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Fanfiction Gifts for Donations to Indigenous Communities in Canada
For those of you who don't know, Canada is on fire, and Indigenous communities are being disproportionately affected by the overwhelming damage.
A few Call of Duty fanfic writers here on tumblr are coming together to write fics for those who show proof of donation to charities such as:
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Red Cross
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At the moment, we have 30 slots open! If you are interested in receiving a fanfiction as a gift for your donation, more information is below the cut! (Even if you're not interested, we ask that you please reblog!)
Rules:
You MUST be 18 years or older for this event. Please have it marked somewhere on your blog when requesting! (Or even in your message to us if that makes you more comfortable. We don't need an exact age, just ensure that you're not a minor!)
Prompts are first come first serve! The first 30 people who show vetted/verified proof of donation will be getting fics! We will close our asks when we've met our threshold!
We require a 10$ (or your local currency equivalent) minimum donation. Donating more than 10$ will not get you anything more, but if you have the means to donate more, we encourage it!
Each fic will be around 1,000 words
We are writing for the 141 characters (Ghost, Gaz, Price, Soap) only!
We are doing character x reader fics only!
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fauxcest/incest
murder/violence/death/abuse
underage or age play
nonconsensual sexual content
kidnapping
bestiality, etc.
All fics will be in English
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Send that screenshot, along with your prompt, into our ask box!
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Prompts should be easy to fit into 1,000 words! For example:
Character x reader date night on the beach with some fluff/smut
Childhood best friends meeting again at a coffee shop for the first time after being away from each other for years
Meet cute at (location)
“Tags” like ‘hurt/comfort’ ‘there was only one bed’ etc helps loads!
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cw: emetophobia, stalking, obsession, telepathy, violent minor character deaths, blood, gore, sexual fantasies, shitty estranged parents, pregnancy talk
kyle's breaking into your mailbox.
you can see him from your couch when you close your eyes, watching him shove an eyeglasses screwdriver into the flimsy little lock on your mail cubby's door, twisting it just-so in order to snatch a brown envelope and shove it in his pocket. it's a jury summons, from the looks of it, which means now he has an excuse to come find you.
-just tell her that the mail was mis-sorted, that we got her summons, that we thought we should hand it over personally because it's important- ah, there he goes, plotting away. last night you'd heard him make all sorts of plans, scrapping some, revamping others, writing it all down in a little notebook with his perfect, slanty penmanship. it lasted all night, interspersed with couple of wank sessions starring that too-polished, too-perfect imagined version of yourself writhing around on her hands and knees, begging for kyle's cock.
best to do some recon, make sure it's just a coincidence, kyle rationalizes to himself as he strides back to the elevator and presses the fifth floor button. could be that a pretty face with a big soft body is some sort of spy. the place next door has been vacant for ages, never heard a peep- he stops to think. was there a sound last night? a movie or something playing through the wall? it's hard to remember, the book was so good it was hard to pay attention to much else.
he drums his fingers over the handrail, waiting for the elevator to open again with a soft ding! before launching back into strategizing mode, sliding his key back into his lock and throwing a glance at your door before he goes inside.
it would be such a shame if she were a spy, he thinks to himself before a supercut of brutal murders plays through both of your minds. a bullet to the forehead splattering brains and bone shards all over the wall. a shove pushing a man over a high railing, screams fading before ending with an abrupt thud. a slit throat pouring blood down the front of a woman's blouse, wet shirt clinging suggestively to her tits- and you realize her face looks like yours.
it's enough to bring your breakfast back up, your feet barely carrying you to the bathroom fast enough. you need to go, need to get out of here and clear your fucking head. this situation has suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and getting out of it is going to require a real plan on your part. it was one thing when he just fantasized about fucking and biting you (that was almost normal if you're honest), but it's entirely another for him to potentially plot your fucking murder.
sliding on your shoes, you make an escape plan. kyle's one of those super healthy types that drinks a lot of water- it's only a matter of time until he needs to take a piss.
grabbing your go-bag, wallet, phone, and keys, you linger by the door for twenty minutes, hand hovering over the knob, waiting for him to go to the loo before you're able to dash out the front door and frantically press 'door close' on the elevator. kyle curses up a storm when he hears you, trying to make himself presentable and attempt to catch you on your way out- but he's too late. you're two floors down already by the time he even touches the doorknob- and you can't help the manic little giggle that slides out of you in relief.
that was a close one. you know he'll be keeping an ear out for you to come home tonight, so you won't be doing that. he's got two more days of leave before he's expected back on base- he'll be missing his mum's birthday because of it, you remember- so that's when you can come home. until then, you can just hole up in a hotel or something and wait him out. afterwards you can break your lease and move out before he comes back from deployment. that should work, right? he'll come back, realize you're gone, chalk it up to weird coincidences, let it go, and move on to terrorize some other fat girl- one that doesn't know about what a monster kyle 'gaz' garrick truly is.
(poor thing. you hope this hypothetical future fat girl escapes.)
kyle's eyes scan the street below his window, eye on the front door where the majority of people come in and out of your building- so you slip out the back door usually only used by maintenance and security, leaving him scrambling and confused.
where is she? where is she? where is she? chants his voice in your mind as he peers down at the tops of stranger's heads, looking for your hair, your wide frame, anything familiar- but finding nothing. there's no suppressing the second wave of triumphant giggles as you power walk away, hiking your bag up on your shoulder as you put as much distance between you and your neighbor as possible, heading towards your usual haunting grounds.
~
two days and nearly two hundred quid in room service charges later, you finally slink home. it's blissfully quiet this afternoon, with just the low hum of your other neighbors thoughts, no louder than your refrigerator. it's nice to be back, if you're honest. even though hotels are still quieter than being home when kyle is around, the contents of the quieter thoughts are much more intense. after all, here people are home where they feel most comfortable, but hotels? full of homesick travelers, unhappy spouses cheating on each other, stressed businessmen, overworked hotel staff, and folks like you- worried locals trying to lie low. it's a lot to handle, and even more stressful when you're already dealing with your own problems.
collapsing on your bed feels rejuvenating, if you're honest. you'd almost missed the muted showtunes that play in a loop in 540's head, or the unfocused bright colors going through her baby's. this is as close to true silence as you'll get- and that's fine. it's like a more pleasant tinnitus in that way, you suppose.
