Idk If You Do Requests Or Suggestions N Stuff Like That, So Feel Free To Ignore This, But How Do You

that 141 x reader you just did was so good! i need to know what happens next. like after reader is better, do they stay in the military? stay in 141? or do they take a discharge? I’m not the original ask but it was just so good.

love your writing btw!

thank you! here’s part two :)

part one here / part three here

you were beginning to hate the infirmary.

the white walls. the moans of pain. the smell of bleach and blood.

the reminder of why you were here. of who put you here.

your friends. your family. your team. john. johnny. kyle. simon.

you’d told the doctor to not let your teammates in, and she had tried, but there was only so much she could do. she couldn’t monitor the door all the time, and so a week after waking up from your coma, john price is sitting at your beside once again.

his hands are clasped together, knuckles white with the intensity of his grip. he’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the bed, hands under his chin. his position conveys his regret and worry. he looks like he should be in church, knelt between the pews and spewing silent prayers to a god that isn’t listening.

you haven’t spoken to him since he sat down ten minutes ago. the second you saw him step inside the infirmary, you knew he was there for you. there to try and speak to you, to apologize.

fuck him and his apologies.

you turned your head to the side, eyes staring at the white curtain separating your bed from the next. you studied the stitching while you listened to him breathe next to you. he hadn’t spoken either— just sat down and watched you.

it made your skin crawl, how he thought this was okay. how he thought this would be the way to get back into your good graces.

he clears his throat then, a sound you’ve heard a million times before. it makes you want to gag now.

“love,” his voice is soft, caring. you want to hit him in the jaw.

“can we talk? please?”

you don’t turn over, don’t even spare him a glance. you keep your gaze trained on the curtain. the only giveaway that he has your attention is the fists you clench at your sides.

he takes the silence as an invitation, that bastard.

“what happened—” he begins, then grunts. stops. takes a second, then begins again.

“what we did,” he says, and you roll your eyes. “it wasn’t right. the intel was from a trusted source. we—” he sighs then, and you can tell he’s rubbing his temple. he did that when he was stressed. when he was anxious.

“we were wrong to believe them over you, love. and im— im sorry.”

silence ensues. you don’t give him any indication that you’ve heard what he said. he sighs again, inhaling deeply.

“you’re still part of this team. johnny and gaz, they’ve been sitting outside this damn room like sentries. can barely pry ‘em away for drills.” he chuckles then, but it’s sad. pitiful. mournful.

“there’s nothing we can do to make this right,” he tells you. you’re still mulling over what he said about johnny and gaz. still hung up on the fact that he didn’t mention simon at all.

simon, who did the most damage to you, both psychologically and physically. simon, who shared your bed. simon.

simon, who is too much of a coward to face you for his crimes.

“but we want to try,” price is speaking again. “if you’ll let us.”

he stops talking. waits a beat, then two. then, you hear his chair scrape. he’s getting up, and that’s when you turn your head to face him.

he looks bad. bags under the eyes, skin pale, beard overgrown. you think he deserves this. deserves worse than this. his eyes meet yours, and they widen the tiniest bit at the attention you’re showing him.

your voice is full of venom as you speak.

“nothing,” you seethe, angry tears blurring your vision. “will ever undo what you did to me. what he did to me.”

price knows you’re talking about simon. the whole team knew you were a thing. hell, when they’d strapped you to that chair and debated who would ‘interrogate’ you, they hadn’t even thought to include simon. why would he want to torture the person he loved?

to their surprise, he had volunteered to take point.

