#past mcd

[hawkeykirsah]

Said I was planning on letters from all three 141 operators, so here's Gaz's because grief has been on my mind a lot lately, I guess.

[screamlet]

new fic: it's you, again

so this isn't NEW new, but it's de-anoned from @weewookinkmeme (link on dreamwidth) (as a fandom, let's get on that, please!!!)

bucktommy; 2k; explicit; complete

Tags: sci-fi au; future fic; clone sex; rough sex; age difference; past MCD

Notes:

For the prompt: Tommy is a rich older businessman whose husband died. He goes to some hand-wavey service to have one last night with his husband - so they recreate his younger body but can’t do the same with his personality. Cue a born yesterday, horny Buck who just wants to make his client/tommy happy. (link)

Summary:

Tommy Kinard, widower and multimillionaire, buys one more night with his husband. His dead husband. His dead husband's clone.

Excerpt:

Tonight Evan is 25 and Tommy knows from his own Evan that at this stage in life, he's never known clothes so fine, a room this rich and luxurious, or a man looking at him like he owns him, wants to devour him. Does own him. Will devour him.

[samstree]

Inspired by this tweet. Minor book canon spoiler.

The moon is cold.

For a place as warm as Toussaint, the light that pours through the window is especially chilling. It glimmers on silver hair, on the sharp jawline under callused fingertips.

In the cold moonlight, Jaskier watches Geralt sleep.

He sleeps deeply and peacefully, a treat that is becoming more often since their retirement to the vineyard. It’s good that he’s sleeping, Jaskier tells himself. Rest never comes easy for a witcher, but somehow, Geralt has found it in this little corner of the world, where the days are gentle and the nights are mild.

It’s good, the sight of Geralt sleeping.

And yet, Jaskier is afraid.

He’s afraid to watch Geralt sleep these days.

The silvery light coats Geralt in an aura, making him look out of this world. It’s just as cold as the moon, his complexion, all traces of his faint blush washed away. At night, his pale skin always seems paler, all warmth drained empty, a stark contrast to the dark blood at his lips—

No, there’s no blood.

Not anymore.

Jaskier presses his fingers to Geralt’s cheeks, finding warm skin and the usual day-old stubble. His hand comes away clean. No blood.

Of course. Geralt is here, alive and well. They’ve just spent a whole evening lazing in bed, reading side by side by the candlelight. Jaskier watched Geralt drift off, watched the soft rise and fall of his chest even out. A witcher’s breathing is so slow asleep that the human eyes cannot detect it, so Jaskier rests his palm right over Geralt’s sternum.

He waits.

The two seconds before the next inhale seems like an eternity, but it comes at last, the minute movement a soothing balm to his nerves.

Jaskier lets out a sigh.

Still, he checks one more time, and then another. Geralt’s hand is pliant and warm against his side, the skin at his wrist particularly sensitive. Jaskier only rubs a thumb against it a little before moving on. There’s warmth everywhere he touches. There’s life and softness, and everything he misses before waking up every morning.

Geralt promised he’d be here, so Jaskier believes it. He trusts Geralt to be here, but then, why are his eyes pricking?

He checks one last time, just to be sure. Jaskier feels for the witcher’s languid pulse on his neck, keeping his touch gentle. He waits, trying to find it.

But he can’t find it.

No.

A tear falls, hitting the pillow. Jaskier’s hands are growing cold, shaking with fear. It must be him then—with his fingers stiff and his mind muddled. He burrows into Geralt’s side, where the witcher lies still, so still it’s like he’s already dead. Jaskier searches for all the warmth left in the world, his hand landing on the gaping wound—

No, there’s no wound either.

He knows he’s being silly.

Another tear falls, and Jaskier curses himself for being so scared by his memories. It’s only the night. Geralt isn’t going anywhere. He isn’t, Jaskier repeats to himself. He isn’t leaving…

And then, bleary eyes meet Jaskier in the dark.

Oh.

He’s woken Geralt up again.

The moon isn’t enough for Jaskier to see the beautiful amber color, but he’s long learned Geralt’s every look by heart. Those brows must be pinched with both worry and understanding.

Arms pull Jaskier into the tightest hug as if their bodies are melding into one. The trembles cease a little when a much rougher hand guides Jaskier’s palm towards the steady beat of a witcher’s heart.

