#Bootstrap based

[egophiliac]

can't believe that skeleman has turned on us, and Halloween Prom is tomorrow.

(what a top-tier UM...we are about to be just totally obliterated in the absolute silliest way. what possible use could this power have outside of bringing us to the brink of utter holiday disaster.)

[theboarsbride]

Happy MerMay, here's a lobster siren I doodled on my phone a bit ago... she scuttles around everywhere and has barnacles growing on her body heehee

Calling her 'Ianthe' for now

[stateofdreaming14]

Okay the dw finale is coming up so its unhinged theory time o'clock

Ok so ive decided that the space babies are actually the rani's experiment using time Lord DNA to create living beings and poppy is gonna turn out to be made from the doctors DNA and she will be the doctor's child/ Susan's mother and that's why Susan ends up involved (perhaps needing to make sure her mother grows up and has her so is forced to work with the rani)

My only evidence for this is that the doctor said in The Devil's Chord that he doesn't know who his child is/who Susan's parent is bc of some timey wimey stuff that means he hasn't had them yet random lore to add if it won't come up later tbh

[sarcoptid]

wanted to sit down and put some effort into drawing pieces of Zari's armor bc i've never actually drawn it in any sort of detail

her boots!

[guyfierip21]

It depends on your work field, your location, etc. It’s not fair to say that hardwork doesn’t get you anywhere; that’s just ignorant and entirely not true.

sorry, let me rephrase: in very few circumstances in today's economy, there is a small chance that a combination of hard work and luck can pull you out of the lower class into the upper class :)

[catenary-chad]

sometimes I feel kind of bad for how aggressively American I make the Starlight verse but tbh it’s a very compelling setting for diesel vs electric rivalry in terms of railroad trends of the 70s and 80s and it REALLY follows the political shift towards neoliberalism at the time

[tobeholyistobeempty]

‘SO YOU CAN LISTEN….GOOD.’ | simon ghost riley

📊 result of my poll found here.

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni, (amt) engineer!reader, asshole!ghost but with motives, slightly stalkerish!ghost, ghost is a cocky bastard but reader is too, so much verbal sparring, enough tension to choke on, reader afab, ghost is a munch and has a unique way of saying sorry, oral f!receiving, religious undertones, fingering, enemies to something worse then enemies, dubcon bc consent verbally unstated, so much dirty talk it hurts, canon warped a bit.

A/N - this ended up being so much longer than i intended but dear god it needed that build up. ghost makes a real wild first impression. 12k.

Today was just another day. Just another day.

At least, that's what you kept telling yourself as you grabbed your data pad from the terminal and made your way toward the front of the hangar — pulse thrumming, blood pressure undoubtedly a tad higher than usual. Perhaps today was just another day, but to say that it didn't hold slightly more merit than yesterday would be a fucking lie.

Today marks the date of your six month performance evaluation. Today is the day you finally find out if you nab that promotion or not.

And maybe you’re overthinking, maybe you’re nervous for no reason. Did this promotion make or break your career? Would not getting promoted singlehandedly destroy everything you've achieved and accomplished over the last however many years? No.

But it would definitely feel like a real kick in the ass given everything that you've done for this place since you got here.

The day you first got that damned data-pad, you should have known this job would be a complete shitshow. Still, you pulled up yourself up by your bootstraps and did your duties just like every other day — and that day like all the previous ones since you graduated. You’d been all over the world at this point, as an AMT you go wherever you’re needed and usually remain however long you’re needed for. But this transfer — to an unnamed, unmarked base in the middle of goddamn no where — is different then anything you’d ever done before.

The hours are different, the people are different, the pay is different. It was unexpected, but when their last head AMT simply vanished without a fucking trace — it seemed as though they scrambled, and took the next best thing they could find (or so you like to tell yourself).

It’s all a little…strange, to say the least.

And of course, there’s been talk about what happened to their last head engineer, speculations, but it seems no one actually knows for certain. It’s one of those things that everyone low rank whispers about, but no one high up with actual informative intel dares to speak on — which only made the chatter worse.

Along with your nerves.

Regardless, you didn’t have a choice, and the first day of your transfer was a baptism by fire — stepping into the aftermath of utter chaos they'd left behind.