“when i get out of this bed,” you continue. “im gone. and i never, never, want to see any of you again, or else im putting a fucking bullet between your eyes.”

the captain doesn’t speak. you can see the remorse on his face. you couldn’t care less about his feelings.

he gives a short nod, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room.

after john’s visit, no one else tries to visit you. you no longer catch glimpses of kyle or johnny outside the infirmary door. you’re glad they’re starting to get the hint.

but you’re still getting flowers. you don’t know where they’re coming from. sometimes they’re dropped off by a nurse, other times they appear in the morning after a restless sleep. there’s never a note. never anything to suggest who would be leaving them.

you know it’s one of the 141, but you don’t know exactly who. you feel certain it’s not simon.

but, unbeknownst to you, it is him. he knows you don’t want to see him— to see any of them. price had told them all about what you’d said to him during your talk.

price had also told them that he’d already started preparing your transfer papers. that had caused an uproar from soap, who’d quickly been quieted by a saddened price.

simon had expected it. expected worse, actually. he knew that if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have been as merciful as you. it made him hate what they’d done to you so much more.

there had been the tiniest doubt in his mind when all the evidence pointed to you. he hadn’t believed it at first— and then things became damning. everything pointed to you. trusted sources were pointing their fingers at you, and everyone listened. he had listened.

he had volunteered to torture you because he’d been angry. rage he hadn’t felt in years bubbled to the surface of his skin, and he wanted to tear you limb from limb. how dare you come into their lives— his life— and betray them so substantially?

simon didn’t trust easily. he was battered and broken and scarred. shattered and malformed pieces hastily glued back together. he let the team in. let you in. let you see his face. let you into his bed. let you into his fucking heart.

and you turned around and drove a dagger into him. or so he thought.

he thought his anger and actions had been justified. thought he was doing the world a favor by butchering you. but he was wrong. the team was wrong.

he finds himself regretting how he hadn’t listened to your pleas, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

he knows the chances of you forgiving him, of letting him back into your life, are slim to none. but how could he not at least try?

you’d know each other for years. been together for years. all of it thrown away because he still knew the hurt of betrayal all too well. because it was too easy to fall back into the mindset that it was him against everyone. that the only person he knew, the only one he could rely on, was himself.

so he left flowers. your favorite ones. and he did so without making you face him, without apologizing or groveling. it was the least he owed you.

a month after your coma, you were finally allowed out of the infirmary. you were still healing, skin still tender and bruised. pink, jagged scars lining your skin; eternal reminders of the pain you’d been subjected to.

you’d been given a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, which you’d pulled on with much fuss. every time you struggled or stumbled, you found yourself getting angry. angry at the men who did this to you.

the anger was going to eat you alive, at least that’s what the psychologist that had been dropping by to see you had said. she’d told you you need to let it go, and you’d laughed in her face.

how do you let something like this go?

you didn’t know. you didn’t think you were strong enough to do that. not a good enough person to forgive the men that had carved into you.

once you had dressed, you shuffled out into the hallway. you’d profusely denied an escort, and the doctor had reluctantly acquiesced. she’d let you go, with just the promise that you’d keep your iv hooked in.

so here you were, trudging down the halls of the base, iv pole rattling along behind you.

you could feel eyes on you, but no one dared to get too close. you were glad. you didn’t want more empty apologies and sympathetic words.

you still remembered the way to price’s office like the back of your hand. you doubted you’d ever forget it.

time and time again you’d found yourself here. sometimes, getting reprimanded. others, congratulated. a few times you’d shown up in tears, and price had let you in without a word.

now you were standing outside his door, trying to contain the rage in your veins.

you raised a hand. knocked once, firm and loud.

“come in!” price called from inside.

you were already twisting the door knob, pushing into the room.

your eyes found price first. he was leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. his hat was absent from his head, instead resting beside him on the desk.

and then you noticed simon.

he was wearing all black. his hands were covered, bones decorating the black gloves. gloves you’d seen many times before. gloves that had been pressed to gunshots, trying to stop the bleeding.

the lower half of his face was covered, allowing you to see from his eyes up. his sandy blonde hair was ruffled.

you quickly turned your attention back to price.

“love, what are you doin’ here? you should be in bed—” he began, but you waved a hand as you stepped further into the room. you pulled your iv pole in behind you, then kicked the door shut.

