to medbay and...

He's dying B. He has to be. He's got a fever that keeps spiking and dropping, his muscles keep spasming, and his heart keeps giving out...

He looks 14. He looks like..."

Flash had trailed off there, as they reached medbay. Bruce understood his reluctance to complete that sentence as soon as he saw the boy.

He looks like a Robin.

Like all 4 of his sons combined.

Like someone mixed Dick's and Jason's faces and put it on Tim's body at Damian's age.

It can't even be a trick. The suppression cuffs are nullifying his abilities. This is what he truly looks like.

His sons.

In pain.

In agony for 16 hours because Batman prioritized Gotham over an emergency on the Watchtower.

"When exactly did you say he collapsed."

"When we were moving him to a holding cell after we caught him. He was a trick to catch too. He-"

Red Robin cut him off. "Yeah, sure. But when exactly did this start. What happened immediately before?"

Flash was less then pleased about being interrupted, but acquiesced after a look from Batman. Tim had an idea. Tim was on to something. "Like I said, just after we caught him and got the cuffs on so he'd stop slipping away again."

Bruce couldn't keep the growl out of his voice one he realized what Tim was suggesting. Of course he knows it wasn't their fault. He's told all of them as much since. But in the moment...

"Take them off!"

"What?"

"It's the cuffs! Take the damn cuffs off! They're killing him!"

Flash wasted no more time, bolting out of the room to fetch the disabler. Tim didn't bother waiting for the fastest man alive. He had the cuffs disabled before Flash would have been able to swipe his access card into the detainment center storage room. Bruce practically threw the cuffs out of the room in his haste to get them away.

The change had been... not nearly as quick as Bruce would have liked. The heartrate settled out almost instantly, although into something a bit too slow for comfort. But it was steady and Bruce knew nothing about this kid's normal physiology so he counted it a win.

The screaming, of course, had long since choked off. According to Flash's report, his vocal cords failed after about an hour. But his facial expressions still indicated consciousness, though not awareness.

The muscles stopped spasming and unlocked slowly over the course of several minutes. Flash was back by then, looking a bit put out to have lost a race against Red Robin. Batman could not give a single flying fuck about Flash's ego right then.

Shortly after his muscles unlocking was when he finally passed out. Once more, Batman thought about 16 hours. 16 hours and he hadn't even been able to slip into unconsciousness for relief. He should have been here.

The fever was the slowest to break. In that it still hadn't broken almost 2 hours later. Batman had sent Tim and Flash home after Red Robin finished squeezing all the details he could out of Barry. Tim had given him a look before leaving, some mixture of worry and mischief. "Should I tell Agent A to prepare a room?" Bruce just rolled his eyes and shooed him off. Hopefully to bed. Knowing his son, probably not. Tim was most likely still up doing research. Bruce wanted to call Alfred to wrangle Tim to sleep.

But calling Alfred would mean leaving the room so the still potentially a threat meta couldn't hear if he woke up. And Bruce couldn't leave him. Not until the fever broke. Not until he woke up. Not until he knew the boy that looked like his sons would be okay.

Not until he could apologize for being late.

16 hours.

16 hours too late.

#DP x DC #my writing #Danny needs his ghost powers to live AU #Lookit #Everyone commenting on that post like it would take days to figure it out #No #Just no #Bat comes in #Or Red Robin here #Cause Batman takes one look at the kid and starts shutting down #Danny looks too much like his sons #But the detective family #You cant convince me not at least one of the Bats would jump to the right answer nigh instantaneously #Them are some smart Birds #Ya feel?

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justporo · 6 months

Text

Senseless

Astarion, Staeve and the others barely survived their last big fight. Staeve can barely take the exhaustion which might or might not be amplified by how his local vampire has been regularly feeding on him. He desperately tries to push through... And Astarion has a few things to say about that.

MASTERLIST | AO3

Author's Note: This will be quite long, so... sorry! But I have a few things to add about this. First of all, I dedicate this piece of writing to the lovely @velnna - creator of the legendary Staeve and incredible artist! (Check him out if you don't know him already, I will say it again) This story is a continuation to "Bloodless". Back during writing that I already imagined Staeve being the Tav in that story (but didn't officially make it so). Back then I was waaay to too scared to tag velnna - but: I recently found out (well, he told me himself- and very kindly), that he indeed found it, read it - and liked it! (I was in shock...) And so I immediately thought that I would have to write an actual Staeve x Astarion piece for him. So here we are! @velnna, thank you so much for your kind words - I will be thinking of this and be motivated by it for a long time! And thank you also for all the amazing art you provide this community with! It's written from the usual second person POV - but it's STAEVE!

Pairing: Astarion/Staeve (You, male reader) Warnings: none, but major Act 2 spoilers so it will fully remain below the cut Wordcount: 3,5k ~~~

Barely, just barely had you all made it out of this godsdamned mausoleum alive. And after slaying a demon, oh, some other folks too, completing the Gauntlet of Shar, and a trip to the Shadowfell, you felt positively exhausted. And you felt that it was rightfully earned. Especially knowing that you wouldn’t get much rest before you were taking on an even bigger threat.

No rest for the wicked, it seemed – even though you weren’t entirely sure if that meant you or your foes.

You’d been pretty much exhausted even before you had entered the mausoleum and then what lay beneath (and before a certain devil had made it even worse). All because a certain vampire had to be kept fed and happy. Not that you were complaining about it though.

The two of you had your disagreements about it. Especially since you had already ended up in the dirt once because you might’ve been just a tad too eager about offering your neck to the vampire. You had both agreed to take it a bit slower after that - at least with the whole feeding thing.

Although you had still felt like it hadn’t been that much of a deal, the vampire had kept hissing at you to not be so desperate, as he called it. You would have called it: being way too stubborn to accept some godsdamned help.

And that is what had become of you both: two idiots, not really being able to admit to each other how deeply you actually cared for the other. Until just recently.

But even with that - it still meant you were both very much on uncharted territory. And putting feelings into words after such a long time of just trying to suppress them was by far not an easy feat to achieve.

And then, when you had entered the Shadowlands with barely anything alive in it – what else could you have done but to offer yourself up again? Astarion’s survival instincts had kicked in once more and so had your urge to provide – for as long as you were able to be there for him.

On top of that, the moments of tenderness that always followed, holding each other, kissing each other, deeply, – and before a certain night not long ago, often more – had done their fair share of consoling you about just a little blood loss. Barely anything couldn’t be forgotten as long as you were laying in the arms of someone you wanted to just keep holding onto – right?

But as much as you tried to ignore it: you still felt it. Felt how the generous donations to your local vampire tended to make you a little sluggish. Maybe it was even a bit more than just a little. More than once causing you to only make a critical dodge or lift your blade to parry in the last possible moment. Your A game definitely looked different.

But then again: did you want to be responsible for Astarion’s waning strength when it was so easy to just saunter over to him in the evening? Talk to him, get him to throw some of his sultry lines at you, cheesing your way to the same moment almost every night where you deliberately offered the vampire to feed on you. And he always accepted in the end.

It had become a well practised dance between the two of you over the past time spent in these godsforsaken lands. And so it had been in like about you trying to hide the effects all of this had on your constitution

So, when you had come out of the damned crypt – alive, even if only by a hair – your first order had been to lie down. Just right in front of the stone arch. Right in the dirt.

“Gods above and below”, you whispered, letting out a sigh and spreading out all of your limbs.

As soon as you made contact with the ground you knew it would be next to impossible to get up again in the near future. So, you settled for getting cosy with what you got. Which meant wiggling around until you found a somewhat comfortable position where the sword on your back wouldn’t press too much into your back.

“Gods, Staeve, you couldn’t wait ten seconds?”, Shadowheart scoffed and made a big step over one of your stretched out limbs – too stubborn to actually find a way around you. Incredible, how she still had the energy to be sassy after everything that must be weighing on her mind now. But then again, you really couldn’t blame her for deflecting with a generous amount of sarcasm.

“Ten seconds? What difference would that have made, eh?”, you answered her.

You lifted your head up a little. “I’d just be lying over there then”, you continued and weakly pointed down the path a bit.