Your job isn’t to save lives in the heat of battle, or to clear rooms, or to conduct stealth operations. No, your job is to repair aircrafts torn to hell and back and continue to keep them functional. It’s rather thankless, and often you'd find yourself overworked and under-appreciated — which, granted, goes hand-in-hand with your overall life summary — but the hangar at TF141’s main base was a sight to behold, and not in any positive sense. Neglected and battered machinery lay strewn about, with debris haphazardly scattered in every fucking corner imaginable. By the time you'd reached the actual aircraft's you were almost afraid to look at them — and for good goddamn cause.

TF141 has two main helo’s: MH-6 Little Bird and an AH-6J Little Bird. Upon first inspection of them, you’d almost thought they'd been through a war of their own — hastily patched together with little regard for proper repair. The evidence of prior negligence was glaring, and you were fucking fuming.

You'd expected some clean up, but not that much.

And to top it all off, you were given clear instruction by General Shepherd himself to keep your mouth shut and your head down, do your job and mind your own. On your way out of his office he informed you, surely out of the sheer kindness of his heart, that although he couldn't tell you what exactly happened to their prior head engineer, you could easily suffer the same fate if you weren't careful.

Which was more than enough to shake the very foundation of your so very deeply engraved attitude problem.

No matter how pissed off and irritated you’d been during your start here, you kept your emotions bottled up until you were back inside the privacy of your barracks and could freely let it explode. It's been a little maddening almost, the solace. You'd been here half a year and the only person you've had an actual conversation with outside of the other engineers is 141’s Captain, and that was only when he was looking for a debriefing on your recent repair work.

However, amidst the avoidance and the uneasy silence that you experience on a daily with the others, there seems to always be one fucking exception;

Ghost.

You'd seen photos and heard a lot about him prior to this assignment — the mysterious Lieutenant with a reputation that preceded him as if the Grim Reaper himself were present on earth.

But meeting him, being around him, well that was something fucking else entirely.

He routinely shows up at random hours, never muttering more than a few words to you before pissing off — disappearing into the shadows or taking out one of the birds. It’s always odd. He is odd. And the cryptic comments coupled with his rather bizarre reputation continue to leave you tangled between the dangerous desire to learn everything you can about the man, and the primal instinct to avoid him at all fucking costs.

Though, even if you had the choice, it wouldn't matter.

If and when Ghost decides to present himself to you, it is impossible to prevent it. His approach is as translucent as his namesake. You'd never fucking know he was coming, and if you did, it’s with purpose.

Nevertheless, you couldn't worry about him, or any of the other nonsensical bullshit today. You had other matters on your mind such as ensuring the hangar was in perfect condition for inspection later that evening. Price let you know rather early in advance that a hangar and aircraft inspection are part of your performance review — which clearly means the state of them would determine whether or not you passed.

There would be absolutely no room for error, and no one to complain to when it didn't go your way either. If this inspection failed, it would be the result of your own incompetence — and you were well aware of how that would be perceived. You didn't want to give any reason, any chance to end up like the former Engineer, after all.

So today is about one thing, and one thing alone, proving yourself worthy of that promotion.

With your data pad in hand, you began a quick sweep of the hangar, ensuring the guys hadn't made too much of a mess overnight or early this morning before you arrived. A few things were out of place, but for the most part, everything looked good.

Well, except for one thing — which was currently barrelling toward you at a dangerous fucking speed.

"Bloody fucking hell..."

Your data pad nearly fell from your grasp, your jaw dropping in disbelief as your ears rang — no, damn-near wailed — a deafening roar shattering the silence you'd just found yourself in, accompanied by the shrill whine of metal grinding against metal. You couldn't believe your eyes, your feet absentmindedly carrying you closer to the destroyed helo landing on the far side of the hangar, smoke billowing from its battered frame, obscuring the air with a veil of grey.

And as you got closer, you realized it only got worse — a door was missing, torn from its hinges, and half of the exterior was brutally ripped away. You didn't even realize you were clenching your hands into fists until you felt the glass of your data pad crack beneath your fingers.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me.” You’re all but yelling as you take in the damage. "Today? Today. Of all goddamn days! Bloody ignorant bastards.”

