deandoesthingstome

[deandoesthingstome]

Ive had this saved in my phone since April

[deandoesthingstome]

Walking through the park with your new dog, a great big mutt that you fell in love with at the shelter. Lovingly named chai for how her tail wags whenever you play tchaikovsky.

She's well behaved, really a gentle giant more than anything. which is why you nearly fall over when she suddenly barks and starts yanking at her leash. Bodily dragging you with her eyes set ahead. To your absolute horror, she is beelining straight for two older men who look like they throw knives for fun.

But she's a strong girl, and theres no stopping chai. As your dog pulls you closer and your tugging becomes more frantic, the men take notice of the commotion.

"Oh! Hi there sweet girl!" The man in all black drops down to pet at chairs fur, cooing and nodding along to her excited barks. You stand dumbfounded as he pulls kibble from a pouch on his belt and feeds chai, completely ignoring you.

The other man snorts, glances down at the pair then up at you. Hes got a few Grey hairs in his mustache, thick muscles and fat. He's the kind of guy youd describe to your friends as 'a total dilf' unfortunately. "Dont mind simon, most of the dogs around here love him. Did you just get her?"

You nod, a bit off-kilter by the 6-foot-something man still kneeling on the grass to give chai belly rubs now. "Ah, that explains it," the man hums, nods down at simon. "Simon likes to visit the dog shelter when he can, most of the long term residents know him well. Hey, simon, introduce yourself to the kid at least?"

He stands up, practically casts a shadow over you with the way he looms. Even behind the facr mask you can tell his lips are set into a frown. "You feedin' her right? An' making sure she's exercised? Dolly doesn't do well without exercise."

He says it like he's already decided youre a bad dog owner, just waiting for you to trip up. The implication alone has you curling your lip in offense "of course I take care of chai! What do you think I didnt do my research-"

You get so heated you end up ranting on and on about how annoying it is to find good food options for chai without ordering it online, and how your neighbors dogs always attack her because they aren't fucking friendly, chad so you have to take her to the next park over and–

You dont see it, but price watches as ghosts eyes start to flare with intensity. An appreciation for you love of chai/dolly, and some desire under that too. When he mumbles some excuse about joining you on the rest of your park visit 'just to be sure yer doing alright, kid' price doesn't call him on it.

Hopefully ghost can finds an excuse to make sure your house is 'well suited for dolly' too.

[deandoesthingstome]

first of all: yes to team werewolf! (obvi, because i wanna feel that knot inside me, duh?) (but also, i want to be bitten—wait!! werewolves can also do that!! 👹)

second: you watch anime??? 👀 i am sat. what other animes have you watched? (could include the entirety of your life or just since the pandemic or just the last couple of years) (or just the most notable ones)

Oh hey, Nonny. Hey! Yeah, Vampires could be neat, too, but yeeeeahhhh....werewolf. drool.

Annnnnywaaayyyyy...

So really, it's members of my family who watch a boatload of various anime and I'm usually just along for the ride.

JJK came at time when a moot was getting lost in the sauce and I went along for the ride and never looked back. Toge makes me giggle and the soundtrack, especially the song on the answer gave me such joy! (I never "bonded" to any of these characters, though the end of the Shibuya arc crushed my soul. I'm not sure I'm ready for worse.)

I love Miyazaki's Spirited Away and his style in general, though I admit I think I've only also seen Princess Mononoke. I loved Blue Eye Samurai. I loved Flow. I recently bopped along to KPop Demon Hunters.

Husband loves to fall alseep to anime like Vineland Saga and Thermae Romae, Sakamoto Days, and Kengan Ashura. So I have been exposed to these, though I wouldn't say I've watched them. He also likes Delicious in Dungeon, but I'm not a fan.

Together we've tried Chainsaw Man, Dandadan, and a few other recommended by friends or family. I wouldn't say were connoisseurs by any means. But it's fun and I appreciate the art.

Thanks for the ask, Nonny!

And I'll say it again, as I've said before: I don't bite. I understand anonymity on the internet in general, but you don't have to hide from me. 😘

[deandoesthingstome]

Yes, we're getting season 3 after a long wait of expecting it to drop this year. And imo it's more intense than the Shibuya arc...

I had a real crisis trying to find an appropriate reaction gif, but then decided to just go back to my roots on this one.

Yeehaw!