“don’t talk, just listen. i still mean what i said when you came to visit. the only reason im here right now is because you haven’t put in for my fucking transfer.” you hissed.

the captain’s eyes widened, his face taking on a sheepish expression at the revelation that he’d been caught. simon stood quietly beside him, eyes trained on you. you ignored him.

“love, i didn’t want to do anything before you were ready—” he began. you cut him off.

“bullshit! you didn’t want to do anything because you don’t want me to leave. you want me to forgive you, right? hear you all out? come back and be a happy little family again?”

the room fell eerily silent as you stared at the captain. your heart was roaring in your ears.

“put in the fucking transfer, john.” you finished.

he reluctantly nodded. he inhaled, his eyes glancing at his lieutenant briefly, before he spoke again.

“of course, love. ‘m sorry.”

you didn’t say anything else. you turned to go, your back to the men, when simon’s voice cut through the air.

“you should be respectful to your captain, sergeant.”

you froze as you took in his words. was he fucking serious?

you didn’t turn around. you trained your eyes on the door as you spoke words through gritted teeth.

“you should watch your tongue, lieutenant, before I fucking cut it off.”

with that, you pulled open the door and stepped into the hallway, slamming it loudly behind you.

author’s note:

apologies for the wait! I hope everyone enjoyed! (this is being posted before proofreading, so I hope it’s okay— I’ll read through it later, it’s just late and im tired lol)

Alive / Part lll

Word count: 486

The next few weeks went by agonisingly slow. While the others were training, Soap had to stay in bed. Even if he were allowed to get out, he couldn't. The damage done to his brain impacted his balance, coordination and speech. He already dreaded the months, maybe even years of physical therapy needed.

The only good thing in this whole shit show was Ghost. He came every day around 1700 (5pm for the Americans). Soap tried to hide his excitement when he heard the heavy footsteps approach his door, but it worked poorly. He told himself it was just because he was glad about any distraction, even though his heart didn't beat so fast that the machine started beeping every time Gaz or Price came over.

The conversations with Ghost were nice. Other than the first time when he woke up, the lieutenant wasn't weirdly nervous. Since Soap didn't have much to tell other than that his nurse painted her nails blue, Ghost was usually the one to talk. He told him about training, mostly. How Gaz managed to land face first while fast roping, or how Price was heard screeching like an eagle when a mouse wormed its way into his rucksack. (He still denies it, claiming it was a bird). They talked about the most mundane and sometimes, quite frankly, most boring things. How yesterday in chow hall, they had chilli con carne but without chilli and without carne. But Soap is thankful for every minute he gets to spend with Ghost. Even if they run out of things to talk about, it is a comfortable silence. Ghost brings Soap books, and since his eyes and head start hurting after a while, he reads them to him. If only Soap could focus on the actual story and not how Ghosts lips move behind the mask, how his deep voice grows calm and soothing. He wished he could raise his hand and cup Ghosts jaw, gently tracing his bottom lip.

"Johnny? Y' listening?", Ghosts eyes looked up at him, deep brown, like the leaves on a chestnut tree in autumn. He was getting distracted again. "Er, ya, m' 'ere, lt", he stuttered. Ghost sighed. "Y' should sleep a bit." He looked at his watch. "''t's 1900 already (7pm). Don't wanna strain that fragile lil head 'f yours.", he grinned under the mask. Soap rolled his eyes playfully. "Ugh, fuck you, Ghost" "Later." He got up and placed the book (Ballad of songbirds and snakes) on the nightstand. "Y' need anything else?". Those damn eyes looked at him again. Soap wished he could live in them. "M' fine. See you 'morrow?" Ghost nodded, winking before closing the door behind him.

Soap sank back in the pillows with a groan. "Bithidh an bastard sin 'n a bhàs dhomh-sa". (That bastard is gonna be the death of me)

He couldn't wait to wait to see him again tomorrow.

Why. Why must you do this to me?

no but I've been thinking about Soap with temporary Prosopagnosia (face blindness) after his injury

---

Price had put Soap on medical leave after he got out of the hospital, his only responsibility being rest and recovery. Of course Ghost took time off to be with him as well. He didn't even need to ask either, Price just did the paperwork for the both of them at the same time.

