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starlightvld · 3 months

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Up in Smoke

(Also on AO3)

The first time Ghost rips the cigarette from Soap's mouth, drops it on the ground, and stomps on it as he passes by, Soap is too stunned to say anything for a full ten seconds. They've only been working together consistently for a couple of missions, and even as his superior officer, the audacity of the action floors him.

By the time his brain restarts, Ghost is long gone.

The second time Ghost steals Soap's cigarette, he bursts out in a string of Scottish curses and tackles Ghost from behind before the wanker can drop it on the ground. An impromptu sparring match ensues, fists and curses flying.

Afterward, he doesn't feel much like a cigarette anymore — not with the split lip, anyway. Besides, the buzzing under his skin that usually drives him to smoke is just... gone.

Price catches wind of the incident, of course, and calls them into his office a few hours later. By that time Soap has calmed down enough to be... maybe not okay with it, but at least able to see the humor.

"What's this about you muppets scuffling by the smoking area?"

"Just a little sparring to blow off steam," Soap says.

"Ghost?"

"Nothin' to worry about, Captain."

"No? I've got one soldier who looks like he just got back from a bar fight, and the other..." He squints at Ghost. "He get a hit in on you, too?"

"Yeah," Ghost replies in that deadpan tone of his. "Coupla black eyes."

It's a joke.

Ghost is telling a joke. And it's objectively not funny. It's not. But Soap bursts into hysterical laughter all the same.

The corners of Ghost's blacked-out eyes crinkle.

Price rubs his temples before dropping his hand on his desk. Soap presses his lips together to contain his laughter.

"Sparring happens in the gym. I'm sure you know the place. It's where we have things like mats and gloves. I catch you two bare-knuckle fighting again, and you will regret it."

And it's enough to sober Soap up. He avoids Ghost as he ducks away to catch dinner.

The third time... well, no. He supposes that's really the fourth time.

Because the actual third time, Soap had come back from a shit mission where everything went wrong. Intel was faulty, exfil was delayed, and people under his command died. It didn't happen as often in SAS as it had in the regulars — the soldiers here were well-trained and hard to kill — but that made it all the worse.

When Ghost tried to pluck the cigarette from his mouth, Soap growled.

"Back the fuck up, Lt. Or Price is gonna be disappointed in both of us."

Ghost paused, and their eyes met. Slowly, Ghost lowered his hand.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Fuck no."

"Thank God."

Soap didn't have it in him to even huff a laugh. He took a long drag and blew the smoke away from Ghost as a peace offering.

To his surprise, Ghost didn't leave. He spun around and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. They stood there together, utterly silent, as Soap let the heat and sting in his lungs soothe the beast inside that wanted to rip the world apart.

When he was done, though, he was surprised to find he didn't want another. Usually after shit missions, he'd stand there and smoke half a pack before his hands would stop shaking.

He finally met Ghost's eyes. The man quirked a barely visible brow.

"S'pose we should take it to the mats this time?"

Ghost pushed off the building and started walking. Soap followed like a lost child looking for a way home.

The fourth time is in Chicago. His hands are shaking not from losing soldiers but from almost losing his own life. The cigarette trembles in his grip as he stands outside the bar, the biting wind turning his fingers and probably his lips blue. He lifts it to his mouth, inhaling deep—

And then it's gone.

The whine that bubbles up from his gut and bursts from his throat is nothing short of humiliating. But God. God. He needs it.

"Not now. Please, Ghost."

"Why?"

Ghost hasn't thrown the cigarette down. Yet. He cocks his head to the side and gives Soap a long look. Soap can only tremble from the cold and a need that goes deeper than a simple hit of nicotine.

"I just... I need it."

The cigarette drops to the ground, but Soap doesn't have time to lament the loss before that same hand is curling around Soap's neck and pulling him into a fucking massive chest. The other arm comes around Soap's shoulders and...

Ghost just stands there, holding him. And Soap can't help melting into the warmth and solidity of the man who saved his life just hours ago. He dares to curl in deeper. To raise his hands and clutch at Ghost's jacket. To let a few, silent tears escape his tight control.

Finally, his muscles relax. Ghost must feel it, because he turns and leads Soap back toward the bar.

"Why do ye even care?" Soap mumbles from his spot tucked into Ghost's side.

"Because those things'll kill ya."

Soap supposes the "I like you alive" is implied at this point.

Soap loses count after Chicago. He gets stretches of days when Ghost is on a solo op or out with one of the other operators when he can smoke in peace. So he does.

At first.

He's been hooked since he was a rebellious teen trying to make his mark on the world. He's tried to quit multiple times, but it never seems to stick. The first bad mission or adrenaline-filled near miss and he's back at whatever smoking spot he can find, puffing away.

He finds himself trying to cut back, though, even when Ghost is away.

Any time Ghost is on base, all bets are off. In addition to darting by and making a grab for it or sneaking up behind him and flicking it out of his hands, Ghost has gotten more creative. Sometimes Soap will pull out a cigarette only to find he's "lost" his lighter. Sometimes the cigarettes themselves go missing — he clutches his chest and mourns all that wasted money whenever a whole pack disappears.

He supposes it's all just going up in smoke anyway, though.

He should be angry. But in truth, it's almost a relief to hand over the reins to Ghost. To let the man help him by annoying the shit out of him until he wants to give up on it entirely.

Which is definitely the point. Ghost has made that perfectly clear.

So, whenever he gets the urge to calm his racing thoughts or overactive mind with a cigarette, he finds Ghost and annoys him instead. They talk, or spar, or simply sit in silence together, doing their own thing. Ghost doesn't often touch him — their moment in Chicago is still the closest Soap's ever gotten to the elusive Ghost — but he also doesn't push Soap away when he slumps into Ghost's side after a hard day or leans over his back when he's sitting at the table in the 141's common area on base.

The urge doesn't go away, of course. And sometimes, when things get really bad, Ghost will just sit or stand with him like he did the third time. Still, he finds himself smoking less and hanging out with Ghost more.

The last time Ghost steals a cigarette from Soap, he simply stands beside Soap and holds out his hand. Soap immediately knows something has gone terribly wrong. Still, he's too invested in the game now to not hand the cigarette over.

He nearly keels over when Ghost pulls up his mask and takes a long, hard drag. Soap watches in fascination as his cheeks hollow, his neck muscles strain, his lips curve around the paper. It's erotic in a way he really shouldn't be thinking about in regards to his emotionally unavailable superior officer, but the knowledge hasn't stopped him yet. Since that day in Chicago — probably before if he's honest — he's only ever wanted to be closer.

Ghost coughs a little and hands the cigarette back.

"Fuck. Just as disgusting as I remember."

"Ye used to smoke, then?"

"Before I joined up, yeah. Hated it, though."

"The smell? Or—"

"Everything. The taste, the smell, the heat..." Ghost trails off, his hand rubbing over his bicep in a strangely specific way. He shakes his head and looks back at Soap. "Not your problem, Johnny. Forget about it."

Soap's hand is darting out, fingers curling into Ghost's jacket, before he's properly thought through the action. Ghost pauses before turning back. They stare in silence for a moment until—

Soap stubs out the half-burned cigarette and drops the butt in the trash. He licks his lips. Glances up at Ghost. The mask is still sitting on his nose, and Soap stares at his lips for longer than he should before pulling the pack out of his pocket and throwing it in the trash, too.

"Cannae have ye thinking I stink, can I?"

"Too late."

But Ghost's throat bobs with a hard swallow. Soap wets his lips, takes a step closer, and uncurls his fingers to slide his hand up Ghost's chest until his fingertips are resting on Ghost's shirt collar.

"I dinnae think it is."

Ghost turns and walks away. Soap closes his eyes and drops his hand, internally cursing his impulsive behavior. The scuffing of boots walking away from him is like nails on a chalk board.

Until they stop, and a gruff voice calls out, "You comin'?"

A slow smile slides across Soap's mouth. "No' yet."

A huff — exasperation? laughter? a bit of both? — before, "Better get movin' then."

And Soap has never been more glad to follow an order.

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anipgarden · 11 months

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Adding To or Starting a Garden

AKA, the beginning of the Plants-Related section of this series.

This is my third post in a series I’ll be making on how to increase biodiversity on a budget! I’m not an expert--just an enthusiast--but I hope something you find here helps!

Got an area of lawn you’d like to convert to a wildlife haven? An area you can stick some hanging baskets in? Want to know how your garden of tomatoes and zucchinis is already putting in a lot of work? This is the section for you!

It would be dumb of me to not acknowledge that the act of gardening can come with a lot of costs. Buying seeds, buying plants, buying soil, raised bed materials, mulch, etc. … it can all get a bit daunting, let’s be honest! But there’s quite a few ways to get seeds and plants for free or extremely cheap, which I’ll be addressing in this section! The next section will be all about addressing the other Costs in gardening and how to mitigate or eliminate them entirely.

Also, do keep in mind; there’s no need to try and convert a whole area from lawn to garden or unused to garden at once. In fact, it could actually be extremely beneficial to do it a little at a time--maybe four or five square feet to start out.

Front Lawn (or Managing Principles)

If you live in a place where you’re required to have a grass turf lawn (HOA’s come to mind…), try replacing it with native grasses instead! You could even possibly use a low-growing ground cover plant like clover to a similar effect! Reseeding/replacing an entire lawn can be a big upfront cost, but even just letting the lawn be a little messy and tall helps. If the lawn gets patchy, leave the bare spots for a little while and something different will likely pop up! Pioneer species will fill the gaps and provide benefits to other plants around them, support animals, and more! If you want to take the guesswork out of it, you could always research what the pioneer species are in your area and plant the ones you like most.

Obtaining Seeds for Cheap or Free

The cheapest way to start a garden is by far via seeds. However, seeds can be a bit complicated to grow, and some sources make them… way overpriced. Fortunately there are ways to get seeds for little to no cost!

Some places sell seeds for as low as a dollar, 50 cents, or 25 cents! The packets may not have a lot of seeds, but it’s definitely a good start for a low budget! I’ve personally bought cheap seed packets at Walmart--the Ferry-Morse and Burpee brands are not what we’re looking for here. Typically the cheaper ones I’ve found are American Seed (which is owned by Green Garden Products, which also owns Ferry-Morse, Livingston Seed, McKenzie Seed, and Seeds of Change. Do with that information what you will), but they’re rarely stocked near the Ferry-Morse ones in the Formal Gardening Section. I’ve most often found them on end caps near the gardening section, so you may have to weave through a few aisles to find them, but once you do there’s an array of flower and vegetable seeds to select from! Alternatively, I’ve found seeds at Dollar Tree sold 2 or 4 for a dollar in Spring as part of their seasonal product; however, when they’re out of stock, they’re typically out of stock for the year. Try to check them out early in the year!

Otherwise, other seed companies like Urban Farmer or Botanical Interests will often have semi-frequent sales in spring and fall, when people are stocking up on seeds--joining their email lists can help you be the first to know when a good sale is going on!

Some foods from grocery stores will provide seeds that you can use in the garden as well. I’ve had the most luck with store-bought bagged beans, peppers, and tomatoes. Some people have had luck with watermelons, apples, citrus, squash, and more. Do keep in mind that you likely won’t get the same variety of fruit/vegetable as the one you bought--the resulting plant may look different and taste different.

Give it a shot! Pick some beans you like--if they don't grow well, at least you can eat the rest!

If you live in the US, food-producing live plants, bare roots, and seeds can often be purchased with SNAP benefits. But what does growing fruits, veggies, and herbs have to do with boosting biodiversity? While food crops aren’t typically native, they still provide valuable shelter for native insects. Some plants even have intricate relationships with native fauna--like the squash bee, a solitary bee which exclusively pollinates cucurbits like pumpkins, squash, and zucchini. And we get to benefit more directly as well! If you’re planting a diverse range of foods in your garden (as opposed to the swaths of single-plant farms that typically produce what’s sent to grocery stores), you’re supporting high levels of biodiversity by providing a variety of plants for creatures to live and hunt around.

Most of the time, when we think of boosting biodiversity with a garden, we think of a colorful flower garden teeming with pollinator species. However, if we’re striving to use native species, it can be a bit difficult to find some species in stores. I can say from experience that trying to find any wildflower seeds other than butterfly weed, purple coneflowers, and black-eyed-susans is… challenging, if you limit yourself to stores like Walmart, Home Depot, and Lowe’s. You might occasionally get lucky with an ACE Hardware or a local nursery, but even then sometimes it can be hard to track down who in your area is selling what--let alone if you live in an area where no one really is selling native plants or their seeds. Not to mention, even once you find a local or online store selling the seeds you want, they can sometimes cost a pretty penny. So what do you do?

If you have the option to, consider gathering native seeds yourself! Get good at identifying the native flora and fauna--or at least, a few target plants and their lookalikes--and get ready to go! Learn where they tend to grow, when they’ll be seeding, etc. Try to identify the plant before it goes to seed (for most plants, it's easiest to identify when flowering), then check back regularly to gather seeds. Typically, if I want to learn how to collect seed from a specific plant, I just search it on Google or YouTube--oftentimes, I'm lead to the GrowItBuildIt Youtube page, so it may be a helpful resource for you as well! Of course, make sure to leave plenty of seed behind so the wild population can repopulate, and seed can feed other creatures in the area. A good rule of thumb is to take no more than 1/3rd of what's available.

Buying seed in bulk is an option if you can afford the upfront cost. Try teaming up with a few friends to buy some bulk seeds and split them amongst yourselves--you’ll get tons of seed! Prairie Moon is a popular site that'll sell seeds by the pound if you can afford the price--though they're in the US, and I believe they focus on Midwest and East Coast natives.

If you want to cheat the system, don’t buy bulk sunflower seeds--buy bags of sunflower seeds being sold as birdseed. They’re typically all black oil sunflower seeds, but they’ll sprout, and they’re fairly cheap for the amount you get!

However, beware generic wildflower seed mixes! Many brands like to sell wildflower seed mixes in big box stores like Home Depot, Target, or even Dollar Tree, but they’ll often include flowers that aren’t native or possibly even invasive in your region! Before you make any purchases, double check to make sure the contained seeds won’t do more harm than good! A quality source of native seeds will provide English and Latin names for all seeds included, and will be native to the region or at least non-invasive.

See this? I don't trust this.

There’s a good handful of programs online that’ll send you free seeds if you’re planning to start a native habitat project! Poke around online and see what you can find; you might get lucky! The best time to start looking for these is fall and winter, I find--by early spring, many of them are either done or beginning to wind down... though some also start up in spring. Ultimately--just check regularly! You never know what you can find!

Other Ways to Get Plants

Don’t want to start from seed? That’s fair! You can try cuttings! Just be sure not to take too much of the plant while you do so. Make sure you’ve gotten a few leaf nodes on your cutting, and cut any flowers you may have gotten. Make sure to leave some blooms and foliage on the original plant for the creatures in the current habitat--you don’t want to destroy one habitat to make another in your garden. There’s tons of methods of rooting cuttings, many of which have different efficacy rates for different plants, but that’s a topic for another post.

If you find seedlings growing in a place where they won’t be able to sustain themselves long-term, or are in danger of being destroyed, consider relocating them! You may be able to gently dig up and transplant the seedling to your garden. Don’t do this if they’re in a place where they can easily survive--ideally, you’ll be taking plants from sidewalk cracks, heavily maintained public gardens, roadsides, etc. Do be careful while doing this--ensure your safety first!

You’re totally allowed to join gardening communities like clubs, facebook groups, and more before you’ve even put a trowel to the dirt. These are great places to learn information and advice! Many gardeners are more than happy to help out a new gardener, and will eagerly provide seeds, cuttings, or even baby plants! Talk to some people about your gardening journey and what you’re hoping to do, and you just might find some kindred spirits--or at least get more people interested in the topic!

Seed and plant giveaways and trades happen all the time in gardening clubs, as well as online! Just poke around and see what you can find! Some are explicitly trades, meaning you’re expected to send something in return, but once you get your feet on the ground with some plant knowledge you’ll be stellar! You may be able to explain you’re just starting out, and someone may send you seeds without expecting a trade, but I’d suggest trying giveaways first.

Poke around online and see if there’s a local chapter of your state’s native plant society. From there, you’ll likely be able to find a calendar of events--many of them will host plant sales in the spring, with a bunch of native plant seedlings ripe for the pickings if you can make it out and have some money to spare! Fair warning, though, you’ll want to get there early if you can. If they say they’re starting at 10, try to get there by 9:45. Year after year, there’s always record turnout, and they sell out of plants faster than ever. Just trust me on this. I’ve been let down; hopefully you won’t have to be.

