RIB

bravo 0-6, going dark.

[clinquantribbons]

RIB — she/her. twenty. i’ll write most call of duty: modern warfare characters, but primarily the 141, alejandro vargas, rodolfo parra, and nikolai! i might, occasionally, dabble in other fandoms, such as game thrones and sons of anarchy. but, again, this is primarily a COD blog!

i do not write explicit smut! i will, however, write fluff, angst, hybrids, omegaverse, dead dove, and NSFW dynamics. my requests are open!

blog rules: don’t be an asshole & MDNI. that’s all.

all works by clinquantribbons can be found here! :)

[clinquantribbons]

unstable, that’s what they called him. unpredictable. a flight risk. john mactavish, one of the brightest minds and purest souls of his time, a would-be legend, reduced to no more than couple callous words on a page. unfit to serve.

he fought for his nation, gave it everything he had, everything he was made of, yet all he has to show for it is this. medals collecting dust on a shelf. pill bottles in the medicine cabinet. a clogged voicemail box. a chunk of hair missing at his temple, where the skin puckers and folds. this ceaseless ringing in his ears and a voice in his head that does not sound like his own.

that’s what they don’t tell you about recovery. it’s lonely. his brothers, his team, are long gone, having been called pack to the line of duty as soon as they were sure he was out of the woods. they call, or, at least, simon does, but he rarely answers. his parents haven’t spoken to him in years, not since he enlisted, and not even his brush with death was enough to belly their pride. his sisters don’t have the time to waste on him, what with their husbands and wives and bairns. it’s only him and the voice, and the doctors he sees thrice every week, who don’t seem to know just what to do with him.

and you, of course. the sweet young thing who waits on him anytime he stops by the diner down the road, which he does after every single appointment. the coffee’s shit, always burnt, but the pancakes aren’t half bad, and he drains his mug anyways, only so that you come back around to fill it. you’re the only one who looks him in the eye as of late — you talk to him, laugh with him, tease him like you aren’t afraid that he’ll fly off the handle. you remember his name, and you smile warmly at him, and you fumble so prettily when he flirts.

you talk too much, really. you tell him things that make him think too hard, plant ideas in his head that tend to take root before he can stop them. you tell him about your dilapidated flat, and your sleazy, greedy landlord, and your lackluster paychecks, and your absent family. how cruel this world can be, he muses, to such lovely, deserving creatures like you. it’s unfair.

one day, on his way out the door, he notices that the camera out front is dangling by its wires. broken, probably for decades now. useless. it explains why half the cars in the lot are sporting keyed doors or taped up windows. you truly have nothing to protect you, do you? he would scold you for it, but, well, it won’t matter. soon, none of it will. you will never have to worry about anything so trivial, ever again.

the week he spends away from the diner, away from you, nearly kills him. he’s soothed, only, by the knowledge that, soon, you’ll never be apart again. there are preparations to be made, precautions he must take. everything has to be perfect. you’ll forgive him for his absence, once you see all that he’s done for you. he’s sure of it. you’re too kind not to. you’re not the type to hold a grudge.

you don’t recognize the truck. of course you wouldn’t. it’s new, he got it from some old man two towns over, paid in cash and didn’t give his name. and, as far as you know, johnny doesn’t drive. he takes a taxi to and from the diner, every time, because they’d invalidated his license after his brain injury. as if he’s incapable. like he’s any less the man he was before. bastards.

no, you don’t recognize the truck. you don’t even bat an eye at it, not when you lock the diner’s doors behind you, or as you cross the wide parking lot to begin your journey to the bus stop. it’s naive of you. it’s plain stupid, really. you should know better. but, for tonight, he’s glad you don’t.

he’s glad you’re foolish enough to shove your earbuds in your ears as you walk, drowning out the opening of his door and his unsteady gait on the damp pavement. he’s glad you’re oblivious enough to not even notice him approaching until it’s much too late, until he’s got a strong arm wrapped around your neck and his free hand, clutching a wet rag that smells like dread, pressed to your mouth. you try to scream, kick your legs and flail about, but it’s useless. he’s bigger, stronger, and no one’s coming to save you. there’s no one around, no one but him. not that you need anyone else.

he doesn’t struggle with your deadweight when you go limp, doesn’t falter for even a moment as he sweeps you clean off of your feet and into his arms. he carries you swiftly back to the truck, where warmth chases off the chill of the rain and evaporates the moisture that wets your hair, pressing a kiss to your brow so tender it could mistaken for something familiar. “just rest f’now, sweet’eart. we’ll be home soon.”

home. the little cabin in the woods that nikolai signed off to him. a gift of sorts. he’ll thank him properly, eventually, once you’ve settled. he’d never have been able to pull this off without nikolai’s encouragement.

“loneliness is a cancer, boy. don’t let it get the better of you, not yet.”

he begins the long, long drive with one eye on the road and the other on you, strewn across his back seat with your face turned to him. the soft, steady rythm of your breathing drowns out that voice, if only for a while.

“we’ll be home soon.” he repeats. your lashes flutter in your slumber, and he smiles, thinking that maybe you can hear him. maybe you do know what’s good for you, after all.

[clinquantribbons]

john and nikolai have had more than their fair share of spats over the years. insults hurled, punches thrown, low-blows traded. twenty-two years is a long time to call someone a friend. there was bound to be a couple of bumps in the road, but never anything they couldn’t come back from. until now, that is.

john price would like to consider himself a benevolent man. he’s not beyond reason, he doesn’t hold unnecessary grudges, he’s happy to put the past behind him, in most cases. honestly, he never imagined that nikolai could do anything he’d think was unforgivable. it’s nikolai, for god’s sake. his best friend. his dearest comrade. his most trusted confidant. this is the man he calls when he needs to bury a body. the one he’d run to if the sky fell. he’s the one john would want at his side while he laid on his deathbed. they’ve killed for each other, countless times, taken bullets for each other, made promises that they’ll take to the fiery pits of hell.

nikolai’s his friend. his brother, in everything but blood. the other half of his soul, if you will.

at least, he was.

that was before nikolai decided to fuck his kid. his only child. his pride and fucking joy. the same man who held him while he cried about the divorce. the same one he confided in when your mother took you and moved you far, far away, where he could only visit once, maybe twice a year. the one he bragged to when you graduated school, then when you got accepted to university, then when you got your first adult job.