"-ppy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear mu-um, happy birthday to you!" a woman with beautiful silver locs flashes a smile to her family, corners of her dark eyes creasing as her wife wraps and arm around her waist. she leans down to blow out the candles, the gold bands around her fingers glinting with candle light as she holds her hair back from the sides of her face. there's a small cheer as she gets them in one go, and she laughs good-naturedly when someone makes a joke about her cake being a fire hazard-
your eyes bulge open, legs flailing as you scramble to sit up in bed. what the fuck. that's kyle's mum- or, at least, his memory of her. but he's supposed to be gone. he was supposed to miss his mother's birthday. he's not supposed to be here, why the fuck is he here?
the memories get louder and brighter, and you know kyle is on his way back to his flat. you can hear the ding of the elevator play over the reel of his mother opening kyle's gift to her- a gold pendant necklace with a hummingbird on it. her favorite animal, and a pet name her mother had given her as a little girl. he'd been deeply pleased when he'd found it, and it pleased him immensely to watch her face light up when she opened the small velvet box.
"it's perfect, thank you," she says as she puts it on immediately, mummy beaming at him from behind her shoulder.
"well done," mummy mouths at him silently before she presses a kiss to her wife's temple.
the memories come to an abrupt halt as soon as he sees your door.
wonder if she's home yet.
the knock at the door is expected, but it still makes you gasp all the same. it's real. he's here and he's found you and he's waiting on the other side of the door right now. you could pretend not to be home- but you know he's not going to just drop it or let it go. you're going to have to give in and talk to him if you want this to end.
with a deep breath, you get to your feet to answer the door. through the peephole, you see him staring back at you, small smirk ticking up the corner of his mouth when he hears the metal scrape of your deadbolt sliding out of place.
when the door opens, he's smiling at you with a fondness that you know is unearned.
"uh, hello?" you ask, wary.
cute, kyle thinks.
"hello, sorry to bother, i'm kyle, i'm your neighbor-" he says instead, nodding towards his door,"-and i think our mail got switched up."
he flashes you his most dazzling smile as he pulls a brown envelope from his jacket pocket. the jury summons. he's been holding onto it all this time. "seemed too time-sensitive to have it go back through the postal system, so i thought i'd deliver it in person."
"oh. thanks." you flash a hesitant smile of your own, grabbing the letter from him.
an iron on the ironing board, steam billowing out and unsealing the envelope in his hands. he takes note of all the information given, most especially your full government name, which he repeats to himself over and over, whispered like a prayer within the privacy of his flat, testing how the mix of vowels and consonants feel in his mouth. he hopes you don't notice the slight warp still left in the paper by the steam.
"you know, i hadn't realized until the other day that someone was living here. did you just move in?" he asks casually, gentle gaze locked on your face, memorizing the arch of your eyebrows, the roundness of your cheeks, the way your cupid's bow dips.
"uh. couple years ago." you confess, and his eyebrows raise in surprise.
"oh, wow. you're the quietest neighbor i've ever had, then. i honestly thought this flat was vacant until i heard sir david through my wall the other night." he says with a little laugh, and despite yourself, you chuckle a little too.
"yeah, sorry about the noise. i normally try to keep it down when you're home." you tell him before cutting yourself off. holy shit why did you tell him that? he's going to think you're a fucking weirdo...
wait. maybe if you're weird he'll be put off by you. maybe he'll want to leave you alone. maybe-
cute, he thinks again, dashing your dreams completely as his curious smile grows and he cocks his head.
"what do you mean?"
"oh, uh. you're not here a lot so i assume this is just, like. a crash pad. so. i thought since you're not here enough to bother me i should. um. just let you crash in peace, i guess." you stumble your way through the words, mentally apologizing to every woman you'd silently rolled your eyes at for getting flustered in front of kyle. it really is overwhelming, having that beautiful smile and those gentle eyes aimed at you like a fucking gun.
what a sweet fucking girl, his mind purrs. i hope it's true. if she's just a spy i'll have to kill her myself just for stringing me along. i wonder if i can counter-honeypot a honeypot? make her fall in love with me and convince her to tell me everything. if anyone could do it, i think i could.
"that's very thoughtful of you. thank you." he leans in closer, smile strategically softening, and it still makes you feel almost breathless. "it's appreciated. i'm military, so time to rest between deployments is fairly precious to me."
please be a barracks bunny please be a barracks bunny come show your appreciation all over my cock, babes-
it takes all your strength to maintain your poker face and not flinch at his unspoken thoughts. instead, you smile and scramble to make an excuse to get out of this conversation.
"oh, sure. i'll, uh, let you get back to your nap, i guess." you tell him, taking a half-step back so you can close the door. kyle obviously didn't think you'd shut down the conversation so fast, and he scrambles to find a way to keep you talking.
ask her to coffee take her to dinner ask if you're bothering her do something do something the door is closing-
"actually, i was wondering if you'd like to come have coffee with me sometime. there's a little cafe a few blocks from here that i've found to be rather lovely." he flashes that smile again, hoping to reel you in the way it always does. instead, you decide to stomp on his ego a little.
"why?" you ask, schooling your expression into a suspicious one, and it brings you a mean little thrill to see prettyboy fail- but it only lasts a moment.
ah, a sweet girl who isn't shy. wonder if she's a brat in bed. i can break a brat, no problem. i would enjoy it, too- but it might be more fun to slowly soften her up, make her sweet just for me. his eyes drop to your hips and then slowly trail back up your body, an obvious once-over. bloody fucking hell, she'll be a lot of fun, i can tell already-
"because i don't have a lot of local friends outside of the military, and because you seem like a thoughtful person that might be nice to get to know." he bites at his lip with intention, and you nearly scoff and roll your eyes.
"i have a boyfriend." you lie, enjoying the way his smile falters.
"i didn't mean it like that," he lies back, putting his hands up in surrender. "i really do just want to be friends."
a tactical retreat, he thinks to himself, and you can't stop the small exhaled laugh that escapes your nose. fucking military guys.