Tu-tum. Tu-tum. Tu-tum…

One to a human’s four.

Soft lips catch the tears eventually, a silent apology.

Jaskier lets himself be surrounded by the clean scent of soap and evergreen, his nose buried in a mop of long, silver hair. There’s no blood in the air. It was lost in history too long ago.

Jaskier falls into a fitful sleep with the most beautiful rhythm under his fingertips. His hand is kept there under Geralt’s gentle hold through the night, so he wakes to it as well.

[gii-heylittleangel]

dream a little dream of me | Nico di Angelo & Jason Grace | 673 words | hurt/comfort & dreams & light angst & past MCD

Demigods' dreams usually make you see what you don't want to see. Still, sometimes, they allow to see someone you miss.

Read it on AO3 or keep reading here.

*

It’s the same place as always. It has been over a year, maybe two, and Nico keeps dreaming about this place; keeps remembering what it felt like to have his heart ripped out of his chest and exposed to Cupid. To have the words pulled out of his throat when he didn’t want them to ever come out. He still remembers the pain in his body as Cupid forced him to confess his feelings, how Nico felt as if he had no choice in the matter because he had to do it; he had to save the world. He had to save Percy.

And he doesn’t regret it for a second. Not anymore anyway. 

But the memory of this place, the hatred he has for this place hasn’t gotten better over time. Not regretting it doesn’t mean he likes to relive this memory. It doesn’t mean he wants to go through it again and again and again. And so he turns, ready to force his mind to go somewhere else, force his dream to change to something Nico wants to see, when he senses it. 

There’s someone else with him, someone who shouldn’t be there; someone Nico doesn’t know how got into his dream. Still, curious enough, Nico searches for them, stares at the empty city and the ruins, looking for the presence, trying to feel it once again. 

To his left, the air seems to shimmer a few feet from him, bending in on itself, turning darker and darker until a human silhouette marks the space, clearing until Nico can finally see and recognize the person. But it can’t be true. It can’t be him because… Because Nico doesn’t trust his own mind, not when it has been doing everything it can to mess with him, digging up his worst nightmares to throw at him, coming up with terrible scenarios to panic him, to make him doubt his own sanity.

Still, he can’t stop himself from asking, a twinge of hope in his heart, “Are you real? Or is this just my head messing with me?” 

Jason smiles in a comforting way, the same smile he’d give Nico the first few weeks after their quest for Cupid. “Well, I could be mean and let you think it’s in your head, but I’m a nice guy. I am actually here, Nico. I guess your father doesn’t hate me too much, so he let me come talk to you for a few minutes.”

Nico stammers, not believing his own eyes, giving small steps towards Jason. “B-but why? Why come here, why come to see me when you could see anyone else?”

Jason’s smile saddens and he walks towards Nico until he’s able to put a hand on his shoulder. It feels heavy, warm, real. “Because I actually miss you, can you believe it? And… I hadn’t seen you in so long before…” Jason doesn’t finish the sentence but the ending is clear: before I died. 

Nico’s eyes well up with tears, his heart squeezing painfully. “Jason, I’m so sorry. If I had known—”

“Stop. This is not your fault. This wasn’t anyone’s fault. I made my choices, Nico, and you have to respect that.”

Nico lowers his eyes to the ground, sniffling. “I hate it when you’re all righteous and Roman.”

Jason chuckles, pulling Nico into a hug. “I have my moments.”

Nico doesn’t even care about touching someone else; he’s missed Jason so much and he doesn’t know if he’ll get a chance of seeing him again—knowing him the way he does, Nico’s sure Jason will choose reborn soon.

After letting him go, Jason gives Nico one last smile, his form starting to shimmer and disappear. Nico’s heart tightens and he wants to keep Jason there, stop him from going away, but he knows he can’t; he has learned that lesson in the most painful way.

“I hope I don’t see you again too soon, Nico. And remember,” Jason’s voice starts to get muffled and far away, “Be happy; you deserve it.”

[hawkeykirsah]

A day late but I still wanted to do a little something for @forsaire's celebration of John MacTavish. Was planning on letters from all three remaining 141 operators but for now just have Ghost's.