Some libraries are beginning to host seed libraries! Check around and see if your library has one! Ideally, the system works best if you also have seeds to contribute in return, but if you’re just starting out I’m sure they won’t mind you taking some seeds! Just consider saving some seeds to contribute in the future and pay it forward. If your library doesn’t have a seed library? Consider asking if they’d be willing to start one! Community interest is a great way to get the ball rolling on projects like these, but they’ll only know the community is interested if the community tells them they’re interested!

Volunteer to Garden for/with Someone Else

Maybe someone in your area wants to garden, but is struggling to find the time/energy. Many elderly people who used to garden simply can’t anymore but still would like a garden. Other people may love to have a helping hand in their garden. You might even find a few people in your area interested in renting and sharing a community garden plot with others, so they don't have to handle it all on their own! They may be interested in increasing biodiversity right now, or may be willing to if it’s brought up to them. You might be just the kind of person someone needs! Since it won't be your garden, you’ll likely need a bit of permission and collaboration to get anything in particular going, but it’s worth a shot and a way to maybe even make friends!

Again, your mileage may vary with some of these. You may not know where there's a bunch of wildflowers growing in your area, or maybe your local library doesn't have a free seed library. That's okay! Do what you're able to, find what you can find, get what you can get! And there's never any shame with starting small--in fact, starting small can make the project easier to manage and expand when you're able!

That's the end of this post! My next post is gonna be about ways to start growing plants cheaply--low cost seed starting set ups, essentially. There's a lot of good options, many of which I've used myself even! Until then, I hope this advice is helpful! Feel free to reply with any questions, success stories, or anything you think I may have forgotten to add in!

#biodiversity #solarpunk #gardening #outdoor gardening #growing from seed #ani rambles #out of queue #the biodiversity saga #i will be honest I have never flat out approached people to offer to help them garden #HOWEVER. People HAVE approached ME asking ME to help THEM with/plan THEIR garden #granted it was after I'd been gardening for a good few years. and its mostly family or family friends but yknow #people would be like 'oh wanna help me with my veggie garden?' even before I tried growing vegetables #i don't think the library near me has a seed library but you just wait until i. get the courage. to go to the library regularly.#i've seen people also make their own little seed library structures kinda like a little free library but like #i dont think my neighborhood is about that life.#if any of yall have those though it could be a great resource! also send pics because I love seeing them #not to say that this post should become a giant seed trade but if it did become that i would be the opposite of mad #if there's any typos blame my sister shes got the hotel room at like 60-something degrees and I am FREEZING #welp time to shut up now bye

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sprout-fics · 8 months

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Coyote Kiss

(Philip Graves x F! Reader)

(Call of Duty Masterlist)

Rating: Explicit, MDNI Wordcount: 3.1k Tags: Brat Tamer Graves, Bratty Reader, Motorcycle Graves, Date night, Banter, Bickering, Love/Hate Relationship, Messy relationships, Jealousy Warnings: None A/N: Hi. Here's more of the man I love to hate and hate to love. Forgive me.

He’s smirking at you.

There’s a low, fluorescent buzz to the diner amidst the distant sounds of the kitchen, the gurgle of the coffee machine behind the counter. You and Graves are tucked in a booth, far from the door, where the neon light of the ‘open’ sign catches against the shiny leather of his motorcycle jacket. There’s tinny music over the speakers, the 80’s you think, not entirely sure. You know if you try and guess Graves will only huff at you, correct you and lament about your poor music knowledge.

Smartass.

You can feel the toes of his boots brush against your ankles, and even though you aren’t looking at him you know he’s just waiting for you to comment on it, nudge him out of your space with mild annoyance. Instead you focus on the various laminated displays of greasy food inside the menu, burying your face so you ignore him. Yet even without looking you know exactly how he looks. Relaxed into his seat, arms crossed, head tilted in keen observation, and that damned smirk plastered across his smug face.

“You haven’t looked at the menu.” You observe, still not looking at him, and you hear Graves shift to attention when you finally acknowledge him.

“Don’t have to.” He replies easily. “I’ve been here long enough to know what I want.”

Or so he’s said. It had taken some cajoling on his part to drag you this far out into the sticks, far away from the Shadow Company base. You’d expected him to commandeer one of the jeeps in the compound, puzzled as to why he told you to dress warm in the middle of the deadly Texas summer heat. Yet then your commander had led you off to a garage, had yanked a tarp back to reveal a pristinely kept motorcycle underneath.

“Ducati.” He announced smugly, leaning on the bike and running an appreciative hand over the sleek black trim. “One of the best on the market.”

“How did you afford this?” You gaped at him, ignoring his bark of laughter at your open, astonished expression.

“It pays to be a government contractor, sweetheart. You ought to know that by now.”

He walked over to a shelf, tossed you a helmet. It looked brand new. You barely caught it, too transfixed on the motorcycle. Graves sauntered back over, tapped two leather-gloved fingers under your chin.

“Close your mouth, babygirl. You’ll catch flies.”

It had been clear from the get-go that Graves had planned this in excruciating detail, going as far as providing you with a spare jacket that even now remains draped across your shoulders, just a bit too large. You’d hopped on the bike behind him, a little hesitant to grab onto him, at least until he’d huffed and wrapped your arms around his waist himself. The warmth of him bled into your front, helmet tucked against his shoulder and thighs clenched to the bike as he’d sped off out of the compound.

You’d gotten some stares from the guards. There will probably be rumors across half the base by the time you both get back.

You don’t know how long you rode into the desert, the sun setting quickly and casting a brilliant orange haze across the horizon. Graves talked little, focused on the road, stopping only when he was required, planting a possessive hand roaming across the meat of your thigh. When you’d playfully smacked at it, he only laughed.

Eventually you had pulled into the diner just as the sunset faded and the flickering, lonely street lights had turned on. When he had ushered you into the diner, the older lady behind the counter had greeted him in cheerful familiarity. “Phil.”

She’s disappeared now, and you think you heard her mutter something to the much younger waitress about a smoke break. Left alone, you stare into the grease-stained menu and try to decipher the various contents in a vain attempt to not entertain Grave’s twinkling eyes.

He nudges you again under the table, boots pressing against your ankles, spreading himself wide and into your space in a way that’s meant to purposefully draw your attention. You know this ploy all too well, know that if you bite and decide to snip at him he’ll only rile you up further with gleeful audacity, until eventually he handles you into a biting kiss you can’t resist. It’s the constant game you both play, caught between a simmering annoyance that erupts in roaming touches and snipping banter even when you’re caught in his arms. You know the inevitable end of it, how you’ll end up in his bed, feel him haul your legs over his shoulders and tease you even then, smiling against your lips when he forces you to surrender in desperate, mewling gasps.

You pretend to hate it, fight him at every turn, rise to his jabs and return them with your own. It only feeds into his rampant desire for you, intoxicated by handling the feral nature of you, taming you with teasing endearments turned into rasping, sweet nothings as he buries himself inside you. You know you’ll go willingly even though you bite at him like something wild, slightly feral, knowing that at the end of this you’ll surrender to his carnal desires only because it feels so good.

You catch the waitress out of the corner of your eye, see her blonde hair cascade in girlish waves out of her ponytail, french-tip nails holding her ticketbook as she sways over to your table. She’s pretty, thin, looks like something out of those 60’s advertisements done in acrylic posters.

“What can I getcha, hon?” She asks, voice a thick Texas drawl as she cocks her hip, staring straight at Graves. Attentive. Suggestive.

It makes your eyes narrow.

Graves looks up like he’s noticed her for the first time, offering a polite smile, different from the one he’s given you.

“Coffee. Black.” He provides, slinging an arm over the back of his seat. “I’ll have the fried catfish sandwich and okra. Fries on the side, biscuits too.”

“Sure thing, sugar.”

Hmm.

You’re ready to order when Graves then points at you. You think he’ll pull a smartass move, declare your affinity for a fresh salad and fruit. Instead he supplies: “This little lady right here will have a burger, medium rare. The works, bacon, egg, all that. Plus onion rings and a coke.”

You open your mouth to protest, but find nothing to object to. In fact, when you frown in a mild pout, your stomach only rumbles in yawning hunger. Graves shoots you a look.

“And no pickles.” He adds, grinning wolfishly. You’re not sure if you want to bite or kiss him.

The waitress scribbles down all of the above in quick shorthand. “Anything else?”

Graves purses his lips, considering. “Chips and queso.” He supplies with a small gesture of his hand. “Thank ya, darlin’.”

The waitress seems to perk up at that, smiling happily before striding off towards the kitchen. You watch her go, trace her back until she vanishes behind the swinging door, and only then do you catch Graves staring at you.

“What?”

He raises an eyebrow at you contemplatively. “Am I not giving you enough attention, babygirl?”

Are you jealous?

You scoff, averting your eyes so he doesn’t see the flash of surprise and bashfulness that flickers across your gaze. “Hardly.” You tell him, and your commander only hums, pressing his boot a little more firmly against your calf.

You shoot him an annoyed look. “Quit it.” You grumble, and just as you expect Graves only grins, eyes twinkling at your bite.

“Can’t help it.” He drawls. “I’m a long legged man.”

You tilt your head at him, a mischievous smile forming on your lips as you consider his words.

“You’re 5’11.” You correct him. “I know plenty of Shadows that have a few inches on you.”

Graves’ eyes flash at that, and you know you’ve gotten under his skin just a bit by the way his gaze turns just a little sharp before melting back into easy confidence.

“I compensate in other ways, darlin’. You know that.”

You thin your lips at that, know that for all intents and purposes, he’s right.

Graves takes in your silence and laughs, pleased.

“Don’t pout.” He tuts at you. “If you need a reminder later, let me know.”

The last time he gave you a ‘reminder’ you’d walked on wobbly legs for two days afterwards, bruises tracing abstract patterns up your chest and throat. And Graves, damnable Graves, had strutted around the compound like a prized rooster crowing at the sun for all the things he knew he had done to you. You’d seethed about it, of course, his egoism, but even then you couldn’t stop the memory of him from poisoning the slow fester of your attraction to him.

His hands on your wrists, your legs over his shoulders. The hickeys he’s sucked into your throat bloom dark against your skin. You toss your head under him, lips parted in desperate little whines as he grinds himself into you with unerring precision. His back is scratched to hell, and he moans at the burn of it, drunk on the hurt and the intoxicating process of watching your wild nature fold to utter, mewling surrender under him.

“Feel good, baby?” He drawls, voice hoarse with his groans as his hips slap against yours. It shakes the bed. “Can’t even talk because you’re so cockdrunk, aren’t ya, little spitfire?”

And you, you had given into him, had surrendered to his endearing, teasing taunts, had folded under him like you belonged there.

Your thighs threaten to close at the memory, and the motion doesn’t go unnoticed by your commander, who’s face lights up in realization.

“Yeah?” He provides, shifting forward eagerly. “Bet you’d like that, babygirl.”

“Piss off.” You snap, even though the temptation of it roils inside you with undeniable interest.

Graves whistles, long and low, puckering his lips and feigning surprise. “I like that bark, sweetheart. You know I do, but…”

Graves leers at you.

“I like it better when you bite.”

You choke.

It’s not unlike him to be this brazen, far from it. Yet his taunting is usually reserved for the more private moments, the ones where he crowds you into the shadows of the armory or behind the barracks, seizes your lips in a domineering kiss until you gasp against him. He leaves you like that after, having barely touched you, smirking with that twinkle in his eyes and sauntering off to leave you exactly as he intended. Dizzy, chest rising, mind fuzzy with want.

Here, however, in this place with a sparse collection of other diners, where the blonde waitress peeks from the porthole of the kitchen door, you feel yourself warm under his intent stare, mouth pressing into a thin, flustered line as you avoid his gaze.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do, instinctively. That tone, when his voice dips lower, less playful, heavy with intent, always summons your attention. It means listen, eyes up, come here.

You merely glance at him, not entirely turning. Avoiding him still, feeding into this game that you both enjoy so dearly.

“Maybe I don’t want to.” You drawl, and you know if it weren’t for the table between you Graves would close the distance and seize your chin to make you look. You smile at that in a way he can see, watch the way fire flickers across his eyes at the rebellious streak in you. He loves it. Loves the way you refuse to obey. It’s a challenge he’s greedy to accept, a temptation he can’t resist. The act of making you surrender is an addiction in of itself, a warm swimming desire that feeds into his veins. He’s drunk on the act of taming you, can’t resist riling you up only to put you down.

It feeds his ego, you think- his oozing confidence that doesn’t buckle even under artillery fire. Graves knows what he is capable of.

Knows he’s capable of taming you.

Before he can respond to your taunt, the waitress reappears with an entire platter of food. Fries, chips, onion rings, queso, drinks, a burger, okra, and a piece of catfish perfectly fried. The steam wafts up from the linoleum table, and you can’t help your eyes fluttering at the intoxicating smell of perfectly greasy food.

“Anything else, sweetpea?” The waitress asks in a sing-song little voice, still trying to draw Graves' attention. He looks up at her, tilting his head and softening his eyes just for a moment. You think he’ll flirt with her, maybe compliment her bright pink lipstick.

“That’s all.” He provides instead, short in a way that makes you blink as you watch the rejection pass over the waitress’s face. She nods distantly before vanishing, and Graves doesn’t give her a second glance before he’s lifting his sandwich up and tearing into it like a coyote with a piece of raw meat.

You survey the table, the wealth of food you know you won’t finish. It’s decadent to the point of excess, and as Graves sucks the sauce from his fingers messily you blink at the spread.

“Christ, Graves.” You breathe. “There’s enough here to feed the base.”

Graves hums around the next bite of his food.

“I gotta keep my girl fed.” He provides through a full mouth, and when you scold him for manners he only grins at you before nodding to your burger. “I know you’re hungry, eat up.”

You grumble at him but happily oblige, biting into the meat of your burger. Flavor and warmth explodes across your senses, and before you can help it you moan.

Graves barks a laugh, nudges you once again under the table.

“Atta girl.” He provides, and you’re too lost in your food to care about the slight mocking tone of his, eyes scrunching shut and savoring the next bite.

“My little carnivore.” He croons, and you do nudge him with your boot at that, shooting him a glare. His eyes only twinkle with mischief before he returns to his own food.

It takes time for you both to devour the table full of food with its queso laden chips and golden brown onion rings, the fries that leave grease stains on the wax paper. Graves waggles a piece of okra in front of your face, and you finally give into his cajoling before eating it straight from his hand.

When his knuckles graze under your chin, you resist the urge to bite him.

Eventually you slump back in your seat with a heavy, pleased sigh, hands over your full stomach and immensely satisfied at the warmth of the food that curls there. Graves sips at his coffee, and how he manages to drink it black after eating that amount of grease is beyond you.

“Feel good, babygirl?” He asks, perhaps a little too smugly, but you can’t bring yourself to pay him much mind.

“Mm-hmm.” You hum happily, a lazy pleased smile across your face as you look at him.

For a moment, you swear you catch something that veers dangerously close to tenderness.

“How am I supposed to get us both on the bike after all this?” He snarks instead, gesturing to the mess of empty plastic baskets and crumbs you’ve both left.

You shrug, unable to hide a cheeky smile. “I could probably ride back and get a couple of strong shadows to haul you onto a truck.” You suggest, and in a rare moment of surprise Graves chokes on his coffee. You grin victoriously at him when he wipes at his chin before turning to you with his eyes narrowed.

“Brat.”

You shrug. “Guilty.”

Despite the scolding, Graves is smiling, and you can’t help but smile back.

You cringe when the bill is slid onto the table, but Graves doesn’t even blink when he deposits a fat wad of cash before standing and bringing you with him. He keeps a hand at the small of your back as you both exit into the cool night air, and if you didn’t know better you’d swear he was being a gentleman.

Yet then the hand snakes up to your back, and you nearly stumble in surprise as Graves thumps you a few times between the shoulders. You spin to face him, eyes wide in indignation.

“Are you trying to burp me?!” You gasp in mild outrage, and in perfect timing you have to swallow down a bubble of gas in hopes he doesn’t notice.

Graves grins, amused and pleased at the mildly scornful look in your eyes. He merely crowds you backwards until your backside bumps against the motorcycle, his hands catching you by your hips before he hauls himself flush against you.

You’re not ready for the way the blue of his eyes shift under the glow of the streetlamp, the sudden, dizzying desire he has when he locks his gaze on yours.

“You drive me crazy, you know that darlin?” He rasps, voice dragging breathily in his chest. It makes you soften against him in your shock, the sudden rapturous fixation of his voice that almost speaks of devotion.