As soon as those words were past your teeth, there’s movement from inside the cabin — heavy laden set steps — two iron slabs clanking against the metal floor, quaking the ground underneath your own feet, too. The air thinned slightly, but you didn't notice, too inebriated off your anger to think of anything other than cursing the hell out of whoever was inside.

You came to a halt in front of the now door-less opening, coming face to face with a pair of rich brown eyes peering down at you.

"Care t’repeat tha’?" A deep, low voice rumbled from under a faded, skull-faced balaclava. You swear the ground trembled as he jumped down. "...I'd like t’make sure I heard y’right."

You’d have to imagine he was grinning under that mask, and it only made your fucking blood boil.

"Ghost, why didn't you tell me-“

He cuts you off mid-sentence with a gesture of his hand.

"I need permission t’take out my own helo now? Huh.” A shake of his head. “Y’should know I was told to test your repairs. Bosses orders, sweet’eart. Take it up with him if you’ve gotta’ problem.”

"You-" your lips part, but words elude you. Due to his admission or the nickname he used, you aren’t entirely sure. "What?"

Ghost blinks, sight sweeping the empty hangar for a fraction of a second before fixing back on you.

"Y’heard me." He steps closer, smoke billowing behind him. "Or d'you need me t'repeat it again?" A pause, twitch of his lips. "I can speak slower, if you’d like.”

What a dick.

You pull your own lips thin, trying to trap the profanity desperately wanting to fly his way. “I think you’ve done enough.”

He just hums.

"Way I see it, y’got two options.” He starts, and you long to tell him to shove his options somewhere the sun don’t shine. “Get pissed off with me, which is futile, since I ain’t the one y’actually got a problem with. Or, y’can get back to work and fix er’ up before Price comes down in an hour. Your choice 'ere."

An hour. A fucking hour? Is he clinically insane? This is easily about three days of work. And that’s if the bloody stars align.

"You’re unbelievable.” Scowl laden, you frown at him, words dripping venom as you shake your pounding head. "How nice of you to give me the option of choosing. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude, truly."

A beat of silence, unreadable eyes flicking over you.

“S’that sarcasm, engineer?” And then, he takes another step closer.

It never gets easier — the way he fills the space, how much bigger he is when he’s this close, broad shoulders cutting the world around you down to just him. He could crush you if he wanted. You’ve never forgotten that.

Your lips part, but before you can get a word out he’s already speaking.

"Y'know," he peers down at you with a slight tilt of his head. "A simple ‘thank you' wouldn't be the end of tha’ world."

You deadpan, biting back the scoff threatening to escape. Thank him? He wants you to thank him — for blowing a helo out of the sky an hour before the biggest inspection of your life? No. He’s not insane. He’s out of his goddamn mind.

“Thank you for what, exactly?” You force the words out, fighting to keep the sarcasm at bay, to sound even remotely genuine.

It doesn’t help that he’s right there, close enough to reach out and touch. You’ve been through enough in your time with the military to handle pressure, but there’s something about him — the bulk of him, the way he commands the space around him, the fact you can never read his facial expressions — that makes it hard to breathe.

Not to mention the tac gear he’s always dressed in. Layered thick like it’s meant for a frozen wasteland instead of the stifling summer heat you’re currently experiencing.

“F’givin’ you a passin’ grade,” he says, like that means a damn thing to you.

This game is getting old.

“What the hell do you think you’re talking about now?” Heat flares beneath your skin, frustration mounting. “If that was a test, then it was a goddamn shitty one. You didn’t fly it. You destroyed it.”

He steps in again, exhaling like you’re the one wasting his time.

“M’giving you an opportunity. Take it or leave it.” You’re ready to bite back, to tell him exactly where he can put his opportunity, but then— “How’re you s’posed to prove y’worth somethin’, when no one thinks you’ve got it in ya?”

For the third time today, he shuts you up. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. This is, without a doubt, the strangest, most infuriating first interaction you’ve ever had with anyone in your entire life.

“Wow.” That’s all you manage. You knew being one of the only female engineers here would put you at a disadvantage, but this? Blowing up the helo just to test if you can fix it? It’s beyond comprehension. “That’s great, Ghost. Thanks.”

He doesn’t blink—just steps closer again, crowding you until you have to tilt your chin up to keep his gaze.