Some days were better than others. Sometimes Soap had trouble remembering words or doing delicate tasks with his fingers. Ghost always waited patiently for him to work it out, only helping when Soap asked him too.

For the past hour, Soap had been lying in their bed, his lighthearted laughs filing their flat as he watched something on his phone. Ghost was sitting in the other room and reading a file Price had sent over, informing him on their continued investigation to find Makarov.

Ghost heard a particularly loud laugh before the box spring squeaked lightly, the sounds of Soap shuffling off the bed following soon after. He heard footsteps begin to approach him and he glanced over.

"Ghost!" Soap said cheerfully as he looked down at his phone. "You have to see this funny cat vid-"

Soap abruptly stopped speaking as he looked up, the words getting caught in his throat. The wide smile that always spread across his face with enough brightness to light up Ghost's entire world suddenly fell, swiping down in one smooth motion. His eyes widened slightly, almost as if in shock, and his mouth dropped open a sliver. His eyes locked onto Ghost's face, but there was no warmth to be found.

It was fear.

"Who are you?" Soap choked out, taking an apprehensive step backwards.

Ghost was immediately on his feet, the look on Soap's face shattering his heart. He raised his hands out in front of himself and curled his shoulders in, trying to make himself look less intimating.

"Johnny... it's me..." Ghost said slowly, the words coming out calmly despite the rising worry in his chest. "It's Simon."

Soap tilted his head as a deep furrow scrunched up his brow. His eyes jumped back and forth across Ghost's face, refusing to focus on one thing.

"What..." he let slip from his lips, breathless and confused. "I... I don't..." He squinted slightly. "...Simon?"

"Yeah, it's me," he said quietly, taking a careful step forward. Thankfully, Soap stayed where he was and he let Ghost approach him, although he still looked unsure, small.

Ghost gently took Soap's hand and placed it up against his face. At the same time, he wrapped his arm around Soap's waist and pulled them closer together. Once their bodies were pressed up against one another, Soap let out a shuddering sigh and he dug his face into Ghost's neck.

"I..." Soap started hesitantly, holding Ghost back tightly. "I don't recognize you..."

His usual confidence was gone, the words coming out weakly, almost broken in shame.

"But you recognize my voice?" he asked.

Soap nodded in silence.

"Okay..." Ghost said quietly, letting his fingers trace up and down Soap's spine. "Just close your eyes then. Listen to me speak."

Soap closed his eyes.

"I got you," Ghost murmured soothingly. He wanted nothing more than for his imperfect words to reach Soap and rid him of his fears. He wanted Soap to feel safe. "It's me. Just listen to my voice, love. Everything's going to be okay. I won't let go. I love you, Johnny."

“tumblr mutual” beloved friend I would pick up at the airport if y’all visited my home city

Fluff and theft

Note: This is my first try at writing x reader, so I apologize if it is a bit cringe or weird, I‘m still learning. I also have never played the games, so I don’t have a perfect view on their personalities, but I‘ve tried to get it as accurate as possible. Word count: 619

Prompt: "Is that my shirt you're wearing?" Gender neutral reader; platonic, can be read as a bit more.

Ghost:

It wasn't your fault, really. You fell into the mud on the obstacle course, and well, that was your last clean shirt. Conveniently there was one of Ghosts giant shirts laying around in the laundry room. It was so comfy, but you could use it as a dress. Where it looked tight on him, it completely engulfed your body.

"Is that my shirt you're wearing?", a deep voice sounded behind you as walked in the common room. "No....", you mumbled. Ghost chuckled. "I give you a ten seconds head start", he said. Shit.

You ran. But it was no use, of course. Ghost was way faster than you. When he caught up to you, he quickly put you in a head lock. You couldn’t move, but you could feel he was still being gentle. „I need my shirts, (name), you know?“, he grumbled. You snickered. „Yea, and so do I“ You knew he was frowning, even if you couldn’t see it. „I‘ll get it back tomorrow. Washed. Otherwise, you’ll be doing at least ten laps around base“, he said.