You swallow, heart thumping uneasily in your chest, caught on the razor’s edge of him, afraid that if you get too close he might bleed you dry.

You almost want him to try.

“You’re already crazy.” You manage instead, flashing him a mischievous smile that only barely meets your eyes.

Graves laughs, and laughs again when you nip at his descending lips, a hand snaking up to cradle your skull and press you closer to him. Your hands seize the leather of his jacket in a desperate anchor, swept away by his sudden urge to devour you.

You’re always hiding in some ways from him, you think, ever distant and out of reach. You feign irritation to quell the thunder of your heartbeat, teetering on the precipice of caution and dangerous desire. If you surrender completely, fall into his jaws, you know he’ll only gobble you up like a wild animal. You fear somehow he’ll chew you until you’ve lost your taste and then leave the remains of your broken heart withering like starved desert flowers. You’re not sure if you can take it.

Yet in this moment, in the laughing kiss he presses against your parted lips, you wonder if perhaps this is meant to be forever.

Taglist:

@alicesfracturedmirror @writeforfandoms

#graves x reader #graves x you #commander graves x reader #philip graves x reader #philip graves x you #reader insert #x reader #my writing #my fic #to add to masterlist #something something Graves is a wild Texas coyote #and I adore and hate him for it #if there's typos here I don't see them I'm not looking #anyways here's wonderwall ig

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prettiestcaptain · 1 year

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Teen Wolf The Movie: A Summary

#teen wolf #teen wolf the movie #teen wolf summary #teen wolf recap #recap #twsum #my stuff #can you tell I was giving up towards the end #forgive typos and shit quality of some pics #I tried to lighten it so you could actually SEE #this is also a sterek zone okay so if you don't like it #too bad lmao

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frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe · 6 months

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i had a worm wiggle it's way into my head when 'work song' came on on my way home today.

pairing: steddie | word count: 2,949 | rated: T

cw: major character death (no gore, nothing descriptive, though it's stated that Eddie was sick and getting weaker, then implied that he dies.)

Eddie Munson’s mother was a witch.

He didn’t know this until he was stricken with the same sickness that took her from him years and years before, but he knows now.

He knows from the small chest he found buried deep in his and his Uncle’s attic one day after learning of his ailment, and the handful of months he should expect to have left, from the local doctor.

The chest was brimming with scrolls, tomes, candles, stones, herbs, vials, even a small pewter cauldron.

“I shoulda known,” was all Wayne had said, heeding Eddie’s beckoning call that hazy afternoon.

Eddie sorted through everything he had found; spending hours every day flipping through each book and journal, deciphering his mother’s handwriting and the spells she had inscribed onto the pages.

He even started to try a few; his mother’s ‘powers’, per sae, had come from the earth around her, writing in the largest, most disheveled of the journals that all she had needed to do was to listen to Mother Earth herself, listen to what she had to tell her.

So, Eddie practiced.

Small things at first, like seamlessly re-attaching the snipped off head of a daisy back to it’s stem, snipping it off again only to regrow an identical one in it’s place. Even starting a broken branch of the pine outside the Munson home on it’s way to a new green version of what was lost.

Eddie counted himself very lucky that Wayne was not one to believe the church’s nearly unhinged ramblings about witchcraft being the work of the Devil, and let Eddie practice a couple of the other simpler things on him.

“Jus’ don’t go thinkin’ I’mma let you chop my head off, boy.”

Wayne’s body aching from following their ox around all day with the plow? “Here, drink this, it should help.” It did.

Couple of Wayne’s fingers get snapped under the same ox’s hoof? A little harder, but he managed; the digits sore and achy that night, but good as new come morning.

“There a hair spell in that book, Ed?” Wayne joked one morning over breakfast, a good three quarters of the way through the six months the doctor gave Eddie, and a couple after finding Maggie Munson’s secret.

“Hmmmm….I dunno Uncle Wayne,” Eddie flips through his journal absently, “I think a Get Your Hair Back spell is too close to a love charm to work right. You could end up with hair all over your body and not just on that beautiful, shiny, head o’yours.”

“Love spells are touchy,” Maggie’s journal had said, “There are a rumored few that work, but only for the truest forms. I’ve tried some simple potions and charms…Al still left..and if they didn’t work…” the rest was easily filled in.

“Oh yeah? Then how's about a Cure What Ails Ya spell? Got one’a those in that there book?”

“Why? You feeling sick, Wayne?” Eddie half-jokes, trying to veer away from having this conversation with Wayne again.

Wayne’s quiet as Eddie focuses intently on the book infront of him, trying, and failing, to scoop up a bite of egg onto his fork without looking away.

“Ed,” his uncle starts, soft and pleading once again, “Is there really nothin’ that can help ya?”

Eddie huffs, dropping his fork onto his plate and pushing it and the journal away from him. Definitely something a younger boy would do, not the nearly 25 he is now. “Why don’t you give them a look, huh? ‘Cause I already have.”

“Ed–”

He snaps his head up to glare at the older man. “What is it Wayne? What?” Eddie snatches the journal back up off the table without looking. “I’ve looked okay? Through Mom’s and through every damn book in that attic. And there was nothing. Nothing! You think she would’ve left if there was?” He stands sharply, knocking the small faded blue table away as he does. “Would’ve left m—”

His free hand wraps around his middle, nausea and the spins taking him for a ride a the sudden movement.

“Hey, Hey, sit back down son.” Wayne stands as well, coaxing him back into his chair.

The nausea spells have become more frequent, the dizziness even more so, as the months have worn on, so Wayne ties up Eddie’s hair (growing thinner by the day), walks the short few steps to the pitcher of water he’d pulled from the well that morning, and pours some into a bowl, grabbing a clean(-ish) rag on his way back.

Wayne smoothes the cool damp rag over Eddie’s face and neck, slowly and deliberately until the nauseous feeling passes.

“‘M sorry, Uncle Wayne, I know you’re just worried.”

“It’s alrigh’ boy, I shouldn’t’a pushed.”

“I’m still doing better than most,” Eddie says, voice tilting up at the end, “I think it’s ‘cause of the magic.”

“Thoughtcha said there wasn’t no cure in that book.” Wayne states, moving to empty the bowl.

“There’s not,” Eddie closes his eyes, relaxes back into his chair. “Doc thinks Ms. Wilson had the same as me and Ma, and you saw how quick it took her.”

“Mrs. Wilson was nearly 70, Ed.”

“Then how about that boy Carver? He was my age, and Doc gave him six when he came down with it too, was gone in two.”

Wayne shrugs, “The devil wanted him back sooner.”

Eddie barks out a laugh, lifting his head to catch a glimpse of his Uncle’s ‘desperately-trying-to-hide-his-smile’ smile.

Wayne jokes, but Eddie’s been contemplating this for a while now. When he had hit his second month, he was about the same as he was, steadily growing weaker, as what was expected, but nothing like how Ms. Wilson and Jason had looked in theirs.

Hell, Jason had worked on the docks with Eddie since they were boys; both fit and lean, healthy young men with the musculature to show for their work.

That was when he’d found his mom’s books, and ever since, his health had slowed to a crawl.

“I think using mom’s magic is helping me.”

Wayne is quiet, cleaning their plates from the table and dumbing the leftover eggs out the window to the pigs.

“I think it’s your magic now, Eds.”

—---

And so it went.

Eddie’s given six months turned into a year, his magic growing from healing fingerbones, to mending their ox’s broken femur with ease.

His year didn’t come without worsening symptoms though, and his previously well filled out overalls hung loose around him, his calves barely filling out the tops of his boots tied all the way tight.

Wayne always kept the faith, so to speak, not a religious man by nature, but Eddie could hear him sometimes in the early morning and late night praying to “Whoever’s got their ears on up there,” to keep Eddie safe, to keep him in their sights when the time came.

Eddie had been doing work of his own, too. Writing down anything new he found out while sitting with the Earth, listening, watching….

Mother told him through the whispers of the trees, the soft humming of the grass, that he’d know when it was time.

And that time was within the next few days.

He felt it in his bones, he felt it in the air when Wayne passed him his birthday gift (a flaky scone with the biggest chunks of chocolate in town, an amazing treat he got once a year) on the morning of his 25th year, he felt it in the very ground he walked on…

He was ready, though he did harbor one regret. One thing he knew he missed out on.

He’d never fallen in love.

Over his last year, Eddie would sit with Mother; amongst the trees, lain back in the field of grass on the hill behind their house, and tell her about them.

The ‘they’ that he’d likely never meet, the they that would love him for nothing but his love in return.

Nothing was ever specific, only the vaguest feelings he’d get about them, about the way they’d love, the humor they’d possess, the love for Eddie’s stories they’d have.

And every time he’d speak of them, Eddie’d leave with something that he didn’t realize he had picked up until he was nearly back home.

A chain of daisies Wayne had plucked from atop his head when he sat down for dinner, a scrap of dark blue fabric he’d found walking through town, a bouquet of bright yellow daffodils, the tiny sun bleached skull of a bat.

And he’d write. Over and over, never quite getting it right, but there was something he knew he needed to get out of his very being before he left for good. Something that felt like a promise.

–

The morning came, and Eddie awoke to a silent house.

Wayne out on the fields already, most likely out helping the folks on either side of them with whatever they needed doing, with only the hens’ clucks and pigs’ snorts keeping him company with the calls from the birds in the trees.

Eddie got up, slow as slow could be, got himself into his clothes, shuffled down the hall to the kitchen to their small blue table, tore out a blank page of his mother’s notebook and wrote.

Pouring all of what remained within him, Eddie thought of the Earth, of his mom, of Uncle Wayne, and them. His unknown love.

-x-X-x-

Steve Harrington’s mother was not a witch.

But for the last few years, he’s had a suspicion that his Grandmother is.

Everyone says that their food tastes so good because “It’s made with love!”, but with Mama Harrington, it was real. The love and intent she imbued into her meals was there. And she could cure any ailment.

She would always go on and on about the importance of food, each recipe’s ingredients’ healing powers, and of the recipes and their stories that had been passed down through the years from her mother, and her mother’s mother, all the way to now, where they ended up in a cookbook that’d gone untouched since it was given to Steve’s mother in the late 60’s.

“A gift! Unused for so many years, Steven!”

“I know, Mama,” he nods again, dropping some green something into the pot of sauce bubbling on the stove. “Almost 25 years.”

“Aye! You have catching up to do.” she says, shaking a thick wooden spoon at him.

“Me?” he scoffs, “I don’t know the first thing about cooking, Mama!” Baking? He’d hold his own. Cooking? If his grandmother wasn’t there to help him of on the phone to guide him through a recipe? Kitchen would go up in flames.

“Bah! Watch closely, dear.” she says, shuffling to the pot that stands nearly as tall as her where it’s perched on the stovetop. “It is always your intent behind what you are cooking. You can make anything be anything as long as the intent is there.”

“Even eggs?”

She nods, her nearly fully white bun flopping back and forth on top of her head. “Even just eggs.”

“So if I want a carbonara to help get my friend a passing grade?” he asks, incredulous, but immediately thinking of Robin, who’s coming up on her finals in a couple months (for her doctorate! A PhD! Can you believe that!).

“The intent! Put it into the eggs, into the pasta, I don’t care! But make it for That!”

She throws a concerningly large handful of pepper into the pot on the stove, and gives it a stir.

“Now, this is my Mama’s recipe, and it will help your Pa’s back.”

“How so?”

“Because I told it to,” she growls, glaring at the pot and raising her spoon as if she was going to smack some sense into it.

“Alright, Mama,” Steve chuckles, “What do you need me to do?”

He spends the next hour helping his grandma roll out some of her premade dough for some fettuccine looking noodles, grabbing a wrapped up blob “from the top shelf, Steven. That’s the stuff I made for you.”.

He rolls, folds, and cuts it as he’s told, then goes to pick Robin up from campus while she finishes everything.

“It won’t take long now, dear, and you shouldn’t either.” Mama scolds, waving her spoon around once again.

“Got it, Mama, be back soon.” He slips on his shoes, looks in on his grandpa in the living room as he passes, grinning at the loud snores he hears from the direction of Pa’s recliner, and slips out the front door to his car.

In no time, he’s picked up Robin, stopped for a movie from Blockbuster, and is home to the smell of fresh bread.

“We’re home Mama!”

“I’m just setting the table, grab your Pa!”

“Come on Pa, Mama’s got some pasta for you.” Steve says, coaxing his grandfather out of the chair and into his slippers.

“Ah, perfect, my back’s been real achy lately.”

“That’s ‘cause you sleep in the recliner, Mr. Harrington.”

“How many times do we gotta tell you, Robin? Just call us Ma and Pa.”

Robin plops down in her designated spot across from Ma, “Hey, you should get used to it now; Once I finally get up the nerve to Chrissy out, she’ll come over here all “Mr. Harrington” this and “Mrs. Harrington” that.

“And how’s that coming, Bobs?” Steve asks her, sitting down beside his grandma and immediately passing the plate of bread across the table to Robin’s waiting hands.

She starts going off at a million miles a minute about her longest standing crush, while Steve shares a look with his grandma, both smirking conspiratorially as Robin takes a bite of the bread.

That’d been Steve’s suggestion, a bread imbued with luck.

It wasn’t a “Love Spell”, Mama said there was none in existence that were worth the pain. But the minimal luck that she had sown before into countless baked goods (especially near February), have had a surprisingly great track record.

With everyone but Steve.

She couldn’t quite figure out what it was that kept him from getting the benefits too, every time she had tried, they had tried, it was an astounding failure.

First with Tommy Hagan, the carrot cake cookies Steve had presented him with as a special birthday treat back in middle school ended with two missing front teeth and a broken arm.

Then again without even thinking about it, he’d added some luck and hope to homemade chicken pot pies he’d whipped up when he and Nancy were on the rocks.

It had somewhat worked with Billy Hargrove, but that one hadn’t even been intentional, and he shudders to think about it to this day.

“I don’t know my dearest, maybe it is because you are already tied to someone else?” She had said after her tried and true pot pie recipe failed.

“But it didn’t even work with the one I was already with!” he yelled, sighing deep and pinching the tears away from the bridge of his nose. “She jumped right into Byers’ arms.”

Mama had just given him a pitying look, which was worse, honestly.

Now, he stays far away from any of Mama’s lucky foods, especially with the weird twisting feeling he had gotten the few times he’d tried over the years after leaving Hawkins.

He and Robin came up to Indy for Robin to go to U of I, a year after she graduated, and when Steve was fired from the job that had been paying the majority of their apartment's rent when he was spotted kissing his then boyfriend by his manager….they came to live with Steve’s grandparents, taking to them both with open arms and hearts.

He comes back to the present when his third bite of pasta clears away the last of his headache.

Steve shoots his grandma a knowing look, which she ignores with a sip of wine.

–

They’re nearly finished with dinner when it happens.

Steve’s listening intently to a story Pa is telling them, something he’s sure he’s hears a dozen times before, when he absentmidedly picks up, then takes a bite of the bread Ma made for Robin.

It’s more than he’s ever felt before.

In the past, whenever Steve’s tried to gain some luck in love, he’s been inundated with flashes, feelings, words, a warmth in his bones that he’s wanted to hold onto forever.

The feelings grew stronger the older he got, and now, Steve finds himself sitting on a rolling grassy hill.

It’s not a flash of a vision like before, he’s sitting in the tall soft grass, and his hands are already making a chain of daisies. Nearly done, in fact.

He finishes it off, turns it around in his hands, then when he goes to put it on…

He’s back at the table with his family, the slice of bread in his hand, and Pa still telling his story.

Steve jumps up, startling the other three, and beelines it to the kitchen, flinging open drawers, searching for just a damn scrap of paper.

Mama follows him, “Steve, the bread?”

“I was on a hill, chaining daisies, and now I have to get these words out.” He probably doesn't make a lick of sense, but he doesn’t want to lose them.

Suddenly, a pad of paper and pen are passed into his line of sight. He snatches them up, and starts scribbling down as much as he can.

He and Mama stare down at the words on the page.

“Mama, what is this?”

She is silent for a handful of breaths.

“This is why the luck never worked.”

now with a part 2!

also: i don’t know the first thing about being a witch or anything of the sort, nor do i know anything but the basics about cooking; hope im not way way off on anything!!! this is all in fun 😅

#eddie is living in a non-specified olden times #and steve is post-canon about to turn 25 so it's 1992 for him and robin #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #witch!eddie #witch!steve #work song #hozier #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie ficlet #stranger things #st #wayne munson #robin buckley #noelle writes #it is nearly 11 pm and this looks good but i will probably find problems with it in the morning #if you see typos no you don't

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veneritia · 1 month

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april 2024 camp nano wip intro - when comes the dawn

this is just something silly :)

taglist: @bloomingwrites @writinglyra @zmwrites @trapped-inadystopianovel @inky-duchess @aalinaaaaaa @seasteading @kaatiba @lazulis-stuff @serpentarii @sourrcandy @charlesjosephwrites @marrowwife @forever-and-almost-always @halcionic

Slide transcripts under the cut!