“Lieutenant.” Flat. Unyielding. But there’s something about the way it drips off his tongue that makes the hairs on your arms stand on end. It’s not a request. It’s a correction. “Say it.”

Oh.

Heat licks up your neck, pooling at the base of your skull, and you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. You swallow hard, forcing down the lump wedged in your throat because technically he is still your superior, regardless if he holds power over your job or not.

“Thank you,” you start again, your ego turning purple. “Lieutenant.”

You don’t look, but you feel his head tilt. You’d bet your life he’s smiling.

"So you can listen." Warm air skims your throat, and you’re not sure if it’s coming from him or from the heat of the burning aircraft - but it stings. "...good."

And then, when he realizes you’ve most likely bitten your tongue in half at this point, he takes a step back. You watch him now, eyes like a laser as he turns and heads for the door without another word. And almost immediately after he vanishes out into the hall you take the opportunity to suck in air like you’re starved of it, not realizing how fucking tense you were until he was out of sight.

Leaving you with a burning helo, an hour of time to fix it, and a whole lot of fuckin��� irritation.

“You bastard.” You mutter under your breath, staring at the wreckage before you.

If there was another option, you sure as hell didn’t know it. But no matter how impossible this seemed, failure wasn’t on the table — not after the years you’d put into this, the money, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices. You didn’t crawl your way up through this goddamn system just to crash and burn now.

You needed a miracle.

And for the next two hours in the hangar, chaos was the only thing you knew.

You’ve never worked this fast in your life. The moment you got down to business you started barking orders, pulling maintenance techs and engineers off other projects, shoving tools into hands and sending them where they’re needed. There’s no room for hesitation, no time to second-guess — the aircraft has to be back in the air, and it has to be now.

And within minutes smoke steeped the hangar, sparks bursting like firecrackers from stripped wires. Everyone’s locked in — shouts, curses, the groan of machinery being pushed and pulled back together reverberating. It’s frantic, relentless, like a pack of starving wolves tearing at a fresh carcass, and you’re right there in the thick of it, teeth bared, fighting to hold the whole damn thing together.

But the euphemism falls short, because this wasn’t just a carcass torn open, in need of some stitching. It was worse — much worse.

The helo wasn’t just damaged; it was obliterated. Every inch of it had been shredded to ribbons, from the engine to the exterior frame, internal wiring snapped and twisted beyond recognition. Whatever the fuck that maniac had done, he hadn’t just tested its limits — he’d taken a sledgehammer to it and kept swinging.

You’ve seen aircraft’s in bad shape before, but nothing like this. It was a wreck, a heap of smoldering metal and sparking circuits, and somehow, you’re supposed to pull it back from the dead. But there’s no time to dwell on the impossibility of it — not when you’re hauling replacement parts back and forth, hands slick with oil and sweat, not when you’re welding and soldering with the kind of precision that would make your professors weep, not when the only thing keeping you moving is sheer goddamn will.

And then, after what feels like hours, you hear it—footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, the kind that don’t belong to someone who helps—but someone who watches.

“My, my.” You recognize the voice instantly—Captain Price. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

You practically fling yourself to your feet, dragging a sleeve across your forehead, smearing grime over skin already slick with sweat. You almost groan in exasperation, but you swallow it down, clenching your jaw, praying to whatever god might be listening for the strength to not say something about Ghost that’ll get you court-martialed.

“Sir,” you greet him with a respectful nod. “I was informed, rather late mind you, that there was a scheduled test flight.”

A beat.

“Test flight,” Price repeats, brow lifting with something you can’t quite name. “Right. Test flight.”

A sharp bark of laughter leaves him, short and humourless, shaking his head as his eyes rake over the half-patched wreckage sprawled before him.

“And this,” he turns back to you. “This is the damage from that test flight?”

You hesitate—just for a fraction of a second—before nodding, breath held tight in your chest. It’s useless, really. You both know there’s no universe where a few minutes in the air could inflict this level of destruction. Price might’ve ordered Ghost to take the bird up, to test your work a little more personally—but there’s no way in hell he told him to annihilate the goddamn thing.

You’d bet your entire career the bastard did not have permission to go this far.