[deandoesthingstome]

呪術廻戦 S3: THE CULLING GAME (PT. 1)

Jan. 2026

[deandoesthingstome]

oh shit wait brainblast incoming

[deandoesthingstome]

Marlon Wayans on the Snoop Dog homophobic comments on children's films

"I'm tired of defending this ni**a. I defended him on his criminal sh*t, the Gayle King situation, and I took heat for defending him online when he performed for Trump, but this crosses the line. Sooner or later you just realize someone has issues. There ain't no Hollywood agenda to turn kids gay. That's the dumbest sh*t I've ever heard. Disney characters lie, steal, cheat, kill, poison, and everything and don't nobody say it's an agenda to turn their kids into a piece of sh*t. I watched Snow White when I was a kid and I ain't gave a b*tch a poison apple yet. But as soon as a gay character pop up, its an agenda. The agenda is to make your kids empathetic , not gay. White people acted the same way when black people started being seen on tv." -Marlon Wayans

[deandoesthingstome]

I do not force xreaders to be blank slates. I do not leave hate comments if a xreader character behaves in a way I wouldn’t. I don’t demand part two’s. I let the writer take me on a journey and enjoy the fic as they intended as it is their labor of love. And if I don’t enjoy the fic? I EXIT THE FIC AND SAY NOTHING TO THE AUTHOR!!!

[deandoesthingstome]

Final thought for the evening.

Working in Johnny’s local corner shop, getting used to him chatting you up over the counter while he stocks up on tea and packets of monster much (an elite snack don’t @ me)

Then one day he strolls in with some guy who looks like he’d be more at home in an abattoir, complete with a poorly healed split lip and an aura of total menace.

Johnny sees you eyeing his mate up with ill disguised trepidation, as the guy huskily requests a packet of cigs, Marlboro red or silk cut if you’ve got em.

“Dinnae worry lass, he don’t bite.”

But those dark, cavernous eyes are watching your every move greedily, absorbing each small facet of your actions tucked away in this cluttered store.

“Hard.” The giant blurts out after several minutes of Johnny’s voice chattering in your ears while you ring them up on the ancient till.

“I’m sorry?”

“Hard.” He repeats, voice like coarse sandpaper presumably from too many cigarettes. “Don’t bite hard.”

Johnny snorts.

You’re not sure, but you think you see a hint of a blush around those blonde lashes in response to your polite smile, before he gets ushered back into the street.

@cutiecusp @misshugs @murder-hobo @pxssygxblin

[deandoesthingstome]

laswell told you all about ghost, but she didn't say he was your walking wet dream. (18+)

you're wide-eyed as you stare at him from across the conference room table. he looks positively bored—eyes half-lidded, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his wide chest. you try not to glance t him too often from over your laptop, but it's hard when all you see in front of you is giant, big man with thighs that thick and a head that nearly grazes the top of the doorway.

he's supposed to be your guard out in the field. it's untested tech and needs field tests, real ones, and even though you're nowhere near real conflict, it still unnerves you, the thought that you need an escort this deadly to try out your new little contraptions.

you'd do anything for the job, though, even something that feels this stupid. you'd never want to disappoint laswell; and if your company is giant, awkward brutes that look good enough to eat, you think you might be volunteering for these field tests more often.

"i-i was wondering..." you clear your throat as you push your safety glasses up your nose. ghost is watching out the window, eyes focused on the test rover you have, remote-operated as you try to guide it into position. "i-i...was...i was just curious if you were..."

"spit it out, love."

"if y-you were...just...single." you laugh, shaking your head. "stupid...stupid question, i..." you bite your lip. "course you're not single..."

ghost's eye twitches at the thought. you assumed he was taken? awkward, quiet, blunt, anti-social ghost—you thought he had someone tucked away in his bed, warming his flat? if he showed you the mattress he kept on the floor and the spare chair that he used as a bedside table, he know you'd think differently.

ghost's chest puffs a little at the thought. swells just like his cock does with ego and confidence—there's a pretty girl that wants him in her mouth and in all her little holes, and if the way he strapped her too-big tactical vest says anything about her, it's that she's got great tits and a wet pussy.

you're interrupted by a soft, flashing alarm on your tablet in your hands. you gasp, shuffling towards the window, giggling with delight when you notice your device is working. laswell is going to be so excited! you bend over, leaning against the windowsill, not even realizing that the big bear you just propositioned yourself to now has a nice view of what you look like bent over. he squeezes his hands into fists as he watches. it'd take no effort at all to fit his gloved hands into your pants and shove them just enough to have you.

ghost brings you back without so much as a scratch, just as he promised laswell. you're bouncing on your toes, passing the tablet over to her, giggling and gasping and pointing to the raw data that you can show on the screen. laswell is smirking the entire time, looking over your shoulder. she's barely paying any attention to you and focusing on the way that ghost hasn't left the room yet, heavy gaze still focused on your ass as his hand twitches at his side.

trigger-happy, biting against the fleeting patience in him.