The cleric just rolled her eyes at you and groaned at you again as the rest of the companions left the dusty old place as well. All of you blood covered and feeling exhaustion down to your bones.

You closed your eyes as you felt the fatigue grab almost complete hold of you. Meanwhile you heard how some of the others settled down around you. Halsin, who’d been lightly injured in the fight, winced as he sat down.

Your eyes flew open at the sound of it and lifting your head up again, you looked at him. But the druid just smiled and waved you off - no big deal, thankfully. So you let your head sink to the ground again, eyes shutting with a sigh. You barely had it in you to stay awake right this moment.

Your limbs felt heavy as lead, and you felt the drag on your eyelids. Meanwhile your pulse was still thrumming in your chest and your ears. A nervous rhythm that threatened to become the only thing baring you from drifting off to blissful and much needed sleep.

You were well aware that this kind of exhaustion wasn’t normal - even with everything you and the others had gone through. It had slowly become more and more - up to where you were now lying in the dirt, not sure if you would make it to camp tonight. Might be you were kind of in a pickle - but best not to dwell on it.

Next time you opened your eyes was when you heard some rustling quite near to you. It was Astarion, kneeling next to you. He was giving you one of his judgemental glances with a raised eyebrow, red eyes piercing as ever.

“Oh, hi love”, you said and grinned, tiredly wiggling your eyebrows at him. The vampire didn’t even acknowledge you - except for his eyebrow rising still a bit higher.

“So”, he drawled, an edge to his voice you couldn’t fully place, “are we getting up or do we have to carry you, love.” He made a little dramatic pause before he sarcastically spat out the last word.

You slapped your hand to your armoured chest with some effort and made a face that hopefully conveyed how hurt you felt by his implied accusation.

Astarion didn’t give a shit about your histrionics.

So you decided for a comeback.

“My friend, you aren’t carrying anyone, anywhere at any time in the near future”, you replied dryly. You heard Karlach snicker somewhere behind you. At least you’d gotten someone’s approval. The vampire gave the tiefling a death glare, then his ruby gaze wandered back to you.

And then it kept lingering on you. Something in the vampire’s eyes had changed and it was beginning to startle you.

And well - usually by now he should have taken up the banter with you again. Could it be, he was actually worried? Like really, actually worried?

“Look”, you said and used some of the little power you had left in your body to push up to a position that was at least somewhat close to sitting up. Immediately you started to feel dizzy.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all. We all are, aren’t we?”, you continued as you desperately tried to not let it be known how much your surroundings were spinning around you at the moment.

Quite obviously you were doing a terrible job at that because there was now open worry on Astarion’s face. Even the usual sharp edge of teasing in his voice had been dulled down by now: “And you want to take on Ketheric Thorm tomorrow? And all his thugs? Like this?”

You were definitely getting a little annoyed at him now. The others had gone dead silent. They must’ve been feeling too that this situation might be about to go sideways. You didn’t care.

And as much as you felt him tug on your heartstrings with the sad round puppy eyes he offered you now - did he have to make it so public? You were just not having it.

Using every last ounce of energy that you still had within you, you made to stand up. Astarion’s eyes widened some more and he cautiously stood up as well. His brows were furrowed now.

You gathered your legs beneath you with quite some effort. The world around you was really rushing past you now, but you were determined to bite through it. Then you pushed up to a standing position - straightening your back for extra effect and pointing a very passive-aggressive finger at your vampire.

“I’ll have you know tha-”, you began in a sassy tone.

But then no one would ever find out what you would have wanted to let them know. Because your vision blackened rapidly, closing in from the edges and you already felt the strange sensation of toppling over. Gravity inevitably pulling you back to the ground you had just stood up from.

