The Letiferian

Part IX

How to show being delighted

bright, sparkling eyes

smiling or grinning broadly

light, bouncy steps or movements

clapping hands or small, excited gestures

warm blush or flushed cheeks

soft, happy sighs or laughter

jumping up or small hops

eyes crinkling at the corners

open mouth, slightly parted in surprise or joy

leaning forward eagerly

staring at whatever delights them

spinning in a circle

How to show dread

rapid, shallow breathing or sudden gasps

sweaty palms or clammy skin

trembling hands or body

tightened jaw or grinding teeth

furrowed brows, tense forehead

wide, darting eyes or a fixed, unblinking stare

clenched fists or nails digging into skin

stiff, frozen posture or tense muscles ready to react

dry mouth or difficulty swallowing

sudden chills or shivers

heart pounding visibly or audibly (e.g., pounding in ears)

fidgeting or restless movements, pacing

nausea or tightness in the stomach

avoiding eye contact or looking away anxiously

voice trembling or catching in throat if speaking

How to show serenity

slow, deep breathing

soft, gentle smile or neutral, peaceful facial expression

softly gazing

smooth, unhurried movements

hands resting calmly, loosely folded or open palms

even heartbeat/pulse

slight tilt of the head, indicating calm attentiveness

relaxed jaw, no clenching or grinding

steady, balanced posture with relaxed shoulders

soft sigh or contented breath out

minimal fidgeting or twitching

How to show being alarmed

widened eyes

raised eyebrows

dilated pupils

quickened or shallow breathing

heart pounding or racing

trembling or shaking hands

stiffened posture or frozen still

sweating or cold sweat

sudden intake of breath or gasping

paleness or flushed face

lips pressed tightly or quivering

clenched jaw or fists

neck hairs standing on end

fidgeting or restless movements, pacing

mouth slightly open or dry mouth

rapid head movements, scanning surroundings

jumping or flinching suddenly

tightened throat or throat clearing

More: How to write emotions Masterpost

MMMM this is an interesting ask!

In my guide (which is not professional at all, but eh, it's something) I linked a few resources I use for English/British English (step 8, specifically).

When it comes to British idioms, I definitely ask for help—for example, "How would you say X in British English?" or "How do you think Simon would say it—Manchester accent/dialect and all that?"

I read a lot of fan fiction when I have time, and I've found certain authors who write Simon's accent in a way that makes me hear his voice in my head.

For example, @/shotmrmiller truncates Simon’s dialogue in a way that just hits right, or @/xoxunhinged (who’s British!) delivers his lines in a way I love. @/void-my-warranty taught me to chop off as much of his dialogue as possible—which fits his character perfectly since he’s blunt and not very chatty (unless he’s happy).  They also made a guide on writing Simon’s character that’s super helpful! @/mayyourbaconburn has one of the most in-character Ghosts I’ve ever read, and their dialogue is spot-on every time. Highly recommend their stories! @/bitterrfruit writes a harsher Simon, way more blunt and spiteful—dialogues always tickle me just right in her stories too!

If while reading you can hear Simon's VA saying those things, then you hit jackpot.

When I don’t want to bother people with my questions, I listen to British dialogues (movies, YouTube videos, podcasts) or rewatch the game's cutscenes (which are easy to find on YouTube). Then, I focus on how certain words are pronounced.

I tend to drop:

"H"s at the beginning of words (e.g., "Come 'ere" or, if murmured, "C'mere" since the aspiration on the h is barely audible).

"T"s in the middle of words (e.g., "Swee'heart"—once again, I can't hear the T being pronounced).

"T"s at the end of words (e.g., "Alrigh'?" or "Tha'"—see above ^).

I truncate words such as:

"For" -> "F'" ("For me?" -> "F'me?"),

"It's" -> "'s" ("It's alright" -> "S'alrigh'"),

"To" -> "T'" ("Don't have to do it" -> "Don't have t'do it")

"You" -> "Ya", or "Y'", occasionally "Ye" ("Did you hear me?" -> "Did ya hear me?", or, "Y'hear?")

Basically, I learn from other writers and listen to British people talking—bonus points if they're from Northern England (Manchester area; sort of north-....west?).