"i've got a call," laswell interrupts, standing. she puts her hands on your arms, squeezing, and your mouth closes as you stop talking, embarrassed. she smiles, patting your shoulder. "good girl, you are. why don't you debrief ghost, and he'll write it up and get back to me, huh?"

"oh—" you clutch the tablet to your chest. "o-oh yeah. of course. sorry."

"no need to be sorry," kate shrugs, gathering up her things and going to the door. "hasn't done a thing wrong, has she, lieutenant?"

no, ghost thinks. she's such a good girl.

that's why you take his fingers so nicely. jaw slack, wet eyes blinking up at him, lashes flutter as you suck soft on three scarred fingers like the sweet thing you really are. he asked you to keep your hands down, and you squeeze the sides of the chair you sit in tight with them, willing yourself not to move as you glug and suck on the sour, heavy taste of his skin. he pets your tongue, blunt fingernails grazing along the back of your mouth, and he grumbles with satisfaction when he feels your spit glob and drip down your chin.

such a wet girl, you are, everywhere it seems.

you're such a good girl laid out on the desk, too. knee bent around his hip, the other thigh as far back as you can get it so he can lean over you and fuck you with the same three fingers he just had in your mouth. he's gentle with it though, soft, calloused thumb on your clit as he brings his fingers back in such a wavy, warm motion, and your toes are curling, and you're bouncing underneath him trying to keep the rhythm steady. it's soooooooo cute seeing you this way—babbling brook of a girl, reduced to nothing but whines which his hand just past your knickers. adorable little cunt, despite the size of your thighs and the soft of your middle, you're squeezing so tight, sucking him in, and he already knows it's gonna feel too good to pull out when he's got himself cock-deep.

"s-so...so you are single?"

truth be told, even if he wasn't, he'd give it all up to have this pretty pussy, he knows that much.

he chuckles, all low and warm, and you reach up to clutch at the back of his neck, pulling him down towards you. you stare right into those dark eyes, all sad and pathetic and sweet, and you cup those cheeks over the mask.

he doesn't answer. he just tilts his head to the side, and you reach for the zipper of his cargoes.

he makes you feel like prey. like you are nothing but something he caught to serve up and eat, but you can't help but feel like you're a willing participant. you know what it is he wants, it's in those eyes, and you hope it comes. a bitter end, he's salivating for it, and you want it because you know it'll feel good, even if it kills you.

it hurts. he's big all over, but you expected as much. he's easing into you, cooing at you like you're a mare he has to tame, muttering between curses, "easy, easy," as if taking his cock isn't a fucking olympic sport, and you're going for gold.

you thought he might be too insecure to fuck you somewhere like this. where anyone could walk in and see him, but the more you take his cock, the more you realize ghost would rather be caught with his pants down than with his face uncovered, and he's pressing your thighs wider apart so he can hook his arms under your knees and fuck you hard enough to make you wail. your back arches, arms flailing until you can grab onto his forearms and dig your nails into him, and ghost leans his head back when your cunt squeezes him, getting wetter with every movement and slicking him up so much, he's having a hard time keeping steady. you like this. you like him this way, nasty and mean and taking what he wants, and he needs to feel you come so your cunt never forgets the shape of him.

your eyes roll back into your head when he hits it deep, angling your hips up with a grunt. he nearly pulls out of you so he can soak the front of his mask with your pussy, but he tells himself the most important thing is making you come around his cock, and he needs to focus, not get distracted by a sweet treat.

fuck, he fails. he pulls out, using the inside of your thigh to nudge his mask up just a little, and there are tears coming down your face when he hikes you up even more, just your shoulders touching the table, as he licks through your folds before sucking on your clit. he has to nose between your pubic hair a little before he finds it, laughing with delight when your hand falls and bangs against the table as you try to gain some composure. he breathes out through his nose, nostrils flaring, and you start to cry from how good it feels when he tosses your legs over his shoulders and slips his tongue inside of you.