And my own:

Dear John MacTavish,

if anyone had told me three years ago that one of my favorite characters from 2023 onward was going to be a Call of Duty character, I probably would have laughed in their face. But, here we are.

All it took was a large number of my mutuals suddenly sharing CoD fan art and me feeling more intrigued with every piece until I sat down and watched a playthrough. And, bam, pretty much the moment you were on screen my brain went "That one", and that hasn't changed.

So, thank you for being an inspiration for the enormous amount of fanfic to read and all the amazing fan art and fan edits out there. And, of course, also for me to write.

You might be gone in canon but never forgotten. You live on in our hearts, our stories; in mine certainly.

—Kittyhawk

[hawkeykirsah]

Happy Vernal Equinox, I've finished it, my Guardian Angel Soap Ghoap Tea Shop AU. Enjoy!

You'll Never Walk Alone

Pairing: John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley Fandom: Call of Duty Rating: Mature Words: ~8k Tags: Past Major Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Supernatural Elements, Mild Suicidal Ideation, Retired Simon Riley, Mentioned Character Death, Aging, Implied Timeloop, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Hopeful Ending, Canon Compliant, Post-MW3 Summary:

Simon wasn't sure when it started. His nan had always told them that there were spirits—some to protect people, some intending to harm them. Young Simon had been very skeptical. He believed in spirits and ghosts and guardian angels about as much as he believed in Father Christmas or the Easter Bunny—which was to say not at all. They never came round his flat, after all. Gifts were few and far between, mainly on birthdays, though his mum tried to celebrate Christmas. But spirits or ghosts? Figments of imagination, if you asked him. Tommy had always been the more susceptible one when it came to these things, at least when they were young. Astounding how things could change.

[hawkeykirsah]

WIP Wednesday, Snippet 2

And here's the second WIP Wednesday snip! A canon-compliant post MW-3 Soapghost fic snippet with supernatural elements or maybe it's all just in Simon's head, so there is mention of MCD.

Months slipped by and it happened again and again, always on missions. Sometimes it was just a hunch to duck before an opponent could get a hit in, sometimes a bone-deep feeling that something was wrong and they needed to abort the mission. And sometimes—sometimes—Simon heard him. Just whispers ringing loudly in his skull but he would be lying if he said he didn't cherish those brief seconds, these illusions that Johnny was there with him. # "Remember tha' tea shop you talked about openin' after?" the disembodied voice said; Johnny's voice, so close, almost as though it was being whispered into his ear. Simon's eyes snapped open. The voice never said that much, never more than a word of caution here or there, and he had never heard it here, back safely at Stirling Lines. But now,here it was, bringing up the tea shop he'd mentioned to Johnny once when they quietly talked about what they would do if they ever left the service. He hadn't thought of the tea shop since—well. “I think ye should go ahead and do tha’.” "Fuck," Simon whispered into the empty room, angrily scrubbing his hands over his face, palms digging into his eye sockets to wipe away tears, the phantom voice still echoing in his mind. "Do you have any idea how fuckin' much I miss you?" There was no answer, of course, but— Maybe it was his imagination but he felt the ghost of a touch, there and gone again. Maybe he was slowly losing his mind. Maybe he should talk about this with someone. He drew a shuddering breath and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. For a moment he sat on the edge of his bed, staring into his dimly lit room. As expected he was alone, no strange shadows in the corners, no incorporeal shape hovering a foot off the ground. Just moonlight filtering in through the cracks of his blinds.

[triggerlil]

Love in 130 Ways Day 20: GHOST (Andromeda/Theodora)

Tags: past-MCD, grief, dealing with grief, post-war, genderbent!Ted Tonks

I'm doing a drabble challenge where I write one femslash drabble every day for 130 days. Check it out on AO3: here!

~~~

Before I even knew it was happening, you started slipping through my fingers. First, it was your voice, the way you sang in the shower and said my name. The you I’d tried so hard to memorize faded into an intangible mess. I fell asleep every night holding your pillow, and then each piece of clothing you’d left behind until your scent had vanished. Pieces of you were slowly distinguished—your high-pitched laugh, the perfect way our hands interlaced, the feeling of your heartbeat against my cheek—I’m left with glimpses of your ghost, caught unawares, dancing down our front hallway.