john’s forgiven nikolai for plenty over the years, things that most men would draw blood over, but this — this is a line he never knew he had to draw.

it isn’t the first time he’s dropped by nikolai’s unannounced. it’s been an unspoken, iron-clad agreement for decades that, if and when one of them needed something, anything, they turned to the other. it isn’t the first time that he’s stumbled upon the russian in a compromising position, either. usually, they would laugh about it. john would say he was sorry, and nikolai would shrug it off, because their friendship was worth more than a good time with a stranger.

but this time, it isn’t a stranger — it’s you. his kid. and his best friend. you, in nothing sans your underwear and a sweatshirt too large to be your own, strewn across nikolai’s lap like it were made to cradle you. too comfortable. too familiar. too domestic.

that’s the worst part, somehow. he knows, immediately, that this was not some spur of the moment decision. it wasn’t like you ran into him at a pub and didn’t recognize each other, or that you were both drunk and not thinking straight.

it’s a tuesday night, and nikolai’s at home, watching cartoons, with a lapful of you, petting your hair and nosing at your cheek like he’s got the fucking right. that’s not something you do with a one night stand. it’s not something nikolai does with anyone, at all, because he always claimed that he would never let anyone, no matter how lovely, clip his wings. and yet.

you look horrified, your earlier bliss gone in the blink of an eye, trying desperately to grab for the blanket you’d thrown aside to protect your lower half. but nikolai — he doesn’t even flinch. he manages to sweep you off of his lap and get to his feet a split second before john’s heavy fist strikes him square in the face. he doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t react at all, really, just sighs deeply through his nose, and levels john with a look so cold it would’ve sent a shiver down his spine if his rage hadn’t already boiled his blood.

he should’ve known something was off. nikolai’s been distant lately, and, while that in itself isn’t unusual for the man, flighty as he is, it’s unlike him to have been so hard to reach. not literally, he showed up when he was needed, but mentally. john summed it up to the toll of war, which they all struggle with now and again. he should’ve known better. but in no world would he have suspected this.

“you bastard,” he doesn’t even look your way. he can’t stomach it. “i should shoot you dead, you slimy piece of shit!”

but nikolai — nikolai doesn’t regret a goddamned thing. not even as john’s trigger finger twitches like he’s imagining what his brains may look like splattered across the persian rug you picked out last month.

john could kill him, right here and now, and he still wouldn’t regret it.

truth be told, he didn’t know who you were, not at first. he hadn’t the slightest clue. he’d never met you, hadn’t seen a picture of you since you were a babe. at first, you were merely a sweet soul in search of a safe place to land, and he was a only man with a soft spot for broken things.

you were young, and pretty, so easily flustered, clinging to each and every scrap of affection he dished out like you’d been starving for it. by the time he found out, he was too far gone — not that it mattered.

because john’s version of your story and yours are two very different accounts.

the way john told it, he did the best he could. he called as often as he was able, visited whenever his job allowed, kept tabs on you and all of your accomplishments, loved you as wholly and as truly as any father should. and, maybe, to him, it really was that simple.

but that’s not the version of the story you knew. to you, it was missed birthdays and christmases, it was waiting by the phone until bedtime came and your mom dragged you away, it was countless unanswered letters, it was being bullied in school because, while your peers got to go home to two parents, you barely had one, what with your mother’s two jobs and endless string of boyfriends. it was being made to grow up too fast because no one in your life was willing to nurture the child within. it was searching for a father’s love in every corner of the world because yours wasn’t around to give it.

but nikolai did. he gave it gladly, and in abundance, and never asked for anything in return. he was willing to be anything you needed him to be. sometimes, a lover, and sometimes, something else altogether.

he could he turn his back on you, knowing what he knows? knowing that he enabled it? he couldn’t. he didn’t. he won’t.

“you do not want to do this, john.” he warns, trying his damndest to position himself between you and your father. he knows john would never hurt you, at least not physically, but you shouldn’t have to see this, either. just a moment ago, you were so happy. warm, safe, and at peace in his arms. and now … well, this certainly isn’t how he had intended for your night to go.

he was destined to find out eventually, nikolai knows that. he would have told him himself, he was only waiting for you to be ready. he’d hoped, though, that this part might happen when you didn’t have to bear witness to it.

“the hell i don’t!” the captain spits, nostrils flaring, teeth bared. he’s beyond angry, beyond reasonable. nikolai can’t blame him, truly, but he also knows that his fury isn’t nearly as justified as he believes it to be. he was hardly much of a father to you to begin with. “they’re my kid, nik! mine! what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“lower your voice,” he won’t shout in front of you. god knows you’re scared enough as is. he won’t say any of the things he wishes to say, won’t point out john’s absence, his fabrications, or the damage he’s done to you, because you don’t need to hear it, even if he does. and that’s the difference between john and nikolai. even now, your father isn’t thinking about you. he’s thinking about how he’s been betrayed, about his friend going behind his back.

“oh, you fuckin’—” john goes for his gun, as nikolai figured he would, his hand halfway to his holster when your bare feet hit the floor, your eyes wide and glossy.

something strangled, confused between a sob and a shout, catches in your throat, and john, for the first time, looks at you. nikolai’s arm extended, protecting you from him, your cheeks damp, hands shaky where they grip your blanket for dear fucking life. the captain pauses, tongue running over his teeth, and nikolai sees the war waging in his mind.

his hand drops, and nikolai can breathe again. at least john loves you enough not to kill him right in front of you. it doesn’t count for much, but’s it’s something.

“fuck you, nik.” the man, quivering like a bow string pulled taut, has one foot out the door already, his back turned like he can’t stand to look at either of you any longer. it’s for the best. there’s no bloodless resolution to this. nikolai sorely doubts it’s over.

the front door slams hard enough that a painting’s knocked off of the front room’s wall. it was one of your favorites, too. a shame. he’ll find a suitable replacement. but only after he’s soothed you.

“your face,” you fret, lower lip wobbling, arms wrapped around your middle like you’re resisting the urge, the need, to reach for him. it’s a sorry sight. a regression. you were getting so comfortable, you finally stopped doubting your place here, and this — it’ll have set you back.

but nikolai’s patient.