The last thing you felt were arms that caught you under the armpits, with quite some effort. You heard strained groans and a hissed “idiot” very close to your ear. Then you passed out completely.

~~~

You woke up in dire confusion about where you were and how you’d gotten there. You lifted up your torso and blinked profusely to try and clear your vision. You also immediately reached for a dagger that would have usually been at your side. But you were also out of your armour it seemed. Oh, and laying on some pillows? A blanket draped over you?

You closed your eyes again and pressed the balls of your hands to your eyes. And you groaned as you felt a headache creep up on you now that you had woken up.

Since there seemed to be no imminent dangers around you sunk back onto the pillows. You realised that your shirt had been taken off as well. Pain thrummed through your skull.

Your hands dropped from your face, your vision cleared more and more and you realised that you were laying in someone else’s tent. And as you took a closer look at the ceiling of the tent, your brows furrowed. Because you very well knew which tent it was you were laying in. You’ve had your fair share of staring up at this very particular fabric from this very particular spot.

Your head popped up again from the pillows. And you found Astarion sitting at your feet, in his camp clothes. Legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest and very much glowering at you. His red eyes were basically boring into you.

“Oh, are we awake again? Back from the land of the dead, hm? Rise and shine then, my love, since you seemed so eager to do so earlier!”, the vampire immediately went into a tirade.

“You’re not even going to give me a few more moments to just really wake up?”, you replied flatly. But you could already feel his words evoking shame within you. You rubbed one of your eyes once more, trying to look innocent.

The vampire kept fuming: “Were you planning on telling me how much the blood loss affected you again?”

“No.”

Astarion obviously could barely believe your audacity as well as your honesty by the way his eyes first widened and then narrowed even more at you. But he kept silent.

“Were you planning on stopping to take my offered blood?”, you posed in return when there was no further reaction coming from Astarion.

You regretted the words as soon as they had left your tongue. Knowing it was a cheap shot because this was still very much you insisting on being the one to take care of his needs. And also hiding the negative side effects.

You immediately felt the twinge of guilt as you saw how Astarion’s eyes couldn’t help but stray from yours as he registered your words. Your headache accordingly sent a bolt of pain through your skull, making you groan.

You closed your eyes in desperation for a second, trying to swallow down the thought that you had just put this guilt onto him. Blaming him for his basic needs of survival even if you hadn’t meant it like that at all.

As you compulsively tried to think of something to say, you heard the vampire speak again: “Well, as much as I enjoy you falling for me. Maybe you could try and… avoid it next time.”

Your throat closed up. Immediately, the double meaning very much wasn’t lost on you.

And not only did you instantly recognise the tone of him deflecting with something harsh and sarcastic but you could also almost see how his old and very much practised mask slipped back in its place.

You felt how the whole situation was slipping from your fingers. Desperate to do something about it, you got up from the still half-lying position you were in and crawled over to where the vampire was now looking at you with trained indifference.

Your chest ached, just having to look at it. Especially since you had only recently made such a leap with him finally allowing you in more. Astarion finally allowing for some of the carefully put up fortress walls to crumble under your soft touch.

Back, when his somewhat cautious confession had made you swear to yourself that you wouldn’t stop until all of the wretched, cascading layers of armour the vampire had put up around his core would have been disassembled.

Now you felt you might be responsible for some of those layers being put back into place. Even if it had just been a very short moment, a dumb slip of the tongue. You hoped it wasn’t too late yet to undo the damage.

You drew your arms around your lover - slowly, cautiously. Posing the question if you were still allowed to do that.

The vampire let it happen.

A tiny fraction of your tension eased at the thought that there might still be hope to rectify the delicate thing you had basically just stepped on. That he would allow you to make it right.

“I’m sorry, Astarion”, you whispered silently. Almost too quiet to form actual words. But the pale elf in your arms heard you anyway. He didn’t look up at you but he did sink into your arms a little more.

“I’m sorry for what I said and for how I acted. I didn’t mean to blame you for anything.”, you said again, this time more confidently.

There was no further acknowledgement of your apology other than the vampire slowly leaning his head against your naked chest. His soft hair brushed lightly over your bare skin. Even the lightest touches of him in your arms sent jolts through your entire body.

But the knot between you was not yet unravelled.

Fear threatened to close up your throat again as your mind raced, feverishly trying to think of a way to make him understand that it was just… he meant everything to you. That you’d rather crawl in the dirt yourself instead of having to watch him do it.

That you so desperately cared about him. Why couldn’t he see that?

And then another thought crossed your mind. Concerning the battle you would have to take on tomorrow.

What if this was the last chance you would ever get to convey this to him? The last shot at convincing him that he was very much loved and cared for and had a place in this world as long as you walked this planet.

Carefully you raised your hand to under Astarion’s chin and nudged softly to see if he would allow you to lift up his head to make him meet your gaze. Again, he let it happen.

The vampire’s eyes found yours. Instantly, something in his gaze changed as he must’ve seen something particular in them. You tenderly and cautiously cupped his cheek as your lips parted. But it still took another moment before you managed to find the words.

“Astarion, if tomorrow… would be the end. I-”, you broke off. Then took another breath before you continued.

“I would hate myself if this is how I left things. I wouldn’t want to have caused you to think that I was just brushing you off for caring for me. Or that I put any blame on you when I was being a reckless idiot. But I still would want you to understand that I just… I’m doing this because I want you to be safe and happy and careless and free and… with me, if you want that.”

Astarion’s eyes ever so slightly widened and opened up as you spoke. A nearly inaudible gasp left his throat.

After you had ended your little speech, the moment of the two of you looking into each other’s eyes just went on. But the mood had changed now. The way Astarion looked at you as you softly let your thumb wander over his cheekbone was no longer distant. He was still allowing you in, if cautiously so.

Your gaze dropped to his lips as your thumb kept wandering over the vampire’s delicate skin.

Then you leaned in just a little - letting him decide if he wanted to bridge the gap between you. And he did so without hesitation.

Astarion met your parted lips with his. You gladly accepted his open-mouthed kiss.

The rest of the words that yet remained unspoken between you were resolved this way. By kissing deeply and assuring the other of what you could not yet put into words.

The vampire’s hand grabbed onto your upper arm, fingertips lightly grazing your biceps. You let your hand wander from his cheek into his soft white curls, your fingertips softly tugging and teasing them.

And you were still doing that when you slowly withdrew from him - if only enough to speak.

“I was a dick, Astarion, I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you were. Now, I thought we had just established that. Don’t try and draw it out to make me sappy, Staeve darling, or I might actually take back what I said the other night”, Astarion replied with an edge of sarcasm entering his voice again.

But you knew that it was the good-humoured kind once more. The one he used when you two bickered like an old married couple.

“Don’t promise what you can’t keep”, you offered back with a smug grin. The vampire rolled his eyes at you. Your grin just grew.

“Come, just lie down with me, please”, you proposed to your vampire. Now that adrenaline and stress were slowly leaving your body you felt exhaustion creep up on you again. The headache you had completely forgotten to acknowledge somewhere in between also letting itself be known again.

Astarion immediately took you up on it and you laid down on the bedroll, snuggling up to each other until your limbs were fully tangled, bodies fully wrapped around each other. You gazed upon the vampire in your arms - how much his pale skin contrasted against yours.

You slowly felt how the tension left both your bodies, shoulders dropping, jaws unclenching. Revelling in relief and joy you closed your eyes and focused solely on how it felt to hold Astarion. Just silently laying there, enjoying this moment of peace.

Until you broke the silence once more because a random thought had just crossed your mind.

“Wait, who actually carried me all the way back to camp?”

Astarion scrambled to push himself up once more and gave you a glare. “Really? That’s what’s on your mind right now?”

You shrugged: “I guess.”

The vampire’s glare became even more intense. Then it snapped to mischievous glint really quickly. He let one of his hands drag through his hair dramatically and sensually and said: “Oh, darling, couldn’t you believe that I valiantly carried you here like the knight in shiny armour that I am?” You wouldn’t even have believed him being able to pull you here with your face dragging through the dirt.

“It was Halsin, wasn’t it?”

You received another death glare. Then Astarion just sighed in defeat and wrapped himself in your arms again.

“Yes it was. I was the one who undressed you though.”

“Of course you were”, you replied with a wolfish grin although Astarion couldn’t see it. The vampire groaned in annoyance

“Now, if you please, let me enjoy this moment in peace, you idiot.”

And so you did. Holding onto Astarion as he held onto you. Both silently smiling and not even that afraid anymore of what tomorrow might bring.