"uh huh." you don't know why you haven't closed the door yet. some part of you just wants to see what a guy like this does when his plan of 'be pretty enough to get whatever he wants' doesn't work the way it normally does.
"anyways, just wanted to give you your letter and introduce myself. i'll see you around, i suppose." he says, taking a small step backwards, waiting for you to take the bait, to call him back and ask him something-
"okay. bye kyle." you say, finally shutting the door, loudly locking it and setting the chain as he hovers outside.
fuck. bloody fucking boyfriend. he grouses to himself. nothing that can't be fixed. bet anything he doesn't fuck her right, remember her birthday, or buy her flowers. there's no way he's better looking, either.
as soon as he's back in his flat, a memory flashes through his mind.
your full government name, typed into various search bars. social media, telephone listings, professional websites, the dark web, porn hub, all of it, just looking for any sort of match. he grits his teeth in frustration when the handful of results he gets are blatantly not you- too old, too young, living on the wrong continent, etc. each lead is a wild goose chase, a waste of time that takes him two straight days.
fortunately for you, playing poker with very bad men has led you to be extra careful with your digital footprint. there is nothing under your real name, nothing tying you to this address aside from your government paperwork and utilities, nothing he can access without committing some serious ethics violations- and once he realizes that he won't be able to find you with conventional and legal means, kyle makes a phone call.
"hello, sergeant." a gruff voice says over the phone, fondness apparent in his tone.
"captain, i need some help." kyle admits, dropping into a chair in the kitchen.
"that right?" you can hear a door open and shut on the other end of the line. "you remember i'm retired, don't you?"
"it's about a woman, actually." kyle clears his throat. "saw her while i was out getting coffee, got home later and realized she's my neighbor. i did what little digging i could in an unofficial capacity, and found absolutely nothing. it might be coincidence, but." he chews his lip. he's going to think i went completely mental-
no, he won't, a corner of his own mind interrupts. this is price we're talking about. there's a reason we called him.
"but?"
"she is suspiciously my type." kyle confesses, and your eyebrows rocket towards your hairline as you drop onto your couch. "big fat arse and a pretty face. a reader. sweet without being naive or a pushover- didn't give me an inch when i talked to her."
"ah. you think you caught a honeypot." you catch the smile in the 'captain's voice, but kyle doesn't. "why don't you talk to your new captain about it? have ghost run background-"
"i'd rather leave ghost out of this, actually." kyle cuts him off, wincing in embarrassment at the responding silence and cringing even further when the captain responds with a low chuckle.
"ah. you think if she turns up clean that ghost will want her." the captain observes, and you can hear in his thoughts how much it bothers kyle that 'price' can read him like a book, even after all this time. "but you want her all for yourself, don't you sergeant?"
"yes sir." kyle admits through grit teeth.
"no need to be embarrassed, lad. felt the same way when i first laid eyes on my missus. there was a reason i had called you for help and not soap, you know."
trailing a broad-hipped woman through snow-dusted streets, streetlights throwing blue shadows over everything. kyle yells something at her, pretending to slur his words, stumbling as if drunk, staying just far enough away to hide his face in the dark and just close enough to make her panic and move with haste, grinning to himself as he watches his captain's familiar shape 'bump' into the poor girl, 'saving' her. he watches her leave with the captain as price holds a thumbs-up behind her back- mission accomplished. lamb scared back to the arms of her shepherd.
"how is she, by the way? your wife?"
"oh, fine, just fine. she's baking blueberry scones at the moment- or rather, attempting to. crab bucket- that's the tortie cat- she keeps getting underfoot, i think in hopes that something will be dropped that she can eat." there's a strange quality to his voice, like he has something wedged between his teeth- and it doesn't make sense until you hear the click of a lighter and a crackling inhale. kyle supplies the image for you- an older man with a thick, dark beard, cigar firmly wedged in the corner of his mouth. his eyes are steely, a no-nonsense expression on his face.
"does your girl have pets, kyle?"
"not that i know of- she's so quiet that i didn't even know she was living next door."
"mm. it's harder when they have animals- if they don't like you, getting her trust will be that much harder." price says thoughtfully. "what's your plan, kyle? you need me to pretend to be drunk and follow her home?"
a flash of your face again, half-hidden in your doorway, expression suspicious. kyle exhales a laugh.
"i think she'd likely just tell you to sod off." he says with a fond smile, and price laughs.
"no meek things for you, eh kyle?"
"they're all right for a night." he shrugs, even though price can't see it. "i don't know, i'm still trying to make sure this isn't a trap before i set my heart on anything. like i said, she's suspiciously my type."
she's so big and soft, if she got on top she'd pin us down to the mattress, he thinks to himself. we wouldn't be able to get up or move, we'd just have to take it as she jiggles and bounces on our cock-
suddenly, there's a vivid image.
fantasy-you moans and sweats and writhes on top of him, his fingers dug deep into the plush jut of her hip, leaving indents in the fat. she bats her lashes down at him, sweat running down her face, breathlessly telling him how much she loves his cock, how much she needs it, how much she craves it when he's gone-
"mm. and if it comes up she's clean? then what?" price asks, but it's rhetorical. you don't need telepathy to tell he already knows the answer.
kyle thinks about the leave paperwork he filled out and emailed off two nights ago, the phone call he had with a deep-voiced manc about needing 'family time'. after years of doing multiple tours in a row just to stave off boredom, he's got several months worth of leave saved up, and he's planning on using them all.
now.
on you.
"then the hunt begins, captain."
the smile in kyle's voice paired with the proud sounding chuckle on the other end of the line make your blood run cold and your breaths grow shallow. they're talking about you like you're a particularly fat pheasant or an extraordinarily wiley fox, not a human woman with her own thoughts, feelings, agency, and made-up boyfriend.
an idealized version of you, with longer lashes and perfect lip gloss lounges naked in kyle's bed, parting her legs coyly under his crisp white bed sheets, hickeys and bite marks littering her neck, chest, and shoulders. there's a gold ring on her left hand, the diamond bright and huge.