his head clears. the world feels smaller. there's a squirming, pretty thing gushing onto his tongue, and everything feels good again. his trigger finger is too occupied. his murderous thoughts are static noise when you're moaning like that. he doesn't dream of dark skies or loud noises or loss because you're everywhere around him, and he feels good, it tastes good, so good, i like it i like it i like it—

he groans when you come in his mouth. tongue cupped to swallow mouthfuls, like a dog drinking water, long fingers digging into your hips to keep you still as he dips his head and licks from one hole to the other.

when he sets you back down onto your back, he hisses when he realizes he came, too. cock hanging heavy, cum dribbling down his cargoes. he takes a gloved hand and gives himself a warm tug, and he grits his teeth as he feels himself coming back to life, watching you whimper there and reach down to touch your puffy clit. you use your fingers to spread your folds again, and ghost's mouth twitches, nearly a smile, as he realizes you want him to go again. going for gold, indeed. well, maybe simon's not single.

not anymore.

[deandoesthingstome]

Blacksmith!reader who is the only person knight!ghost trusts to mend his weapons and armor.

He only ever comes to you even if his duties pull him far away from your small workshop. Which of course means when he does find his way back to you its with gashes, dents, and chips in the metal you carefully crafted.

Holding up a busted pouldron while ghost sheepishly explains the ten bodies that are responsible for the damage, giving him a raised brow "seriously, sir? I thought you knew better than that. Only ten! Cmon then, lets see the rest of the damage. Im charging you for emotional damage over all my hard work!"

No matter how much shit you give him, ghost always comes back. Big frame leaning down into your doorway with a shockingly polite request to fix his gear. You make the armor as it should be, tailored to the precise needs of a warrior when no other Smith could. Yes, he only comes to you because of your renowned skill, but he also likes to watch you.

Lounging in your smithery in just his undergarments while you work, watching the sweat roll off your biceps. He thinks of biting into the muscle there, maybe taking you to become the palace's personal blacksmith. He never gets the courage, always muttering a thank you and leaving a coin purse with far too much gold tucked under your desk. Its a small gift, inconsequential to the total sum of his life he would hand over if you requested. All ghost wants is to someday make a home with you, the blacksmith who knows the movement of his body better than any other man. Silently, you wish he would lay down the weapons and take up the apprenticeship you keep open just for him.

[deandoesthingstome]

tenderfoot / the man price x f!reader / masterlist

cw: societal collapse, referenced suicides see masterlist for fic tags

Would you rather know how you’re going to die, or when?

It’s one of those questions. Always cropping up at the worst times—parties, bars, dating apps. Always from some pedantic would-be philosopher who thinks asking it makes them deep. Like they’re probing the mysteries of life when really, they just want to see people squirm.

You’d roll your eyes. Offer something cheeky, or dodge it entirely.

But later—late at night, in bed, in the quiet—you’d think about it. Always alone.

Maybe that was the answer. Alone. Maybe you’d choke on dinner in your flat. Slip on a hike, disappear into a ravine or waterway. Vanish on a flight over the Atlantic, screaming into the void with strangers, with no one knowing your name. Or maybe you’d just fade in some hospital, old and unmarried, alone in a sterile room.

It’s a seductive line of thought. Morbid, but oddly clarifying. If you knew—would it change anything? Would you live harder, freer? Or worry more? Spend every checkup bracing for impact, marking your calendar with a red X. Let the dread eat you alive.

You never could come up with an answer. Not even for yourself.

And then, when every nation with a space program tried and failed to destroy the looming, 128-kilometer-wide asteroid dubbed Fenrir? 

Well, then everyone had an answer.

Date of death: September 22nd. Cause of death: Impact event.

Societal collapse was both instant, yet oddly and disproportionately staggered.

Plenty of people heard the broadcast that night, switched off the broadcast, and went right back to their dinners and digestifs. They set alarms, went to bed, woke up, and went to work. After all, bills still arrived in the post. The Tube still ran. The world hadn’t ended yet, and that was enough reason to pretend it might not.

It wasn’t quite denial, more like a timid refusal to look directly at the thing burning a hole in the sky.

At the other end of the spectrum were the zealots, the hedonists, the opportunists. Those who had been waiting for permission to unravel and let go. They treated the news like a starting pistol. Riots, arson, mass looting. Street preachers with knives and bleeding palms. Mass suicides. Teenagers with baseball bats in grocery stores. Mayhem.

Infrastructural collapse did not occur so quickly.