That said, even though Simon is canonically from Manchester, multiple sources have told me his accent doesn’t really match the area… so yeah, do with that what you will 😆

I would also like to add that you can write an accent or a dialect without dropping letters or modifying the word—most of the time it's how the line is delivered that makes the dialogue believable!

So, my advice would be... read fan fiction, read books (@/legityoots recently recommended a romcom with a love interest from Manchester, called When Grumpy Met Sunshine), talk to native speakers if you can, and consume media in your free time!

And remember, Ghost literally has about five voice lines across three games, so you can write him however you like. Canon personality is as flat as the coffee table in your living room.

He’s such a baby. And he can’t text.

Simon isn’t really big on texts. The occasional love heart sent your way between clashes while he’s deployed. When he’s home, a funny video or two. Perhaps a cheeky sext when you’re working late.

You always message him though. Thoughtfully thinking of little ways to brighten his day, a photo of a pansy with little patterned black and white leaves turning to the sun, or a picture of your coffee shared with the hope he’ll be home soon.

Does Simon relish the thought of your virtual offerings? Probably not. But still, you miss him. Even a picture of you in your nicest bra and panties might only get a cursory “I’ll take em off with my teeth later…” if he’s feeling frisky.

It’s fine. Really it is. Until the inside of your lip is chewed and anxiety starts to gather in the seams of your mind. One of your friends tells you it’s odd he has no social media, that it’s a red flag his digital footprint is bathed in shadows and secrets. No school reunion photos, or any evidence he exists at all.

But you suffer in silence. Until one day, you don’t text him good morning, or goodnight. The day spans silently between you both, quietly confirming that nagging doubt that he really isn’t interested in the cat that sometimes visits the entryway of your apartment.

Strange how that lack of something can be so loud. It echos, rings in all the corner of your psyche that wanted to be reassured. Only when you’re deep within the cave of isolation, do you realise how honestly you miss the light of the sun.

Two days pass. A full bloody moon rises and begins to blink across your living room, before you hear the slam of the front door. It makes you jump, twitching in your skin as though you’re suddenly uncomfortable in it. A heavy bag is deposited somewhere on the floor, while the metal on it twinkles innocently in the low light.

One heavy boot step, then another.

“Hi!” You smile at him softly.

Simon just glares at you, dark brown eyes seething pits. Two thick arms get crossed over his chest, the greyscale, faded ink under his skin bristling. His hair is tousled, the usual buzz cut a little grown out. Shadows wedged beneath hollowed sockets reminiscent of things that weigh heavily, more than one lifetimes worth of grief to bear.

“I didn’t expect you this early…” Trying again seems logical, even though the sternness in his face should raise alarm. Simon lets out a short chuffing nose, rolling his shoulders along with those ash framed, whiskey coloured irises.

Blinking at him, you wait.

“There’s dinner in the—”

“Is it over?” He rasps, quietly before you can finish. You notice then that he’s paler than usual, his freckles dotted against milky skin.

“Huh?! Is what over?” Perplexed, your mouth opens with a pop.

“Us - this.” Simon gestures between you jerkily, heavyset and blunted fingers that could eclipse yours shaking slightly. “This your way of finishin with me?”

You’re so shocked, for a second all you can do is look blank. Simon sniffs like he’s holding himself together with brute force and clenched teeth. His hand falls to his side limply, jaw working as though chewing something intensely unpleasant.

“You didn’t text me.” He grunts finally, when you’ve caught a few flies through sheer incredulity. “Two days I ain’t had a peep. Not of the cat or nothin. Expected a fucking dear John letter left on the kitchen counter.”

He actually scuffs his boots on the floor restlessly, a little boy about to throw an almighty tantrum. Usually he’s so restrained, operating under a fine layer of almost icy disregard. His bottom lip pouts and the wild urge to giggle makes you clench your own teeth.

“You like my cat pictures?!” It’s about the only thing you can manage to leverage off your tongue.

“Yeah I do actually.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise…”

“Like anythin you send me. Specially tha voice notes n’ videos.” Finally the truth starts to unravel, while you both gaze at one another. “Have I fucked up? Why ain’t you been talkin to me?”

“Well…I wasn’t sure if you even read them to be honest! Also it gets boring having a one sided conversation sometimes Simon!” Defensiveness leeches into your tone, while he tilts his head, the scar slicing through his upper lip drawn tight.