"come back to bed, i need you," she pouts, voice sounding vaguely like yours. "please? please, kyle? i need you so bad."
tears you hadn't even realized were accumulating fall over your lashline, racing down your face to drip off of your chin. a line has been crossed, and there's no going back. after all, he's bringing in a third party to, what, dig into your past? under the guise of proving you aren't a spy? his excuse is flimsy and you know he knows it.
the googling you could forgive- god knows everyone does it, yourself included- but this is far, far more than that. you know he thinks of it as recon before a mission, and the fact that he thinks of pursuing you as a 'mission' makes you utterly disgusted. he really thinks he'll dig up enough information to, what, trick you into wanting him? into loving him?
it's a horrifying idea, made even more wretched by the fact that you know if you weren't privy to the thoughts of everyone around you that it would very likely work. he is, after all, extremely good looking, well-dressed, charming, and with a respectable job. were you and your mother still on speaking terms, she'd be begging you to get pregnant with his baby and lock this man down for life.
thank fuck you don't talk to her anymore.
"there's a lad. now send me what you know and i'll see what nik and i can dig up." price says, cigar in his mouth audible. "we'll just keep this between you and me for now, alright?"
"thank you, sir. i appreciate it."
their conversation ends in well-wishes and promises to get together that you can hardly hear over your own pulse. all you can do is stare at the wall you share with kyle, watching through his eyes as he stares right back, unaware that you know anything about his plans.
mate, you're going mental over a fat arse, kyle chides himself as he gets to his feet, slowly striding towards the wall that separates you. you've seen her three times and talked to her once, and already you have price doing untraceable background checks on her.
to see if she's a spy, one corner of his brain argues as he presses his forehead to the paper calendar, staring at a circled date that sits right in front of his nose. it's a safety precaution. it's bad enough we can't stop thinking about her, if it turns out that it's by design, it'll be humiliating. once we know it's not some sort of setup, we can move forward.
he sighs, thudding his head lightly against the wall, staring down at the date circled in red, eyes tracing over the address and time written there- and you see a flash of the contents of your envelope pass through his mind.
oh. oh no.
with trembling hands you open your jury summons, staring at the instructions as to when and where you're expected to arrive.
it matches the circled date and details written on kyle's calendar.
it's a trap. a failsafe way for him to 'bump' into you later if all else fails. you're trapped, cornered in your apartment by the man next door. he's listening for your door to open, waiting on any sound as an excuse to knock, keeping tabs on your movements and strategizing the best way to catch you alone without raising your already sky high suspicions.
there's no clear way out of this mess, no blatant answer how to escape from kyle's attention unscathed, but one thing is obvious now in hindsight:
We're at the "JK Rowling is personally funding litigation to try and destroy AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL" stage of rabid UK terf brain.
Screenshot via Alejandra Caraballo @esqueer.net on bluesky
Tldr Amnesty International, global human rights organisation, published a report called 'A growing threat: the anti-rights movement in the UK'. In it is detailed, amongst others, a whole bunch of transphobic groups and organisations, including Beira's Place, JK Rowling's trans exclusionary sexual violence support service. JK Rowling threw a shit fit and got Amnesty to take the report down by threatening libel. This was obviously not enough, because you can't appease a fascist, so now she's going to bankroll a bunch of lawsuits anyway through the JK Rowling Women's Fund.*
You can read an archived version of the report here, please save it and share it.
*Not so friendly reminder there is no way to engage in the wizard books without enabling this shit.
demon who tells you that he'll grant your greatest wish in exchange for your hand, but once the deal is made and you become the most beautiful woman on earth, he reveals it was your hand in marriage-
demon marriages are different, you figure out. suddenly, no human men are attractive to you, but your husband's hulking, monstrous form, with clawed hands and horned head, cock that hangs heavy again his thigh... all of him makes your body flush with heat. the things he say make you chitter like a schoolgirl and wet like a whore-
cw: telepathy, marijuana use, vague sexual fantasies
heaven is a cafe located two blocks from your flat and one block out of what you've mentally dubbed 'kyle's blast zone'. with each step the screams and explosions playing on a loop in his mind grow fainter and fainter until they're completely gone- buried behind a new mum's worries about her baby's growth percentile and a barista daydreaming about snogging her favorite middle-aged regular that she's mentally dubbed 'mister oat latte'.
it's therapeutic, in a way, to let more mundane thoughts and memories wash over your mind and cleanse your palate of the horrors your neighbor had been unwittingly subjecting you to. it's a much more intimate method of people-watching, and you enjoy sitting in your corner with the book you aren't reading propped in your hand, trying to match what memories and thoughts belong to which customer.
the young professional squinting at his laptop screen is likely the one who's trying and failing at making complicated financial data make sense. the young teenager waiting for her iced coffee is likely the one that's agonizing over a bad test score. you're pretty sure it's either the barista or the pretty goth girl that's still in line trying to mentally plan their next manicure and wondering if their nail tech is up to the challenge of a particularly ornate design. it's a total toss-up which four folks have their minds totally distracted by the big fluffy samoyed that's sat outside the big windows, patiently waiting for it's owner to finish her animated conversation with her friend about how her work acquaintance is likely embezzling from the company.
your coffee is delicious, the cafe' is full of wonderfully mundane thoughts and memories, and the weather is gorgeous. a thought floats across your mind- one of your own- and you wonder if you should try making a little money tonight. after all, there's a back room poker game later on this evening- god knows it's an easy way to pad your pockets and kill several hours away from home. it's not a terrible idea, really, but there's a mental exhaustion that comes with actively reading multiple minds at once and strategically bombing on occasion so as not to arouse any suspicions of cheating again.
after all, your pinky never did really heal right after the first time you were questioned. it arches away from the rest of your fingers, not bending fully around your coffee- a crooked reminder to not get cocky or comfortable when you're playing cards with sharks.
the only downside to choosing to play poker all night is that it's a cash-only game- which means you have to go back to your flat, braving the contents of kyle's mind just long enough to grab the stack of cash hidden in your closet and slip away again. with any luck (and a lot of strategy) you can walk away from the table with enough extra money to hole up for a week in a nice hotel. you can soothe your stresses in a big jacuzzi tub and order room service and-
your planning grinds to a halt as you feel outside thoughts gradually growing louder and more vibrant in your mind, and it freezes the breath in your lungs as you slowly realize what's happening.