People tried to preserve the illusion of order. Systems leaned on other systems. Governments clung to decorum with tight knuckles and PR briefings. Parliament swore it would sit in continual session. The Crown, sealed somewhere deep underground, uttered meaningless words over the airwaves. Officials promised the water would run, the lights would burn, right up to the very end.

The machinery of modern life limped forward out of habit. 

It lasted two months.

Then someone blinked. Everyone panicked. And the whole thing went down headfirst, screaming.

In the middle of it all, there was a lottery you did not win.

Limited seats on boats and planes, final one-way passages bound elsewhere, including to the States. The first went to families, visiting students, adults with dependents waiting back home. You didn’t qualify. A singleton with two healthy parents an ocean away, you weren’t in the first wave. Or the second. Or the third. You weren’t here on diplomatic business. You had no connections or strings to pull. Just an expat, living and working abroad, trying to live a quiet and comfortable life.

Until the phones cut out, and then the Internet, you did your best to reassure your parents. They were tucked away in their house in upstate New York, worrying over the line. You told them it was fine. That you’d be okay. You cried and mourned together, yes, but you kept lying through your teeth:

I’m not alone. I’ve got friends. We’re going to make a party out of it. We’ll watch one last sunset together.

Of course it wasn’t true. But you couldn’t let them die knowing that.

That in all your years here—same flat, same job, same pub—you hadn’t made a single lasting connection. There were coworkers. Casual boyfriends. People who forgot your name after two pints if they asked for it at all. Nothing that stuck.

And when the shops shuttered, your supplies ran low, and the neighbors disappeared, scattering to the countryside, to family, to anywhere else—you watched your street empty out.

The taps went dry. The lights flickered out.

So you made a decision.

If you were going to die alone, you’d do it somewhere worth seeing.

You packed a backpack and a carry-on, filled with whatever still mattered.

Then, you left. On foot. Walked straight out of London.

Three days on the road, and you hate every minute of it. 

You miss your sofa. Your books. Scented candles. Face masks.

There’s dirt under your nails, a hole in your jeans, and your sleeping bag is a shitty thin, miserable barrier against the hard ground.

Makes the memories bubble up and resurface, and you have to laugh at yourself. All those photos from childhood through your teens: there you were, every summer vacation, wedged in the backseat of the old family sedan with your walkman’s headphones shoved over your ears, nose buried in a book or hunched over a Game Boy.

So many places your parents took you that you couldn’t spare an ounce of interest in at the time—Yellowstone, the Grand Canyon, Kalaloch, Arches. You tuned them all out in favor of fictional worlds, pixelated screens, and whatever mix tape a friend burned for you.

You hated the cold campground showers. The communal toilets. The mosquitoes that bled you dry while you slept. Wet socks, soaked jeans, mud squelching in your shoes. You used to count the days until you could go back to the city—back to pavement and delivery and indoor plumbing. You chose one of the biggest cities in the world, chock full of conveniences and comforts, to live in for a reason.

You used to whine when there was no cell service. Now you’d give anything just to hear a dial tone.

Funny how nostalgia hits hardest when you’re at your lowest. The backseat of that car had lousy air circulation and your parents constantly sang off-key, but it was, every summer, your whole world.

You didn’t know what it was like to be this exposed. This tired. You didn’t have to worry about where your next meal came from or whether someone was following you. Back then, all you had to worry about was boredom.

Now you worry about waking up at all. Dying before the big deadline.

The people you’ve met haven’t helped. Mostly weirdos and creeps. The decent ones peeled off weeks ago, chasing greener pastures, hunting for better places to wait out the end. You should’ve left then, too. Instead, you’re the last gazelle, trying to cross the river long after the herd stampeded ahead. The crocodiles circling in.

You’re late to the migration, and everything about you shows it.

One of the wheels on your suitcase gave out just outside city limits—snapped clean off. You’ve been dragging it, balancing it precariously on the single wheel or scraping it against the pavement. Carrying it is no better; it’s heavy and awkward, a constant reminder of how little you actually planned for this.

Now, you crouch behind the battered back door of a long-closed Greggs, clutching a brick tight in your palm. You fumble with the lock holding the chain looped through the handles, cursing whoever thought, Yeah, the world’s ending—better lock up tight. You crouch, lift and swing the brick at it. The impact rattles up your arm and stings. The lock doesn’t budge.

You look both directions down the lane, but no one emerges.

You grit your teeth, breath fogging in the cold, and seriously consider moving on. There’s probably an easier door to jimmy open somewhere, somewhere less obvious, but it’s not just about shelter now. You’re stuck on it. This place is here. Locked. Dry. Closed to you. And maybe there’s something left inside. Scraps of something edible. You’d take a handful of sugar sticks to bolster your supplies at this point. 