“i’m fine, lapushka, come here, come here,” he coaxes you into his arms without hesitation, a big hand cradling the back of your head, cheek pressed to your hair. “shh, now. i’ll handle it, hm? everything will be okay, i promise you.”

and it will be. with or without john’s surrender. if keeping you happy, safe, means cutting him out of your life — both of your lives — so be it. he’ll have a choice to make. nikolai made his long ago, and he has no intentions on changing his mind.

you sniffle against his chest, hiccuping as you try, valiantly, to catch your breath, too stubborn, too scared, to cry openly. he holds you a bit tighter.

“shh, i’m here. papochka’s here. everything will be okay, malysh.”

[clinquantribbons]

your vision swims, the unapologetic fluorescents blinding you as you finally, finally, manage to peel your heavy, swollen eyelids apart, your lashes wet with tears you don’t remember falling. a hand, warm even through its latex coating, lands on your throat, fingers prodding softly at your pulse point, someone’s honeyed voice just barely piercing the ringing in your ears. where are you? how did you get here? and, most importantly, what the fuck happened to you?

the last thing you remember is the sidewalk outside of pearl’s, a pub downtown you’ve been frequenting since you were eighteen, lauding a shitty fake. you’d stepped out for a smoke, you recall, overwhelmed by the friday night crowd. foolish. all alone, tipsy and unarmed, in the dark, in the seediest part of town. you knew better. you were smarter than that.

it comes back to you in fragments. a man, his hood pulled low, dried lips curled into a sneer. something sharp and insistent prodding into your lower back, blatant even through the leather of your jacket. and then your own voice, slurred and desperate, “i don’t have anything, i swear to god, please, just—” you’d left your wallet, your phone, all of it, inside. all you had was a half-empty pack of menthols and a lighter that only works some of the time.

you vaguely recall the moment your face became acquainted with the concrete, then the feeling of a stranger’s steel-toed boots connecting with your ribcage, again and again, before the pub’s rusted front door swung open and you were left laying in a mess of your own blood and bile.

and then, this.

the ambulance hits a pothole, going fast enough that it jolts you from the stiff cot you’re strapped to, and it knocks something back into its rightful place. your sight clears, and you’re met with a handsome face and worried brow, baby-blue fingers wiping tenderly at the wound on your hairline.

“there you are,” he smiles, the kind that’s practiced, kind by nature, and you think, idly, that he looks somewhat familiar. tight curls pop out from beneath the edge of his cap, his chin and upper lip dusted with a weekend’s worth of five o’clock shadow. “stay with me, now,”

he asks for your name, and you give it, and then the date, which isn’t as easy, and then whether or not you remember what had happened tonight.

“unfortunately,” he breathes out a laugh, but you’re distracted by the way his eyes soften. you must’ve said something right, then. “it’s just my luck, y’know. of course i’d be the one to get mugged. should have never opened that damned umbrella.”

that gets a real chuckle out of him, the kind that makes his shoulders shake and his dimples protrude. “well, i don’t believe in bad luck. but, maybe, s’time you invest in some pepper spray, hm?”

“i have it,” you lament, screwing your eyes shut again, because you’re rather dizzy now (now, whether that’s from the bumpy ride or simply because of his pretty face, you aren’t quite sure). “on my keys. which i left inside.”

you can’t see him, but you imagine that he’s smiling, maybe shaking his head. his thumb smoothes across your brow. “well, it works better in practice than it does in theory.”

“noted.” your stomach churns, and one of his hands slips under your head so it’s not thrown about when the driver takes a too-sharp turn. another voice, this one heavily accented and rather sheepish, calls an apology back at you. “i don’t feel very well,”

“nauseous?”

“uh-huh,”

“still dizzy?”

“a bit,”

“look here a moment,” against your better judgment, you force your eyes to open, squinting unhappily at him as he tells you to follow his finger this way and that, from left to right, his expression unreadable. for the first time, you notice that his gloves are stained crimson. that does little to help your growing stomachache.

he hums, nose crinkling in a way you might find endearing, if not for the situation at hand. “you’re concussed. nothing too major, luckily.”

“thought you didn’t believe in luck.”

“i said that i don’t believe in bad luck. that’s different.” he retorts, his brow piqued, like he’s tickled by your cheek.

you grunt, rather unattractively. “mm. maybe i should book a flight to vegas after this, see how lucky i really am.”

he laughs again, and your skull throbs in protest. “why don’t we just worry about getting you better first, then we can talk about hitting a casino.”

we. you like the sound of that more than you ought to. it must be the concussion.

you notice, then, despite the fog clouding your mind, that his jacket’s embroidered. on one side, the caduceus, the brand of his profession, and, on the other, over his heart, a word that takes you longer to read than it should.

“garrick,” you mumble, as the letters finally organize themselves. it’s a different sort’ve name. memorable. you hope that your brain injury won’t rob you of it.

“just kyle, if you’d like. s’what my friends call me.” he offers, sweetly.

you stare at him for a moment, your tongue thick in your mouth. “you don’t look like a kyle.”

kyle garrick laughs, leaning over to adjust the pulse oximeter that you unknowingly knocked loose. “is that right? what do i look like then?”

“i dunno. but not a kyle.” you tell him, grimly. “i knew a kyle. he was a real dick. he lied and told everybody i slept with our maths teacher in school.”

he kisses his teeth, jaw tight like he’s trying very hard not to find your plight amusing. “shame on him, making the rest of us look bad — we aren’t all so awful, i promise.”

you believe him, because he’s been nothing but gentle with you. you don’t get the chance to say so, though, because you pass out shortly thereafter, catching only a few of the curses he spits out in his panic.

you wake up a few hours later, in the hospital, sore all over but feeling more like yourself than you did. your new friend’s long gone, probably off to rescue some other poor soul and listen to them bitch about the bullies of their past.

you had to get stitches in your forehead, much to your chagrin, and a few of your ribs were bruised deeply, but none worse than your ego is — i mean, honestly. you made a fucking fool out of yourself if front of what might be the most handsome man in london. you’re never, ever drinking again.

you got lucky, the doctors tell you, especially seeing as your assailant had a knife. you’ll have to stay a bit longer, until the concussion ebbs, but you should be back home and on your own two feet in no time at all. until then, you get to enjoy shitty reality TV and the lime jell-o diet.

it isn’t until the sun’s already set and the ward’s winding down for the night that he shows up — kyle, minus the uniform now, clean shaven, with a bouquet of orange tulips in hand and a coy sort’ve smile on his face.

you blink at him slowly, spoon in mouth, suddenly overly aware of the fact that you’ve not showered in over twenty-four hours, and that this hospital gown and incredibly unflattering, and that there’s a bandage on your head the size of fucking texas.