[TRANSCRIPT BEGINS]

Slide 1: Title slide

When Comes the Dawn, book 1 of 2

Slide 2: wdym my fantasy story has to have magic?

Set in a fantasy world loosely set in the late antiquities/early middle ages., where everyone alive has the capability to harness magic. But actually using it requires strict and intensive education (and maybe a phD or 5) so most people only know very basic spells.

In Trinitarian belief, it’s believed that the goddess Meidther gave her blood to bring humans to life, and because of that people are imbued with magic. No living person can be alive without magic because it’s literally impossible! Wait -- the emperor of Aetier has a what????

So there’s this weird phenomenon where on very rare occasions, babies will be born without magic. Called “deadbornes”, these babies are incompatible with life and usually end up passing away minutes to days later. With one notable exception (we’ll circle back to this later)

Slide 3: the set-up

The Empire of Aetier (or if you ask any local: “the gods’ specialist little empire”) has a very unique way of handling succession in the imperial family. That way is murder. Just murder. All heirs plot against one another in a formal-informal system called “The King’s Game.” It’s supposed to be a competition of skills, but it’s kind of warped itself into state-sanctioned fratricide (NOT to be confused with a battle royale. That’s just uncouth /j)

The last King’s Game ended 22 years ago, when Dantalion vi Aetier defeated and killed his half-sister in battle. As the victor, he crowned himself the new Vasilier of the empire and proceeded to bring in a new golden age of prosperity for his people. And nothing is wrong and everything is beautiful, and there is no way this can go wrong

... right?

It all starts on the day Fenice was born... where instead of being the healthy and uber powerful child Dantalion expected her to be, Fenice turns out to be a deadborne. Deadbornes are considered harbingers of ill omens, and siring one is a terrible way to start your new reign. And even stranger still is the fact that Fenice...doesn’t die? Someone call the priest and ask them what does it mean if your death omen refuses to go away

Slide 4: The plot

The end of the Hesperia-Aetier war brought new lands under the Empire’s rule, and with it, new ways to gain power and prestige in the Imperial Court. The biggest thorn in the empire atm is that Hesperia’s last king is still wandering the lands somewhere, waiting to strike.

Imperessa Fenice vi Aetier (who’s still alive and kicking) just lost her mom in the war, and now she’s desperate to prove herself to her estranged father that she’s more than a disappointment and wasted potential. And what better way to do that than to succeed him as the next Vasilier?

The problem? Only those that undergo an Ascension are considered legitimate contenders for the throne. The other problem? Dantalion won’t give her one.

Fenice: “Trade offer: I receive my own province to rule and an Ascension. You receive the head of the deposed king of Hesperia.” Dantalion: “Deal. But you have to marry his brother though” Fenice: “What”

[in big, bold, italicized font] disclaimer: this is not a romance

Slide 5: The plot pt. 2

Now wedded and gifted with a province of her own to rule , Fenice actually has to set-up her own power base and follow through with her end of the deal to find and kill the runaway king, as well as extinguish the rebellions he’s so keen on igniting.

But the more she looks for him, the more she realizes he’s being backed by someone much more powerful. But who?

And on totally unrelated note, there seems to be some weird rumors going around of some guy claiming to be Aretos vi Aetier, the son of the very same person Dantalion killed during the King’s Game 20+ years back. But that’s obviously fake news. Surely no one will fall for it!

Slide 6: The POV characters

[image description, the slide is split into two parts with fenice on the left and nikephoros on the right. end image description]

[heading ] fenice vi aetier

[image description: a face claim of the character is displayed on an arched frame, the model is female,has long red hair, pale skin, and an intense gaze]

20, she/her, imperessor of Aetier, Kaisarim of Isidore

the deadborne child that just won’t die

The most calculative and petty bitch you will ever meet

Has the constitution of a sick Victorian lady

Has an inferiority complex so bad it loops back around to a superiority complex

May have met god. not entirely sure

(Debuff) (unremovable) an off-putting aura that cancels out all magic in her immediate vicinity

Ginger

She’s soooo aroace

[heading ] nikephoros deominos

[image description: a face claim of the character is displayed on an arched frame, the model is male, has short light brown hair, is wearing a red sweater, and has his chin tucked into the crook of his arm, while leaning off the arm of a sofa. end image description.]

24, he/him, prince-consort, prince of Hesperia

has been having the worst day of his life for 5 years in a row and counting

his country? conquered. his brother? in hiding. his sister? captive. himself? trying not to die of liver failure

the opposite of a wife guy, the only person he hates more than his wife is his father-in-law loves his family, would be nice to see them though.

generally a nice guy but recent events has him very stressed and angry 24/7

has murderous urges almost all the time

At the bottom middle of the slide it says "married in body but divorced in spirit."

Slide 7: Major characters (spar's notes edition)

(no pictures bc face claimsare hard :(

[heading] dantalion vi aetier

47, he/him, vasilier of the empire

a living legend that all history nerds of the future would study

the dilfiest dilf to ever dilf

has many kids. is a father to maybe one of them

has many wives. is a husband to one, maybe two of them

canonically extremely pretty

surprisingly the only vi aetier to recieve the “kinslayer” epithet despite all previous generations also...slaying kin

Is a wife guy but for a specific wife only

conquered Hesperia as a pride thing

[heading] titania of taul

45, she/her, late vasilia of the empire

the most badass woman to ever walk the face of the earth

mother to fenice and first wife to the guy on the left

she dies before the book starts but she’s still present in the story because death has nothing on her

has many fun epithets such as “the strongest mage,” and “the scourge of men”

Titania is to Hesperians as Hannibal was to the Romans

A+ fighter, B+ mom

Not brought up or relevant in the story, but did you know no one knows who her mother is. One day, her dad just walked out into the wilderness to hunt and then a couple weeks or months later came back with Titania. no explanation was given

Slide 8: major characters cont.

[heading] andras vi drochona

44, he/him, imperessor of Aetier

Dantalion’s only full-blooded sibling, and also his only living sibling

the vasilier’s right hand man

lopped off his own sword arm to prove his loyalty

Designated a forever bachelor by the government

terrible at being comforting

likes to mess with his nieces and nephews

[heading] charles vi aetier

18, he/him, imperessor of Aetier

dantalion’s second child

everyone’s favorite person and can do no wrong

has to always be ok or he’ll detonate like a nuke

achilles coded bi-disaster, take that however you will

a disney prince trapped in game of thrones someone please help this boy out he just wants his family to get along

absolute mama’s boy

[heading] sola eidos

27, he/him

that is not his real name, he made it up

could be the star of his own book ngl

primarily deals in information nowadays but sometimes he misses the adrenaline rush that comes from a well-executed assassination. this is what lands him in fenice’s hands

his secrets have secrets, that’s why his hair is so big

slide 9: major characters cont.

[heading] isandros deominos

28, he him, king of Hesperia

Nike’s older half-brother

Had the worst start of a reign ever. He’s proclaimed king and then immediately has to flee into hiding

hates Aetier with a burning passion

is Stressed TM and in dire need for some hot cocoa

[heading] leda vi bryennia

48, she/her, honored fidari

long story short, she once witnessed Titania fight and covered in blood and had such a massive girl-crush she swore to be Titania’s knight the second she was asked

helped raise fenice and is now serves her as her guardian/protector. that is her child thank you very much

had a shounen-style rivals-to-friends-to-lovers arc with fellow fidari Thetis. It’d be great if it wasn’t for their explosive break-up

[heading] sartore vitae

28, he/him

he can mansplain, manipulate, and manwhore his way into and out of any situation

has a cool eye-patch

is maybe a little too invested with Fenice’s relationship with her father

he WISHES he was as cool as lelouch lamperouge

+ many more characters! (seriously this cast is huge)

slide 10: featuring

way too much extraneous worldbuilding

court intrigue

morally dark gray protagonist

family as your allies and family as your enemies

lots of near-death experiences

no romantic subplot!

too many code geass references

slide 11: camp nano goals

write everyday

2wrte 15,000 words total

reach 50,000 words on my draft

slide 12: fin

[image description: the final slide is full of discord screenshots of funny jokes and commentary about the wip. ]

[end transcript]

#pls don't take this seriously #if u see any typos no you dont #wtwcommunity #writeblrgarden #writeblr #collection.my projects #series.wctd #collection.events #event.camp nano april 2024

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forestshadow-wolf · 4 months

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What if... hidden horror au (I blame my moot for this bc they keep posting horror aus and I eat that shit up every. Damn. Time)

Cw: vulgar language but only a little, and also horror themes (obviously), and also (nongraphic)vomiting in fear near the end, it's a long one fyi

The 141 sent to investigate the mysterious disappearance of an entire military operation. It seemingly happened in less than 18 hours, a fully staffed military base, just gone.

When they get there it's nearing 1900 hours and night-time is approaching rapidly. The base itself looks... unremarkable. From the outside at least, only faint, indistinguishable sounds until they get closer. From the inside however... the red auxiliary lights have come on, and the emergency alarm is blaring, and... it's unnerving empty, and nearly silent save for the alarm. If you learn anything from anything, it's that human populated areas are rarely ever silent. Much less a military base.

Due to the unknown variables price splits them into pairs to cover more ground effectively. He and gaz head for security and comms, to see if they can find any leads. He sends soap and ghost off to look for any signs of life.

They spend an hour search and clearing room after room, finding only dropped and strewn items, but not a soul to be found.

It's not too much later that they kick open the southeast wing, and they both freeze. A shiver of anything but cold runs through both of them, but the hall is still empty, and differs minimally from any other area of the base they've cleared so far, so the push on.

They're... twitchier than normal for some reason, so when they slam open the door of another room and the lights flicker and cut out before backup emergency light flick on they both flinch. Logically they don't how long the base has been running on aux power, so it's probably just the generators running low, but that doesn't stop them from glancing frantically at eachother. The have to take a breath and remind themselves that it's nothing they haven't experienced before, even if their hearts are beating a mile a minute.

When they hear a wicker of sound from the hall they whip around, eyes wide with dis-calm, breathing shallow. Soap's eyes flick to Ghost for reassureance. Ghost doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes trained on the door as he flicks his comm line open. Soap follows suit automatically, breathing still shaky.

"Price, get visuals on the southeast wing." Ghost's voice feeds through the thick air, and soap's ear piece. Piercing, start and stop, feedback, that had them turning the volume on their radios way low, was their only response. "Price." He tried again. "Price. how copy?" Nothing but that incessantly wavering tone.

"Gaz? You copy?" Soap took a few hesitant steps back into the hall. Ghost followed. The tone of his radio racketed up to ear piercing volume before lowering back down to a low, almost slow... clicking(?) sound, that made soap balls want to shoot back up into his body. "Gaz?"

soap almost looked back at Ghost, but then suddenly Ghost was flying out of there, and pushing Soap ahead of him. soap had no choice but to follow, his legs moving even before his brain registered the heart stopping stabbing, or the unchilled shivers that wracked his through his hands.

and it's not until they've left the south side of the base entirely that his brain even begins to register the bone-quivering presence that was behind them, that had been breathing over their shoulders. still they don't stop running.

it's only when they reach the doors of the base entrance that soap's mind reboots and he remembers they didn't come here alone. he skids to a stop at the threshold, blocking the way out.

"what are you doing?! Go!" Ghost growls at him, frantic and afraid, shoving bodily at soap. he doesn't let up.

"Price and Gaz." he spits. Ghost freezes, eyes darting side to side erratically.

ghost turns abruptly, breath hitching with fear, marching determinedly back into the base. soap follows close behind, not willing to be left alone, nor to leave Ghost on his own to find their other two companions.

soap thinks about simply radioing them from his comms, but something about the eerie quiet keeps him from doing so. he swallows nervously as they walk down hallway after hallway.

they turn down one last corner, and suddenly the pressing fear that seemed to permeate the air, slams down on his lungs with all to tangible horrifying terror. his hands tremble terribly as he clenches his eyes closed as tightly as he could, and forces himself to take another step forward, and another, until he's shoulder to shoulder with his frozen in place Lieutenant.

"close-" he swallows the thick bile that tries to climb up his throat, "close your eyes. it helps with-" he had to clear his throat again, it seemed too loud for the silence, "it helps with the fear. just- just close your eyes. Ghost- Simon. close your eyes." he begged, violently fighting down the rising bile in his throat, when Ghost still didn't move. he grabbed Ghost by the bicep and squeezed as hard as he could, trying to get some sort of reaction.

he hears a shivered breath come from the taller man, and when he finally musters the courage to open his eyes he looks immediately at Ghost. even through the mask, his face looks sunken with fear, and he's shaking harder than a leaf in a hurricane, but his eyes are closed nonetheless. he clamps his eyes back shut again.

he's quick to stumble backwards, still gripping onto Ghost as hard as he could, until his back hit the wall, and he turns them down the corner. Ghost noticeably untenses some as soon as they're further down the hallway, and the pressing fear lifts just the tiniest bit. still he does not let go, nor does he open his eyes, moving them back to the base entrance on feel and memory alone.

it's only when the cool night air registers in his panic addled brain does he open his eyes, though he still doesn't let go of ghost. he opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. he clears his throat once, twice. "we're outside. you can open your eyes now." the words come out scratchy and weak.

it's only when ghost unclenches his own eyes that he realizes there are tear tracks streaking through the black grease paint surrounding his eyes, and he can see the pale skin underneath is almost grey with still present terror.

he quickly becoming apparent to him that ghost cannot go back in there again. he nearly lets out a sound of sob when he realizes, but takes the sound in a firm grip and doesn't let it up as he begins to strip out of his heaviest gear. he swallows again when he's finally down to nothing but his sidearm strapped to his thigh, and a knife at his hip. he feels naked going back in without his gear, but it won't do him much good against it anyway, and he's favoring speed anyway. plus he needs both hands free to drag Price and Gaz out...

ghost tries to stop him as he gearing down, but he doesn't listen, just telling him to gather up his gear with a firm look. it doesn't look like Ghost has the wherewithal to argue against him, and it's confirmed when he does as he's told.

a whimper escapes him as he enters the doors into the base again, but he forces himself forward. he doesn't stop until his legs will no longer listen to him, then he closes his eyes, and shuffles forward anyway, using the wall to guide him back. the only sounds are his shuffling steps, and terrified breaths in the suffocating silence.

he only stops when he hears another set of noises. breathing, not his own. he forces his eyes open despite the dread that squeezed his heart to bursting. ten feet away price stands, his back to him, trembling where he's frozen. three feet further, Gaz lays prone on the ground, eyes wide open in frozen fear, but his chest is moving still.

when he can't stomach to keep his eyes open he closes them tight again, working his way forward on memory alone until he knocks into price. it feels like the man wobbles but stays standing, soap crouches and wraps around the front of him, one clammy, shaking hand anchored firmly on his ankle, feeling around until his hand meets Gaz's temple. the terror has him quivering and nearly ready to hurl, it's only sheer will power that keeps him from doing so.

he flails around for a moment until he can grab the strap on the back of Gaz's vest, and drag him closer. he needs to pick him up but he's unwilling to let go of Price in the process, so he pulls Gaz until he can hoist him up on his knee and eventually onto his back.

it takes longer than he wants it to with his clumsy, trembling hands, but he does it. as soon as he has a firm hold on Gaz, he drags himself up, moving his hold from Price's ankle onto his vest strap. his heart is racing, and he's shaking, and his hands are cold and sweaty with fear, he needs out. out. out. everything in his being screams at him to get. out.

as soon as he has a firm hold on both men he's scrambling back the way he came, careless of how price falls backwards, only saved from slamming his head on the concrete by soap's frantic pace, and iron will of a grip on the back of his vest. he goes and goes and goes, eyes shut tight, moving on memory alone, slamming into corners and walls alike, but he doesn't stop. not as he slams into a corner so hard he splits his lip, not as he hits a wall hard enough that he can feel wetness sliding from his brow, not as he retches in fear.

and for the love of all that he cares about he does not let go. not until he hears ghost trying to calm his spooked mind, and he's sure they're outside again.

it's only then that his grip weakens, and he's sure that price and gaz crash to the ground, but he can't tell because he's keeled over retching terror and panic onto the uneven ground, trying to stop the sobs from completely sapping his shaking body of the last of his strength.

he's not completely sure what happens after that, it's all mostly a haze addled memory. shakily dragging a barely conscious price back to the exfil, helo that Ghost must've called, while Ghost carried Gaz's shellshocked form. the flight back was silent, or he thinks it waas at least, he can't remember. getting checked out by medical, Ghost was the best out of all of them, Gaz and Price seemed to come out of it soon after they arrived back on base, but soap was still wide-eyes and shaking by the end of 2 hours' observation in medical. they'd discharged him when it became apparent that there wasn't much they could do for him, under the condition that he was kept under constant watch until he came out of it.

it was nearing the end of what could be called afternoon when Soap came back to himself enough for his brain to begin memory storage again. he was laid, shivering, down on the couch of the 141 private rec room couch. ghost was sat in the loveseat next to his head, quietly reading aloud to him. he was still trembling when he pushed himself sitting, ghost stopped reading abruptly to watch him.