Mostly, it’s the roof you care about. Four solid walls between you and the elements and the road and people. Not so obvious a place one’s likely to check for a lone woman trying to survive the night.

You think about the motel you tried earlier—the ‘clerk,’ some older woman with smudged lipstick, asked if you were open to roommates, then waved to the orgy happening beside a very green pool. The whole place was ‘booked out’ until September. Not your scene.

Fingers trembling from frustration and exhaustion, you try the lock again. And again. And again. No luck. The brick chips, your palm rubs raw, and the rain picks up.

You raise the brick one last time, not to break in anymore but to just to beat something. You feel stupid. So damn stupid. Tomorrow, you think, you’ll join the first roadside cult or motel orgy you stumble on. At least there’s community there. Someone who might actually care. Someone—

“Think they’re closed.”

A voice cuts in over your shoulder.

You whip around, but you’re so in shock, you don’t have the presence of mind to be afraid. Not those first, breathless seconds.

The man who’s snuck up on you is a sight. Blood trickles from a jagged cut high on his forehead, near the hairline, splitting into thin tributaries that run down and tangle in the thick curls of his beard. Another streak, dark and wet, drips from the corner of his mouth, painting his lower lip red. 

And yet, the wounds aren’t what form your first impression.

It’s the fact he’s dressed like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. An anorak and a brimmed hat shield him from the rain. The heavy-duty, military-surplus pack on his back.

Your gaze drops to the knife strapped to his belt, then to the handgun holstered on his hip.  Your eyes bounce back up, stomach plummeting when you spot the unmistakable length of a rifle barrel jutting just past his shoulder. 

It’s been a long time since you last saw a gun. Not since your last visit home, when you watched your father sit at the kitchen table, meticulously cleaning his faithful Remington. The steady rasp of the cleaning rod, the smell of oil. That memory feels like another life entirely.

It doesn’t stave off the fear that sets in.

The brick falls from your hand and splits at your feet.

You can’t move. Can’t speak. You only watch as he reaches over his shoulder and draws out a long pair of bolt cutters, the metal jaws catching what little light there is. Your body jerks like it’s bracing for impact.

This is it, you think. Not the asteroid. Not some divine, cosmic reckoning. Just you, alone, outside a fucking Greggs, about to meet your end at the hands of a stranger carrying a small arsenal.

“I–I don’t have—”

He cuts you off. “Mind if I…? No, don’t think you do.”

Without waiting for your answer, he gestures for you to step aside. Your eyes stay wide, your hands twitching like you’ve been shocked. He steps forward, clamps the bolt cutters onto the chain, and with a clean snap, it all gives way.

He shoulders the door open and steps just inside, casting a quick look back at you, then over your shoulder, scanning the empty street, and back again. 

Tired blue eyes squint down at you, then sweep over your body—taking inventory, the same way you did him.

“Christ, love,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t be makin’ that kind of racket at night. A bad character might’ve found you.”

The sting of the words catches you off guard. You swallow hard, blinking through the rain, too cold and worn out to argue.

He exhales through his nose like he’s already regretting getting involved. Then he pushes the door open wider, tilting his head toward the dark interior.

“In. Rather not listen to you get picked off by the next bastard who stumbles by.”

[deandoesthingstome]

Can't stop thinking abt ghost being told he should "get a hobby" alot in response to his obsession with his job, so he starts attending slam poetry nights at the small café near his flat.

Ghost, who has no way to express the sheer pain and agony he's been carrying for years and years, is finally introduced to all these different ways to say "I'm hurt".

Ghost coming sitting on the curb outside the café that night ans scrawling the words that have been sticking to his heart for decades now "I am angry before I am alive"

Ghost attending night after night, shyly introducing himself to poets and talking to them about their prose. Maybe one day having the confidence to share his own. Baring his soul to a room of half-strangers in a way he never really could in the military.