“Fucken’ typical,” Price mutters, pulling off his cap as he begins pacing around the bird, taking in the carnage from every angle. “Damn near destroyed the thing.”

That’ll be your fault, you think grimly. You’re the one who gave him the fucking order, after all.

But you keep your mouth shut, trailing behind him as he circles the wreckage, eyes sweeping over the mess of half-patched repairs. When he stops short, turning on his heel so fast you almost stumble back, you know what’s coming before he even speaks.

“How long’s this gonna’ take to fix?”

You inhale sharply, trying to steady yourself. Swallow, but your throat stays dry. It’s not hesitation—it’s knowing the answer is one he won’t like. You don’t even like it. Because with the kind of damage Ghost inflicted, there’s no way in hell you’ll have it ready for any type of inspection today.

“For proper repairs and testing?” You exhale, shaking your head. “Days. At least two, sir.”

You brace yourself for impact—for the reprimand, the frustration, the inevitable do better speech. But it doesn’t come. He only sighs, nodding once before readjusting his cap.

“Two days, then.” He’s already walking away, halfway to the hangar doors when he glances back over his shoulder. “Performance review postponed.”

Those last three words make your stomach churn, and then Price is gone.

“Goddamn it. Asshole.”

The curse leaves you sharper than intended, loud enough to carry across the hangar. You don’t care. How could you? The moment you’ve bled for—postponed—because one insufferable bastard decided to make a spectacle of himself. You want to scream, to hurl every goddamn tool in reach straight at his smug, masked face.

Instead, you inhale deeply, exhaling through gritted teeth before turning to the crew.

“Call it a night, guys. I appreciate the help.”

A few nod, murmuring about leaving their assignments to meet early and help with the rest of the repairs, but their voices barely register. You’re exhausted, and you need a fucking shower — so you just mutter some type of agreement and head for the door. You walk the path back to housing, hardly even noticing that it’s nightfall now. Price must have come later than planned, though you really have no idea the hour because in all honesty you weren’t keep track of time. Either way, your boots hit the threshold of the barracks before you even realize you’d made it inside, your full focus on forcing your mind to keep busy.

You head straight for the showers, not bothering to grab fresh clothes. If you stop now, you might start thinking again — about the disaster of a day, about him, about the sheer fucking audacity — and that’s the last thing you need.

You tear off your disgusting uniform in seconds. The water is scalding, but you don’t flinch. If anything, you lean into it, letting the heat work its way into your bones, washing away the sweat, the grease, the tension coiled tight in your shoulders. You brace a hand against the tiled wall, exhaling sharply.

Fucking Ghost.

Your mind takes over now that you lack distraction, and the name alone is enough to set your teeth on edge. He didn’t just make your job harder—he deliberately threw you into the fire, watched you scramble, tested you like you were some new recruit fresh out of training. And the worst part? He got exactly what he wanted.

You hate that you rose to the challenge. That you had to. You just can’t figure out why. Why he did it — where his motives are.

Steam curls around you as you drop your head, water hammering against your spine, drowning out everything else. Your breaths come heavy, dragging in and out of your chest like you’ve just run a goddamn marathon, so busy in your thoughts that you don’t notice the shift in the air, the faint tremor in the ground beneath you.

You don’t hear the footsteps until they’re too close to ignore, breaking through your sorrows, coming to a halt just beyond the dividing wall. For a long, heavy moment, there’s nothing. Just the steady rush of water, the sound of your own breathing.

Then—

“Y’done sulkin’ yet?”

Fucking hell.

You snap to attention, the sound of that voice like a gut punch. Verbal inflection so intense that only after a few conversations (if you can even call them that) you know you’d recognize it in your sleep, and it takes all of your willpower not to react with more than just the involuntary stiffening in your muscles.

You blink the water out of your eyes, trying to center yourself.

“Do you make a hobby out of sneaking in on people while they shower?” You ask, forcing your voice to stay light, to not betray the rush of heat in your chest. You should’ve seen this coming. Should’ve known this wasn’t the end of the goddamn shitshow. “Or am I just that special?”

"Didn’t know I had t’make an appointment for a communal shower.”

God, that does something to you, and you hate that it does. He’s taking your attitude and he’s feeding it right back to you — and the taste of your own medicine has never been so bitter.