Tag list: @spacebarbarianweird @sunfire-ancunin @tragedybunny @dependsonthedream @tallymonster @magazzne @micropoe10 @aoirohi @my-bunny-prince @lumienyx @fayeriess

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #astarion x reader #astarion x mc #baldurs gate astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x you #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #bg3 #bg3 companions #staeve #astarion x staeve

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handweavers · 3 months

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i'm a weaver my time is spent sitting at looms and spinning wheels and sewing machines and dye pots, and my ability to make any money at all comes from the fact that my work can't be truly reproduced by machine and speaks to my own and others' desire to reconnect with acts of making and living that are slower and emphasize the physicality of our lives, that we are present in our bodies in a physical world and we are sensorial creatures who relate to each other and the world through tactile means. it serves as a reminder that there is a lot we can do away from screens, that there is joy and meaning to be found in creating something with your hands, and that through this we can find channels to address and learn to live with grief and loss without running from the fact that we are living animals with meatbodies and a finite amount of time.

i think it would be very easy for me to fall into a trap where all modern technology is bad and we need to escape it at all costs and to take a luddite approach to technology - literally a luddite approach, because the phrase "luddite" comes from workers in england during the industrial revolution who destroyed machinery in cotton and wool mills to protest the introduction of that machinery as cost saving measures by the capitalists. but the problem in that situation wasn't inherently the machinery that processed cotton and wool more efficiently, it was that the people who owned the factories used that technology as an excuse to pay fewer workers and maximize profit while creating more unsafe working conditions for the workers that remained. in a situation where the workers owned the factory and the machinery, the introduction of this machinery wouldn't have necessarily been harmful but rather potentially helpful to the workers, for whom more free time wouldn't be a death sentence and proper precautions in the use of the machinery to protect human life could be prioritized

i don't want to make the mistake of confusing technology or some other boogeyman as my enemy. the enemy is capitalism, and i choose to prioritize class consciousness over my private existential worries about new technological developments. all the tech we use is made by humans, just like this economic system we live in. we have the capacity to dismantle economic systems and build new ones, just as we have the capacity to use the tech we make in ways that benefit rather than harm us and the world we live in. my gut tendency is to be distrustful of new tech but i have to remind myself that it isn't helpful and it obfuscates what's actually going on.

#as a weaver and dyer and spinner my enemy isnt weaving or spinning or dying factories #i could never produce cloth at the capacity needed to meet human needs and i dont want to #and my concern above all is the mistreatment of workers in these factories whose hands know the same things mine do #those machines and the materials it makes and requires can be used in ways that dont cause so much harm

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tigertales9 · 3 months

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Hard Reset XI

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Warnings: 18+ / Smut / Fluff / Angst

Description: This chapter covers the week 9 win against the Bills and the week 10 loss against the Texans with a couple of flashbacks thrown in.

Time/Place: Tuesday, Nov. 7, 2023 - Tuesday, Nov. 14, 2023 / Cincinnati, Ohio (with flashbacks to New Orleans & NYC)

A/N: This is the eleventh fic in the Hard Reset series.

This chapter got totally out of hand, y'all. It jumps around a bit due to the flashbacks, so I hope it's not too hard to follow. It's also long as hell even though I tried to condense it as much as possible.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You close your eyes and tilt your head back, a proud smile gracing your lips as a blizzard of purple and gold confetti rains down on you from the roof of the Superdome in New Orleans.

"He did it," you whisper, brushing away happy tears as you return your attention to the field where Joe and his LSU teammates are celebrating one of the most impressive undefeated seasons in college football history. You take a deep breath and exchange hugs and high fives with everyone around you, never taking your eyes off of Joe for more than a few seconds while you wait for him to hoist the Championship trophy.

~ A month ago, you watched him hoist another trophy, the Heisman, at a ceremony in NYC. It was the largest margin of victory in the history of the award, and his speech was still being talked about. You knew the exact moment he went off script because he'd practiced the speech with you over and over, nervous that he'd forget to thank someone or somehow embarrass himself. Instead, he spoke from the heart and delivered an emotional Heisman speech that folks will be talking about for years to come. The impact of his heartfelt words -- bringing attention to the high poverty rate and food insecurity in Athens County -- was evident in the amount of donations pouring into the local food bank. The Joe Burrow Hunger Relief Fund was just getting started but showed no sign of slowing down anytime soon.

Joe was surprised at the outpouring of support, but it wasn't the only time he spoke something into existence. He spoke this Natty into existence when he transferred from Ohio State to LSU; from day one he told his new teammates that all they had to do was work harder than everyone else and the results would follow. He led by example, as always, first to arrive and last to leave, never asking for more effort from others than he was willing to give. The buy-in came swiftly for some and a little slower for others. By the end of his first season at LSU -- a very respectable 10-3 record culminating in a victory over UCF in the Fiesta Bowl (snapping UCF's 25-game winning streak, the longest in the nation at the time) -- even the most hardcore doubters were begrudgingly starting to admit that something special was brewing in Baton Rouge.

At the start of his final season at LSU, optimism was at an all-time high, but a few folks were still a little hesitant to believe that this team might catch lightning in a bottle and prove the naysayers wrong. One by one the dominoes fell, and by mid-season, even the skeptical were made into believers as one of the most dominant offenses in college football history rolled through opponents with an unrivaled flair and swagger. ~

Silent tears roll down your cheeks as you watch Joe lift the Championship trophy that he and his teammates worked so hard for, his expression showing equal parts accomplishment and relief; you take a deep breath as you soak in the moment, the love you feel for him -- your fiancé since about a month ago, although nobody knows it yet -- creating a visceral ache in your chest. You close your eyes and hear words from his Heisman speech in your head … "Just a kid from Ohio, coming down chasing a dream …"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Tuesday, 11/7/23 - Cincinnati, Ohio

You flutter your eyes open, disoriented for a few seconds before you realize you were dreaming about Joe's Natty; you turn your head and look at him sleeping peacefully beside you, the bed covers pushed down below his waist revealing a delicious amount of bare skin since he's shirtless. You check the clock on the bedside table -- 3:33 am -- before returning your attention to Joe as you push up onto an arm and look down at him in the dim light filtering in from the bathroom. You both hated to sleep in total darkness, so there was just enough light for you to appreciate the view.

And what an amazing view it is, you think to yourself, your gaze slowly moving from his beautiful face to his broad shoulders, down his muscular chest and sculpted abs, lingering for several seconds where his dirty-blonde treasure trail disappears beneath the sheet. You lean a little closer and take inventory of all the scrapes, scratches and bruises from his most recent game -- a 24-18 victory at home over the Bills on Sunday Night Football day before yesterday.

Joe stirs in his sleep, rolling onto his side to face you before letting out the tiniest snore from between his parted lips. How can one man be so damn adorable and hot as fuck at the same time? you muse, a smile gracing your lips as you let your gaze slide back down to his treasure trail.

"Like what you see?" Joe purrs, causing you to jump and let out a squeal.

"Damn it, Joseph! You scared me!" you scold, softening your tone with a smile. "I was just looking at your boo-boos," you deflect, ignoring his dirty grin that tells you he knows exactly what you were looking at. You clear your throat and run your fingers over a couple of bright red scratches on his left forearm. "Do they hurt?"

"Nah, that's football, baby."

You roll your eyes playfully as he continues.

"Besides, you put way more scratches on my back during our post-game victory sex."

"You asked for those," you remind him.

He gives you a wink. "I didn't ask; I ordered."

"Exactly," you agree, biting your lip as you think back to the intense sex y'all had when he got home from the game early Monday morning (yesterday); it was a fairly quick session by your usual standards, with Joe feeling himself for the prime-time win over a major conference rival, and your arousal red-lining due to the fifteen minutes of filthy talk he teased you with on the phone during his drive home from the stadium. The result was pure, concentrated pleasure, frantic and feral, more raw need than finesse.

His voice interrupts your thoughts. "Why are you awake at this ungodly hour?"

"I had a really vivid dream about you, and I guess it woke me up."

"Mmmm, a really vivid dream, huh?" He gives you a naughty smile while dropping a hand beneath the sheet to squeeze your bare thigh. "That sounds promising."

"It wasn't that kind of dream, horndog," you chuckle, shaking your head when he pokes his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout.

"Dang," he mutters, heaving a sigh while keeping his hand firmly wrapped around your leg. "What was the dream about?"

"You winning the Natty. We were back in the Superdome with confetti raining down."

"Sounds like an awesome dream."