[deandoesthingstome]

reblog if you’re profic, proship and anti harassing real people over fiction. so I can break into your house and declare my love to you

[deandoesthingstome]

a brain hairball a la early @553580

childhood sweetheart!Ghost :)

(you can check the tags for your cw spoiler)

I've been thinking all day about Ghost who was your childhood sweetheart that broke up with you right when you thought he was going to propose. it came out of absolutely nowhere and youve never gotten over him. he was so kind to you, so sweet. you still think of him when you go out on first dates. you remember the scrawny kid who's second hand clothes were too big, who would stop by flower bushes and snip stems for you to take home and leave to wilt in a mason jar.

you also think of the way he'd grown distant, how he'd gotten colder the closer you got to adulthood. how he'd started mumbling his "i love you too" and never seemed to text you first. you remember the anxiety, asking him if you'd done something wrong and getting a pained look but no answer. it had felt like an inevitability and yet you couldn't believe it when he broke up with you. things had been so good for so long, where had your lovely Simon gone?

your first dates never pan out, you compare them too readily to a memory of a perfect man who may not have ever really existed. you tell your adult friends about the only man you ever loved and how he was barely 18 when he ditched you for the army, and in all these years he's never once contacted you.

and then he does. bumps into you at the Tesco near your flat and you dont recognize him except he sounds just like your memory of his father —a man you know for a fact is long dead. he's so much bigger than he was a decade ago. so much more of a man when he tugs down his n95 to let you get a good look at what 10 years of military service tears off a baby-face.

he's the same as you remember him. the lines at the corners of his eyes are new but the crooked tilt of his lips is the same when he smiles.he has the same jokes, the ones you can finish for him. the tattoos are new but his fingers trace over the back of your hand in the same patterns. every part of your favorite memories plays out, and this time you swear you won't make the same mistakes.

except you do.

he starts getting cold again.

stops answering your calls.

rain checks too many dates.

he looks at you with something in his eyes that you dont have a name for, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

you're staring down the barrel of the same relationship you've mourned for too many years, but you're an adult now. you don't have to sit down and take it.

so you don't, you go to Simon's flat and force your way inside, and ask him point blank what the fuck you did wrong.

"Nothin'," he tells you, "didn' do anythin' wrong, yer perfect."

"then what's the fucking problem?" you demand.

and he goes silent.

and, well, what is he supposed to say?

that he loves you too much? that you're too good for him? that it's not you, it's him? that it's always been him?

that he looks at you and he cant conceptualize a world that doesn't have you in it, that he can't exist without you? that he never should have followed his friend to church that random Sunday on a whim? that he never should have learned that God is best housed in the stomach?

should he tell you that his affection had started to grow teeth all those years ago, that he'd been too scared of turning into his father to know how to properly curb the urge to possess you down to the marrow? or perhaps tell you that he'd kept away in the hopes that those urges would disappear, that he could find a way to love you, to minimize his affections so that they didnt consume you?

he should tell you that he couldn't beat it, that it's coming back to him with a knife already in hand, that his fingers don't trace your flank with aesthetic appreciation, that he doesn't squeeze your round to make you squeak.

"I want to eat you," he says, his voice flat, "and I know how I would do it."

and really what more does he have to say? there's no warm teasing in his eyes, no playful tilt to his head. his fists clench, knuckles white, and the knife he keeps in his pocket seems to bulge promisingly against the denim. there's not a shadow of doubt in your mind what he means, what urge the military has failed to drown in blood.

so you offer him one of your kidneys.

[deandoesthingstome]

you know it's for life with your lieutenant because you always wake up wondering if today is the you'll finally kill him or just fuck him again. (18+)

there are too many instances of ghost getting on your nerves. he liked to play the rank-card most of the time, kissing his teeth and pushing a half-empty mug your way whenever he fancies himself a cuppa. when you snap a curt, "get it yourself," he always tilts his head to the side and gives you a low, "we got a problem, sergeant?" so there you are, in the rec room, calling him every nasty name under your breath as you steep his tea for not enough time and bring it to him with a scowl. you even look him in the eyes as you lean over and spit right into the cup, but ghost is an asshole, so he takes it from you and takes a sip like nothing ever happened.

he likes using his size against you, especially during drills, in training. calls you stupid, childish names like shrimp and biscuit and little one, not even giving you a chance when you step up to him on the mat. he swats your swings away like you're nothing but a fly and tosses you over his shoulder with barely a grunt. you're left bruised and embarrassed and bleeding from a cut on your lip, and ghost doesn't break a sweat. he laughs in your face, low voice mocking you, taunting you, and you think about putting his face in the crook of the door and slamming it against his head over and over and over again.

he's so mean. he's so cruel. he's so unfair.