“Alright. What do I have to reply then?”

“Pardon?”

“What do I have to reply to get you to send more?” Earnestly he stares at you, and the desire to laugh madly starts to make your throat hurt.

“Are you being serious?!”

“Deadly.” He replies without hesitation.

“You don’t have to reply! But just a thumbs up emoji would do fine.”

“How do I do tha?” He frowns at you, brows knitting in the middle. “Send ya a photo or somethin of my hand?”

You can’t hold it in anymore, a snort of laughter escapes and bubbles in the air. Once that’s out, several more follow, until he looks entirely hurt at the sound of it.

“Don’t fuckin laugh. M’all pent up. Been worried sick about it.”

“Oh my fucking god Simon come here!”

He doesn’t even take off his boots, crawling into your lap on the couch, resting his head on your chest like a huge, black clad weighted blanket.

“I wouldn’t leave you a letter on the kitchen counter.” You tell him gently, while his breathing regulates. “I’d FaceTime you at least before I posted my key through the letterbox.”

“S’not funny.” He mumbles and gradually your laughter subsides.

“Don’t ever think I ain’t interested in you. S’been shite wakin up without your messages.”

“I’m sorry! You can have all the cat pictures you want going forwards!”

Uh, oh! Your cousins wedding is this weekend and you told your family that you're totally in a relationship and they really want to meet them!

Which cod character do you bring to the wedding as your fake partner? 🤔

Obviously, you pick Kyle.

Aesthetically he’s the most normal-looking choice, not overly loud or sullen, and he’s also an excellent liar. You’re absolutely thrilled when he readily agrees to do it, so when the day of the wedding rolls around and there’s a knock on your door, you aren’t at all expecting—-

“MacTavish?!”

Johnny sheepishly shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Garrick got called into work, asked me to come.”

Oh, Kyle’s a good liar, alright. You had no clue that his intention was to dump Johnny on you for the night. But what can you do? There’s no time for an alternate plan, and a last minute excuse to your family would sound pathetic.

“Fine,” you relent, stepping aside to let him in. “I’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

The mohawk is your boyfriend today, and all you can do is hope he doesn’t ruin your image any more than it already is.

In some bizarre twist of fate, MacTavish is more agreeable than you could have ever hoped for. He barely even drinks the whole time, just trades friendly small talk with your folks while his hand rests on the curve of your waist. He doesn’t even swear, and the whole thing wraps up unbelievably smooth.

You’re convinced you’ll pay for this. The goddess of luck may have granted you a pass today, but soon your car will get broken into or your apartment will flood, and the universe will set this right.

But for now, you find yourself inviting Johnny back to your place for more drinks and maybe more luck. That’s how you end up passed out on his shoulder later, drooling on his shirt halfway through a movie.

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem!Reader

TWs: Degradation, infidelity, guilt

Divider by @/cyberbeat

Johnny has you pushed up against the front door of your flat, his solid figure pressed close from shoulders down to calves, his chest to your back. His lips are on your throat. They glide up and down as you fumble with your keys and try to remember how to breathe. Just as you think you've gotten the key in the lock, he reaches up to cup a breast and the process starts again.

He thumbs at the fabric separating you, trying to find a nipple beneath the satin and lace. His aim is true; he finds his prize and teases it, the blunt edge of his nail clipping the tip of your breast. You gasp, and you feel the answering buzz of his laughter reverberating in your chest.

"Ye ken there's names fur lassies like ye?"

He rasps the words into your neck, stubble scraping as he speaks. His teeth aren't far behind, nipping at the tender skin under your jaw.

"Names fur lassies wha'll tak' any bloke to bed? Fur women wha' step out on their man?"

Your heart's in your throat, a giddy whirl of acidic guilt and breathless desire making your legs shake.

"Ma maw used tae warn me about lassies like ye, slags wha'll open their legs for anyone, wha' dinnae need love to lay down wi' ye."

Johnny's other arm is around your waist, holding you up while you shake like a leaf. You want to look at him, to turn your head and see if his eyes still burn for you, but you can't move. You're weak for him, clay in his capable hands, fully malleable to his will. He doesn't want you to see - he wants you as blind as you kept him.

"Aye, hen? Are ye gonna be ma whore fur the night?"