"It really was."

"Did you dream about the crazy-hot victory sex we had that night?"

"You mean the next morning?" you tease, since it was well into the wee hours of the next day before you were finally alone with him.

"You know what I mean," he states, licking his lips and inching his hand higher up your thigh, stopping just before reaching your crotch.

"I actually woke up before that part," you admit. "The last thing I remember is a quote from your Heisman speech."

"You dreamed about the Heisman, too?"

"Yeah. The quote was 'Just a kid from Ohio, coming down chasing a dream'." You give him a smile as you continue. "It occured to me in the dream that you sometimes speak things into existence."

His eyebrows inch toward his hairline. "Like what?"

"Like the Hunger Relief Fund that eventually morphed into the Joe Burrow Foundation. You spoke that into existence by mentioning the food insecurity in Athens County in your Heisman speech. That started all the donations rolling in." He studies your earnest expression in the dim light as you continue. "Plus you kind of spoke the Natty into existence. You told anyone who would listen that y'all had the right stuff to go all the way, as long as you worked like hell for it."

"Half of doing something is believing you can," he states, sounding every bit like a coach's son. "But make no mistake, that speech only worked because our Championship team was loaded with talent. If I ended up just about anywhere else, there would be no Natty. Fiery speeches and pep talks only work if you've got the goods to back 'em up."

"And the work ethic?" you ask.

"Yes."

"And the insane team chemistry?"

"Yes."

You smile at each other for several heartbeats before a thought hits you. "It's been a while since I thought about this but … it's crazy to me that we came so close to never meeting. You really wanted to transfer to Nebraska, and …"

"And thank God they didn't want me," he finishes, giving your thigh another squeeze.

You roll over onto your back and stare at the ceiling, a little surprised that this is still messing with your head after all this time. "Do you ever think about it?" you ask.

"Think about what?" He scoots closer and pushes up onto an arm to look down at you.

"About how close we came to never meeting?"

"No, I don't ever think about it because what was supposed to happen happened. Me transferring to LSU was meant to be, not just for football but also for you. -- For us. -- It was fate."

You take a deep breath and let his words soothe you; it's not the first time he's had to talk you down off of this particular ledge.

"Also," he forges ahead. "Just so you know, I spoke our relationship into existence."

"How so?"

"Mainly pep talks after all of the many times you shot me down before finally agreeing to go out with me; sometimes the pep talks were just in my head, sometimes they were out loud while staring at myself in a mirror like a huge dork."

"What did you say?"

He thinks for a few seconds before answering. "Don't give up. Be respectful but also relentless. Prove to her that you want more than a quick fuck."

"You were def relentless," you chuckle. "I figured you were chasing me so hard because you'd never been told no before, and it hurt your ego."

He's shaking his head no before you finish your sentence. "I chased you so hard because I wanted you more than anything. I thought if I could prove I wasn't a fuck boy, you'd hopefully give me a chance."

"I'm glad you didn't give up."

"Me too." He leans down and presses a quick kiss on your lips before continuing. "Speaking of the Heisman, you scared the shit out of me Heisman week-end when I thought you were gonna break up with me, but it all worked out in the end."

"Heisman week-end will always be extra special for your acceptance speech, and also for the amazing marriage proposal you surprised me with."

"I was persuasive as fuck, wasn't I?" he grins.

"Very persuasive."

His grin levels up from cute to cocky. "I guess you might say I spoke our engagement into existence?"

"You might say that," you agree, rolling your eyes playfully at his cocky demeanor.

"Okay, but on a serious note …" he clears his throat before continuing. "Remember when I said -- 'Death Valley, where opponents dreams come to die, but where mine came true?'"

"Yeah."

"I know I've told you this before, but I want to say it again. When I said that, I wasn't just talking about football. I was also talking about you. You're a dream come true for me."

You close your eyes as you feel that familiar visceral ache in your chest; you always thought the saying "I love you so much it hurts" was just hyperbole until you met Joe.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"I love you so much it hurts," you admit, pressing a hand against your chest. He drops a kiss against your hand before gently moving it aside to drop another kiss between your breasts, his lips warm through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. He slowly kisses his way up from your chest to your neck, his breath tickling your ear when he finally speaks.

"I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," you whisper, your pulse picking up as he kisses and nuzzles the sensitive spot behind your ear for several heartbeats before capturing your lips, treating you to the kind of slow-burn kiss that always makes your pulse race and your toes curl. You lean into him, your body craving more contact as he deepens the kiss, a thrill shooting through you when you feel his erection against your thigh.

Before you have time to grind against his obvious hard-on, he pulls his hips back and breaks the kiss, giving you a sheepish smile before speaking. "I'm trying really hard not to be a horndog right now."

"Why?" you giggle at the look on his face before scooting closer.

"Because we just had a soft, tender moment, and I don't wanna ruin it with a raging boner."

"Nothing wrong with a soft moment being followed by a hard one," you purr, dropping a hand down to tease him through his boxer briefs.

"Who's the horndog now?" he asks, hissing when you slide a hand inside his undies to grip his hard length.

"Both of us," you whisper, spreading your legs to accommodate his big body as he crawls on top of you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Sunday, 11/12/23 - Cincinnati, Ohio (after the home loss against the Texans)

Joe finishes brushing his teeth and does a swish-and-spit of mouthwash; he pats his lips dry with a washcloth and throws you a look that you can't quite read as he strides from the bathroom.

He's in a hurry to get in bed. That seems promising, you think to yourself, your pulse picking up as you quickly finish your nightly skincare routine before following him into the bedroom, making a face at the sight of the empty bed. "Guess I was wrong," you mumble, taking a deep breath as you step out into the hallway, the faint sounds of game film drawing you toward his office.

He'd been grumpy as hell ever since he got home from the game -- a 30-27 home loss against the Texans. Since it was an early game -- 1:00 pm kickoff -- his parents headed back to Athens before Joe got back from the stadium.

"Lucky fuckers," you mumble under your breath as you plaster a smile on your face and breeze into his office. "Hey babe," you chirp, leaning down to drop a kiss on his cheek as he watches one of the four sacks he took.

"Hey," he grunts without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

"You almost done?" you ask. "You've watched a lot of film at this point. Maybe it's time to take a break."

"I took a break for dinner," he states, giving a derisive snort as he watches himself throw an interception. "Dumbass," he seethes, quickly turning his head to lock eyes with you. "I was talking about me not you. I'm the dumbass."

"You're not a dumbass," you soothe, running your fingers through his tousled curls. "And I appreciate you taking a break to have dinner with me, but let's go to bed, okay? You can watch more film tomorrow."

"I'm not sleepy," he grumps, closing his eyes as you massage his throwing shoulder.

"Who said anything about sleep?" you tease, giving him a dirty wink when he opens one eye to check your expression.

"I don't want pity sex," he mutters, hissing when you hit just the right spot on his sore shoulder; he threw for 347 yards, so you know that thing is barking.

Not this 'pity sex' shit again, you think to yourself. This is the first time he lost a game since y'all got secretly married, so you decide to use that as leverage. "Did you just accuse your wife of offering you pity sex?"

"Sorry," he mumbles, raking a hand through his hair before turning his attention back to his computer; you step behind him and continue the shoulder massage, your mind running through options to get his mind off the game so he can get a good night's sleep.

Food and sex, you think to yourself. That's pretty much it. A full belly and empty balls. You lean down and press a kiss against the nape of his neck. Full belly is a done deal, just gotta finish him off.

"You can go to bed," he grumbles. "I have more film to watch."

Fuck that, you muse, knowing that the film watching is just self-flagellation at this point. You watch as he rewinds a play a couple times before scribbling a note in a small spiral notebook. A thought forms in your mind, and you smile as you give it some consideration. "Perfect idea," you whisper.

"Huh?" Joe asks, spinning his desk chair around to face you.

"Nothing," you shrug, reaching past him to snatch his precious spiral notebook before retreating a few steps.

He rolls his eyes when you waggle it at him. "Give it back," he orders.

"Come and get it," you purr, backing toward the door as he narrows his eyes at you.

He spins his chair back around, and you think he's going to ignore you, but instead he shuts his computer down and slowly stands up; he gives you a thorough once-over, taking in your bare legs and purple t-shirt -- one of his -- that hits you mid-thigh. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way," he states, giving you a loaded look while yanking his socks off, leaving him wearing slinky black shorts and a gray t-shirt.

Ohhh, he means business, you muse, a little thrill shooting through you at his obvious intention -- he knows you're going to run, and he's getting ready to chase you. "You know I'm gonna pick the hard way," you tease, putting as much sexual innuendo in your voice as possible. You watch in fascination as his nostrils flare, like a predator catching the scent of his prey; you give him a dirty grin before spinning around and running for the door.