“uh, hi.” you stumble, dumbly, wishing idly for just one more fainting episode.

“hi,” he grins a grin so brilliant that your heart monitor beeps loudly, taking the seat beside your bed without invitation, laying the flowers down beside a stack of empty jell-o cups. “it’s good to see you’re still kicking. gave us quite the scare last night, y’know.” he lifts a brow, as if it’s your fault.

“yeah, i, ah, i like to leave an impression.”

“well, you did.” obviously. he’s here, isn’t he? that must mean you did something right. you watch him reach into his back pocket, definitely not staring at the way he lifts his hips and wriggles as he fishes out a pack of playing cards. of course not. because that would be impolite. inappropriate, really. sleazy, even. “now, i can’t whisk you off to vegas just yet, you should really try t’avoid planes until your head heals, but, i figured, i can at least bring the fun to you.”

you stare at his fingers as he shakes the cards into his grasp. they’re bare now, calloused, long and graceful like the rest of him. “you look seem like the poker type.”

you blink and, if asked, you would blame your pitiful response time on the concussion. nothing at all to do with him. then, when you register his words, finally, you smile.

“yeah, alright,” you laugh, scooting over so he can use the empty side of the bed as a makeshift table, your stomach fluttering (and not with car-sickness this time, thankfully). “deal ‘em. let’s see if my luck’s run out yet.”

[clinquantribbons]

in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.

kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.

simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.

john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.

but this isn’t a perfect world.

john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.

kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.

simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.

john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.

[clinquantribbons]

the roads are slick from the evening’s rain, abandoned, almost, if not for the occasional semi truck, or exhausted road-tripper, nothing but the moon, half-obscured by the smog of the city, and your shitty, dim headlights to guide your way. johnny’s unbothered, though, one hand on the wheel and the other shoveling cold chips in his maw as you tell him which direction to go, when to turn, when to pull over, having left the comfort of your home behind miles ago. he should probably be in bed, resting, before he heads to base tomorrow night. but he’d much rather be here, with you, skirting the city limits at half-past two in the morning, humming along to a playlist titled “go, go, go!”

“anything good?” he demands, reaching over to squeeze your thigh, admiring, from the corner of his eye, how your face glows in the soft blue light of the two phones you’re juggling. one’s his, bulky in its fat, protective case, the other’s yours, with an old polaroid picture of you two tucked in its clear sleeve, but with a beyond-cracked screen and a treacherous-looking edge. idly, he frets over the safety of your poor thumbs.

you huff, nose crinkling, and he smiles. “nothin’ but fuckin’ squirtles,” you complain, tugging your blanket tighter around yourself. you sit up straighter after a moment, waving his phone around gleefully, though you’re staring, unblinkingly, at your own. “there’s a mimikyu off o’ exit eighty-two!”

obediently, he switches lanes, with the briefest of glances spared to the rear view, and books it towards the upcoming exit.

“yeah, yeah, a lil’ further — pull off here!” he does, though he’s sure it isn’t legal, and your car’s terribly likely to get stuck in this thick muck, because he loves you, and if what you want is a mimikyu, that’s what you’ll get.

he would tease you about how seriously you take this, if he were any better. unfortunately, he’s not — you’ve created a monster. oh, if the team could see him now. simon would have a goddamned field day.

“gimme!” he grabs his phone from your lap, where you’d dropped it, so unceremoniously, as soon as you laid eyes on the prize. with both of your heads bowed over the center console, fingers flying heatedly across your respective phone screens, johnny resists the urge to kiss you right on the nose. you’re adorable, so sleepy and so focused. it’s killing him.

but he knows better than to distract you. you’ve yet to forgive him for making you lose that lapras last autumn.

“got it!” he announces, as the scary fucker stops wriggling around, at the same as you shout, “sonuvabitch!”

peering at your phone, he sees that you’ve been bested, your beloved pokémon having run away before you could trap him. he hums — half sympathetic, half teasing. “better luck next time, hen.”

you give him the dirtiest look you can muster, and he thinks that you really need to stop hanging out with his lieutenant. that old grouch’s rubbing off on you.

“i’ll trade you,” you beg offer, filthy glare giving way to something too sweet to be anything but deceptive.

he smirks, rather suggestively, as if you’re not both in your pajamas, fingers stained with mcdonald’s grease. “depends what you’ve got to offer,”

“you’re a dog,”

“mhm,” he agrees, shamelessly, leaning in until your foreheads touch. “i want the sylveon.”

“oh, fuck off!” you protest, to which he raises his brows, grin splitting his face in two.

“d’you want it or not, baby? up to you,” he knows you want it. you’ve a collection of the little ghosts so large that price’s vintage cigars are quaking in their boots.

you weigh your options, pretty face screwed up like you’d bitten into something sour, before relenting with a long-suffering sigh, as if he’s asking for your kidney, and not one of the sixteen eveelutions you’ve got collecting dust. he giggles manically as you open up the trading screen. he’s been trying to wrestle this one out of you for weeks now.

“don’t worry, m’sure she’ll love urzikstan.”

“you’re a bad, bad man, john mactavish.”

luckily for him, your ire’s soothed as soon as you secure your newest mimikyu to your pokédex. you forget about it so swiftly, in fact, that you lean across the console to kiss him squarely on the lips — only to groan, disturbed, when you feel something hard and insistent poking at you from his lap.

“johnny!” you scold, retreating, much to his dismay.

“it’s just my gun, i swear to god!”

“you brought a gun to play pokémon go?”

“do y’see where the fuck we are? you’re lucky i didn’t call simon.”

[clinquantribbons]

kyle’s always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuck’s sake.

“maybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at ‘em, we can slip past before they notice us.”

“the only way you’re comin’ out with us tonight is if you were a fuckin’ bag over your head. i never get laid when you’re around.”