Then, you hear his boots against the floor again, his voice accompanying. “Seems there’s alot I don’ know about ya.”

And again. It’s that tone. The way it drags, measured, like he’s thinking out loud. Like he’s taking you apart in his mind piece by piece. Trying to figure you out.

And you—stupidly, impulsively—throw it back at him.

“I’d say we’re even, then.”

It slips out before you can stop it, and you know it’s a mistake the second the words settle. Because he stops moving. The air tightens. A beat stretches long between you. You take the opportunity to reach for your towel, turn off the water, anything to not feel so vulnerable — but it doesn’t help. Not when you’re suddenly so acutely aware of how close he is. How little space separates you.

How very little there is between you at all.

You swallow, forcing steel into your voice. “I don’t even know your name.”

Then, the softest sound — amusement, maybe.

“Not sure y’need to.”

You exhale sharply through your nose, pulling the towel tight around your torso. Of course.

“Not sure I want to.” You mutter, more to yourself than anything.

But he catches it anyway.

You hear the shift of his stance, another hum of amusement. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

And that does it.

You know you’re walking straight into the trap he’s setting, but you don’t care anymore. Your patience is gone, worn to the bone, and you won’t be able to sleep tonight if you don’t get to glare him right in the eyes and tell him to fuck off.

“Cut the shit, Ghost.” The stall door slams open as you shove it wide, padding forward until your bare feet nearly touch his boots. “Why the hell are you even here?”

You don’t expect to hit a brick wall, but that’s exactly what it feels like. He’s missing a layer of tac gear now, hands stuffed into the pockets of his cargos, shoulder propped against the support beam like he’s been here all night. His gaze flicks over your face, your neck, the way water drips from your skin.

You fight not to pull your towel tighter.

“Cap’s orders.” He states, voice easy, right as rain. “Told me t’make amends.”

He has to be kidding.

“Make amends.” You repeat the words flatly, tasting them, turning them over in your mind like they might somehow make more sense on the second pass. “He told you to make amends.”

They don’t.

And when he nods — you huff a laugh, humourless.

“Right. And you thought the best way to do that was to sneak into the showers and stand there like a fucking serial killer?”

“Didn’t sneak,” he says simply. “Walked in same as you.”

You blink. You have this sick feeling he’s enjoying this. Enjoying every reaction you’re giving.

“Yet your intent is not the same as mine.”

He looks at the door, then back to you. “Ain’t it?”

You inhale sharply through your nose, hands tightening around the towel at your chest. You know better than to engage with this — than to let him push and prod and get under your skin. But it’s too late. He’s already there, and you’re too goddamn tired to claw him back out.

“Look,” you sigh, shifting your weight, fighting not to admire the bulk of his chest at your eye level. “Whatever Price told you to do, consider it done. Apology accepted. Now get the fuck out so I can forget this conversation ever happened.”

A long beat. You don’t know what kind of response you expect, but the way he just stands there considering you is somehow worse than all the possible outcomes you’d imagined.

Then, finally—finally—he moves. But not to leave.

Instead, he pushes off the beam, straightening to full height and moves closer. Not much, just enough to make you feel it — the shift in the air — the heat radiating off him.

“Y’sure about that?” His voice is quieter now, head tilting down toward yours. “Seem a little too wound for someone who’s ready t’forget about it.”

A huff. “And you seem a little too invested for someone who’s just here on orders.”

It's stupid. It's really goddamn stupid how he's able to do this, to turn your words into a rope he can use to drag you around the way he wants. You know that. But still, you’re useless in stopping the way your stomach keens as he leans closer.

"Y’gonna deny you’re still pissed at me?” He whispers.

You shake your head. “Never said I wasn’t still pissed.”

"Mhm." He nods along with it. "But pissed don't fully describe it, does it?”

"It’s an improvement from murderous,” you retort, as pointedly as you can muster. “Count your blessings.”

Another hum, eyes dragging slow over your face, like he’s searching for something. Or maybe just savouring it — the way you bristle under his scrutiny — the way your fingers twitch where they clutch at your towel.