-then it's just two more bloody days until i can get back and finish what we started. better remember to get mum's birthday flowers ordered when i get back to the flat- a flash of a bouquet, peach colored with little bits of pink and yellow- maybe i'll order takeaway for dinner while i'm at it- a rolodex of local restaurants flips in his mind, landing on your favorite lebanese place- i'll have to ring soap and see if he wants to play fifa tonight, that could be fun-
it's almost shocking how normal kyle's thoughts are when he's out of his flat. you stare out the window, looking for any sign of your neighbor heading your way, your eyes wide and mouth agape in shock. you've never seen him in person, really, but you've seen him looking in the mirror before plenty of times. the sound of his thoughts grow steadily louder, and any hopes you had of him simply passing some other direction die as soon as you spot his blue baseball cap bobbing down the street and heading straight towards you.
-so bloody knackered, probably coffee instead of tea today. cappuccino, maybe- a stylized cup of coffee floats through your mind, image sharpening with every step your neighbor takes- yeah, that sounds nice. i wonder if that redhead still works here. what was her name? nina? marina? fuck, she had a nice arse. wonder what it would take to get her to let me fuck it. probably not much.
you can't help the exasperated sigh that slips out of you. it's not like you're a prude- after all, you've had a lifetime of hearing people's most sexual thoughts about one another since way before you were old enough to know what any of it meant- but by virtue of it being from kyle, someone you're already biased against, it's the most obnoxious thing in the world.
a pretty red headed girl smiles she hands over an americano. it's wintertime, she's wearing a turtleneck and the sky is grey outside the cafe windows. christmas music is playing softly in the background, muted by steamers and the low din of chatter in the cafe. she turns to work on another drink, and kyle's eyes catch on the curve of her ass as she bends to pick up a dropped lid.
in your heart you know you should take your coffee and leave, but you're too curious. for one, it's interesting to you that the murder and mayhem you're used to seeing from him is suddenly gone now that he's out and about and not just puttering around his flat. maybe that's just what happens when he's bored- his mind fills the gap between active thoughts with memories, good and bad, because it can't stand to just rest. the epiphany almost makes you feel bad for the man... until you remember the things you've seen him do while on deployment.
hm. maybe karma is real.
it's not until he's crossing the street that you see his face for the first time, and it feels so strange to see him in real life like this. you've managed to avoid running into him for years, and now here he is, just on the other side of a pane of glass, stepping back onto the sidewalk and then pushing open the door to the cafe. he really is a handsome man- and even prettier in person, if you're honest. he looks like a model as he tucks his cap under his arm, flashing a charming smile to the barista behind the counter that gets her twitterpated and giggly.
it was such a surprise the first time you'd seen him through his own eyes in the bathroom mirror- never in your life had you imagined that a face with such kind eyes would be capable of the brutality you'd seen him dole out. it was a shock to the system and a memorable re-enforcement of a lesson long since learned: never ever trust appearances.
it's hard not to stare, but you do make a valiant effort to finally pretend to read your book as he puts in his order. your eyes lock onto a a slightly smudged looking 'b' on the page, watching through his eyes as he dicks around on his phone, texting his sister about birthday plans for their mum as he waits for his order to finish. it's strange to see yourself in the periphery- out of focus, but still very much there, the red cover of your book standing out slightly against the beige and white decor of the cafe.
"americano for kyle?" a pleasant voice rings out over the din of noise, both in your ear and in your head. kyle's attention snaps back up off his phone as soon as he taps 'send', and you sneak a glance right as he happens to look your way.
the shock of it- making eye contact with yourself through his eyes, of the way his thoughts skid to an abrupt halt at the sight of you- almost makes you flinch. instead you drop your gaze back down to your book, pretending nothing happened, waiting for him to move on, to do another sweep for the redhead before he leaves-
he's watching you sit in the corner, eyes lingering on how your round ass fills the seat you occupy. he sees that you're staring down at a book he vaguely remembers hearing someone talk about, and he knows you're not reading. he's noticed your eyes aren't traveling across the pages,instead stuck still on one spot- shit, fuck, goddammit- oh, now they are. how interesting-
bootfalls come closer and closer as you skim your book, strategically choosing to turn the page despite having retained nothing of what your eyes had glossed over.
-just sit close enough to see, but not close enough to raise attention. fuck, what a pretty thing, he thinks as he sits a few tables over. bet i could really bite down on that arse- there's so fucking much of it. i could just sink my teeth in, dig in my fingers, fuck. been a while since i followed a big girl home, wonder if she's a screamer-
flashes of half-formed plans to seduce you flit across his mind, and you wish the samoyed was still here, that kyle could've been distracted by the big beautiful dog instead of you. lebanese, fifa, and flowers for mum are all wiped clear from his thoughts- he's determined to get you in his bed, to bite and fuck and use you as he likes.
there's absolutely no way you're letting that happen- he might be pretty and he might have a big dick, but you've seen the kind of man he really is. you know the things he's done. you're not about to let a goddamned war criminal between your legs.
i'll just catch her eye again, flash her a smile, and ask about her book. that'll get her to talk to me. it'll be easy after that.
his confidence would be sickening if you didn't acknowledge how right he is. if you couldn't hear his thoughts, that beautiful smile paired with that handsome face would make you putty in his hands, there's no denying it. you've seen the memories of him flirting- the man has game. you wouldn't stand a chance.
you pretend to check your phone for the time, pretend to suddenly realize you're late for something, and pretend to be in a massive hurry to leave. it's not an oscar-worthy performance, but it's enough to make your sudden exit plausible, and that's all you need. kyle chuckles to himself in mild surprise when you don't even glance his way, sipping his americano as he watches you through the window, fantasizing about what it would be like to bounce his hips off your ass as he fucks you from behind.
fuck, where are you going, babes? where are you hauling that big fat arse to? bloody hell, look at the jiggle on that girl. what's i'd give to see her on a trampoline-
kyle makes no move to follow, and it's a relief when you're finally out of his sight. the intensity of his little fantasy fades the further out you get, and by the time you're home it's at a much more manageable level, barely distinguishable over the worries of the old woman next door who isn't sure if she forgot to take her meds or if she took her meds and already forgot.
you pull your phone up to your ear, phone already calling a contact that you have saved simply as a red diamond emoji. the call connects, and you don't even wait for a greeting.