“price might fall for those eyes, but i won’t. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.”

even when he was young, his ma’s girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble he’d cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldn’t decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.

kyle’s always been the pretty boy — until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.

no-one’s swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someone’s cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her children’s’ eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but won’t dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesn’t even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.

but he should be grateful, right? he could’ve died. he’s lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.

that’s what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she can’t recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.

he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isn’t going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isn’t as though there’s anything that can be done about it. it’s beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.

he knows what he is. he certainly doesn’t need anyone to point it out.

the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it — for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess he’s made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.

“what harm could it do, ky? you’ve been hiding from us for months — we’re worried about you.”

that’s what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes it’ll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.

so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, and he listens.

he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.

one man — pushing eighty and missing both legs — says something that sticks with him.

“you can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkin’ ‘what if’, but it ain’t gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you don’t — if you can’t make peace with that, you’re better off dead.”

yeah, maybe.

he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until it’s become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesn’t talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no one’s pitying him, no one’s demanding answers he’s not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.

it doesn’t necessarily make him feel better, it doesn’t make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.

then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like it’s been yours all along.

the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.

he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. you’re older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.

you aren’t new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how long’s it been, he wonders, since you got out?

sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. cody’s been cleared for active duty — he’ll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. olivia’s met somebody, she thinks she’s found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.

“how was your trip?” sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.

“weird.” you admit, profoundly. “first vacation i’ve ever taken in my whole fuckin’ life, y’know? i tried to enjoy it, but— my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, i’m thinkin’ that i’ve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly.”

and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. it’s the very thing he’s been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.

and then, sammy looks to him. “anything you’d like to share with us today, kyle?”

usually, he’d wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if you’re eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.

you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things he’s allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyle’s honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.

“i had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldn’t stand the sight of myself.”

“i always wanted kids, but now— now, i’m scared they’d think me the fuckin’ boogeyman.”

“i dunno who i am anymore.”

his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sort’ve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. “sometimes, the man who comes back from the war isn’t the same man that left for it. it’s okay to mourn him, kyle.”

you’re waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when it’s time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug — he’s careful, weary of whatever injuries you might’ve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.

“s’good to see you, garrick. s’been a long time.”

“fuck, has it.” he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. “it’s good to see you too. really. i didn’t know you were …”

“yeah,” you help him out before he can start floundering. he isn’t the smooth-talker he once was. “a couple years ago, now. s’a long story. one i’m much too sober to tell today.”

“another time then,” he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesn’t like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isn’t good for anyone involved.

you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. it’s been years, but he still thinks you lovely. “you haven’t been out long, have you?”

“not long enough, no.”

“hm.” you nod, like you understand, but you don’t say you’re sorry, or tell him that it’ll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. “fate’s a funny thing, ain’t it? what’re the odds,”

“it’s a small fuckin’ world,” he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. “you live close by?”

“just a couple o’ blocks, not too bad.”

“i could walk with you, if you want. or we could—” he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, he’d flirted with you plenty, back in the day. “we could go get that drink,”

it’s soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, “i’d like that.”

“yeah?” he murmurs, hopeful.

you laugh, but it isn’t mocking, or cruel. it’s mirthful, almost flattered.

“lead the way, pretty boy.”

[clinquantribbons]

oh, john price, how i’ve missed you.

[clinquantribbons]

the splintering floorboards groan beneath your weight, as though the ground might open up and swallow you whole, each step seeming, to you, as loud as the crack of a gun. not like it matters. he doesn’t need any help in hunting you down.

not when he can hear your traitorous heart hammering in your chest, so violently you fear your ribs will crack under the pressure. not when he can smell the sweat beading at your brow and this morning’s stale coffee on your breath. there’s no hiding. not here, not from him. once he tires of watching you run yourself ragged, it’s game over. you don’t stand a chance. you know it, and so does he.

“if i wanted you dead, you’d be dead.” is what he told you, when you caught him fangs-deep in a baby-faced, blond enemy operator, maw bloody and eyes shining red, moments before you turned tail and ran like your life depended on it. it did. still does.

why didn’t he, you wonder. he’s had every chance. he could’ve gotten away with it — god only knows the things he’s gotten away with in his time. all the times that you’ve been alone with him, bared your throat, your very soul, presented yourself like a prime slab of meat on a silver fucking platter. he could’ve killed you, he could’ve devoured you, and been done with it, but he didn’t. why?

perhaps he simply got a kick out of your naivety. maybe he just likes to play with his food.

it doesn’t matter now, anyhow. none of it matters.

you’ve been a fool. you were too blinded by adoration to see what he flaunted so blatantly, to see him for what he truly is. your failures will cost you your life, but it’ll cost him nothing at all.

something skitters across the floor in front of you, emerging from the darkness that closes in from every side. you don’t hesitate, you don’t even think, before squeezing the trigger. the rat implodes, its innards training the toes of your boots, a silver bullet imbedded in what little’s left of its belly.

a waste of precious, scarce ammunition. it wouldn’t be enough to kill him, even if you could manage to hit him, but it might’ve slowed him down. the only way to kill a vampire is to cut its head off — you would never get close enough. he’s too old, too smart, and too fast. you are hilariously, hopelessly outmatched.

the wind howls, battering against the thin, decaying walls, and, in its depths, you swear you hear him laughing. that same laugh that once made your stomach flutter with excitement, anticipation, now makes bile pool on your tongue.

what’s the point of this? playing his game, prolonging the inevitable. this can only end one way.

you only hope he’ll get rid of the evidence, bury your remains so deep that they’ll never find you, as to spare you the humiliation. murdered by the very beast you were bred to destroy. your father would spit on your grave if he found out.

“enough of this, price,” you spit through gritted teeth. you don’t raise your voice, you needn’t, but you don’t fawn, either. you’ll die on your feet, defiant until the bitter end. there’s no glory in it, but perhaps you might maintain some minute semblance of dignity. “i won’t be toyed with, not anymore. s’time we finish it.”

something slams into you from behind, and you’re sent face-first into the wall. your gun is torn from your slick palms, something within you cracking painfully at the force of the blow. you taste blood, warm and sickly-sweet, your head spinning nauseatingly.

he doesn’t give you time to recover. you asked for it, after all, and why should he deny you?

a heavy hand settles on your scruff, pinning you to the wall, his chest pressed flat to your back. he seems bigger, somehow, more imposing than ever before. you think of long nights and shitty mattresses, vows whispered in the private moments between breaths, his arms holding you like you were anything worth a damn.

you buck uselessly against him, your eyes burning with hot tears that have nothing to do with your impending demise. he clicks his tongue softly, chiding, as if you’re no more than a child pitching a fit. “there’s no need to fuss, pretty, c’mon, settle down now.”

his thumb rubs patient, soothing circles into the curve of your throat, where your pulse jumps and stutters, and you swallow a sob. why did it have to be him? “i already told you, sweet’eart. i don’t want to hurt you.”

you don’t believe him. how could you? you know what he is, what he’s lied about. you should’ve known better. you should have been paying closer attention.

he’s fooled you once. you won’t fall for it again. you won’t. even if that might ease your pain.