"how are you feeling?" he asked, almost passing soap a mug of lukewarm tea from the coffee table before noticing that his hands were still shaking too much to not spill the liquid everywhere. soap looked down at his hand, still feeling a little thrown from his body, and clenched them tight trying to get them to still, to no avail. "hungry?"

soap's stomach roiled at the thought of food and he grimaced. ghost took that as the answer it was and let it go, as soap unclenched his fists. he looked down at his hands, willing them to stop trembling. they did not seem like they were willing to listen to him any longer after being pushed so far beyond their limits. Ghost laid a steady, hand on his own.

"the doctor said it'll go away in it's own time." he said gently. soap huffed, but let it go, and ghost released his light hold.

a zagging line of cold ran up his side when Ghost moved his hand, and he shivered into it. evidently Ghost noticed because in the next moment he was snuggling into the brit's side, trying to stave off an imagined cold that felt real enough to him.

it's a little while later of comfortable quiet that his slow mind coujures up a thought. "Price? Gaz?" he croaks into the velvety atmosphere, such a stark difference from the last thing he remembers.

"they're okay. you got them out." Ghost says calmly

"you?" his brain can't quite come up with multi-word ideas yet.

"you got me out first. I'm okay." Ghost's Manc accent soothes him. they fall back into a cool quiet for a moment before Ghost picks his book back up and continues reading aloud softly.

soap swallows thickly, letting the Manc accented words smooth over the black, sinister tarnished memory of before. it's better with Ghost he thinks sluggishly, as his eyes close tiredly.

it takes most of the following day for him to be able to hold down bland rice and mashed potatoes, and it's not until that night that the last of the shake leaves his hand weak for grip strength.

the day after that they all crowd into Price's offices to debrief, and work through what happened at the abandoned base. Price and Gaz both only remember accessing the security cameras, they deduce from there that they must've been affected to a lesser affect by It through the cameras, then It found them when they tried to escape. they figure it must've happened sometime around when soap and Ghost entered the southeast wing, of which Ghost says he doesn't remember anything after the clearing the first room of the wing.

soap was mostly quiet, mulling over all of the new information, piecing the puzzle together. he only realizes that they're all staring at him when ghost nudged him in the side. he clears his throat and quietly tells him that he remembers most of it, to which he receives questions of explanation.

he recounts how they off loaded the helo at around 1900 hours, price split them up, the he walks them through clearing the base until the southeast wing, and their comms had cut, where they continued clearing it until ghost rushed them out. soap says that 'It' must've already gotten to Gaz and Price by then, which is why they were so frozen when he'd dragged them out. he explains how he and ghost had tried to retrieve them, but had had to leave before they got to them. how he had dragged ghost out, and went back to retrieve them. then he doesn't remember.

"mate, what it 'It'?" Gaz questions worriedly.

"how do you remember so much that we don't? you seem to have been affected... differently than us." price asks.

ghost just looks at him with a look he can't quite decipher so he ignores it.

soap isn't sure how to properly answer those questions, but he does his best.

'It' is a macTavish family legend, a secret, a monster, something sinister, he's not really sure. all he knows is that it's faceless, shapeless, odorless, doesn't have a name, and to his knowledge nobody's ever touched it and lived, and he's encountered it only once before, and he prays to never do so again. he swallows shakily, almost afraid the trembling is back, as he explains. he tells them that 'It' and the MacTavish's have a long and extensive history that he doesn't really know all too much about, and he assumes there's something in there that makes him be affected differently. and he wasn't aware that it could... shift. he thinks that might be the most correct word for it, he wasn't aware it could take out an entire military base. though he was thoroughly aware of it's... terrifying abilities.

he's aware that he's only created more questions with his answers, but he doesn't have answers to those questions, so he stays quiet, trying to block the memory from his mind. he tries not to lean too much into the comforting warmth that was Ghost at his side.

by the end of debrief Price has decided to give word that the abandoned bass it to be restricted all access up to a mile radius outside of the area, with reasoning of soap's recounting, barring the MacTavish history. soap can't really say he cares all that much about what happens to that god forsaken base, as long as he doesn't have to go back there. ever.

Eyyy what do ya know! One part! Lmk if you think I should clean this up and toss it on ao3

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maximotts · 2 years

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𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔡 ☾ 𝔴. 𝔪𝔞𝔵𝔦𝔪𝔬𝔣𝔣

pairing ❦ dark!SW!Wanda x female stockholm!reader

summary ❦ it took your time in Westview to realize you didn't know how to live without Wanda Maximoff; luckily she welcomed you home with open arms

warnings ❦ smut, 18+ only content; fingering, possessive marking, innocence kink, manipulation, mind reading, magical restraints (arms only), humiliation, shameless overstimming, calling Wanda mommy, reader clearly has stockholm and Wanda does not care, probably missing something tbh

words ❦ 2.9k

a/n ❦ here's the first kinktober fic! the request was for dom!Wanda; I made it SW Wanda with a mommy kink to fit the week one theme so.. here we are

kinktober masterlist.

“We shouldn’t-”

You were going to. When Wanda wanted something, she got it, especially from you. Way before she started asking, you were completing favors; Natasha used to tease you for being at the new girl’s beck and call, but you didn’t see the harm in it. She’d been through so much, seemed to constantly be mourning some personal tragedy, and you wanted to help. On some level, you always loved her.

Wanda only hummed, lowering herself down closer to where she’d trapped you atop the mattress she’d recently convinced you to share with her. It was easy enough; she knew you hated sleeping without her, since she’d gone, you’d been alone. That was her fault, she never should’ve left you in Westview. Poor thing, always so lost without her. “Shouldn’t doesn’t mean you don’t want to.”

She was directly in your ear, honey sweet voice luring you deeper into her carefully crafted web. Wanda loves you, she wouldn’t hurt you. She’s just.. not herself right now. It repeated like a mantra in your head, willing yourself to remember even as this new side of Wanda begged you to try and run.

“Well I..” You couldn’t say it; just the thought of the falsehood was bitter on your tongue. Wanda’s touch was soft, but insistent, gentle fingers smoothing down your thighs only to rake sharp nails back up, never breaking skin, only a reminder that she could. There was never a time where you’d forgotten how powerful she was, not a day you’d underestimated her, but where before it’d been out of the question, now Wanda would exact that power how she saw fit.

As you hesitated, Wanda continued on unbothered, dim red wisps covering the lace underwear until they were gone completely. She’d given them to you to wear earlier and like the obedient thing you were, you complied. The moment her fingertips brushed over your mound, you shuddered, legs falling apart for her instinctively just like they had since the very first time.

“Tell me you don’t want it, that you didn’t seek me out hoping you’d find me and we could live happily ever after like you always wanted…” It was a few days ago you’d shown up on her doorstep; she’d sensed you at the edge of her barrier, wandering around lost amongst her apple trees. She’d let her house appear after confirming you’d come by yourself and for a while, it was normal.

Wanda looked herself, with the same kind eyes and warm reassurances you’d fallen in love with years ago, before Westview, before Thanos. Even now in this new outfit, crowding you in so closely you could feel her hot breath on your neck, something about it all rang of familiarity.. to trust her just as you always had. Wanda shifted her stance, letting her knees take her weight before positioning your thighs on hers, hands free to press a darkened finger over your lips the second you opened your mouth to speak. “Don’t lie to me, I’ll look in that pretty little head of yours.”

“I- I don’t…” Having feelings for another person as a civilian was hard; having them as an Avenger was a heavy risk. Especially when the one you were crushing on was your teammate. She always seemed just out of reach, no matter how much you felt for her, something was always in the way. Another threat, another death, always some outside force keeping the truth from coming to light. You knew you wanted her, forever hoping Wanda not only wanted you right back, but would make any kind of first move you’d been too scared to.

In Westview both of you were at peace, basking in the domestic life you weren’t ever afforded the luxury of having. It sounded terrible, but some days you wished Wanda wouldn’t have let the Hex go; you were together, carefree, and willing to neglect the horror of Wanda’s nightmares, the glitches in your cozy town… all of it, if you could only keep her smiling and happy.

But nothing lasts forever, not even for the most powerful witch in the universe. It was devastating enough your paradise was shattered, but after years of teamwork, friendship, and whispered confessions, Wanda abandoned you without a word. You'd been inconsolable until weeks later when you spotted her amongst far off trees and despite all previous warnings, you ran to her.

My little lamb, she’d called you, holding you tight while you wept. It felt like days you stood there, but somehow she’d gotten you inside, ever patient as you clung to her side, following her around in case you blinked and she disappeared. At first Wanda was afraid you’d come to keep tabs on her, but it didn’t take long to realize you were here because you needed to. Maybe you’d become too dependent on her; she didn’t care. It was the opposite of a problem for her- and it wasn’t the first time the idea crossed her mind.

You and Wanda shared so many secrets, she knew you inside and out without needing to read your mind anymore— it didn’t stop her from wanting to. “I’ve always loved how innocent you were, sweet pea…” A single digit pressed into your waiting entrance, slow and steady, Wanda watching all the while as you eagerly took her in.

“Don’t say that,” Wanda was well aware how much you hated being reminded of how little you’d done. Each time she did, you wished harder that she’d just show you herself. Years ago you’d told her of your inexperience, how your tumultuous upbringing meant relationships had been shoved aside; the day you admitted you’d only have a few fumbling drunk encounters, nothing satisfying or memorable, Wanda knew she should be your first.

Fear of rejection or you pulling away kept her from trying, but now she could have you however she needed. After all she’d put you though, you still willingly came to her and that was all the confirmation she needed. It felt right and with nothing stopping her, why not indulge her perfect girl?

You’d trusted Wanda under the guise she’d never manipulate it against you like she was doing now, bending your words and testing your willpower until it would be insane not to agree with her. You should be outraged; you weren’t. You were impossibly wet from so little touch, soft and smooth and already raising your hips for more. “Wanda…”

“How am I supposed to believe you don’t know anything when you’re soaking my fingers as soon as I put my hands on you?” A chorus of whines was all Wanda got in response, your mouth not letting you betray the times you’d used your rare moments of privacy to stuff yourself full of your own fingers, painstakingly trying to reach a high you yearned for from Wanda instead. “Aw, you thought of me?”

Scared eyes snapped straight to the redhead’s, tears pricking at your eyes from both embarrassment and the struggle not to cum so quickly; with such precise curling hitting a spot you’d never known existed, each second felt more like a losing battle. Before you could tell whenever she was in your head, now you didn’t feel a thing, but there was no way you could focus hard enough to shield your train of thought. “I didn’t lie, you said you wouldn’t…”

“Oh I never said that,” She surprised you with deeper thrusts, catching you off guard and hurtling you over that first edge. Wanda fucked you through it, oh so satisfied with herself as your back arched and your fingers fisted the sheets she put on the bed just for you. As you forced your heavy lids to open, you caught Wanda bending over once more and the closer her lips got, the harder it was not to surge forward and kiss her. “Your head is such a fun place to be, practically welcomed me in with how often I’m on your mind. Just begging me to stop asking you questions and fuck you, to please, please kiss you this time when I make you cum…”

Wanda pushed another finger beside the other, stretching you open exactly how you’d dreamt she would for so long. She twisted them and you jumped, thighs twitching at every new angle. Similar to Westview, you should be terrified; you’d been bent to her will, seen her nightmares just like every other resident, but you weren’t then and now, with free will all you yearned for was more of this attention, for another orgasm— more of her. “You really want me to control you? Haven’t you heard how dangerous I am now?”

Of course you’d heard, it’d been drilled into you day and night after she’d gone, but nothing stuck. Everyone warned you away, begged you not to go after Wanda, to mourn your friend, appreciate your freedom and move on, but you couldn’t without her. No one else managed to find her, but she’d let you and nothing would ever come between the two of you again. “Aren’t you supposed to be afraid of mean witches like me? I could snap you in half before you blink.”

“Wanda!” Her thumb brushed your clit, sending shocks of tingling pleasure through your system so suddenly you didn’t realize your hands were holding her wrist in place until your own slick dripped onto your skin. She let you fuck into your joined hands, giving in only slightly to press your lips together, rubbing over your swollen bud and forcing your jaw to go slack.

Her tongue ran over your plump bottom lip as you worked to get yourself off, biting down until you both tasted sharp copper. “Ow! Please, I-!”

Wanda licked the wound as you cried out, delighting in your protests because even though you whimpered, your walls clenched desperately around fingers, sucking her in ever deeper. No, you weren’t scared of the Scarlet Witch in the slightest; you didn’t know why, but she made you more turned on than ever. “I already know what you want. I just need to hear you say it.”

The edge to her was clear as day even in your hazy mind, instability swirling behind intense green eyes. She’d have you even if you denied it; Wanda was long done answering to anyone else. You’d only have a tougher time of it if you didn’t come clean, but she’d enjoy herself either way. “You want to keep me happy, see me smile again like before? Tell me the truth.”

Your secrets were no longer yours, she’d read every single thought that passed you by if she had to— your stubbornness hurt yourself more than anything. “I want you. Mommy, please-”

As soon as the words left your lips you were mortified, hands falling from her arm as you tried backing away; Wanda was quicker. She overtook you in an instant, invisible force pinning your arms above your head, prone and exposed to her downright predatory grin.

“Mommy? Now where did an innocent thing like you learn that?” Wanda’s free hand stroked your face, hot with embarrassment as you made eye contact with anything that wasn’t the woman above you. The slap echoed louder than your surprised yelp, near painful grip forcing your head to face her and digging into your now stinging red cheek. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

That lingering danger was surface level now, posture stiff, nails scratching at your clammy skin as she stared straight through you. This Wanda you were more scared of. A mumbled apology brought her smile back, Wanda leaving your poor jaw alone to brush the stray hairs from your face while she started fingering you again, third finger added without warning. Her pace was a punishment, brutal and unforgiving, but between your arms rendered useless and your legs spread around her hips… all you could do was take it and you loved every second of it.

“There you go, isn’t this better?” Wanda was happier the longer she watched you submit, fight and hesitation leaving your body with every push, every warm kiss upon your skin. “Don’t make me be hard on such an innocent thing like you, it isn’t fair.” When she left Westview, she missed you immediately, her main regret not taking the one person she loved who would survive outside her Hex. You needed her guidance as much as she needed your understanding; Wanda hoped every day you’d come back to her and now that you had, she’d kill anything that threatened to take you away.

Sharp teeth scraped along your collarbone, just enough to leave reminders she’d been here, that she’d finally had you. When she bit at the hollow of your throat, insistent and possessive, you knew it’d be a mark you didn’t have a hope to hide. You couldn’t take it, not when you felt every push and pull of her fingers, every curl of her lips on your chest. When you mewled pitifully, Wanda kissed a trail up your sternum, meeting your needy pout with a mocking pity. “What is it, baby? You want mommy to make you cum again?”

Your nod came without a second thought, uninhibited now in your quest for just one more blissful moment. “Yes yes, please.. I need it..” The second orgasm came as a welcome relief, shameless now in riding each wave out on your new lover’s fingers. Words were leaving Wanda’s mouth, but you could only feel the faintest hum of them behind your ear, your own gasps muffling her murmured sentences.

It was only when she found your red lips once more, sighing and moving to readjust your legs, that you realized Wanda wasn’t letting up. You were achingly sensitive after two times, thighs twitching and trying to close, to escape the too good feeling swarming your brain— but Wanda was stronger. “Wanda, I can’t-”

“Shhh, you will. What happened to mommy?” Wanda would keep you so content if you let her. She didn’t have to wait for your permission, could’ve put you under her spell the moment she saw you wandering, but she needed to know you wanted to stay. You needed her to take you and shelter you away from the rest of the world. “I’ll give you anything you want, little lamb. Just promise me one thing.”