“M’grateful for y’kindness. Truly.” It takes you a second to register it—the cadence, the words, the mockery. He’s parroting you. Throwing your own attitude from earlier back in your face. “But y’know, yeah? I only did what I did ‘cause I knew y’could handle it.”

You go still, pulse hammering in your throat.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ghost.” Your voice wavers, choked by realization that everything he does has motive. “And definitely don’t flatter me. Not now.”

A slow exhale, warm against your chilled skin, hooded eyes flicking to your ear like he’s considering something.

“S’not flattery. Just truth.”

And then— closer. Close enough that the breath between you is thin, almost nonexistent.

“M’not a good man, sweet’eart. M’a filthy, vile thing. But you—” a pause. He breathes in, your hair shifting with the exhale. “Mm. Y’good. Clean. I knew y’could take it. Needed Price t’know it too.”

Well, fuck.

Your head is spinning now, but even through the vertigo you realize your second mistake. You know it’s a mistake the moment it happens — rather, the moment before it happens — but when your head shifts, just enough that your ear brushes against fabric of his mask; you realize it’s the type of mistake you can’t come back from.

And so, you breathe him in. It’s reckless. It’s ruinous. It’s completely unavoidable.

“My gut is telling me you’re patronizing me.” You whisper; something softer, something you shouldn’t allow. A pause. Your lashes flutter. “But god, I can’t figure you out.”

And again, you don’t know what reaction you expect from him. Maybe you don’t expect one at all. It’s been an exceptionally odd 24 hours, so you’re certain nothing can surprise you at this point. But what you definitely don’t count on is the continued brush of his mask against your cheek, or the way your toes long to curl against the damp floor—

"Y’not suppose to." His voice is so deep you feel it in your bones. “S’don’t try too hard.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but you do know you should step back. You need to step back.

But you don’t.

You stay right there, still as the air between you, every nerve suffocated by the viscosity stretching between his words and yours. The scent of him—gunmetal, something dark and earthen—settles in your lungs like smoke; curling, clinging, refusing to leave.

And so, you breathe him in for the second time. A dangerous temptation. “You came here to make amends, didn’t you?”

The words leave you quieter than you mean them to, tinged in something close to breathlessness — something you wish to god you didn’t hear. Something you hope to god he didn’t hear.

Because atleast now, you can say you know how he is — how he listens, how he picks the quirks out of you and files them away for later — how he knows what to do with the things he finds in people, how to use them like leverage.

And you should be immune to it.

You’ve spent your entire career training for moments like these. All the military training you went through, tactical and aerospace alike. You’ve been thrown into war zones, fixed and pulled aircraft’s out of burning fields, run repairs under enemy fire with nothing but your hands and your own goddamn heartbeat when the situation called for it.

You know what fear looks like. You know what death smells like. You know what it means to be hunted.

And yet—this? You never saw this coming.

Never saw him coming.

“Y’want an apology?” He mutters, and you can hear the smirk in it. “Y’want m’to say I’m sorry?”

“That’d be a good start.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just watches you, the smirk in his voice lingering, curling at the edges of the silence between you.

Then, he hums. “How ’bout I do y’one better?”

You barely have time to process the shift before you feel it—his hand—rough, calloused palm grazing slow along the towel covering your hip.

“Let m’spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow,” he murmurs, fingers tracing lower with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. “Get y’feelin’ just how much I mean it.”

For a moment, you forget everything.

All the reasons, all the lines. The ones he's crossing — or maybe the ones you're erasing with every second you let his massive paw of a hand touch you. God — you aren't supposed to want this. You don’t know even know him. Don’t know his name, what his face looks like. You don’t know anything about him except that he’s dangerous, and that he’s made you fucking ache.

You exhale — when the moment passes and you remember where you are — a long, almost shaky breath, and it doesn't escape you the way he notices. Watches you through those thick lashes, like he's enjoying the reaction he's been working so hard for.

You wish you could hate him for it.

“Make me feel it then,” you whisper, all pathetic and trembling and borderline wanton as his fingers find the end of your towel, and brush against goosebumped flesh. “Lieutenant.”

And for a moment, you think you’ve made your third mistake of the evening. His title slips out like a curse — and something in your chest roars with how much you mean it.