“i love you, remember?”

the sound that escapes you is pathetic. demeaning, really. something between a cry and a whimper, mournful and anguished. you know it’s just another lie in an endless, twisted string of them. he doesn’t mean it. but, god, you wish he did.

“please,” your voice cracks. so much for dignity. you don’t know what you’re begging for. your life? a swift end? “please, john, please, i’m—”

“shh-shh-shh,” he soothes, pressing his lips to your temple for half of a second. “i know, baby, i know. i hear you.”

his head dips, his hand moving to your jaw, forcing your chin to tilt so he can nose at your neck. his beard rubs against your skin, so familiar that it hurts. everything hurts — but this, his betrayal, worse than the broken ribs and the split in your cheek.

“you’ll forgive me,” he assures, sounding rather pained, himself. “one day, you’ll understand.”

his fangs tear through the delicate flesh of your throat, almost tender in its brutality, and your gasp is silenced by his sheer omnipresence.

it isn’t the weightless fever of blood loss that overcomes you, but the searing agony of venom entering your bloodstream.

no, no, no. not like this. please, not like this. but you can’t stop it, you can’t resist, can’t do anything but take it.

his jaw unhinges, and you fall limp in his arms, half-conscious, feeling a pain like nothing you’ve ever known. through the haze, you manage to meet his eyes. the red hue that had sent you running for the hills is gone, replaced by that beautiful, endless blue that you once adored.

“you’ll forgive me,” he repeats, as if to himself, touching his forehead to yours. “it only hurts for a moment, and then — and then, you’ll feel better. you’ll be better. you’ll forgive me.”

you won’t. not for this.

[clinquantribbons]

mw4 isn’t even out yet and it’s already causing rifts in the fandom. gods help us all.

[witherfide]

pushing it down and praying

[clinquantribbons]

ghost’s wearing soap’s scarf in the MW4 trailer someone sedate me right fucking now i don’t have the stomach for this

[clinquantribbons]

they say that, when you die, you’re given seven minutes to relive the best moments of your life.

seven minutes, postmortem, feels like a lifetime within itself. at least, it does to john mactavish.

he’s six years old, curled up in his ma’s lap with a bowl of ice cream in hand, his left leg sporting a brand-new, obnoxiously neon-green cast, testament to the tumble he took from the monkey bars at school that morning. his father claps him on the back and tells him how proud he is of him for being so brave. he handled it like a man would, he claims. for the first time, pride means something to johnny. he can finally feel the weight of it, and he’ll be shouldering it for the rest of his short life.

he’s ten years old, sitting in a hospital bed beside his oldest sister, his newborn niece cradled oh-so carefully in his arms, with seven sets of worried hands fluttering about. as of today, he’s no longer the baby of the mactavish family — he doesn’t mind. today, he learns that life is a precious, beautiful thing. he thinks that hers is worth a hundred of his own. his ma tells him that, one day, the drooling little girl in his lap will worship the ground he walks on. his sister’s given him the best gift of them all: a friend for life.

he’s fifteen, it’s past his curfew and he’s in for a beating when he gets home, but the boy he’s kissing tastes like opportunity, and he doesn’t care what his parents or his preacher would say if they discovered his sins. he will not repent, he will not regret this, and he will not torment himself with thoughts of eternal punishment or damnation. he kisses this boy until his lips are numb and his jaw aches, and he relishes in it for as long as he’s able. for the rest of his life. he’ll never be allowed to see him again, but he’ll never forget him. his memory will be branded into johnny’s skin in the shape of his father’s belt, and he’ll cherish it.

he’s twenty-two, and captain john price calls on him to join his team. the best of the best, the finest soldiers in the world, and he’s among them. there’s that word again: pride. it’s heavier now, it’s more than a child’s conviction, more than a father’s passing phrase. johnny bears the weight of it gladly. it’s the captain’s summons, or maybe it’s fate, that leads him to you. the first time your paths cross, you laugh at his hair, and at his name, and, somewhere between your teasing and the burden of duty, he falls in love.

he’s twenty-three, and bleeding out on the dilapidated streets of las almas. the city of angels. he can feel them, too, watching — judging. his lieutenant, his dearest friend, is waiting for him on the other end of the city, and he knows that, somehow, he is not alone. not tonight. simon’s dismal conversation, nothing but shitty puns and pessimism, but johnny recognizes it for what it is: faith. not in god, but in him. in john mactavish. and, coming from ghost, it’s everything. “i wanna be like you when i grow up, LT.”

twelve hours later, you kiss him as the sky falls down around you, and it’s the first of many. it’s the beginning of a love story destined to end in tragedy, but to you, to him, in this moment, it’s only the beginning.

he’s twenty-four, and the captain’s grinning at him from across a little booth in their local pub, with a warmth his own father could never get quite right. you’re strewn across his lap, laughing drunkenly at one of simon’s morbid jokes, running your fingers through his mohawk while he keens under your affections. kyle returns with a round of shots, his knuckles wet and sticky with cheap liquor, and johnny muses that his friend is rather lovely. so is simon, and price, and especially you. now, he knows that there is beauty in everything, all the time, and it looks like this. like unlikely friendships, and rag-tag, makeshift families, and doomed lovers. it’s bloody and it’s tragic, but, oh, it’s so, so beautiful.

he’s twenty-five, a cigarette dangling precariously from his bottom lip as he watches you stretch in the dim, yellowed light of your bedroom. a space you’ve chosen to welcome him into. a home you’ve offered to him. your throat’s bruised from his mouth, your hair rumpled from his greedy hands, and his fingers twitch with the want, the need, to draw you, to capture this moment, so that he might cling to it forever. as if he could ever forget it. he tells you he loves you, and you grin like you already know. he tells you he’ll marry you, one day, soon, and you kiss him like you believe it. he won’t. he’ll never get that chance. he would have if he could’ve.

he’s twenty-six when he takes you home to meet his family. you fit in like a piece no one knew was missing. his nieces and nephews refuse to let you out of their sight, and his sisters welcome you like they had been waiting for you all their lives. his father praises your service, and his mother tells him he’s chosen well. you’re good for him, she claims. she’s right, of course. she tells him that she’s proud of him, not for all the battles he’s won and the blood he’s spilt, but for the love that he’s earned from you.

he’s twenty-seven, standing outside the tunnel he’ll soon die in. you kiss him like it’s the last time, but you don’t know that it will be. how could you? he certainly doesn’t. only a fool walks into a life-or-death situation expecting to die — you told him that. “come back to me, J.”and he smiles, because where else would he go? where else would he be, if not with you?