It was oh so much sweeter to watch you shake and quiver with the knowledge you longed to be her with her, taking all you could handle and more. Your pathetic whimper nearly broke her heart, seeing you strain against your bonds all just to try and be closer to her. Wanda heard you yelling you’d agree to anything, thoughts loudest they’d been all night; she couldn’t wait to get used to this. “You’ll stay right here and be my good little girl forever. You won’t have to worry about a single thing ever again, doesn’t that sound nice?”

It shouldn’t have excited you, not while her fingers were fucking you too hard, too deep, or how selfishly she hiked your hips higher on her lap just to watch your abused cunt drip and spasm under her unwavering stare. But it did. You didn’t want to hide it either, not from her. Not anymore. “I promise, I’ll stay…”

“That’s my good girl.” You thought Wanda would stop, pull away and let you free, but she’d been serious about seeing you cum just one more time. You writhed as much as your tied position would allow, twisting and crying out for Wanda with your hoarse, overdrawn voice. She curled her fingers once more in time with devious pressure on your clit and you broke, a scream you realized too late was your own filled the bedroom, and if the tingling numbness in your limbs were any indication, you were well and truly spent.

Only after your eyes refocused and caught Wanda licking her fingers clean did you notice the wetness still between your legs, sliding down the curve of your ass and definitely soaking the sheets. You wanted to be ashamed, but you couldn’t find it within yourself when the redhead was looking your way with such adoration. If this is what it took to be hers, you’d give it a thousand times over.

Wanda released you finally, guiding your arms down to your sides with gentle care. She backed away to let your legs rest as well, massaging your legs as they now lay limp on either side of her. You were still so sore and red, terribly messy but clearly you didn’t have a shred of energy to clean yourself off. Wanda bent at the waist again, nuzzled her face into your lower belly so lovingly. Exhaustion hit you like a freight train, your tired body like lead where you lay; there was no doubt you could fall asleep here, safe and spent under Wanda’s careful protection— but her lips grazing your folds set your frayed nerves alight all over again. “‘m tired…”

“I know, you did so well,” She was being selfish, she knew, but she’d earned the right to be so, especially when one more peek into your sleepy brain revealed more naughty thoughts swirling anew. “Poor little one, let mommy make it all better.”

#ngl I got a little burnt out editing this so if you see typos... no you don't #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff fic #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff imagine #sw!wanda x reader #wanda maximoff #marvel imagine #motts writes.#maximotts

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ktysh · 2 months

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they got engaged without me but let's pretend they didn't 😤

#💍💍💍#as usual if there are typos no you don't see them #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #sweet-ito legacy #sweet-ito: gen 4 #sim: joshua sweet-ito #sim: charlie rosado

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 1 year

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Okay, random question but in the panel where Lan Zhan & Wei Ying are riding side by side, why is Alan Zhan’s horse sad? Is Little Apple bullying him? :(

PS: I check in daily for your posts, OBSESSED 😭

Alan Zhan (patron saint of when the substitute professor gets your name wrong).

#poorly drawn mdzs #ask #MDZS #wei wuxian #lan wangji #mdzs au #I was going to give a serious answer but then I saw Alan Lan #I gotta warn you all; if it was not already evident - I am the biggest instigator of 'typo in the group chat' hazing #be warned (affectionate (non-threatening (a little threatening)))#Shout out to everyone with a non-western standard name who went to a western school and had their name constantly butchered #shout out to everyone who goes by/went by a nickname because 'people don't mess it up'#I *see* you. May you find Solstice in St. Alan Zhan's arms #whether wwx snuck into the class early to change the attendance sheet is is innocent is up to your interpretation #he's just enjoying the class president (and his academic rival) lose his cool #i dont have a ton of modern au thoughts but I do love the teen era dynamic of ‘smart class clown and smart nephew of headmaster’ rivalry #idk how it was at other people’s schools but the viciousness of being in the top 5 in class was a bloodbath at mine #The *Drama* between top students was wild. Validictorian selection was basically done at knife point #anyways; who’s writing teen wangxian modern AU where they are rivals for the valedictorian spot?#getting to know each other just to win but then actually enjoying the tome spent together #they both need to win and be the best sooooo bad; I cant imagine such a story ends well #wow we got far from Alan Zhan in the tags #Thank you for your on going support! I hope you don't mind me teasing you a bit like this tumblr user deathoverdignity #comic proper resumes tomorrow!

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littlespidermonkey · 4 months

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I think in the universe where the Cullens aren't in Forks, Bella Swan takes a while to come out of her shell, but when she does, she's witty and passionate and smart as a whip, even if she's still quiet and reserved. She sits with Jessica Stanley, who demands the best of everyone, and tells her friends about her boyfriend down on the rez, who is sweet and caring and funny and good with his hands, who works for everything he's ever had.

After class, during a sleepover, Bella whispers to tell Angie and Jess about the night after prom, even though her father, loving and careless, worries about her only a normal amount and loves Jacob Black like his own. When she gets into Dartmouth--all by herself, through study sessions in garages and with Jessica and in Angela's house--she chooses to go to Stanford instead. She misses the heat and light on her skin, even after falling in love with the rain. Jessica comes with her; Angela and Eric go to U of Washington in Seattle instead, for education and journalism respectively.

Bella makes sure to call every week and then one day she drives down to Seattle and her boyfriend, warm like the sun she loves and at least twice as reliable, becomes her fiancé. The ring isn't especially big or ornate or pricey, but the way she smiles could trick anyone into thinking that it was. All of her friends, new and old, are waiting at the small party afterwards, and Bella laughs the entire time. The engagement cake--chocolate, her favourite--is sweet and moist against her tongue.

She moves back to Forks once she gets her masters in information sciences and becomes the town's librarian. She gets married a month before the move, barefoot in the surf and her old prom dress, both her parents weeping with joy and Billy Black beaming damn near as bright as his son, Sue Clearwater holding his hand.

She raises her kids --both beautiful children, blessed with Jake's thick, long hair--with Angela and Eric's and takes them down to Los Angeles to visit their auntie Jess and her husband Quil, who lavishes them with gifts from her career as a top surgeon. She jokes about having to support Quil's career as an environmental lawyer and displays each and every one of his wins alongside her diplomas. When William Black II decides he wants to be a doctor too, she writes him a shining letter of recommendation to her alma mater. Sarah, who has always been the spitting image of her father, joins and eventually takes over Jacob's mechanic shop.

On occasion, Bella fights with Jacob, even though he's the love of her life. Despite this, she is never afraid of him, and he never stops her from doing what she wants. Instead, he goes out and works on his cars and comes back in an hour later with slightly greasy hands and a bouquet of flowers from Emily Young's little garden, planted to celebrate her cousin Leah Uley's wedding. Bella makes him muffins, recipe courtesy of Sue and missing bites courtesy of Seth, Colin, Sarah, Will, and Claire, with raspberries, not blueberries, just how Jake likes them. They make up, and they make changes, and they go on.

Eventually, both slower and quicker than she realizes, Bella gets old. She lives in fear of losing herself, of losing her husband and her children, like her grandmother had. But she remembers her grandkids to the very end, even gets to meet her first great-grandchild a week before it happens. Her heart gives out before her brain does, too weak and too slow.

It was too full of love, the letter from Jacob says. Sarah reads it. Her father passed a day after his wife--simply too heartbroken to live without her. Much of the town of Forks and hordes of family attend their funeral, remembering a life well lived.

It is an unremarkable life, in the grand scheme of things. She does not live to be a thousand; she is no great beast, with speed like the wind and strength; she does not discover her powers or lead a great defiance. Bella Black, happy and human and surrounded by love, could never imagine wanting anything else.

#lee's wild scribbles #team jacob #twilight saga #jacob x bella #swanblack #tw: food #OK! that's all the tags for searching so now it's time for the really important tags: me rambling #this was extremely stream of consciousness pls be nice #it was also supposed to come with a lil video like my other little ficlet for this fandom but tumblr wasn't feeling it #also i have not edited this and i'm not going to so if you see a typo you keep that shit to yourself #this was written kind of as a reflection on how bella lowkey chooses to sacrifice so much of what makes life good to me in favour of edward #and how she like. gives up her personhood and future to be his and has no friends outside of the cullens and jake #(who is essentially being held hostage by reenactment)#twilight has such a weird relationship with f3minism. i should write about that at some point #(also this is not tikt0k. i censor words so that they don't turn up in tags bc i doubt ppl in the f3minism tag are looking for twilight fic

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shyravenns · 5 months

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yeah yeah yeah Soap is dead, but how about Soap coming back and haunting every member of 141 like the clingy bastard that he is

Farah who never really knew Soap as well as the others, but still feels the gaping hole that his presence left. Farah, who finds herself standing beside Ghost underneath the cool night sky, and surprises herself (and him) with a joke that's so oddly distasteful about the state of their recent mission and feeling a soft warmth flutter in her chest at his light huff of laughter. Laughter that she feels as if she hasn't heard in months. Remembering hours later that herself that she could have sworn that there had been a brief, additional gust of laughter along the wind that neither of them bothered to acknowledged.

Alex who feels the unsettling quiet that's grown between all of them at all times as if it were a blanket. He knew Soap as well as one might expect from the very few times they worked together, and oftentimes thinks about the blossoming friendship between them that had died along with him. Alex, who often wonders about the kind of leader Soap would have been and places him in the tiny cranny in his heart that's reserved for every man and woman that's worked alongside him and died. Alex who feels the unwelcome *push* of hands that cause him to stumble so hard he feels as if his teeth has knocked out, and just barely remembers that he's in an active warzone before he glances up and sees the tall tale imprint of a bullet in the wall right where his head had been.

Rudy who had the privledge of actually becoming Soap's friend, and remembers the exact moment he heard the news. They weren't *close*. Not in the way that Soap was close with Ghost or Gaz or even Alejandro, but he still felt as if a bullet had pierced his own heart at the confirmation of his death. Watching at the brief flicked of emotions crossing Alejandro's face at another soldier lost far too soon. Rudy who flips through the long forgotten sketchbook that Soap had left during one of his visits to Las Almas, and delicately places his fingers on the sketches. Rudy who doesn't remember falling asleep, and wakes up with the scent of a long forgotten friend floating in the air and a sketchbook that's been left on an empty page he doesn't remember seeing. He stands up to get his pencil.

Alejandro who takes every death to heart, and keeps every dog tag that he can find stored in a drawer in his desk of all the men and women he had the honor of fighting alongside with. Alejandro who grieves at the absolute unfairness of it all, and vows to kill Markarov himself if he should ever have the chance. Alejandro, who still wants to believe that there is some sort of afterlife and that maybe there's a point to all of this. Alejandro, who loses *another* soldier and feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder that squeezes, and thinks that just for a moment that he can hear the faint whisper of bad spanish with a slight scottish accent in his ear. Words barely perceptible even by his own trained ears, and yet it brings a small smile to his face.

#soapcod #john soap mactavish #codmwf3 spoilers #mwf3 spoilers #call of duty #spoilers #modern warfare iii spoilers #god how many times can I say that this has spoilers #this is me throwing milk on soap's corpse and telling him to get up #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #farah karim #alex keller #im doing the outer members of 141 and then maybe i'll do 141+nik and kate later on #any typos you see arent there and I don't make spelling mistakes bc maybe your eyes are just bad #thank you for reading!!#soap as a ghost (hehe) has me in a chokehold

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sprout-fics · 1 year

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Afterburn

(Everyone x F! Reader)

Rating: M Wordcount: 8k Tags: Aftercare, Post-nut clarity, Praise kink, Taking a bath together, Just 6 dudes taking care of their girl after completely and utterly wrecking her A/N: ...This was supposed to be a drabble. No few regrets. My personal take on the aftermath @yeyinde 's "Body electric". Special thank you to @guyfieriii @moondirti @zwiiicnziiix @ladiilokii and many others

Summary:

It’s over.

The world around you feels dense, cryptic, laden with mysteries and vagueness as you still try to process how you ended up here. Your eyes stare up at the creaking, wooden rafters of the safehouse, vision still swimming, dried tears flaking at the corner of your gaze. Every small motion seems to roil with a discomfort that’s heavy with the aftereffects of pleasure, bleached to the bone and dull, cracking at the edges. Splayed over the table where maps and gear had been hastily shoved aside you can’t deny the chafe, the rawness that manages to soak deep into your veins.

The boys are milling around you, speaking in tired, disbelieving tones at the events of the past few hours, at how you had managed to take them, all of them at once.

It had been a blur, your memories drowning in a cacophony of slickened skin and torrid, whispered praises, or grunted pleasures and hissed curses as they all took as much as they gave. You weren’t sure who’s idea it was at first, but in the course of fucking you, of ruining you, you had surrendered completely to them, let their hands and voices guide you as you floated on an endless sea of sensation and desire. Even as they had drunk their fill of you, of your salted moans and whimpered, pleasured cries, they had been ever attentive, listening to the roll and tide of your ebbing lust, knowing exactly when to push and pull you like the ever-changing undercurrent of the ocean itself.

Now, in the aftermath you feel like you’ve been washed ashore, left there by the churning waves as fluid drips across your skin and clings there like salt.

You don’t survive this long with the 141 without your fair share of injuries. Burns, cuts, and blisters are your war medals, decorating your skin with a silent story of pride. Grenades, IEDs, the ground shattering sensation of a missile launch or the back-kick of a rifle. These things were familiar to you. Not this.

When you blink, it’s to wince at the rough chafe between your legs, the tender touch of a love bite sucked into your throat. You ache all over, and while the afterburn of pleasure still roils low in your stomach, sated and simmering with fading euphoria, the dull, insistent stretch and soreness of handling five men at once feels at once too much, too sharp, too severe.

A whimper bubbles up your throat when you try to shift, try to roll over onto your stomach with your back still braced on the harsh metal table braced against your back. Someone had been kind enough to spread a towel under you, but it’s still not enough to ease the bite of discomfort clinging to you like rose thorns.

The chatter around you ceases instantly at the sound that pours from you when you try to move. The world around you seems more like hazy, indiscernible shapes with how overstimulated your senses are, an abstract of shades and shapes that make little sense to your pleasure-addled brain. Yet even so, it’s Rudy’s face that flickers into your vision, brow still slick with sweat but scrunched with concern.

“Shh.” He hushes you, and his hand is petting your hair from your face and your eyes flutter shut under his touch. “Easy, mi Corazón.”

“How is she?”

The voice is gruff, accented, and the question itself seems more like a demand than a question, spoken with an air of unquestioning authority. Price.

“Tired.” You manage, voice tacky and stick in your dry throat as you swallow and taste bitterness there. “Sore.”

Rudy clucks at you, and the sound feels for all the world like a worried mother hen. His thumb smears a drop of flaking cum against your cheek, and the touch is tender, careful with your over exhausted state.

Except then there’s another touch, one that grasps at your hand and raises it between two calloused palms, bitten with years of duty.

“Ya did good, hen.” Soap coos, and you twist your head to see him, his eyes still glazed over but bright, warm as they regard your lidded gaze. “Did so well for us.”

You can only hum, trying and failing to find the wherewithal inside you to summon a proper response. Soap smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling.

“What do you need, doll?” A different voice asks, and you tilt your head to see Gaz leaning on the table next to you, one hand planted next to your shoulder as he gazes down at you. His head is tilted, eyes tracing over the mess of fluids and grime caked on your skin. There’s something that flickers across his eyes, bitter and almost guilty, and had you not been so spent you would have reached for him, murmured reassurances against the curve of his jaw.

“Water.” You mutter instead, and instantly Gaz is gone from you. Before you can try and follow him with your eyes there’s hands bracing at your shoulders, fingers spreading against your bare skin. The world shifts around you, body bent and raised up to a sitting position.

“Easy, querida.” Alejandro soothes as you let out a little whimper of discomfort when he sits you up. “Con suavidad, mm? Gently now.”

You don’t have the strength to sit up by yourself, choosing to lean heavily on him instead, body slouching and trembling. From what you aren’t sure. You’re bare as the day you were born, and though the safehouse seems a touch chilled by the evening air, the shiver in your limbs runs deeper than that, wear and overspent.

“Soap.” Alejandro speaks, and his voice is muted, quiet so as to not startle you. “A blanket.”

Soap’s footsteps fade just as Gaz draws near once again, wrapping your hands around a canteen even as your grip shakes unsteadily. When he helps you tip the flask, the water soothes mercifully over your chaffed and cracked throat, and you gulp greedily. Yet it’s too much too fast, and it only takes two deep swallows before you cough and splutter, water trickling down the corner of your lips.

