tawny

hey everyone, here is the masterlist for my current (limited works).

guide: 🍒 (smut), 🌱 (fluff), 🥀 (angst)

Call of Duty (all x readers):

König

intoxicated 🍒🌱

Soap

you could be the death of me (series)

part I 🌱🥀

part II 🌱

Ghost

in progress...

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cw: ep 7 aftermath, abstraction, brief funnybunny, dissociation

none of it was real.

his hands shake.

you’re losing your touch, jax. the psychedelia, this war-drafted heaven that calls his name, it doesn’t work like that. it doesn’t answer to a call. it just… does.

he doesn’t feel the same way as he used to. as kaufmo used to, or ribbit. he saw the signs, the warnings. he left before they could even start. that’s why he did this to pomni. that’s what he tried to do, anyway.

deep breath in. now out, exhale. something is broken inside of him. it’s dark, too dark—how does kinger do this? the wall twitches, yawns, splitting to reveal a gaping maw—flip the picture, it says. flip the picture. no, he can’t, and he doesn’t. that’s how he got himself into this in the first place.

BZZZ. there’s static screaming in his ears. it’s almost like everything is white. is he abstracting? is this what it feels like? why is it so peaceful? maybe this is why they did it, he thinks to himself. maybe they didn’t even know.

he feels numb, apathetic. a dull ache settles in his code bones. nothing is wrong, it whispers in a strangely quiet voice. succumb. it’s quiet here. for a long, lingering moment, he wants to. he’s already got his head in the lion’s maw, why bother fighting to get it out? he’s nothing but 1s and 0s anyway. he isn’t even real.

they don’t have to breathe, but he finds himself drowning anyway, black spots dancing behind his eyes, lungs feeling like they’re underwater. some cold, distant version of himself observes detachedly—so this is what it’s like to drown, he thinks—icy, bubbled balloons expanding within his lungs, stretching, stretching, stretching until they burst. his chest hurts. his head hurts. maybe he should talk to—what would you do if i abstracted? i would forget about you and move on, his mind reminds him. no. such cruelty doesn’t deserve her kindness. such care didn’t warrant destruction.

break her. BREAK HER. and he tried. and he did—for one brief, fleeting moment he thought she would end it all. and then, like an idiot, he tried to take it back.

it doesn’t matter in the end, he reminded himself. none of this is real anyway. in a dizzy haze, he bites down on a pixelated tongue and almost laughs when his mouth turns sweet. right. caine doesn’t know what blood tastes like.

what did he do to deserve this stupid digital hell?

he can’t believe he was right.

he just wants it to get better.

because behind his eyes, all he sees are the faces of those he’s lost--every single person, every single one that’s been his fault. and he doesn’t want to lose you too. so he tries to cut off that warm feeling in his chest when he looks at you. tries to ignore the way his heart stammers when you get too close. tries to shove down the strange way his brain goes fuzzy when you smile at him.

but occasionally, he can’t stop himself.

he wanted to be cold. he didn’t want to get close. but you looked so sad sitting there all by yourself, and he didn’t know what to do, but he was willing to learn—learn what was wrong, learn what would help. he’d buy you every shot of tequila in this world if it made you hurt less.

and then his fucking jacket. it was a bad idea, he knew, but he couldn’t resist. you looked so small and so cold, shivering there against the wall, he just had to. he didn’t need it—he’d be fine. he’d freeze if it made you happy. and then you looked so content and so fucking adorable with his coat wrapped around you, too big for your arms and hands. something about it provoked something almost primal inside him—an inner voice that screamed, mine, mine, mine.

so yeah. maybe he should have moved away when gaz saw you two. maybe he shouldn’t have risked breaking the already fragile fraternization rules. maybe he shouldn’t have acted so touchy, so affectionate, but he couldn’t help it. it was you: you dressed in his jacket, your head on his shoulder, and he needed someone to see that you were his, no matter how selfish he knew it was.