“always.”

[clinquantribbons]

I read your childhood best friend ficneith Simon and you’re in character whenever you either for him. Could we have angst/comfort/smut something, like a mix. It is implied in the comics that he was SA so how do you think he works with that, and after getting into a relationship with reader, (reader can be a bit neurodivergent, anxious and stuff) she doesn’t do anything smutty, like kiss or make out and he deals with want and need and tries to process that. Like a victim of SA feeling needy and attracted to his gf but she doesn’t do such stuff yet and he is not the flirtiest and how does that work out? If you choose to write this I’ll be more than happy. Love your work Characterisation is ON

i can definitely write something exploring simon’s trauma and how it effects his relationships, but i do not write smut. sorry anon </3

[clinquantribbons]

This isn’t a request, it’s uhh more of like a appreciation comment

l really like your writing, like the way you write characters and structure your writing is so good and I can hope that one day I’ll write like you.

Anywho back to the hole I go, Buh bye^^

🌀

kissing you on the forehead, ily anon <3

[clinquantribbons]

it’s 2:36 in the morning, you’ve a briefing scheduled for eight, sharp, and you’re on hour three of a match that was meant to be short and sweet (at least, that’s what johnny claimed when he coaxed you into playing). still, there’s no end in sight.

kyle, with fifty-two life points and a lifelink deck at his disposal, looks damn near murderous as he pours over his hand. johnny, despite the beating he’s been taking, leaving him with a whopping sixteen points and one, singular creature (a 2/2 elemental that, really, only serves to sit there and look pretty), is nothing short of gleeful as he awaits your move.

technically, you could kill him now and be done with it. with fourteen creatures on the board, half of which have flying or trample, it would be no trouble at all. but you can’t help feeling guilty (a problem which you often face playing magic) — it seems unfair to make him sit there and watch while his friends play without him.

and then there’s kyle. a prime target, with his abundance of life, you’d love nothing more than to knock him down a few pegs — but you also aren’t keen to invoke his ire, seeing as his current battlefield will likely demolish your own.

so you make (what you imagine to be) the sensible decision.

“pass.” you declare, weary, after laying down the last land you had in your hand and drawing your card. the grin on johnny’s face sends an honest to god chill down your spine.

you and kyle make eye contact as he thumbs through his cards, both of you fearing what’s coming for you.

giddily, he taps all of his mana, and slams down a green-sleeved card that makes your stomach churn.

“target player — me, obviously — gains four life,” he announces, “and then destroy all creatures.”

“you fuckin’ cunt,” kyle groans, loudly, as you begin to gather up your cards, cursing your own leniency. if you would’ve killed that sorry son of a bitch when you had the chance… “this is why your fuckin’ mother left you!”

johnny cackles, utterly content with his empty board, twenty life, and the knowledge that his ma hasn’t yet forsaken him, contrary to what kyle would have you believe.

“i hope you rot in hell.” you deadpan, gazing mournfully at the dismal hand you’re left with. you won’t be getting any rest tonight, you know. you’ll count yourself lucky if it’s finished before the damned sun rises.

“aw, you don’t mean that!” he coos, as kyle counts out the mana he’ll need to bring his commander back (six more than it’s original cost, as it’s been killed thrice now). “you love me,”

not right now, you don’t.

before you can tell him as much, however, you’re interrupted by your dorm room’s door swinging open to reveal your irate and disgruntled captain, glowering blearily at the three of you.

you must make quite the sight — the world’s most notorious soldiers, sprawled out on the floor, surrounded by colorful dice and fantastical playing cards, emptied redbull cans strew about haphazardly, staring up at him like a bunch of troublesome teens who just got caught with a bottle of cheap liquor.

he blinks slowly at you, eyes narrowed as they adjust to the dim light you’re working with, and heaves a sigh so heavy it makes his unkept mustache quiver. “do you know time it is?”

“yessir,” you all chorus, contrite as can be (except johnny, who’s still giggling to himself).

“we’re wrappin’ it up now, cap’n,” kyle fibs, though price isn’t fooled.

he doesn’t know the first thing about magic, despite your (johnny’s, mostly) valiant attempts to teach him, but he’s wise enough to know that three empty boards and three newly-opened energy drinks isn’t the recipe for a swift end.

he scrubs a hand over his beard, shaking his head, apparently having decided that this is far beyond his pay grade. “just keep it down — or, so help me god, i’ll string you all up by your fuckin’ toes. that includes you, simon.”

your lieutenant, who’s been dosing comfortably in your bed since he scooped an hour and a half ago, grunts halfheartedly, not bothering to even lift his head.

“g’night, cap’n,” you call meekly, to which he grumbles incoherently, slamming the door behind him as he stalks back to the comfort of his own bed.

you return your attention to the game just in time to see kyle tap his commander — a real nasty beast, with flying, haste, and vigilance — in johnny’s direction. “that’s 6/6, you cuck.”

simon snorts, and johnny feigns offense as he, obligingly, diminishes his own health, seeing as he has nothing to block with (his own damn fault, mind you).

kyle looks to you, eyes gleaming with malicious intent. “help me fuck him up, then i’ll scoop and we’ll call it a draw.”

“hey! we said no politicking!”

“shut up, mactavish, the adults are talking.”

you look down at your hand — nothing but land and artifacts — then at johnny, who seems no less confident than he was at midnight. you would be a fool to believe he has nothing left up his sleeve. he’s come back from worse, somehow.

unfortunately for him, kyle’s petty, and you’re much too proud to give up (no matter how much you’d like to say fuck it and join simon in the bed).