You let out a squeal when you hear him pounding down the hallway right behind you, literally inches away when you finally bust into the bedroom and spin around to face him, holding a hand up as words spill from your lips. "Okay, okay, okay," you pant, your pulse racing way more from excitement than exertion as you continue to back away from him. "Stop right there and I'll give you what you want." You hold the notebook out toward him like a peace offering, giving him an innocent smile as he steps forward and reaches a hand out to take it. You let out a naughty giggle as you snatch the notebook back at the last second and dance away from him.

"You better stop playin'," he warns, the husky tone of his voice setting off a steady throb of arousal deep inside you. "Or what?" you chirp, sticking your tongue out as he takes a step toward you. He doesn't answer; instead he continues to walk toward you, his gaze dropping to your chest where your hard nipples are very visible through the thin fabric of your shirt. "Hold on a sec," you say breathlessly, giving him a smile when he drags his gaze from your breasts to your face. "Let's play a game."

He gives you a skeptical look as he stops about a foot away from you. "What kind of game?"

"Guess which hand it's in, and I'll give it to you." You wave the notebook at him before hiding it behind your back.

"I think I'll just come and take it," he smirks, closing the distance between you in one long stride and reaching a hand behind your back; you transfer the notebook from one hand to the other before lifting it over your head and rising up onto your tiptoes. He gives you a bemused look before easily plucking the notebook out of your upstretched hand. "Should've gone low, shorty," he gloats, his eyebrows rising as you give him a wink while dropping to your knees at his feet.

"Good idea," you purr, holding eye contact while palming his erection through his slinky shorts; you eventually slide your hands up and sink your fingers in the waistband of his shorts, pulling them plus his undies to mid-thigh. You catch his hard cock as it springs free, your tongue immediately lapping at the precum on his tip.

"Fuck," he hisses, his gaze locked on your mouth as you continue to tease him. "I just got played, huh?" he asks, more than a little admiration evident in his tone. "Like a motherfucker," you admit, giving him a cocky smile before tracing your tongue over a prominent vein, base to tip, finishing it off with a slow swirl and thorough suck. "Just consider this my victory formation," you purr, relishing the angle as he towers over you, his feel and taste on your tongue causing a gush of liquid heat in your mouth and core; he makes a sound low in his throat as he drops the notebook on the floor and wraps a hand around the nape of your neck, his grunts of approval spurring you on as you hit a rhythm that has his hips thrusting forward, dirty praise spilling from his pretty lips as you continue to pleasure him.

"Hold on a sec," he rasps after several minutes. "Let's get naked."

You pull off of him and give a quick nod before shoving his shorts and undies all the way down; he steps out of them before stripping his shirt off, dropping it on the floor as he backs up a few steps and sits on the bed, his thick thighs falling open in his usual manspread. "Come here," he orders, giving you a dirty grin when you strip your shirt off and walk toward him, your eyes dropping down to his impressive erection as you lick your lips in anticipation of finishing what you started.

"Hold on," he stops you as you start to kneel between his thighs. "Lose the panties."

You slide your thong off, your eyebrows rising when he reaches a hand out to grab it before quickly bringing the scrap of black lace to his face; he takes a deep breath and then another, his cock twitching at the scent of your arousal. You feel a gush of wetness between your thighs as you sink to your knees, your lips barely making contact with his shaft before he reaches down and picks you up. "What are you doing? I wasn't finished sucking you," you yelp, spreading your legs so you end up straddling his waist with him flat on his back on the bed.

"I'm calling an audible," he states, gripping your ass in both hands and sliding you up his body toward his face. "I need to taste you."

"I need to taste you, too," you whine. "Don't get me wrong, I love the manhandling, but I wanna finish you with my mouth."

He laughs at your pouty expression. "There's a way we can both get what we want."

"How?"

He raises one eyebrow, smiling when a look of realization hits your face.

"Sixty-nine?" you mumble, sticking your tongue out at his 'well, duh' expression. "It's your fault I didn't think of that sooner," you grump, trying and failing to keep a stern look on your face.

"How is it my fault?" he asks, helping you spin around and get into position.

"You got me so dickmatized I can't think straight."

"Ohhh, I love that. I'm gonna get you a t-shirt that says that."

"Shut up," you giggle, gasping when he grips your hips and pulls you toward his face.

"Don't worry," he purrs, licking a long stripe up the length of your wet slit. "I know better than to talk with my mouth full."

The last coherent thought you have is thank goodness y'all are alone in the house, since there's a 100% chance of you getting loud as hell.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You watch the play unfold in slow motion on your TV screen, your heart skipping a beat as two defenders converge on Joe; you gasp in horror as they wrap him up and twist him to the ground, his body language and grimace of pain speaking volumes as he grabs his knee. "Oh no!" you yelp, tears streaming down your face when you realize how much pain he's in. "Noooooo!" ~

"Babe, wake up! You're having a bad dream!"

Joe's voice snaps you out of your nightmare; you take one look at his concerned face and break down crying. "What day is it?" you ask between sobs.

He throws a quick glance at the bedside clock before answering. "It's Tuesday, November 14th, 2023. 1:44 am to be precise."

"Thank goodness," you whisper as you collapse against him. "I thought I was still dreaming for a sec."

"You're awake," he soothes, pulling you tight against him, your hot tears falling on his bare chest as he cradles your head in one big hand, his other hand rubbing your back. "It's okay, baby," he whispers, pressing a kiss on top of your head.

"It's not okay," you sniff. "I was dreaming about your knee injury. That awful dream where it happens in slow motion and I can't look away."

"Damn," he mutters, pressing a couple more kisses against you as your tears continue to fall. "That's def a nightmare."

"I felt so helpless since I couldn't be at the game because of Covid," you sputter, grinding your face against his chest as your emotions overwhelm you.

"You got to me as soon as you could," he murmurs. "And you helped me through that hideous rehab. I couldn't have done it without you."

You cry for a few more minutes before your tears finally taper off; you take a deep breath before speaking, your words muffled against him. "Sorry for crying all over you," you sniff.

"It's okay. I'm waterproof," he says, dropping another kiss on your head before hopping up to grab some tissues for you. You blow your nose, cringing at the loud noise before placing the soiled tissues in his outstretched hand; he disappears into the bathroom to toss the tissues before rejoining you in bed.

"Booger check," you urge, tilting your head back for him to inspect your nostrils. "You're good," he assures you, stretching out beside you and pulling you against him. You bury your face in his neck, his warmth and familiar scent soothing your frazzled nerves.

Several minutes pass before he breaks the silence. "You haven't had that dream in a while. I was hoping you'd never have it again."

"Me too," you mumble. "I think I had it again because I'm worried about you."

He tries to pull back and look at you, but you burrow your face deeper into his neck; you feel him take a deep breath, hold it for several seconds, then slowly let it out. He repeats the action before speaking up. "Talk to me."

"It's just …" you scramble to organize your thoughts before continuing. "The short week has me worried. Playing Sunday the 12th then Thursday the 16th seems crazy. That's basically no time for your body to recover."

"I'll be fine," he murmurs. "My calf's been feeling damn near 100%."

You finally pull back and lock eyes with him. "What about your arm?"

"What about it?"

"You've been wearing the compression sleeve pretty regularly lately."

"My arm is fine. The compression sleeve is just precautionary to keep the normal swelling down that most QBs experience at this point in the season."

You study his face for several seconds before speaking. "You'd tell me if something was actually wrong, right?"

"Of course I would."

"This week just feels so rushed, doesn't it? You just played a game two days ago, and you've got a night practice tonight at 6:00 pm, then you're on the team flight tomorrow headed to Baltimore. I also hate that it's a late game. You're gonna be dead tired by that 8:15 pm kickoff."

"Kickoff could be at midnight, and I'd be ready to go." He gives you a cocky grin as he continues. "Don't you think I might have a little extra adrenaline flowing going up against a division rival?"

"Obvi," you concede, returning his grin even though you still have a vague sense of dread. "Sorry for waking you up," you continue, snuggling against him. "Let's try to go back to sleep. You need all the sleep you can get."

"I wasn't actually sleeping when you had the nightmare."

"You weren't?"

"Nope. I'd been awake for about thirty minutes. I tried to go back to sleep, but I was having a hard time turning my brain off."

"Thinking about the upcoming game?"

"Obvi," he admits, scrunching up his adorable nose when you push up into a sitting position and look down at him.

"What will help you sleep?" you ask. "Maybe a snack? How about a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie?"

"I was thinking of a different kind of snack," he purrs, licking his lips and dropping his gaze down to your crotch.

"Marriage has turned you into a shameless horndog," you chuckle, raising your arms as he sits up and strips your t-shirt off.

"That's a good thing, though, right?" he asks, tossing your shirt on the floor.

You nod, giving him a wink as you lie back. "That's a very good thing."

"Good. 'Cause I can't help that I'm perpetually horny," he teases, giving you a dirty grin as he slides your panties down your legs before crawling between your spread thighs. "I mean, have you seen my wife? She's smoking hot."

Your giggles turn into groans as he lowers his head, your vague sense of dread quickly disappearing with every stroke of his talented tongue.

~ ~ ~