"what's the buy-in?"
"it's off." a familiar voice says, clearly annoyed. big d is, on the best of days, a gruff motherfucker anyways- but there's something else happening here. something more than their everyday levels of irritation.
you blink, hard, staring at the inside of your closet where your little portable safe is tucked away under your winter coats and behind your boots.
"it's off?" you repeat, surprised.
"s'wot i said, innit?" d snaps. "the kraut earned 'imself an hmp 'oliday, and until we know wot's been said, it's off."
ah, shit. if that big dumb austrian's been pulled in by the police, god only knows what will happen next. he's a weird one, to be sure- when he's not playing cards and focusing on putting hands together, his thoughts are usually just... empty. nothing there at all. no stray curiosities or memories or even to-do lists. as far as you can tell, the space between his ears is vast, cavernous, and filled with fuckall.
god only knows what a man like that does and says in police custody.
"ah." the phone disconnects in response, and you sigh as you slide it back into your pocket, closing the closet door. so much for your evening plans, you guess.
you preheat your oven for a small frozen pizza as you mull over your run-in with kyle. it's encouraging that he's only replaying his nightmarish memories when he's stagnating at home- and it makes sense, you suppose. you also start thinking about rancid shit when you start feeling stir-crazy, and a man who routinely jumps out of aircraft and gets shot at probably feels restless the second he's off-base and off-duty. with any luck he found someone else to lust after, some other fat girl to follow home and work off some steam with so you can have a peaceful night with mediocre frozen pizza, a joint, and a few good documentaries.
two slices and a half a joint in, you start to feel kyle's thoughts growing louder again. he must be coming home, you reason, and take another deep toke as you brace yourself, cursing your optimism that he might go somewhere else for the night.
-even if it is french. still, could be good. can't remember the last time i read anything for fun, busy as i've been. ghost's a reader, wonder if he's read this. wonder if he liked it. was it him that was telling me about it? or was that raven? so bloody hungry, i should've gotten more than a coffee for lunch. i wonder if that girl is a regular there. i should go back tomorrow, see if i can find her again. wouldn't mind taking a bite out of her, fuck that arse really did look thick enough to sink my teeth into- a proper bite, no holding back- an image flashes in your head, a woman who looks a lot like you, but isn't you. her skin is too clear, hair too perfect, eyes just a little bigger, tits a little perkier. she's an idealized version of you, still fat and sat in the corner of the cafe, reading your book, glancing shyly over the cover.
ugh.
through kyle's eyes, you watch him approach your building, shopping bag rustling on his arm as he fishes out his keys in the lift, mentally finalizing his dinner order for tonight. fantasy-you giggles and smiles at him in both of your minds, and you take a particularly deep toke and turn up the volume on your documentary, david attenborough's voice nearly loud enough to drown out kyle's fantasies as he narrates the journey of a particularly cute looking penguin. it's somehow just enough to distract you from when he imagines you bent over the edge of his couch as he slides the key into the door, toeing off his shoes and digging out his phone to order dinner.
it's not until later, as the credit roll across your screen as orchestral music swells, that you even notice kyle's thoughts again. it's not a memory-it's too vivid- the image playing clearly in your mind: a man in a straw hat and a pale little girl walking across farmland. the little girl speaks simply of god and angels, and they pass by an abandoned church- hey, wait a second.
focusing a little more, you realize that not only is kyle reading, he's reading the same book you'd had in the coffee shop. he must've gone to a bookstore this afternoon and picked it up before heading home. closing your eyes, it's like getting a private movie of your novel, one entirely imagined by your neighbor. it's incredible how clear and realistic his imagination is, and it's better than any film adaptation could ever be. the remote finds your hand, finger instinctively turning off your television as you opt to lean back, eyes closed, head resting on the back of your couch as you let kyle's imagination illustrate your book. for once in your life, the strength of kyle's mental signal to you is an asset, allowing you to enjoy the book at the same time as him.
it's hard to say how much time passes like that, with you blissed out and dozy as you lie back and let your neighbor's imagination wash over you, but it's brought to an abrupt end as a loud knock at your door stirs you from your reverie.
through the peephole is a teenage boy clearly delivering food, little cardboard boxes adding shape to the plastic bag in his hand.
"delivery from agora." the boy says in a bored voice when you open the door.
"oh, uh, i didn't order anything, i think maybe for my neighbor-"
as if summoned, the door to number 542 opens, and your neighbor pops his head out. as the delivery driver peers at the receipt in his hand, you watch kyle's face run through a range of emotions: surprise, disbelief, confusion, and giddiness.
flashes of you on your knees, bend over his couch and smiling coyly over your shoulder, pinned to his mattress underneath him- ugh, god, it's too much too suddenly and you are way, way too high for this.
"goodnight!" you practically squeak, and as the door closes behind you, and you can practically feel kyle's rush of excitement as he stares at your door, the number burning into his memory as he takes the food from the apologetic driver.
a thought that is not of your own mind rings out loud, clear, and full of awe through your wall:
every dumbass making stupid posts like “ugh Canada owes us for all the smoke clogging up our air this week” needs to donate >1000$ to every first nations community being devastated by these wildfires
cw: nightmares, sex tapes, non consensual sharing of sed sex tapes, masturbation, oral sex, rough sex, punitive sex, telepathy
wind whips everywhere as the helicopter slowly descends upon the city, yellow streetlights below illuminating the small crowd that's gathered just outside the building you're headed towards.
it's a hot one tonight, and the churning air feels cleansing somehow, keeping you cool as you take in the scene below you. you don't recognize this place- the trees along the sidewalks look unfamiliar, the street signs and traffic lights not like the ones you see locally. you squint into the night to see if you can parse out anything that might tell you where you are, but no dice. you're too far up, moving too fast, and it's too dark out to look for clues, so you just hang on for the ride as you slowly descend.
suddenly, gunfire pinging off the metal frame of the chopper. the pilot yells something about small arms- moments before a white streak flashes up through the night sky, headed straight for you.