„Yes sir“

Gaz:

His shirt just looked so inviting, it really wasn't your fault. When he forgets his shirt in the laundry room, oh well, he has to expect it to be stolen.

"Is that my shirt you're wearing?", an amused voice sounded from the kitchen when you walked in the common room. "Maybe", you said. Gaz chuckled and rolled his eyes. „Are you planning to steal my wardrobe?“, he asked. You looked at the shirt, which had a big „Garrick“ written on the front. „Noooo, you know I‘d never do that“. Gaz snorted. „Oh, I know you would, (name)“. You looked at him with played offence. He just shrugged. „We’re team mates, I know you a bit at this point“. You flipped him off and tugged at the shirt. „Just so you know, this is mine now“, you stated, walking out the common room. „Oh no no no, no it isn’t“, you could hear Gaz and started running. „Catch me if you can, pretty boy!“, you shouted.

Soap:

Mixed up laundry, it happens. It wasn’t your fault, now you had a big shirt in your basket, which clearly wasn’t yours. Not that that’d stop you.

"Is that my shirt you're wearing?", Soap chuckled when you walked into the common room. „Yup. It was in my laundry basket“, you said, opening the cup board. „Is that so?“, he grinned, looking you up and down. The shirt was way too big for you, not that you minded. It was comfy. „Not that you’re not looking good in it, but I kinda need that shirt“, he said. You shrugged. „You can have one of mine“. He laughed. „I highly doubt that’d work. You’re way smaller than me, shorty“. „Oh well“, you said, „then you’ll have to get a new one issued“. He rolled his eyes and got up from the couch, stepping behind you. „I‘ll get it back tomorrow“, he said. „Maybe“.

Price:

It wasn’t your fault Price left his shirt in the locker room. He should care more about his stuff.

You walked in the common room, Price sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen. He looked at you slightly confused. "Is that my shirt you're wearing?" „Yup. You left it in the locker room“. You looked down at the shirt. „Comfy. Mine now“, you stated. He chuckled. „I don’t think so, soldier. I need that back“. You gave him puppy eye „But it’s comfy“. He rolled his eyes. „I‘m not gonna get that shirt back, am I?“. You giggled. „One day“. He shook his head. „One day I won’t have anything to wear“. You smirked. „I won’t complain“

Alive / Part I

Word count: 244 Simon firmly believed that regret was one of the most painful things someone could experience. It set his body ablaze, burned through his skin and into his bones.

The few seconds it took to run over Soaps limp, unconscious body, all of the things he wanted to say flung through his head like shrapnel from a bomb, boring their sharp edges into his mind.

He knelt down next to him, shaking hands desperately trying to find a pulse. There was none.

„I‘m sorry, Johnny. I‘m so sorry.“, his voice strained with shock and despair. „I love you. I need you. Please don‘t die, please.“ The black fabric of his mask was wet with tears.

Through the painful ringing in his ears, he could hear Price order a medevac over comms.

He held him in his arms until evac arrived. Softly cradling his head, silently praying for those storm blue eyes to open again.

His fingers rested on his pulse the entire time, trying to conjure up a faint rhythm, even though he knew that it would not come.

His forehead rested against Soap‘s, nobody daring to pull him away. Suddenly, there was something. A weak, light throb under his gloved fingertip. His head jerked up, eyes wide with a mixture between hope and despair.

Hastily, he pulled the glove off his hand, pressing his finger into Soap‘s neck. There it was again. A pulse. Weak and unsteady, but it was there.