An hour later, you gently ease out of bed and look down at Joe sleeping peacefully, the last words he said before he drifted off echoing in your head. Get some sleep, babe. I promise there's nothing to worry about.

You grab your t-shirt and panties and creep out into the hallway, quickly shimmying into the articles of clothing before tiptoeing downstairs to the kitchen; you pour a glass of water and grab a cookie, savoring a few bites before rolling your shoulders to ease some tension. "There's plenty to worry about," you mumble under your breath. "Football is violent as fuck, and a bunch of players get hurt every week."

You hadn't said that to Joe earlier because he needed sleep more than you needed to make a point, so you held your tongue. "It is what it is," you mutter, "no reason to argue about it." You finish your cookie as you try to put the negative thoughts out of your mind; you heave a weary sigh as you walk to the living room and plop down on the sofa. "I'm not sleepy," you grumble, trying to decide what to do to take your mind off of things. You don't feel like watching TV or reading or scrolling your phone, so what does that leave?

After a few minutes, an idea hits you, and you open a drawer on the end table and pull out a book bound in black leather. You tuck a plush blanket around your legs before you flip the book open, reading the title out loud. "The Story of Us - Volume One." A smile immediately graces your lips as you peruse the pics of you and Joe, and you laugh quietly at how awkward y'all look in some of the pics from when you first started dating.

You slowly flip several pages before stopping on a page dedicated to Joe's Heisman win. There are pics of him on stage accepting the award, in Times Square with his face and name in flashing lights, and pics of both of you the following night at the gala dinner where everyone in attendance couldn't get enough of him. "Especially the women," you mutter, shaking your head as you close your eyes and let your mind rewind.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ December 15, 2019 - Marriott Marquis Times Square NYC

You take a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds as Joe follows you into the elevator and presses the button for the 18th floor. He gives you a smile as the door slides closed, cutting you off from the crowd of people still mingling after the Heisman gala dinner. "Alone at last," he murmurs, leaning down to drop a kiss on your lips as the elevator whisks you upward.

A few seconds later, the elevator slows to a halt, and Joe throws a look over his shoulder to see what floor you're on. "Six," he mutters, spinning around and using one big hand to tuck you behind him as three very loud and rowdy guys join you in the elevator.

"Oh shit!" one of them yelps. "It's Joe Burrow, right? I mean, I know it's you since your face is all over Times Square right now."

"Yeah, it's me," Joe mutters, exchanging greetings with the very inebriated guys while you stay firmly hidden behind his large frame.

"Dude," one of the drunks slurs. "You're about to be living the life! Heisman winner and soon to be first pick in the NFL is no joke, bro. You're gonna be absolutely drowning in pussy."

"No shit!" another drunk chimes in. "Hot chicks will be throwing themselves at you!"

Before Joe has a chance to respond, the elevator crawls to a stop and the door swishes open, the trio of loud-mouths cackling as they stumble out into the corridor. You stare at your feet as the door slides closed, encapsulating you and Joe in a very tense silence; he turns to face you and you swallow hard, fighting back tears as the elevator continues its ascent.

"Bunch of drunk idiots," he mumbles, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as you continue to stare at your feet. "You okay?" he inquires, turning to look at the floor number as the elevator grinds to a halt. "This is our floor."

The words are barely out of his mouth before you dart around him and exit the elevator, hiking the hem of your dress up and legging it down the long hallway toward your suite; you swipe the key card and sling the door open, immediately rushing through the lounge area into the bedroom then into the en suite bathroom as Joe follows close behind.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, his voice slightly frantic.

"I'm fine. I just need to pee," you lie, shutting the bathroom door in his face before locking it. You toss your tiny, sparkly bag on the counter and stare at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, a wave of nausea rolling through you as you replay the words said in the elevator. "Drowning in pussy, indeed," you sneer under your breath, yanking the sleeves of your slinky black dress down your arms, relishing the ripping sound as you roughly shove the gossamer fabric over your plump butt. "Fuck it," you grit out, kicking the dress off and stomping on it a few times, literally grinding it under your stiletto heels for several seconds before catching a glimpse of yourself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

"Calm down," you whisper, taking several deep breaths while studying your reflection, your gaze raking over the purple lace teddy you wore under your dress because you knew Joe would love it, especially the way your breasts spill out of the demi cups and the snap crotch just waiting to be unsnapped.

"So much for that," you mutter, kicking your heels off and reaching for one of the plush hotel bathrobes hanging beside the door. You shrug the robe on and gather up your dress and heels, slinging the door open and giving Joe a bland smile as you walk into the bedroom. You notice he's changed out of his tux into a pair of gray sweatpants and a black long-sleeve t-shirt. He's sitting on the bed looking nervous as hell.

"You okay?" he asks for the third time, quickly standing up as you walk in the room.

"I'm fine," you mutter, jamming your dress and heels in your suitcase before breezing past Joe to walk into the lounge area; you head straight to the bar and grab a glass, dropping a couple of fat ice cubes in it before adding a mini bottle of vodka. "Fuck it," you mumble under your breath, grabbing a mini bottle of silver tequila and adding it to the glass with the vodka, swirling it around for a few seconds before taking a sip, the potent elixir burning all the way down just like you hoped it would.

"Can I have a taste?" Joe asks, giving you a smile when you turn your head to look at him.

"Sure," you answer, walking to where he's sitting on the leather sofa before offering him the glass; you watch closely as he takes a hearty gulp, his eyes immediately going wide.

"Got damn! What kind of cocktail is this?" he wheezes, making a face as he hands the glass back to you.

"Fuck boy repellant," you state, your full lips curling into a cunty sneer as you drop into an armchair directly across from him, the hotel robe you're wearing -- which is too big for you -- sliding off of one shoulder far enough to reveal a strap of your teddy. His eyes are drawn to the wisp of purple, lingering there for several seconds before you part the robe just below your crotch, letting it fall open to reveal your bare legs. You take a small sip of your drink and watch in annoyed amusement as his gaze drops down to your smooth legs, slowly sliding from your feet -- toenails painted LSU purple -- all the way up to your barely-concealed crotch. Men are so fucking predictable, you think to yourself. Even the decent ones are constantly thinking with their dicks.

He eventually clears his throat and meets your eyes. "Are you mad at me?" he asks, nervously picking at his thumbnail in a way you wish you didn't find endearing.

"I'm mad at the situation."

He nods vigorously. "Because of those rude drunks spouting bullshit in the elevator, right?"

"They may have been drunk, but they were 100% correct," you state, taking another sip of your godawful drink before sitting it on a coaster on the side table. "No bullshit detected."

He opens his mouth to argue, but you beat him to the punch. "I wouldn't try to deny it if I were you. At best you come off as an oblivious doofus, and at worst you come off as a manipulative liar." He snaps his mouth closed as you plow ahead. "Having said that, I don't really want to have this convo tonight. You've had an amazing couple of days, and I don't want to ruin that. Let's save this heavy topic for some other time."

"I prefer to have the conversation now," he urges, swallowing hard when you raise an eyebrow at him. "Please?" he adds. "I won't be able to sleep or think or anything until we clear this up."

"Fine," you state, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Remember when we first met just after you transferred to LSU in the summer of 2018?"

"Yeah."

"And remember how I refused to go out with you for several weeks before you finally convinced me?"

"Yeah."

"This shit right here is the reason I was so reluctant."

He furrows his brow in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I mean … once I found out you were a football player, I promised myself I'd stay away, even though I was super attracted to you."

"Because you thought I was a fuck boy."

"Exactly. And now -- after being with you for almost 18 months -- my worst fears are about to be realized."

"I don't understand. You know I'm not a fuck boy, so what's the problem?"

You take a deep breath as you struggle to find the words to say, fighting back tears as your mood shifts from mad to sad. "Look … I don't think you're a fuck boy, but you're only human, and you have women throwing themselves at you left and right. I lost count of how many women propositioned you right in front of my face tonight."

"And damn near every man in the place was eye-fucking you, but I know you'd never cheat on me. Don't you trust me?"

"That's a loaded question," you mutter. "I mean … you're a Heisman winner, and unless an asteroid destroys the Earth before January 13, 2020, you're gonna be a National Champion." You wipe a tear before continuing. "Then you're gonna be a number one pick in the NFL draft and an instant multi-millionaire. There's a saying about how a man is only as faithful as his options." You shrug as you continue. "And you're about to be drowning in options."

"I don't want options; I want you! I've wanted you since I first laid eyes on you!"

You give him a sad smile. "I want you, too, but I also want to live a normal, quiet life. I had no idea when we started dating that you were gonna have one of the most amazing college football seasons of all time and end up in the NFL."

"Are you breaking up with me?" he grits out, his voice cracking with emotion.

"I'm … not sure."