"rpg!" a man screams nearby, his warning nearly cut off by the sound of impact- a shrill whistle before a boom that shakes the solid floor from under your feet, sending you sprawling over the cold metal as you slide along with the listing of the chopper. it's deafening- the cacophony of gunfire, the roar of the engine, the shriek of alarms, all with your pounding heartbeat playing harmony.
bits and bobs are sent flying through the air- metal canisters, a handgun, little metal bits that you can't identify but look like they'd hurt to be hit with. you deliriously think to yourself that if the crash doesn't kill you, maybe the shrapnel will.
because face it- this is it. you're going to die out here, falling to your death our in god-knows-where for god-knows-what-reason, and it's going to be painful. and it's going to be now.
the thought sends you rocketing upright in your bed, panting and sweating and shaking like a leaf. the soft glow of the moon through your sheer curtains is grounding- you're at home, you're in bed, you're safe. there's no crash, no fires, no mobs waiting on the ground to murder you on sight.
it's so much worse at night, so much more terrifying to see through someone else's eyes when you're unconscious and unaware of what's happening. at least now, awake, you can process the scene with a bit more detachment. you aren't the one in the helicopter, after all. you can still see and hear it all- everything is so loud, red lights illuminating the dark hold of the chopper, panicked face of the pilot looking back as the bird goes down. there are mere moments for a stranger's hands to grab the rope dangling nearby and swing to the safety of a nearby rooftop, crashing on hard concrete as the chopper crashed onto the street below. someone else lands bodily close by, and they're slow to get up. fire illuminates the streets below, around where the helo landed- but maybe that was there before the crash? it's hard to say.
after all, it's not like you're in charge of the movie playing in your brain.
slowly, you pad through your dark apartment, not bothering to turn on lights as the scene continues to unfold in your mind.
a gun in hand, scared office workers terrified of a threat just outside, a uniformed man with an ugly beard barking orders both at the workers and over his radio- but the vision is imperfect, faces of everyone but the soldier slightly blurred, their words slightly muddled, as if the whole scene was slightly underwater. in your experience, that means the memory is older- maybe a six or seven years, based on the clarity of some details.
kyle's home, you think to yourself as you pour yourself a glass, leaning against the counter as you sip, trying to regulate your breathing again. normally, you have some sort of warning that he's coming- his thoughts are so loud that you can usually detect him when he's at the end of the block- but tonight he got in too late for you to be aware of his arrival, too late to make plans with friends or a last-minute hotel reservation. it's jarring to have the circus of violence, gore, and morally reprehensible foreign policy to not only act as your alarm clock, but to continue to play out in your mind long after sleep has been shaken loose from you.
it's funny, in a way. you've been able to read people's thoughts ever since you were a little girl, but with everyone else you've ever met in your entire life, it's been manageable. sure, you've heard some fucked up shit that people dwell on in the privacy of their own minds, but for the most part people's thoughts aren't very interesting and just fade into the background like white noise made up of shopping lists, regrets, memories, wishes, and the songs people get stuck in their heads. but your neighbor, kyle? he's unlike any of the rest of them, the contents of his brain seemingly on a mental bullhorn of sorts, coming in more vivid and loud than anyone else you've ever met- which is why it's so awful that he happens to have the most violent job you've ever seen.
in your heart, you're convinced that if you actually met the man that he'd probably be lovely. according to his (loud, inescapable) memories, people really seem to like him. faces light up when he enters rooms, everyone laughs at his jokes and give him easy smiles, people of all genders flirt shamelessly. according to all of his memories that take places in pubs, back gardens, birthday parties, and brunch with loved ones, kyle (or 'gaz', as he's sometimes called) is a stand-up guy. a good son, brother, friend, and teammate. a charming young man with a nice smile and the right mixture of cocky and clever that wins over most everyone he meets- especially mums and grandfathers. they think he's a 'good guy', someone even-keeled, patient, and safe.
you know different.
late at night, his darker memories drift through your wall, robbing you of sleep, appetite, and concentration. bodies being chewed up by the bullets that kyle himself is firing at them. kyle shooting an empty pistol at a child with a pillowcase over his head, and being surprised at the lack of bullets. throwing live grenades and watching the bodies explode, only to march over and shoot the mangled and screaming survivors right in the temple. buildings collapsing under his feet, aircraft falling out of the sky, a man being shoved over a railing moments before the bomb strapped to his chest explodes. kyle's memories are a circus of death and violence, a spectacle of gore and war crimes.
he's a soldier, from what you've gathered. you've seen flashes of places made familiar from the news, of men in uniform clapping him on the shoulder and following him into battle, of meetings you shouldn't know about, of loading in and out of government planes and trucks. all of that interspersed between bodies being blown apart, slashed open, shot, broken, and crushed- all watched through unblinking eyes.
that's the worst part of it, you think. in all his memories, he never looks away from the carnage, never flinches from it. he just moves on, like a machine, his bullets chewing indiscriminately through bodies as he snakes through homes, villages, laboratories, and office buildings. you've seen the memories of him getting praised for it- and felt the pride of being called 'brutal' by his lieutenant,of his captain clapping him on the shoulder and praising him for the carnage he'd left in his wake.
his pride in it all makes you sick.
nothing has ever made you feel less patriotic than the knowledge that kyle thinks he's doing this to protect you and everyone else in this building. it makes you feel downright sick, frankly, to think that he believes that your mere existence in this country merits the violent deaths of all those people in his memories. if you weren't so terrified of the myriad of inventive ways you've seen him kill people, you'd probably call him a murdering wanker to his bloody face.
but you are. so you don't.
instead you currently content yourself to sip at your water, mentally mapping out where in your bathroom cabinet the sleeping pills are, trying to decide if you want to just sleep until the morning and try to find a hotel in the morning, or potentially just sleep through the whole next day instead. your neighbor's thoughts and memories are usually at their most horrible and vivid right after deployment, and prior experience has taught you to either conk out or stay away from home for the first few days after he returns.
god, you should really call your therapist. you'd only started seeing her out of desperation, when kyle's memories were starting to cause you to lose sleep, appetite, and your own will to live. every moment he's home is exquisite torture, and every moment he's away you're just anxiously awaiting the torture to start back up again- and now it has, in the middle of the night, waking you from an otherwise dreamless sleep.