Johnny was alive.

ghost is a large man—anyone who sees him could very clearly and obviously come to that conclusion. soap isn’t a small man himself, by any means, but he is next to the lieutenant, because ghost is just big. imposing. powerful.

so it’s a different kind of miserable feeling the first time soap has ever seen ghost look so small.

it’s at a safe house, in the dead of night. they’re meant to be waiting around until exfil the next morning, after a mission gone terribly wrong and too many good men incidentally killed under ghost’s command.

the others were all asleep—ghost had said he’d keep watch to let them all get some needed shuteye. but somewhere in the wee hours, soap had woken up, feeling restless.

that’s when he finds ghost—curled up and crowded as far back as possible against the wall just outside the front door. his breathing is uneven and his gaze is blank, dead—and hunched in on himself, it hardly seems to be ghost himself at all.

silently, soap slides to the ground beside him, close, but not close enough to touch. and in a soft whisper soap just… starts to talk. about anything.

eventually, ghost’s breathing steadies. his trembling hands uncurl from fists, though he doesn’t really look any less small. though, his apparent exhaustion is certainly an improvement from his spiralling. soap keeps talking until ghost’s eyelids flutter shut, until maybe soap is seeing the crack of dawn on the horizon.

the image of ghost trying to make himself seemingly invisible had something heavy and unpleasant sink to the pit of soap’s stomach. and he knows then, and easily, that he’s going to make sure ghost never feels like this ever again.

REBLOG IF YOU HAVE STRETCHMARKS

This way people can see they’re not alone. I have them and this would help me see that.

Nightmares / Part I

Note: I made this two parts since I really wanted to post this but couldn't find the energy to write for the others tonight. Tomorrow you'll get Price, Rudi and Soap tho (I used alphabetical order, that's why they're last). Trope: Fluff, angst, hurt comfort Word count: 1.303 Trigger warning: Mention of torture

Alejandro: Alejandro was no stranger to sleepless nights. It took an eternity for him to fall asleep, worries and sorrows keeping him awake. When he did finally fall asleep, the nightmares came. He'd stand in the town square of Las Almas, having to watch as his family, friends and comrades were put against a wall. He couldn't run or scream, just stand there. When he suddenly stared in the barrel of a gun he finally woke up, shirt wet with sweat, the rooms silence filled by his heavy breaths. "Joder (Fuck)", he mumbled, getting up and putting on a new shirt. It was 0200 (2 am). He decided to get a tea. As he stepped in the community room he was surprised to see the lights on, you standing in pyjamas in front of the boiling kettle, a mug in your hand. "(Name)? What are you doing in the kitchen an two in the morning, tesoro?" You turned around, grinning but tired. "I could ask you the same, Ale" He sighed and grabbed a mug and tea bag (Spanish orange) "Can't sleep. You?" "Same. Do you... Wanna talk about it?", he shook his head. "Not right now, I think.... Just need to think about something else" You shrugged. "Understandable" You two sat down on the couch, sitting in silence, drinking the tea, each lost in their own thoughts. "Would you rather fight one hundred duck sized horses or one horse sized duck?", you suddenly asked. He looked at you like you had grown two horns. "Ehhh, madre mia, the horses, I think?", he answered. "Me too. Even though it would depend on the horse" He chuckled. "Are you trying to distract me?" You grinned "Is it working?" He rolled his eyes "A bit". You leaned you head on his shoulder, and after a moment he put his head on yours. "Good" You continued to banter about random nonsense until, finally, fatigue overcame you and you finally fell asleep. It was the best sleep either of you had gotten in a while.