"Oh my God," he snaps, leaping off the sofa like he got poked with a cattle prod; he paces back and forth several times, raking a hand through his hair while muttering under his breath. You watch him with equal parts fascination and trepidation, not exactly sure where this is going.

He eventually stops right in front of your chair and stares at you for several seconds before grabbing the lethal drink; he takes two gulps before slamming it back down. "Fucking hell, that's awful," he gasps, his gaze locking onto yours as he drops to his knees at your feet. "Have I done something wrong?" he asks, his earnest expression breaking your heart.

"You haven't done anything wrong. I just … I don't want you to feel like you're stuck with me."

"Stuck with you? Are you serious?" He shakes his head as he continues. "These last 18 months have been the best of my life, and football is part of that, but you're also a huge part. You're a dream come true for me."

You chew on your bottom lip as he scoots closer and forges ahead.

"And you're right, this season has been absolutely crazy. You've been the eye of the storm for me. My safe space." He reaches a hand out toward you, waiting for you to grasp it before continuing. "I'm not sure we can have a normal, quiet life for however long I'm in the NFL, but I promise I'll do everything I can to shield you from the bullshit."

"I feel like I'm already waist deep in bullshit," you mutter, "and I think you're being a little naive to think you can shield me from it."

"You're right," he admits, "all I can do is try my best. Whatever you need from me, I'll do it." He takes a deep breath before continuing. "Football is gonna be one chapter in our story, but there are so many other things I'm looking forward to experiencing with you."

"Like what?" you ask.

"Like house hunting when I finally know which team is gonna draft me, finally living together so we can go to sleep and wake up in the same bed all the time, vacations, marriage, kids, stuff like that."

"Stuff like that?" you laugh. "You threw marriage and kids in there pretty nonchalantly."

"I kind of got ahead of myself," he grins. "It's probably not the right time for this because I'm totally unprepared but fuck it, I'm calling an audible. Hold on a sec," he continues, hopping up and striding to the coat closet in the entryway; he pulls out his LSU letterman jacket and shrugs it on as he walks back into the lounge, dropping to one knee in front of you and reaching both of his hands out. Your heart skips a beat at the look on his face as you place your hands in his.

He swallows hard and licks his lips before speaking. "Coming to LSU was my destiny, not just for football but also for you. I was gonna wait until I signed my rookie contract to do this so I could give you the engagement ring you deserve, but right here, right now, I need you to know that I want you by my side for this journey. It's our journey, not just my journey. Will you marry me?"

It takes you a few heartbeats to be able to speak, so you nod your head as tears roll down your cheeks. "Yes," you finally manage, burying your face in his neck when he pulls you close. "I love you," he murmurs. "I love you, too," you sniff, relaxing into his embrace for several minutes before he pulls back and stands up.

"Take your robe off," he urges as he shrugs out of his letterman jacket. You stand up and do his bidding, smiling when his eyes go wide at the sight of your purple lace teddy. "Damn," he mumbles, "hope I get to see more of that later. But for now I want to give you my jacket." He holds the jacket for you while you slip into it. "We need something symbolic since I don't have a ring yet."

"Thank you, babe," you whisper, rising up on your tiptoes to press a kiss on his lips. "It's a little big, huh?" you giggle, spinning in a circle to show off the fit.

"It's perfect," he grins, engulfing you in a hug for several heartbeats before pulling back. "We need a pic," he mutters, grabbing his phone before plopping into the armchair and patting his lap; you dab the tears off of your cheeks as you sit in his lap. "Do I look okay?" you ask. "You look gorgeous," he answers, waiting for you to get settled before snapping the selfie.

Y'all are admiring the pic when his stomach growls loudly. "Those dinner portions were tiny," he grumbles. "You wanna order room service?"

"Sure," you agree. "What sounds good?"

"I'm thinking club sandwiches, fries and a bottle of champagne to celebrate."

"Sounds great."

~ ~ ~

Thirty minutes later, y'all are sitting side by side at the bistro-size table, feeding each other fries and guzzling champagne while looking out the window at the bright lights of the city that never sleeps.

"We can't tell anybody we're engaged until after the Natty," you state, accidentally wiping your salty hand on your robe before you realize it's not your napkin (the letter jacket is safely back in the closet). "Not even family," you continue. "The pressure on you is insane right now, and you don't need the distraction."

"True," he agrees. "I was actually thinking we might wait until we get your engagement ring to tell folks. The draft is April 23rd, and I should sign my rookie contract some time in July. We can tell close family and friends before that, but I want the ring on your finger before we make a public announcement. Is that okay?"

"Sounds good to me," you smile, feeling a little lightheaded from the champagne and the sheer giddyness of the moment. "Just so you know, I don't need an expensive ring."

"We'll see." He grins with a mouthful of sandwich before hopping up to root around in his duffle bag; he sits back down and places a small spiral notebook on the table. "We need to make a to-do list," he states, flipping to a blank page and brandishing a pen before continuing. "First off, next Sunday the 22nd, there's an important game between the Bengals and Dolphins. If the Dolphins win, the Bengals secure the first pick in the draft. So if that happens, we need to start looking for houses in Cincinnati, preferably close to the stadium."

"And two days before that," you interject, "you're gonna receive your master's degree. Be sure to put that on the list."

"Yes, ma'am," he grins, doing your bidding; you top off your champagne glasses as y'all continue to add items to the list:

Dec. 20, 2019 - Joe receives master's degree

Dec. 22, 2019 - if Dolphins beat Bengals, start house hunting in Cincinnati

Dec. 28, 2019 - beat Oklahoma in the Peach Bowl

Jan. 13, 2020 - win the Natty

April 23, 2020 - NFL draft

May 15, 2020 - Y/n receives bachelor's degree (you're a year and a half younger than Joe - also keep in mind spring semester was mostly done virtually b/c of Covid)

July ??, 2020 - Joe signs NFL rookie contract

July/August, 2020 - buy engagement ring & make public announcement + buy house

Joe reads the list out loud before giving you a look. "Can you think of anything else?"

"Not right now, but I'm feeling kinda lightheaded from the champagne."

"Let's finish it off," he grins, pouring the remainder of the bubbly in each of your glasses.

"You're such a bad influence," you giggle, taking the champagne flute as he hands it to you.

"Just one more sip, okay? I wanna propose a toast."

"Okay, go ahead," you snicker, busting out laughing at the look on his face.

"What's so funny?" he laughs.

"Nothing really, I'm just giddy as hell. Combination of drunk and high on life."

"Cool," he grins, holding his glass up. "Here's to happily ever after. Is that cheesy?"

"Cheesy as fuck and I love it," you giggle, clinking your glass against his before downing your entire drink.

"Am I gonna have to carry you to bed?" he asks, sliding a hand up your thigh and under your robe until it's nestled against your crotch; he makes an inquisitive face as he runs his fingers over the snap crotch of your teddy. "This feels different," he muses, his forehead wrinkling in consternation as he tries to figure out what he's feeling.

"It's a snap crotch," you state.

"Oh. -- Sooo I can just … unsnap it?" he asks, the look on his face sending a sizzle of heat through you.

"Yeah," you whisper, shrugging the robe off as he stands up and reaches for you, picking you up bridal-style as he heads for the bedroom.

~ ~ ~

Joe's voice pulls you out of your flashback.

"Hey babe," he mumbles around a mouthful of peanut butter chocolate chip cookie. "What ya looking at?"

"Our picture book," you answer, giving him a smile when he sits beside you on the sofa.

"That was an amazing night," he says, looking at the pic of you sitting in his lap wearing his letterman jacket. "I really thought we'd be married super fast, but it didn't happen that way."

"No, it didn't," you whisper, your mind thinking back to all the reasons why -- Covid -- Joe's horrible knee injury -- losing the Super Bowl -- etc. Plus, the stress of planning a big wedding was something that neither one of you wanted to deal with.

"But we're married now," he states, "even if nobody knows it yet." He takes the picture book off of your lap and places it on the coffee table. "You wanna try to get a little more sleep before we have to get up?" he asks, stretching out beside you on the oversized sofa when you say yes; he tucks the blanket around both of you as you snuggle against him, dropping a kiss on the nape of your neck as he pulls you close, your back to his chest.

You close your eyes and try to relax, but your mind has other ideas. Why do I have such an uneasy feeling, you think to yourself. I'm sure everything is gonna be just fine.

"Relax, babe," Joe mutters, dropping another kiss on your neck. "Everything's gonna be just fine."

"You really need to stop reading my mind," you chuckle. "It's getting a little crazy."

"I'm not really reading your mind, we're just always on the same wavelength."

"That sounds like something a shameless mind reader would say."

"Okay, you caught me. I always know exactly what you're thinking."

"What am I thinking right now?"

He considers the question for a few seconds before answering. "You're thinking that you wanna have super naughty shower sex before I leave for practice."

"You are such a horndog," you giggle.

"Obvi, but is that what you were thinking?"

"No, but I'm thinking it now."

"I love it when a plan comes together," he gloats, laughing along with you for a bit before quieting down; you feel the tension leave your body as he pulls you closer and drops another kiss on your neck, your eyelids fluttering closed as you drift off to sleep in his embrace.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

shoutout to @sofferaddict for the idea to incorporate more flashbacks while we wait for good news on Joe's wrist.

shoutout to @joeys-babe for requesting a flashback of Joe proposing.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine

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