His words hurt and the slight finds its mark. He's right - you're a whore, a cheater, and this is all you deserve from him. You used him for months, treated him like something disposable, and this is your punishment. The guilt burns like gasoline in the pit of your stomach, acidic as it burrows into your tear ducts.

"Are ye mine?"

His voice is quiet, soft enough you're not entirely sure he meant for you to hear this question, to see this piece of his soul laid bare. Johnny’s a good man, a kind one, the type you could burn the world for. So, you give him an offering.

Johnny 'Soap' MacTavish x Fem!Reader

TWs: Degradation, infidelity, guilt

Divider by @/cyberbeat

Johnny has you pushed up against the front door of your flat, his solid figure pressed close from shoulders down to calves, his chest to your back. His lips are on your throat. They glide up and down as you fumble with your keys and try to remember how to breathe. Just as you think you've gotten the key in the lock, he reaches up to cup a breast and the process starts again.

He thumbs at the fabric separating you, trying to find a nipple beneath the satin and lace. His aim is true; he finds his prize and teases it, the blunt edge of his nail clipping the tip of your breast. You gasp, and you feel the answering buzz of his laughter reverberating in your chest.

"Ye ken there's names fur lassies like ye?"

He rasps the words into your neck, stubble scraping as he speaks. His teeth aren't far behind, nipping at the tender skin under your jaw.

"Names fur lassies wha'll tak' any bloke to bed? Fur women wha' step out on their man?"

Your heart's in your throat, a giddy whirl of acidic guilt and breathless desire making your legs shake.

"Ma maw used tae warn me about lassies like ye, slags wha'll open their legs for anyone, wha' dinnae need love to lay down wi' ye."

Johnny's other arm is around your waist, holding you up while you shake like a leaf. You want to look at him, to turn your head and see if his eyes still burn for you, but you can't move. You're weak for him, clay in his capable hands, fully maliable to his will. He doesn't want you to see - he wants you as blind as you kept him.

"Aye, hen? Are ye gonna be ma whore fur the night?"

His words hurt and the slight finds its mark. He's right - you're a whore, a cheater, and this is all you deserve from him. You used him for months, treated him like something disposable, and this is your punishment. The guilt burn like gasoline in the pit of your stomach, acidic as it burrows into your tear ducts.

"Are ye mine?"

His voice is quiet, soft enough you're not entirely sure he meant for you to hear this question, to see this piece of his soul laid bare. Johnny’s a good man, a kind one, the type you could burn the world for. So, you give him an offering.

it's like the whole relationship is a role play for others. he'll have you all pretty and dolled up, a real trophy wife in the eyes of others. glued to his side and silent during most social gatherings he has to attend, nodding politely in small greetings and never letting anyone linger around for too long.

people wonder if you have a brain of your own. sometimes it seems like john even tells you what to say and they question just how much you depend on him on your day to day.

what they don't know is that, every day after you've made breakfast, he sits down on a chair across from you at the kitchen table and ask a billion questions about what he should do about that paperwork and how can he fix that one thing or how he could possible be a better friend for that one person as you eat.

you're his little walking dictionary who talks his ear off whenever you have the chance, so he takes advantage of it by bringing all types of topics for you to discuss.

pairing: roommate!VA!johnny x roommate!fem!reader

summary: finding out that your flatmate johnny is a porn voice actor wasn’t exactly surprising. what astonished you was the amount of nasty ass content he had on his reddit.

"[...] "'m too fuckin' horny today and my flatmate dinnae want tae help my situation..." there's a small pause and a long, whispered curse with some fabric rustling in the background. then, the distant sound of sticky squelching, slow and steady – teasing, tempting. "she– uh... she's a fuckin' wee tease," he starts, some small gasps making their appearance in between his words."

genre: smut, non-military au, fluff | wc: [to be added]

warnings: johnny is a reddit va, crosses and catholicism mentions, 'friends-to-lovers', not slow burn but they yearn a bit, drinking, explicit sexual content: p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, sexting, voyeurism and exhibitionism

a/n: the spotify playlist is linked at the title. main masterlist.

ghostsoap commission for @bluegiragi!