“Careful.” Gaz warns, voice low as he hovers in front of you, one hand still engulfing the hand holding the canteen. “Not too fast, doll.”

Yet then you feel him pause, shift and make room for a different figure that presses closer to you, a calloused hand gently gripping your chin and tipping your head back once you’ve caught your breath. When your eyes flutter open once more, it’s to meet the vision of Captain Price, eyes grim as he faces you head on, gaze never wavering.

“How bad?” He asks, and you know that tone, firm and demanding to know what you know, for you to not lie as you convey the depth of your awareness into his.

You swallow.

“I’m fine.” You tell him, and it’s the truth. You feel the ripple of suspense, of apprehension dissipate with a sigh from the men around you, relieved yet still precariously concerned with the sight of you, shivering, exposed, and exhausted from the inside out.

“I’m just…tired.” You emphasize again, incapable of conveying much more. “…and kinda gross.”

Price nods, the motion firm. You can see him digesting the information you’ve given him, letting it simmer and ruminate as he configures his next attack like a battle-hardened soldier.

“Rodolfo.” He states, and you hear the sergeant shift somewhere behind you, standing at attention on instinct at the solid, instructive tone of the captain’s voice. “Is there a bathtub here?”

“Si.”

“Good. Go run a warm bath. Not too hot. Gaz will help.”

“Rog.” Gaz affirms, and when his touch vanishes from you it’s Alejandro who keeps your hands steady, with your shoulder still pressed to his chest and head lolling onto his collarbone. He’s murmuring soft words at you that you hardly hear, fatigue dragging at you insistently like a riptide.

“Soap.” Price summons next, eyes turning to the Scotsman who still hovers close to the three of you with the blanket he’s retrieved. “Think you can find a clean set of clothes and fresh sheets?”

Through your wobbly gaze you see Soap perk up, eyes glinting with the look of a mission driven soldier.

“Aye, cap.” He confirms and takes two large steps before he’s again vanished from your sight.

It’s only once he’s gone that Price turns back to you, his calloused hand cupping your cheek and tilting your head up to face him once again. You whine at that, at the way the motion reminds your body of what’s already there, tender and raw and aching.

“Easy, love.” He gentles you, and his voice rumbles rough in his chest like cigar smoke, smoggy, acrid but warm all the same. “You did so well for us.”

His thumb swipes over your bottom lip, touch firm and insistent despite the little hiss of tenderness you summon in response. Yet then the captain’s eyes soften, drinking in your flushed face and clouded gaze, lips parted under the rough pad of his thumb.

“So well.” He repeats, eyes distant for a moment as they trace over your lips before at last flickering up to your eyes. “Now let us return the favor and take care of you.”

It takes a moment for your hazy thoughts to process his words but when you do, you ease into his touch, breathy exhale spilling across the flat of his palm and eyes rolling shut. With a single, blissful sigh, you surrender once more to these men, let them take care of you in the way only they can, with their soft, firm voices and calloused, tender touches that bouy you as if you're lost at sea.

Then, the soft touch of a fabric as Price helps Alejandro drape the blanket across your form, enveloping you in a soothing warmth. You go limp, more pliant than you already are, leaning into the warm embrace of Alejandro’s form. A single hand comes up to clutch the blanket, velvety and worn under your fingertips.

Price vanishes somewhere beyond you, and Alejandro tucks you further into his side, nose buried in your hair as you shiver against him. Your bare legs dangle from the edge of the table, feet barely skimming the ground. Price’s voice is somewhere nearby, murmuring to someone you can’t see. You think you hear the sound of running water somewhere, but your thoughts feel clouded, hazy and sated with the knowledge that these men are intent on your care as much as your pleasure. For a moment you feel the riptide of fatigue pull at you, lulling you under as sleep beckons with an insistent, raw promise.

Footsteps. A presence, omnipresent and heavy like the force of gravity itself. You don’t open your eyes, don’t need to, already knowing who’s shadow falls across your form.

“Give her here.” Simon asks, demands from the colonel, voice low like the rumble of distant thunder.

You feel Alejandro stiffen, hesitate at the thought of entrusting you to the hulking soldier, remembering the way you went blank-eyed and completely limp under him, under the weight and pressure and force that is Ghost.

“Let him.” Price encourages, voice careful between the two. “I’ll need your help in here, mate.”

That seems to do it, because Alejandro is pressing a lingering kiss to the crown of your head before he extricates himself from you, steadying you long enough for Simon to catch you by the crook of your knees and width of your shoulders, hauling you up against him. The blanket bunches around your form, legs dangling and head lolling into the breadth of Simon’s chest.

Yet the motion isn’t without punishment, not as you’re shifted and your body protests valiantly at the abruptness of it all. A choked, pleading moan frees itself from your throat as Simon begins to walk away from the common area, strides large and purposeful.

“S-Simon-“ You try, unsure exactly what you’re pleading for but wanting to be closer, huddled deeper into his massive form.

“Easy, love.” He murmurs in response, accent thick and cloying in your thoughts. You settle at that, at the illusive, strangely sympathetic tenor of his voice. You’re too tired to do much else than recline against him with a shivering sigh, limbs aching and caked in grime.

It’s the sound of his boots against tile that rouses you only moments later, the warm steam of the bathroom curling across your skin and licking against clammy, chilled flesh. Ghost hovers just inside the doorway, hands splayed against you as they cup you to his form. You wish you had the forethought to lift your arms, tangle them around his neck, but the thought is gone as another figure hovers at your side.

“I got it from here, LT.”

Simon gruffs a sound of affirmation, and with surprising care dumps you into Gaz’s waiting arms. The blanket wrapped around you gently pulls away, and when you shudder Gaz’s lips are pressed into your temple.

“It’s alright, pretty girl.” He hushes. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

He’s bare, you realize dimly, exposed flesh pressed against you. The thought is strangely mortifying, considering the man has been balls deep in your ass earlier. Yet you don’t realize why he’s naked until he’s stepping into the tub, lowering you down with him into the warm, soothing water.

It takes a few moments for you both to settle, some of the water sloshing out onto the tile with both your forms inside the tub. Yet Gaz’s chest is pressed against your back, legs on either side of you and arms caging yours as you sink lower into the water with a blissful sigh. You feel it when he rumbles a chuckle, a hand vanishing as he reaches for the supplies Rudy no doubt provided him.

You reach for them as well, but your hand is gently knocked aside by the sergeant you’re pressed against.

“Nuh-uh, love.” He chuckles. “This is all me.”

You find it difficult to protest, instead sinking further into the warm water.

He starts by gently pouring water over you, dunking your sweaty, matted hair and loosening the strands carefully with his fingers. The sergeant works systematically, lifting each limb and scrubbing it free of flaky cum and caked sweat, the soft bubbles of soap grazing across your arms and legs. You relax into him completely limp and utterly euphoric. Everything smells like coconut and aloe, aromatic and perfumed and warm as the water laps at your legs and chest.

Gaz takes careful attention to your face, gently cleansing it free of the tear trails and semen caked against your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. He’s murmuring gentle encouragements to you all the while, voice hushed and soft in your ear, full of “There we go, that'sa girl, sit up for me? Thank you, doll. Almost done, back next, shh, easy.”

When he gets to the apex of your thighs however, you flinch at his touch, just barely too firm against your chaffed, stretched holes.

“Take it easy.” A voice gruffs, and you blink your eyes open, vision adjusting to the dusty brown hues of the bathroom, seeking the cockney laden voice.

He’s there, in the corner, arms crossed and lurking, massive frame hunched into the otherwise too small space. Ghost’s eyes level at the both of you, gaze unblinking, blistering as he observes, watches, intent on observing and seeing through whatever mission he’s been tasked with.

Gaz only nods at him, his voice quiet in your ear as he speaks.

“You want to do this?” He asks, tone low, concerned at your reaction. You manage a nod over your shoulder, delicately taking the washcloth from his grip and letting it sink beneath the murky water.

It takes a moment, but you manage to hiss past the pain and arch up to scrub yourself, cleaning the mess of caked fluids that decorate your inner thighs and ass. You can feel Simon’s gaze on you all the while, the way he’s taking in every wince and jolt that flashes across your face.

“Deep breath.” Gaz encourages softly in your ear, and when you oblige there’s a slosh of water pouring over your head and dampening your locks.

You moan when Gaz works his fingers into your hair, massaging shampoo into your scalp and raking his fingers against the crown of your skull. You melt into the touch, all previous indications of soreness vanishing in the instant it takes him to chuckle warmly at your response.

“That’s nice, yeah?” He asks, and you can hear the touch of smugness in his voice, pleased with the way you grow limp and pliant against him, the way your eyes roll back into your head at the gentle, rolling motion of his fingers into your scalp. You can only hum a sleepy “Mmhmm.” In response, blissed out on the sensation.

He’s surprisingly good at this, you find out, making sure to go so far as to condition from the tips of your hair up, carefully combing your hair through his fingers. You relax fully into him, sink yourself up to your nose in the cooling water and let drowsiness take hold. Yet it’s only when you shift that you feel him, feel the hardening nudge at the small of your back that has you stiffening, sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

“Gaz…” You warn, casting a pleading look across your bare shoulder.

You’re not sure if it’s the warm water, the lingering haze of lust, or the blissful, relaxed sounds that spill past your lips, but you can feel him, can feel the blunt pressure of him against the nudge of your spine. It sends a lingering shower of sparks racing through your veins, but the heat of it is dulled, muted by exhaustion. You can’t, not again, not right now.

Gaz seems to read your mind, sees the way your eyes flicker with wariness. His hands still for a moment as he leans, entering your field of view with warm eyes that dance with a touch of mischief below the caramel surface.

“Don’t you worry about me, doll.” He replies softly, but there’s a sultriness there that isn’t fully extinguished. “This is all about you.”

And when his thumbs dig a dull, heavenly touch into the nape of your neck, you find it hard to complain.

All too soon, you hear the bathtub drain gurgle as Gaz pulls the plug, the water receding like the tide gone out to sea.

“They done?” A voice asks from the doorway, and your gaze blinks up to reveal Soap, present with what looks like two changes of clothes in hand.

“Just about.” Gaz replies, and you feel him shift as he detaches himself from you, scooting so he’s halfway out of the tub and can help you wobble your way to a stand to step out onto the cold tile.

Yet at the first step your legs tremble like an unsteady filly, and it takes both Soap and Gaz to steady you, sit you down on the edge of the tub. When you plop down on the edge, however, a remainder of soreness shoots across your hips and up your spine and you’re unable to bite back the moan that escapes you.

Gaz and Soap shoot each other a look, self-satisfied smirks tugging at the corners of each of their mouths.

“Shut up.” You grumble, feeling warmth threaten to flush across your face once more.

They spare you, thankfully, and as Gaz dries himself off it’s Soap who’s drying your hair, wiping the water from your shoulder and back. You trace the planes of his face as he does, watching the way his brow scrunches with concentration, the way his eyes linger over the swell of your tender, bruised breasts and the curve of your hips. The plumpness of his lip is sucked between his teeth, and you can tell he’s restraining himself, trying not to indulge with his touch on you, letting his fingers wander and press and summon whimpered pleas from your bones. His hands are assertive in the way only soldiers are, resolute with duty and yet still somehow gentle, considerate when he grazes over the soreness of you.

You attempt to help, feeling a trembling strength returning to you now that’s your hydrated and clean. Yet Soap merely grumbles at you, refusing to hand over the towel.

“Just sit back, hen.” He tells you, and his voice is firm despite the tenderness there.

You purse your lips at him, feeling a flash of guilt at letting yourself be so completely pampered like this, not allowed to do so much as properly dry yourself. Yet Soap notices, steely blue gaze flickering to yours when he notices your hesitation.

“Lass.” He begins, that cocksure smile tugging at his lips once more. His eyes are sparkling, and you can’t stifle the helpless flop of warmth that pools inside of you at the sight. “You just let us shag you seven ways to Sunday and were bloody perfect for it. Let us spoil you, aye?”

Yet you’re still unsure, and when the Scotsman sees you’re unconvinced he sighs.

“When else are you going to have five burly men at waitin’ on you hand and foot?” He asks almost impatiently, and that thought is intriguing to say the least, enough to make your hand fall limply back to your side.

Soap grins. The warmth thickens.

“That’s a good lass.” He murmurs, and there’s a touch of smugness in his voice, at the way he’s managed to school you into surrendering, letting yourself succumb to his touch once more. Yet that conciliation is enough to get him chattering now, tongue loose as he purrs little praises and encouragements at you all the while.

“So pretty.” He coos as he turns your face up in his palms, towel brushing hair from your brow, as he wrings water from your hair and carefully wipes at your still tender hips and thighs. “Perfect little bonnie for us.”

You’re pliant, docile under his touch, letting him do as he needs to and letting the familiar touch of hebetude pull at your senses. It would be easy to fall asleep right here, to lean against him and let rest take hold of you, drown you as it's meant to. Clean now, warm and undeniably sated, the promise of sleep creeps near with a touch that feels achingly familiar. The temptation is an enticing one, the promise of deep, velvety unconsciousness dragging at you even as Soap reaches for your change of clothes.

“Arms up.” He encourages, and you can’t help the drowsy little grumble that escapes you in protest.

“ ‘m tired, Johnny.” You slur at him, but the sergeant merely tuts at you.

“I know hen. I know. We’re almost done.”

You grumble even as you oblige, lifting your arms up and letting him slide a T-shirt that seems far too large for you over your bare torso. Pants follow, and you have to fumble with the drawstring of the sweatpants to cinch them around your waist so they don’t pool at your hips. Yet it’s the hoodie that Soap slips your arms through that makes you slouch into comfort, hum a note of appreciation at the back of your throat.

“Smells like you.” You mumble, eyes sleepy and warm at your sergeant, and you see Soap melt.

“Only the finest.” He grins back at you, eyes glinting with that tell-tale elation he has whenever he’s got your full attention.

There’s a call from down the hallway that you don’t catch, one that draws Soap’s attention and causes him to turn his head. You follow his gaze at first, but find yourself distracted by the shadowy figure still present in the corner, head tilted as he observes you, watches you watch him. You can see his eyes, see the way they’re slightly narrowed at your slouched form on the edge of the tub. It isn’t clear exactly what Simon is looking for, but he seems to find it nonetheless, gaze darting up from your pebbled nipples to your open, curious expression.

“Think you can stand?” Soap asks you, drawing your attention back to him. You nod, and with his help wobble to your feet, bare soles still sliding across the wet floor.

Yet again, when your legs shake with weakness it’s all you can do to remain standing, hand gripping Soap’s arm with a trembling, unsteady grip. Your gaze flicks upwards, once again finding the skull mask that haunts the edges of the room and the periphery of your thoughts. You don’t make a sound, barely alter your expression, but within moments Ghost is rolling his shoulders to push off from the wall, closing the distance between you both and wrapping an arm around your waist.

He doesn’t say a word as he scoops you up once more, and even Soap seems a bit surprised at the sudden gesture, eyebrows arched as the mammoth soldier cradles you into his broad chest.

“I-“ You try, but when Ghost’s eyes peer down at you your throat feels dry, tongue heavy, and the words are lost.

Soap trails you both as Ghost escorts you back in the direction of Price and the others. As you round the corner your nose instantly fills with the thick, scented spice of garlic and onions, and soon you find Rudy and Alejandro in the kitchen, turned to each other with smirking, tell-tale smiles as they bend over a pan of something that you think smells like heaven.

“Here.”

You turn at the sound of Price’s voice. He’s seated at the head of the table, and the chair creaks as he scoots away from the table, widening an arm in Simon’s direction. Simon follows the order without protest, gently depositing you into Price’s lap even as you whimper at the tender flesh of your ass coming into contact with him.

You should be embarrassed, you think. You should be a little bashful at this circumstance, perched in the lap of your captain who smells like cigar smoke and gun oil, at the way his arm closes around you and keeps you braced against his chest. Yet Price is warm, solid, his grip on you firm and reassuring, so you struggle to find yourself to care.

Price reaches for something on the table, a tube of what looks like ointment. You blink at it for a moment, brow furrowing even as he deposits a liberal smear on his calloused fingertips. When he catches your wary expression he merely huffs, the mutton chops of his beard twitching upward with his smile.

“Ointment.” He explains. “It’ll help with the tenderness.”

You arch an eyebrow at him, surprised but also a touch curious.

“You say that like you’ve been in this situation before, captain.” You remark carefully, but Price merely huffs at you, warm, smoky breath ghosting across the planes of your face.