“deal.”

[clinquantribbons]

simon riley doesn’t make friends easily. he’s never liked people much, and they don’t tend to favor him either. his classmates claim that he’s impolite, his teachers call him antisocial, and his mother says he’s got a bad attitude, just like his father.

(that’s rich, coming from her. if she would have ponied up and kicked mean ol’ richard riley to the curb seventeen years ago, as she should have, he wouldn’t have been around to have an influence on her son.)

but simon doesn’t think he’s any of that, really. he isn’t mean, he isn’t unjust, he doesn’t judge unfairly or go out of his way to make anyone miserable. he gets good grades, looks after his baby brother, works a part time job at the butcher’s. he does the best he can with the cards he’s been dealt, as dismal as they are.

it’s a miracle he that isn’t an addict, a convict, or a corpse by now. all things considered, he’s doing pretty damn well for himself. his mama should be proud.

she’s not, and richard sure as hell isn’t. but tommy thinks he’s pretty much the coolest guy ever (his words, not simon’s), and then there’s you.

you think he’s pretty cool too, though simon knows you’ll never admit it. why else would you subject yourself to his company?

simon doesn’t like people much, but he does like you. luckily for him, you have a soft spot for strays. like the mangy cat you feed everyday, and the impolite, antisocial, surly boy who lives in the flat underneath yours, who comes pawing at your bedroom window whenever richard hits the bottle a little too hard, and buys your affection with less-than trustworthy weed and shitty jokes.

unlike the rest of the world, you don’t mind his apathy, or his temper, or his inability to chit-chat or flirt. you don’t consider him particularly ugly, either, despite what the girls at school whisper when they think he can’t hear them. despite his crooked, stained teeth and his broken nose, his acne-scarred cheeks and choppy haircut. you’d even called him handsome once (you were high as a kite that night, unburdened and uncharacteristically giddy).

you’re his best friend — his only friend, actually. sometimes, you feel like a little more than that, like when you tend to his wounds with the dwindling first aid kit you keep stowed under your bed, and when you hold his hand on the walk to school some mornings, or steal kisses in between hits off a shared blunt, but that’s something that neither of you quite care to address.

this is one of those times where the lines blur (not that they were ever very substantial in the first place). simon, sprawled out on the floor of your bedroom, a two-months expired bag of frozen peas held against his bruised sternum, his eyes half lidded as he watches you roll a joint from your desk chair, your maths textbook acting as a makeshift tray.

it’s just the two of you here tonight — your mom’s rarely home lately, though he doesn’t have the heart to ask where she goes, isn’t totally sure that you’d have an answer if he did, and your ol’ man moved out two summers ago (he was there, in this very same spot, when it went down). he can hear richard stumbling around upstairs, though simon knows no one will come looking for him, not after the beating he took an hour prior. his family all knows to let him lick his wounds in peace.

“my birthday’s comin’ up.” he says abruptly, raspy voice momentarily overcoming michael jackson’s sweet one. it’s unlike him to care about such things, let alone acknowledge them. but this one, it’s special. he turns eighteen in september. it’s the end of a long, grueling sentence.

“yeah?” you don’t look up from your task, the steady beat of your feet tap-tap-tapping on the floor never letting up. you only respond out of courtesy. you know his birthday. you’re oftentimes the one reminding him of its approach.

he’s silent for a moment, thoughtful, almost timid, staring at you with his tongue pressed to his molars. from this angle, you look something like a dream he had when he was still small and scared. like peter-pan come to take him away. the soft glow of the streetlight outside makes your shadow seem bigger than you are — but, then again, you always look that way to him. larger than life. much too great for the shoe-box apartment you’re trapped in.

he waits until the awkwardly-stuffed paper’s between your lips, pink lighter held to its tip, before he speaks again, his heart beating so, so hard that his abused ribs ache in protest. he’s never been nervous to tell you anything, until now.

“m’gonna enlist, i think.”

your eyes, red-tinged and glassy already, dart to his, your feet stilling. he’s stone-cold sober, but his mouth is as dry as the sahara. “yeah?”

it’s gentle, breathy, somewhat taken aback — he doesn’t know what he expected. anger, perhaps. he wouldn’t fault you for it, if you were. you don’t turn eighteen until january. he’ll be gone, and you’ll still be here. he’d be angry, if he was you.

but your temper’s never been nearly as short as his. your feelings are much harder to hurt. you don’t take things personally. he wishes that he was more like you in that way.

“yeah.” the military’s his only escape route. he has no money saved, as it all goes to putting food in tommy’s belly and keeping the lights on, and no family, nor friends, to take him in, and he can’t live under his father’s roof any longer; hell, even making it to september seems far-fetched. he doesn’t have to explain that to you, though. you know.

he’s thought about it. he’s been thinking about it for a long while. you probably know that, too.

you nod slowly, smoke curling from your lips as you lean back in your rickety chair, unblinking. “it’d suit you.” you tell him, plain and simple. “you’d do real good out there, i reckon.”

he isn’t sure if that’s a compliment, but he chooses not to think about it too hard, because thinking about you too hard in any means usually makes his head spin. instead, he sits up, letting his ice pack fall to the floor, and wraps one hand around your ankle, using the other to pluck the joint from your hand.

he doesn’t tell you he’ll come back, because he can’t promise that he will. he doesn’t tell you he’ll miss you, because that much is obvious. he doesn’t tell you that he’ll keep in touch, because you loathe phone calls, and he doesn’t think he’s ever received a text from you in all the years he’s known you.

you once told him that, if it’s meant to be, it’ll be. either he’ll find you again, somewhere along the line, or he won’t. he likes to think that he will, one day, when he’s grown, when he’s kinder, more patient, when he has the means to take care of you like you’ve taken care of him for all these years.

you lean precariously forwards in your chair, warm hands cupping the back of his neck, and kiss him as he blows smoke from his nose. your lips taste like weed and sour candy, familiar, and his split lip throbs as his mouth meets yours, and simon considers that this might be what fairytales are made of.

twenty years from now, simon will be surrounded by friends — price, johnny, kyle — thousands of miles from your bedroom floor, and he’ll look at the stars, wondering if, somewhere, somehow, you’re looking up at the same ones.

but, for now, he kisses you, blood trickling down his chin, and figures that he might as well make the most of this while he still can.