"wot, y'gonna show me y'r teeth now, tha' it?"

you glare at him from between his thighs. your cheeks are puffed, cockhead deep inside as you gasp and suck around the thick of him. your teeth are grazing him from how much he fills your mouth, and he grits his teeth as he tangles a gloved hand in your hair and forces a glob of spit down your chin from the way he draws your head back.

he pulls you off of him, and you take deep breaths, whining as he uses the grip on your hair to draw you up off your knees and into his lap.

"giving me a fuckin' headache," he grunts, and you wrap a hand around his cock and twist your wrist. his jaw clenches as you drag your fingers through the slick mess you've left, rubbing just on the underside of him like he likes and feeling him twitch, hot and throbbing.

"shut the fuck up and come," you hiss. ghost laughs.

"yeah? weren't such a brat, maybe i'd be inclined ta."

"your dick says otherwise, baby," you whisper. "there it is, c'mon—"

"fuckin' hell—"

you thrash as you kick your cargoes off. straddling his thick waist, keeping your hand moving, pulling your knickers to the side. there's no foreplay—you won't be able to take him without his fingers, but you're desperate, hooking your free arm around his neck as you guide the tip of him inside of you. it's all you can take without prep, but you keep him there, slicking up his cock as you keep your hand moving and whine against the mouth of his mask. you need it, you need him, as much as you want to bash his teeth in sometimes, as much as you want to throw his blades right back at him, there's something so delicious about seeing him this way.

his terrifying cock. his big presence, physically, emotionally. his dead eyes that look at you adoringly whenever there's a moment of reprieve—there are so many times where you think, where you're certain, that you hate him, but then he's got you underneath him, and his lips are on your jaw, and he's telling you how warm you are as he comes until you're leaking. globs of cum webbing between your thighs, cooling underneath you, exactly where it's supposed to be as he tilts your body up, arches your back, and kisses you as long as there's no light to see his face.

"simon?" you mumble. he lets you call him that when it's late enough. when there's no chance anyone else will hear you. when you're smushed against his side, cheek pressed up against his pudgy chest, legs tangled between his as you snuggle into his body heat.

"wot is it?"

you close your eyes, adjusting your head until you can hear the steady beat of his heart under his ribs. if you didn't hear it yourself like this, you don't think you'd even believe it was real.

"it's..." you swallow. "it's just me...right?"

the insecurity bleeds from your tone like it would from a deep wound. severe. chaotic. pathetic.

"hm." you squeeze your eyes when you feel his hand on your own. fingers touching the naked space where a certain band might go, a deft rub against your ring finger that makes your toes curl. "just you."

hmm. well, okay. you'll make up your mind in the morning; just like always.

[deandoesthingstome]

Your words dissolve into broken little noises, nothing but hot little broken noises against Simon's palm as he fucks your pussy open from the back. His hand is so big it covers half your face, his thumb digging into your cheek as you try to get the words out.

You try— you try— to mumble that you're not like this, that you don't make it a habit to let men follow you home from bars, don't let them fuck just because they pulled a drunk off your arm, but it only comes out wet and incoherent, smeared into the calluses on his palm.

Simon's watching your sweet pussy fuck right open, eyes sharp even through the mess of sweat on his brow, fixed on the way you stretch and drag around his cock, clinging to him every time he pulls out just to drive back in harder, deeper.

It's then that he hears the muffled garble, feels your jaw working against his hand and leans close, his breath fanning hot over the crown of your head. "Whas'at, sweet'eart? Tryn' to tell me somethin'?"

But he doesn't let you speak, not after feeling the first flutter of your pussy, the warning tremor that tells him you're close. Whatever he keeps forcing back down your throat can wait— That's it, right there, let it fuckin' take ya— and you can feel teeth scraping your skin as he presses down, caging you in.

It's only after your orgasm rips through you like wildfire, clutching his cock so fucking sweet, until you've come twice? thrice? that he peels his hand away, leaving your mouth damp with spit where you gasped into his palm, and grips your jaw, forcing your head back towards his chest. "Atta doll. Took me right through it. Go on, now. Say what you were tryin' so hard to get out."

"Mmm—I'm not— I don't— don't usually do this. I'm—"

Simon rolls his hips, and a half-sob half-plea tears from your throat. "No?" His voice is rough, thick with condescension, the rumble vibrating through his chest and into your spine. "'s that why you're trippin' over your pretty little shoes to fuck back on it?"

He can feel the way you’re tightening, see the glossy slick dampening the hair at the base of his cock and running down his thighs. Simon drags you tighter against him, making sure you feel every single inch of him even as your words splutter and break.

"Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep at night."