“Years of experience, love.” Is all he gives you before his hand is snaking under the hem of your shirt, up to the tender, suckled flesh of your breasts. It’s a shock, you flinch under the cold touch of his slickened fingertips. Yet Price’s opposite hand digs into your thigh, steadying, guiding in the way only he is. You arch into him with a little protest as he smears the ointment across the rise of your chest, whimper caught in your throat.

“Easy.” Price gentles when you squirm, and the tickle of his beard whispers over the nape of your neck when he presses a kiss there. “I got you.”

You only nod, eyes scrunched shut and breath stuttering in your chest, hands gripping his arms and head tucked back against his shoulder. Your heart thrums louder, skin burning, yearning for the grip of him but knowing it’s too much, too soon, that you can only sit there and take it as his war-worn hands smooth the cream against your battered flesh.

Yet it’s when his touch vanishes from you, when you sigh that you hear him huff, chest jolting with the motion as you brace against it. Except then he’s shifting, and you feel a hand pull at the hem of the sweatpants you’re wearing -black, you notice- as his fingers descend past them, along your belly and towards the core of you.

“C-captain-!” You shudder when Price smoothes lotion across your folds, and suddenly the world is too hot, too bright, and you’re shivering under his touch, body growing taut. Yet Price’s touch is purely medicinal, purposeful and clinical even as you gasp and writhe weakly against him.

“You can take it.” He encourages, voice grumbling and firm, ever the leader, anchoring you from the discomfort and the rapid, uncertain flutter of your heartbeat.

You try to stay still, you do, but Price’s and feel like a warming brand against your skin, reigniting a coiling flame there, one that you can’t indulge in despite the wish that you could. It’s all you can do to tuck your head back against him, shiver under his hand cupping the core of you, your hands digging into him as you seek gravity. When you whimper, Price’s touch softens, soothing circles into your hips, your thighs, your ribs.

“There we go, love.” He rasps when you sink against him, caressed into docility as you perch on his lap. “That’s a good girl.”

You whimper, and the sound is enough to summon a grumbling groan, caught like the grind of gravel deep in his chest.

“So fuckin’ beautiful.” And it’s Soap’s voice nearby, lilted low with desire as he watches you writhe and whimper on the lap of his captain, eyes scrunched shut and hands clutching at him to ground yourself from Price’s perseverant hand slid under the waistband of your pants. You look at him, gaze half-lidded and hazy, and when you do his eyes flash darkly at you, a curse bitten off in a language you wish you understood. It summons a weak, distant burst of arousal in you, one that has you squirm back against Price, seeking ground on which to retreat.

Yet all you find there is a grunt, a hand digging into your thigh with a warning as you recognize the bulge that presses up against the swell of your ass.

“Careful now.” Price mutters darkly, and you shiver at the desire there, even with his hand flat against the front of you, his beard tickling the nape of your neck as he at last withdraws his hand. “I don’t think you're quite ready for us again, sweetheart.”

For a brief, dizzying moment, you wish you were.

Footsteps, and when you turn your head Alejandro is approaching from the all too distant realm of the kitchen with a plate that has steam curling into delicious, mouth-watering whisps. When you catch his eyes you see him grin, and it feels for all the world like a promise of things to come, blooming like cumulus clouds against a far-off horizon.

“Arroz rojo.” He announces as he sets the plate in front of you, the red rice blooming with the scent of cumin at the back of your throat. “Rudy said you might appreciate something easy on your stomach.”

You twist in Price’s lap towards the direction of the kitchen, catching Rudy’s dark head of hair as he turns to meet your gaze. Contentedness blossoms across his expression, deeply satisfied and almost glowing with the hazy aftereffects of a man completely and utterly sated.

“Let me know if you like it, mi Corazón.” He replies, and his voice is almost shy, a touch bashful despite the fact that he’s the same man who spilled down your throat earlier.

Price’s fingers tap on your thigh, drawing your attention back to him. You crane your head to look at him, and then shiver at the darkness there, restrained but still ominously present.

“You’re going to have to move, love.” He gruffs at you. “Unless you want me to spoil your appetite.”

You gulp.

“Here.” Alejandro offers, arms open. You don’t have a chance to protest before you’re being moved between them, transferred from one set of arms to the other, adjusted until you balance on Alejandro’s lap.

“I-I can feed myself.” You try, feeling the ripe blister of embarrassment creep up your face as Alejandro reaches for the plate before you.

Yet the colonel ignores you, fork clinking as an arm keeps you braced against him, even as you try to appeal to him with half-lidded, weary eyes.

“Can you?” He asks, and that damned smugness that’s present in all of them is there in him too, as his eyes gleam down at you, a smirk tugging the corner of his mouth.

Still, you nod valiantly, grappling the fork away from his hand even as your own grip shakes lightly, spilling grains back onto the plate. When Alejandro chuckles the sound is warm, like the blaze of sun-kissed skin and spices curling on your tongue. His hand engulfs yours, steadies it as you raise the fork to your lips, letting the warm, cloying spices curl across your tongue.

When you give a little hum of enjoyment Alejandro practically purrs in your ear, and you realize that this must be doing something to him. With your tender and sore figure perched in his lap, the object of his desires smelling like musk and aloe and just a touch of him-

“Me estás volviendo loco con esos ruidos.” Alejandro murmurs, and the sound is more of a groan than anything else, spoken into your damp hair, arms hauling you tighter against him as you savor the food, a happy little noise hummed high in your throat. “The sounds you’re making are almost as pretty as you, bonita.”

“I take it that means you like it?” Rudy asks as he sets down a glass of water in front of you beside the plate, and you grin up at him, pleased.

“Mm.” Is all you manage around a mouthful of rice, and you see Rudy’s eyes melt, glaze over at the sight of you, fed and happy and satisfied. His hand flicks out, and you still as he brushes a stray grain from the corner of your mouth, drawing his thumb back to let his tongue run across the tip of his thumb. You still, tracing the motion with your eyes as a different heat flicker within you.

“Agua.” Alejandro encourages, reaching for the glass and tipping it up towards your waiting lips. You follow the command, the motion is easier now than it was before, when you were fresh out of a warzone that left you blistered and bruised but sated.

The two men before you seem entranced by you, damp and warm and docile in Alejandro’s arms. There’s a sense of pride there, you know, something about keeping you warm and fed and clean and protected that makes something primal pace against the confines of their thoughts. It’s the thought that they’ve rendered you to this much, carved gasping, lecherous words into your flesh and pushed you over into the abyss, time and time again, only to haul you back into their waiting arms.

It's not just them. When you cast a glance about there’s chairs pulled up to the table you were defiled upon, the men around you quiet but observant, gazes looking over your slouched, cuddled form with your drowsy, pleased expression and damp hair sticking to the corners of your face. Price, with his smoldering stare like the glowing burn of tobacco; Soap with his bright, keen gaze that glints at you from the distance between; Gaz with his softer, warmer eyes that still hold the hazy dying dusk of desire.

Ghost, who lingers against the wall just beyond. His eyes haven’t left you this entire time. It feels almost wolfish, the way he doesn’t shift, doesn’t blink when you look at him, arms crossed and gaze still dark, hungry for you in a way he doesn’t bother to conceal. You can still feel him, feel the way he split you open and left a piece of himself there, branding you with the heat of him nestled against your womb and his teeth grazing possessively over the underside of your jaw.

Alejandro’s fingers trace there instead, drawing you back to him, and your lips part around another forkful of arroz as he’s murmuring words into your skin that taste like cloves and paprika, aromatic and piquant.

“Wish we could keep you here, carina.” He mutters as you swallow, as his thumb smoothes over the still-trembling hand in his grasp. “We could keep you happy here.”

You are happy. Blissfully so. Despite the tenderness and fatigue, you’re undeniably comfortable, clean, fed, warm, satiated from the attention of the men around you. These men, who you’ve fought beside, who you’ve entrusted your life and body to, the ones who took their own pleasure from you as much as they gave you yours.

Maybe it’s the simmering coolness of your nerves, the way you’re so exposed and vulnerable like this, or the way Rudy’s hand pets your hair, the way Alejandro is murmuring to you, or the way Gaz looks at you with something that feels suddenly like longing-

You feel tears swell against the corner of your eyes, fat and heavy and too hot for your blistered skin. There’s a tightness that clogs your throat when you tilt your head back, trying to keep them from spilling like a cup over filled.

“Hey, hey, hey-“ Rudy coos, and his finger smears the growing wetness from your gaze, clearing it so you see his face flicker into view, brown-eyed gaze tenderly soft and worried at this sudden change in you. “Mi vida, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, and the capsicum taste of cumin lingers there. It does nothing to quell the tightness there, something skin to a sob threatening to bubble up when you speak. It dissolves as a sigh instead, one that falls across Rudy’s fingers cupping your face as you gently shake your head.

“Nothing.” You say, but your voice cracks in betrayal as you try to find the words needed to explain this strangeness in you, overwhelmed and burning at the edges but undeniably happy in a way you’re unfamiliar with. You feel like you’ve been dragged from hypothermia and into a sauna, body and mind reeling at the adjustment but grateful all the same, trying and failing to express the rawness of the sensations that threaten the crux of you.

“I’m just…happy.” You tell him at last-

And begin to cry.

Now they crowd around you, hush you with gentle words even as mortification and contempt flood your veins. When you try and wipe your tears, hide your face as you sniffle, there's a hand that pulls it away, wipes your face. Hands smooth along your shoulders and sides, rubbing gentle reassurances there that echo into the air around you.

“I’m sorry.” You manage between stifled hiccups. “I-it was good, really good, I-I don’t know why-“

“You’re exhausted, love.” And it’s Price who’s talking now. You think it’s his hand that cups your chin, over your quivering lip as you try to contain yourself. “You’re overwhelmed and tired. ‘s not your fault.”

“ ‘M sorry.” You try again, but he merely tuts at you, and there’s hands in your hair and Alejandro’s voice against your shoulders and someone’s holding your hand and rubbing circles into your hips and-

“Don’t you worry about that now.” The captain tells you, and his voice is softer now, almost ginger in the way he’s regarding you, you who’s taken bullet wounds and shrapnel and yet have become undone by the simple, irreplaceable act of being cared for.

You nod, feeling your shuddering gasps begin to wane, the shiver in your limbs subside as they once again drag you ashore, out from the blazing sun and into the cool shade of their embraces.

“Think you can handle a few more bites, Querida?” Alejandro asks, and you nod, let him lift the fork to your mouth even as salt obscures the taste.

“Next time I’ll have you come to the ranch and make you elote e carne asada.” Alejandro rumbles, and you feel the smile of him against your shoulder.

“ ‘Next time’?” Soap chuffs, and that’s enough to draw the attention away from you and to the sergeant, who crosses his arms in Alejandro’s direction. “What makes you think there will be a next time, mate?”

“Yeah.” Gaz chimes in, and he’s leaning forward so one arm rests against the table. “Besides, your ranch? Next time will be back at Beacon base in the UK.”

“You’re both wrong.” Price grumbles, fingers tapping on the width of his arm. “We’re staying in Lancashire at my place.”

“Now hold on, captain-“ Rudy objects. “Do you know how expensive it is across the Atlantic? Tickets these days are-“

They’re bickering, the previous, united camaraderie of soldiers evaporating as they discuss the group’s future endeavors like mapping out battle plans, pinpointing targets and 0600’s and supplies. You don’t bother to listen, not even as Alejandro’s tumbling voice echoes over your head and his arm wraps around your middle in a gesture that seems more possessive than it does stabilizing, the warmth of his hand burrowing against your ribs with nothing but the cotton of your too-large shirt to separate him from your skin.

Full now, belly warm and senses cloudy with contentment, you lean your head back against Alejandro’s shoulder, body slumping as you feel the familiar drag of fatigue wind around you, pulling you downwards. There’s nothing left. You don’t think you could walk even if you wanted to, limbs heavy and immobile. There’s fuzz between your ears, like cotton balls soft to the touch, obscuring sound and sight as the heavy weight of drowsiness washes over you.

“A few more bites, carino.” Rudy encourages, and you whine at him, too far gone to summon a real protest. The sound is enough to make Alejandro brace his head into your shoulder and groan at the little pleading whimper in your voice, too full and tired to bother with much else.

“Chica bonita.” Rudy purrs at you. “Are you tired? Need to sleep?”

You nod up at him, feeling a small flush of self-awareness at how you must look right now, bedraggled and tired and damp, draped in clothes far too big for you, eyes lidded and heavy with the promise of sleep. Yet Rudy’s eyes are affectionate when they catch yours, and you can taste the melted chocolate that oozes from them, dark and sweet.

“Let’s get you tucked in then.” He murmurs, looking over your shoulder at Alejandro. They exchange in Spanish you don’t understand, and it gives you the opportunity you need to let your head drop, eyes fluttering shut even as you’re lifted, moved. The world tilts around you, yet this time it feels less like the daring free fall of a skydive and more like the gentle, reminiscent swing of a hammock on a sunny afternoon, dappled sunlight streaming through a forest canopy. The world is warm, cloaked in color and birdsong, the air around you like a salted ocean breeze that licks at the folds on your clothes and tangles in your hair.

“Shh, shh, gently now.” Soap murmurs, and you can smell him as he helps you down into the bed he’s helped make, military corners tucked in with precision. You sink into it, knowing it’s nothing more than a cot but thankful to the gods to at last be horizontal, laying on your side as a hand lifts your skull to slide a pillow there. You curl in on yourself even as a blanket falls across your form, shivering.

Yet when Soap tries to leave you catch him, fingers tugging on his pants even as he tries to step away.

“It’s cold.” You manage, voice small despite your bold, unspoken request. Little do you know that when you ask like that, when you blink your pretty lashes up at him, nose hidden under the sheets and fingers hooked on his pants leg, that there’s no way he can refuse.

“Steamin’ fuckin’ Jesus.” He breathes, voice thick with wonder. Yet then he’s moving, tugging off his boots with a curse. The cot shakes as he braces on it, shudders when he manages to slip into the sheets next to you. A thick, brawny hand comes up to cup your skull, dragging you into his chest and pressing you there, and when you breathe in it’s him, cedarwood and ashes of the fire, thick and musky across your senses.

When you think it’s finally, blissfully over, however, there’s a hand petting your hair, and a younger, British voice on your other side.

“Room for three?” Gaz asks, and you manage to free a hand enough to wordlessly reach for him, wanting, needing him at your back. It’s not long before he’s settled in as well, spooning you from behind on the bed that is almost definitely too small for three people, two of them being built, sinewy soldiers.

You don’t care. You’re warm on all sides, warm from pleasure and affection and treatment from all of them. It feels like you’re suspended, floating on something beyond yourself, spirit lifting from your corporeal form and into the darkening sky above yet anchored by the touches of the men beside you. You’re too far gone to notice Rudy come, place a kiss atop your hair; to notice Alejandro drape another blanket over you, of Price and Ghost discussing in low tones by the doorway. The others stay, linger, on chairs or nearby. You think you see Rudy and Alejandro on the cot beside yours when your eyes flutter open.

Your vision shifts, gazing over the slope of Soap’s neck to the lit doorway. Ghost mutters something, a goodbye perhaps, and turns.

It’s to be expected. The man is a lone wolf, he works alone. For him to even be here is a miracle, and to have even participated at all a divine sign from the gods themselves. Now, however, he retreats to where he belongs, to the shadows that engulf the breadth of him, the kingdom where he was born and where he shall remain.

“Simon.”

The name escapes before you can stop it, and Ghost freezes, his head jerking upwards as he hesitates, turning to you, hidden within the embraces of his comrades.

You swallow, trying to conjure the spell to keep him here, within arm’s reach, forever now and always.

“Don’t get lost.” You mutter at last, and you think maybe your vision wavers when his shoulders droop, when his eyes blink at you, reflecting light.

His shadow falls across you on his approach, the width of him bulked by the tac gear he still hasn’t entirely gotten rid of. Ghost- Simon- blots light from the doorway like the shadow he is, absorbing brightness and drowning it in the essence of him. A hand reaches, smoothes the hair from your face.

“Never.” He mutters enigmatically, and even so you feel the edges of him splinter, crack like obsidian.

Your eyes flutter shut under his touch, cloak the world in mystic darkness as you surrender to him, to these men, to at last the inexorable, inescapable comfort of them, of sleep.

#cod #mw2 #simon ghost riley #captain john price #johnny soap mactavish #alejandro vargas #rodolfo parra #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz garrick #my fic #my writing #reader insert #if you see typos in this no you don't i don't care anymore

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