in your sessions you'd been vague about certain details in order to keep from seeming outright delusional- instead opting instead to mention bad dreams, anxiety, and the way that you avoid being home when intrusive memories pop in. your therapist diagnosed you with ptsd on the spot, and you couldn't help the bitter laugh that burst out of you when she said the words. after all, if you're fucked up from all those memories that aren't even yours, how fucked up is the guy actually living them? sure, you're still broken up about witnessing a little boy with a bag over his head having a gun pointed at him- but what the fuck is wrong with the man who actually held the gun? who pulled the trigger and was surprised there were no bullets?
the gunfire and screaming in your mind fades as you head to the bathroom, as kyle's thoughts have turned to something else. he's staring at the phone in his hand, idly scrolling on messages, catching up on stuff he's missed. 'mum' has texted him 14 times over the three months he's been deployed, 'mummy' has texted him over 100 times. there's messages from his sisters, uni friends, and a bunch of flirty texts from unsaved numbers. he flips through those, actively seeking any nudes, not bothering to read the actual messages before he moves on, slowly chipping away at his number of unread messages until he reaches zero.
with any luck, he'll go out looking for someone to go home with tonight. he's horny and restless and looking for a distraction, that much is obvious, and it's only midnight on a friday. he could easily go to a club or something and find someone. he does that sometimes, and it's a beautiful respite for you, especially since he doesn't tend to think about his hookups too much after he's done with them. your eyes slide shut as you watch through his as he weighs his options, checking himself out in the bathroom mirror, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over his stubble as he tries to decide whether or not it's worth going out or just jerking off and going to sleep.
god, you should move. you really should. the problem is that the rent is cheap, the other neighbors are relatively quiet, and it's just a few minutes walk from the bus stop. kyle's presence is literally the only thing ruining it, and you almost feel bad about how much animosity you have towards a man who doesn't even know you're there. he thinks your apartment is vacant, because for the most part, when he's home, it is. you're either in a pill-induced sleep that's only technically not a coma, or earning the rest of your year's rent in marathon basement poker games that keep you occupied for days on end. you just keep on privately resenting him and loathing his career while he remains blissfully ignorant of the fact that you even exist.
it's not healthy, you know that, but a sick sort of hope does keep you hanging on to your lease- after all, his job is dangerous. you've seen it firsthand through his eyes. there's been plenty of close calls, tough scrapes, and life threatening injuries- surely one day he just won't come back from a mission? maybe one day he'll leave and get killed on an op, never to return and plague you with a replay of his various war crimes.
you dry swallow the sleeping pills as soon as kyle decides to stay in tonight, opting to watch a video his buddy 'soap' sent him- a home made porno of some poor girl choking down a hard, ruddy cock with tears clumping and streaking her mascara. the lighting is harsh, and you wince in sympathy as she squints into the too-bright light, clearly not expecting this amateur director to have his phone out. you already know it's soap based on his voice, the way the scottish brogue plays on his vowels as he brushes her tears from her cheek, telling her how bonnie she looks, what a good lass she is for him, to give a little wink for his mates. you don't know if the girl in the video knows this is being shared around their squad. you don't know if she gave permission. what you do know is that kyle never asked either, content to save it to his phone with his hand in his trousers, hand idly stroking himself as he watches the video.
kyle imagines himself with her, how much rougher he'd be, grabbing her pretty blonde hair by the root and forcing her down until she chokes on him, the way her throat would convulse around her cock, how she'd slap his thighs in a wordless plea for mercy. the way her eyes would go big and sad and almost accusing when he wouldn't let up- and then soften up into something more akin to pride when he praises her and tells her how good and sweet and special she is.
the face in his fantasy shifts to a new girl on her knees, a woman you know to be his ex based on the memories you've seen. her appearance makes him recall that he'd looked her up a few months ago and saw she was married- and he spits in his hand and strokes a little more vigorously at the thought of it, his imaginary self violently fucking her throat. soap's video is forgotten, phone discarded as the poor girl's face gets coated in cum and kyle opts to close his eyes in order to ruin his pretty, doe-eyed ex with imaginary punitive sex.
all you can do is watch as you stand in your bathroom, eyes staring into the drain and hands clenching the sides of the sink, praying to god or satan or whoever the fuck it is responsible for giving you this ability to take it back, take it all away, please make it stop. your bathroom is as silent as a tomb, but it's so, so loud in your head. you can hear everything- the imaginary ghlk ghlk ghlk of a poor girl whose only crime was loving kyle once, the refrain of 'take it, take it' both said in his fantasy and muttered out loud in his apartment, and the sound of wet skin-on-skin as he chases his orgasm with a vindictive snarl on his face. when he finally cums, he groans loud enough for you to hear through your shared wall, and it feels like hearing it in stereo as you also listen to it at full volume in your mind.
i need to catch up on hotd bad but it looks like barry's character is a member of the kingsguard/queensguard which are knights sworn to the royal family but forbidden from owning land, marrying, or siring children and highly forbidden dishonorable tryst seems like exactly something that might be up price's alley
He’s tasked with keeping track of a lesser princess (or highborn lady) and she keeps trying to give him the slip because she wants to mess around with some of the other highborn boys (she’s been sheltered her whole life and wants to spread her wings and have sex and go on adventures and so much more before she’s bound by the shackles of marriage) but that stupid horrible knight that her father assigned to her won’t leave her alone.
And she actually loses it at one point, screams at him that she’s not a child anymore and she’ll be married off soon enough anyway so why not let her live a little before then - she’ll still be a virgin on her wedding night. And he gets really, uncomfortably close to her in the damp, decrepit staircase they’re in, and tells her that if she can’t refrain from compromising herself and her virtue because of this insatiable appetite of hers, then he’ll be the one to keep it satisfied until her father finds a suitable match for her.
And even if she stomps her feet and protests, he now considers it part of his duties to push her over the edge of her bed when he catches her trying to sneak off, and finger her sopping wet cunt until she cums all over his fingers. She can’t very well go running after boys when her legs are still shaking after all.