YOU GET MEEEE LIKE YES THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I HAD JN MIND FOR MAIL ORDER KONIG TOO 😩😩 and the dialogue was too good not to add, so thank you sm ☕️ anon!! <33

Reader x mail-order soldier könig

You weren’t proud of the choices that led to this.

In your defense, when your unhinged, narcissistic ex-fiancé decided to take “I can do better” as a personal threat and “leave me alone” as a flirtation, your options shrank quickly. Police were useless, restraining orders were suggestions, and the panic room catalog had a three-month shipping delay you really couldn’t afford at the moment.

So you did what any desperate, slightly unhinged person with Wi-Fi and a bottle of wine would do at 2AM: you shopped online.

Not for a therapist- you didn’t like being robbed more than once per month- and not for new locks, and not even for a machete and a training montage or karate lessons.

You shopped for a bodyguard. And not just any bodyguard- mail-order, military-grade, possibly-black-ops (you didn’t know exactly what that meant, but you knew black belts were the strongest in karate so it probably applied here too) bodyguard. Because you weren’t looking for subtle; yoh were looking for make him cry and question his choices.

The site was slick, you could admit. Black and red and sleek fonts, the kind of design that screamed we definitely waterboard people but make it ✨fashion✨. The site also billed itself as Elite Protection Services: Discreet, Deadly, Dependable. It might as well have been Bodyguards R Us. You scrolled past the profiles like you were picking out a toaster.

“Ex-Interpol, trained in Systema, bilingual in seven languages.”

Nope. Too smug-looking. Kinda reminded you of Johnny Bravo but without the appeal.

“Specializes in anti-stalking protocols. Former MMA champion.”

Too pretty. Psycho ex would take that as a challenge.

You scrolled past endless profiles: more ex-SEALs, ex-spies, people who listed training styles like they were personality traits. Everyone looked like they were auditioning for a movie about stopping nuclear threats with emotional damage and well-fitted tactical pants.

Until you found him.

KÖNIG.

That was it; no last name, no smiling profile pic. Just one blurry photo that looked like it was taken from a security feed during the purge. A massive man mid-stride, face obscured by a tattered executioner’s hood (does he like cosplay?), one arm casually holding what was either a high-powered sniper rifle or a small medieval ballista. Just the quiet threat of do not attempt to engage unless you are fireproof and have no dreams… and hopefully have a will.

His bio was just as minimal as his name, but thankfully not bolded and capitalized like he was the living version You-Know-Who: Former special forces. Classified background. Urban combat. High-threat asset protection. Temperament: Reserved. Languages: German, English. Hobbies: [Redacted]

And honestly? He was perfect.

You hit “Hire” with all the solemnity of pulling a lever on a guillotine.

The meeting, then, was scheduled at a “neutral location” (aka: a converted warehouse that probably used to be a meth lab but now boasted folding chairs and bulletproof windows and claimed to be state-of-the-arts just). You were told to wear neutral colors and avoid sudden movements like he was a military contractor-slash-deer.

He was lucky you didn’t have a driving license or car yet.

The facilitator, woman named Claire who radiated HR department energy and quiet terror, greeted you with a nervous clipboard smile.

“Please remain calm during the introduction process,” she said, like she expected you to run. Like he was a bull and she forgot to tell you not to wear red even though you were very sure bulls didn’t actually get bothered by the color. “Sometimes clients are… startled.”

You waved her off; you were not going to be startled. You were in charge. You were the employer. You were cool and rational. You were the man-

And then the door opened, and he walked in.

It wasn’t so much a walk as a tectonic shift, honestly. The lights dimmed- or maybe your brain flickered like a dying flashlight trying to process the sheer volume of the man now in the room with you because the damn profile and profile pictures absolutely did him no justice at all.

Easily built like a walking mini-cathedral, every step he took echoed with the weight of someone who didn’t walk so much as advance steadily like a cursed forest creature with war crimes on his résumé.

The hood was real, by the way. Not a vibe, not a metaphor, not a cosplay prop. A literal ragged executioner’s hood, like someone had looted a plague doctor’s wardrobe and decided to lean in (actually… were those shirt sleeves-)

Anyways, he said nothing, and so you stared with your mouth half-open and your neck craned and your buffering. There was a pause, the kind of silence that usually precedes a boss fight or a marriage proposal but without the music for both, and you weren’t sure which direction this was going to go.