Gaz: Falling asleep wasn't the problem. But as soon as Gaz drifted off into dream land, he was haunted. Faces of fallen comrades screamed at him for not saving them, the screams of agony of their last moments, the pleas of enemies he tortured filled his mind. With a muffled yelp he shot up in his bed, chest heaving. "Fuck", he muttered, getting up and pacing up and down in his room. His heart was beating like a racehorse. He grabbed his gym bag and decided to head to the training rooms. He was surprised to see the lights on, the thudding of fists hitting the punching bag filling the room. "Not bad, (name)", he stepped closer, looking at you. You sighed. "Can't sleep either?", you asked. He nodded. "Yea. Damn nightmares", he punched the bag, making it swing violently. You stepped back, sitting down on the mat and leaning against the wall. "Wanna talk about it?". He thought for a moment before turning his attention back on the bag. You thought he'd just ignore you and stay quiet, but as he started punching the bag, he muttered under his breath. "I couldn't save them. I killed them" His punches got harder and more aggressive. "It's my fault. It's my fault". You weren't sure who he was talking about, but it didn't quite matter right now. "Hey, hey, Gaz", you tried to calm him down. "Cmere", you patted the mat next to you. He seemed to contemplate for a moment, but then finally sat down next to you. A shuddered breath escaped him as he slumped in on himself. You opened your mouth, but quite honestly you weren't sure what to say. So you just sat in silence, but it wasn't an awkward feeling. It felt... Safe. Suddenly, you felt his head on your shoulder, and smiled, leaning yours against his.

Ghost: For Ghost, a good nights sleep was as common as a unicorn. Everytime he closed his eyes, he was there again. Buried alive, in a coffin, squished next to a decaying body. But this time, he didn't get out. He thrashed and screamed, unbeknownst to him not only in his sleep, but it was no use. He was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped. Panic flooded his every fiber, but he just wouldn't fucking wake up. His eyes widened when he finally woke up. His breath came in short, shuddering gasps, tears staining his cheeks. He wanted to run, he needed to run or else he'd suffocate. He almost fell over putting on his pants and running shoes before he ripped open his door and ran. He didn't know where, he just needed to run. The sky was still dark, with the faintest shimmer of violet light creeping up the horizon. He aimed for the woods behind the barracks, mindlessly running along the paths. "Fuck, Riley, watch your step, big boy", a sudden voice squeaked. He opened his eyes which he didn't remember closing. He looked down, seeing you knocked over on the ground. "Sorry", he mumbled, giving you a hand and pulling you up. "What are you doing here at this time of night?", you raised an eyebrow. He shifted his weight. "Can't sleep". "Me too...", you looked at him. His gaze was weird... Dead, somehow. "Do you... Want to talk about it?", you asked carefully. "No", he said, voice firm. "Come with me", you grabbed his arm, leading him to a bench nearby, guiding him down and plopping next to him. "I'm here for you, you know that, right?" He gulped. "Yea..." A deep sigh escaped him. "...Thank you". You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "No problem", you mumbled, feeling him relaxing under you.

Horangi: They were here, they'd kill him, fuck, he needed to hide, he needed to hide. Horangi panted, clenching his fist in the sheets. His eyes opened wide and he rubbed the scars on his face. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and stepped outside, sliding down the wall. He lit it and took a deep breath, letting his head roll back and closing his eyes. "Whatcha doin there?", you voice suddenly sound beside him. "빌어먹을!" (Fucking hell, may be a bit wrong since I don't speak Korean) He had jumped up, sighing when he saw it was just you. "Stop sneaking up to me like that, (name)". You chuckled. "Heh, sorry". You sat down next to him. "Can't sleep?", you looked up at him. He nodded. "I don't wanna talk about it". "Then lets just... Sit" You leaned against him, feeling the tension melt slightly from his form.

König: As soon as he closed his eyes, the memories came. He was strapped to a chair, only dressed in boxer shorts, his hood gone. He felt exposed. They whipped, beat and cut him, the scars still evident on his skin. He stood up on shaky legs, the scars on his body aching. A small tin of ointment stood on the table, which he grabbed and carefully rubbed it in. He was not gonna fall asleep anytime soon again. With a heavy sigh he put on his clothes and shuffled towards the armoury. He plopped down on a bench and started cleaning his guns. "Hey there", he hadn't heard you, and immediately pointed the empty gun at you. "Scheiße! You scared me!", he mumbled. You giggled, sitting down next to him. "Sorry". He rolled his eyes and watched him clean his weapons for a minute. "Can't sleep?", you asked. "Nightmares", he answered shortly. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling his muscles move under it as he wiped down the barrel of his gun. "You can always talk to me, you know?", you mumbled. "Yea... Danke"