Claire cleared her throat with the delicacy of someone trying not to disturb a sleeping lion.

“Well, if you’re not feeling a connection, we can always-“

“Don’t you dare.”

It came out louder than intended and far more desperate than you’s ever hoped anyone would hear you. You pointed at König like someone calling dibs on a rare Pokémon, and almost gave yourself a whiplash from how quickly you turned your head to glare at her.

“He’s perfect. Get your own!”

Claire blinked and König didn’t move. But you could feel him blinking behind the hood, probably wondering what, exactly, he had just been spiritually adopted into.

There was another pause.

König tilted his head, then slight nod that was just enough to suggest acknowledgment… or possibly pity. You’d need to peer into his eyes and make him do different expressions so you’d understand what he was thinking behind that hood, because you weren’t sure if his nod meant I accept this job, please never yell again, or you are an unhinged rat and I respect that, but either way: he was yours now.

You turned back to Claire with all the confidence of someone who had definitely just bought an armored tank off Craigslist.

“Where do I sign?”

Claire, likewise, slowly handed you the paperwork like she was passing off custody of a weapon of mass destruction. Something like an armored tank bought off Craigslist.

“…Please don’t antagonize him.”

“I would never,” you replied, already mentally redecorating your apartment to accommodate a seven-foot medieval cryptid with probably boundary issues. You couldn’t imagine anyone with those backgrounds not coming with built-in issues unless they were rich and old.

König, for his part, said nothing. Just stood there, looming like an ancient ruin that had wandered into a security job. But you swore- when you weren’t looking directly at him- you caught the faintest rise in his shoulders. Like a chuckle.

Or maybe a sigh.

Either way, you’d take it; you had a human mountain now. And your ex?

Was going to shit bricks and you’d be there to film and enjoy every. single. second. of it.

He's about to rain down a million smooches

Husband!Kyle who diligently tracks your periods and notes the symptoms and takes note of which products work better for you. Pads or tampons or cups or anything at all. Whatever makes you comfortable, love.

Husband!Kyle who knows he needs to give you a little bit of space. When in more agitated state of yours induced with pain of your uterus shedding a lining and him making a loud noise with a spoon you send him a glare so scalding his tea doesn’t really feel hot anymore.

Husband!Kyle who just cleans the place. He opens the windows and mops the floors and does the laundry and brings you folded warm clothes to change into if you’d like. He washes the dishes while you are in the shower and changes sheets on the bed. He makes you tea and pulls out your favourite snack to bring it to you.

Husband!Kyle who knows how much you get annoyed by clutter and your house being messy. He also knows that you are in pain and exhausted from the start — you don’t have the energy to fix the thing, but it will bother you. He can’t have that.

Husband!Kyle who makes sure you don’t have to get up more than strictly necessary, that your book is close, that your phone is charged, that the snacks are right next to bed. Husband!Kyle who prides himself on knowing what you need and when you need it.

He is careful and gentle when you wiggle yourself in his arms and sigh in his neck, feeling as miserable as it gets but his palms on your back are godsend.

Husband!Kyle who coaxes you into taking painkillers one more time and softly squeezes your biceps when you do, his kiss behind your ear melting some of your spikes.

Husband!Kyle who orders food, glazing through your order because of course, he remembers it, darling. You didn’t marry him just cause he’s pretty, did you not?

Husband!Kyle who brings you a cup of ice cream wrapped in a warm towel. Because you are sensitive on your period, because the cup is too cold, because it’s going to upset you even if you aren’t going to say anything.

Husband!Kyle who smiles when after the first few days you come to him yourself, finally in a state where you can tolerate your husband squeezing you in hugs and manhandling you around the house. Husband!Kyle who can’t help but feel a little giddy when you hug him from behind and kiss his shoulders and say “thank you, Kyle”.

Husband!Kyle who leans into you, murmurs “it nothing, love”. But it’s not nothing. It’s everything.

It’s why he does it. It’s why he remembers your orders and your icks and your ticks.

Husband!Kyle who kisses your nose, grinning so wide his eyes crinkle in the corners with the joy of it.

Husband!Kyle who doesn’t mind you being cranky or silent or needing more space than usually. After all you always come back to him.

After all, he knows you better than anyone else.