He's so goddamn cocky. So sure of himself and you hate that you're the one he's so sure of. But when you call him by his rank — when you push that sarcastic mouth of yours just a little bit further, you can feel his reaction instantaneously by the way he stalls — eyes glinting in the low light.

"She wants t’bring rank into this now, yeah?” And when you don’t reply fast enough, he replies for you. “Get in the stall, engineer.”

There's a thousand reasons this is a bad idea. A million reasons you should be saying no right now. But when he looks at you like that, with those eyes like fire locked on yours and practically daring you to refuse him — he has to know he’s not going to get it.

His hand comes up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “Now.”

And that, is your fourth mistake of the night.

You turn, padding back into the stall you’d showered in only moments before — tiles still beading with diamond droplets, gleaming up at you as you step inside. You turn as he follows you in, crowding you against the wall, broad shoulders taking up all the width in the already cramped space as he shuts the door behind him.

And then, he’s on you.

It's so abrupt and so visceral that it takes your breath away entirely. Your hands go up automatically to catch his chest, steadying yourself when he slots his knee between your legs, pinning you against the wall. Your towel is barely clinging around you, and it’s a shocker it still is — but you forget about it when he starts dipping his head down.

"Feels good, don’t it? Bein’ told what t'do?” He murmurs, fabric covered lips grazing the shell of your ear. "M'bettin’ y’don’t experience this much anymore. Tha’s why you’re melting for it.”

And god, the fact that he’s right. He shouldn’t be, but he is.

Somewhere between your rank and your title and your pride, you’ve forgotten the last time you had someone looking at you like this. There’s a part of you that wants to fight it, to bite and scratch and insist that you're nothing like he's saying — but then a hand slips up around your throat, and the other down between the space separating your bodies, thick fingers catching the end of your towel — and your eyes flutter.

“M’not hearing any apologies.” You manage to mutter, just before those same thick digits find your inner thigh, working up higher.

You're deflecting. The both of you know it. The same pride that drove you to where you are is the same pride that drove him where he is. You think he’s going to call you on it, but then you realize he won’t. Not when the hand at your throat tightens just barely, not when his voice drips into your ear.

"Y’gonna feel em’ soon.”

And then, you do.

You feel the grazing of calloused flesh against sensitive, damn-near celibate flesh. There’s another sound. A low, wanton, filthy moan, and you’re about 94% sure it came from you as beastly fingers slide along your slick slit, exposing the extent of your need to his ego in its entirety — once, twice, curling toward your sopping entrance before you feel the thunder of his hum.

Mocking. "Christ. S’like m’workin’ a faucet, yeah?"

His lips are on your neck now, mouthing slow and deliberate along your jaw even while covered by fabric — and the whimper that slips out is pathetic, even to your own ears.

"Wha’s that?” He all but growls. "C'mon, use y'words f’me. Or d’you only know how t’spit insults?“

You do know how to use your words, actually — and they're usually good ones. You've got a sharp tongue, a mouth just as foul as your temper. So you don't know what to do when every curse, every name, every string of insults you keep in stock gets caught in your throat. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but try not to gasp when his fingers slide up to your clit and swirl.

"Fucking hell." Your jaw goes slack under the hand that holds it. "You—really are vile—“

This whole goddamn thing is vile. The way he can ruin you like this — make you quiver like this — in moments without so much as a name or face to attach the memory of it to.

If he's vile, you know you're not much better.

"Yeah. Tha’s right. I know you’re feelin’ it." He murmurs, fingers circling your clit firmer, faster. "Look how y’squirmin’ for it.”

You have half a mind to spit in his face for that. You have half a mind to tell him to go to hell. You have a million other things you should be doing right now other than clawing at his chest just to stay upright as he brings you to the brink of ruin.

"T-there you go again—mmf—“ your words are so breathless it’s pathetic. “Flattering yourself.”

It’s a futile attempt at a rebuttal, a stupid one because you already know the response he’s going to have to it. Pathetic. You are squirming, and you want to hate him for it, so you do. Your nails bite into his chest, dragging, raking slow and hard as if you could tear through the fabric covering it. You know you wouldn’t. Couldn't. But it's still good enough for him to grunt, hand around your throat tightening just enough to make you gasp in response.

"S’not flattery. Just truth.” He parrots himself again from earlier, and you think you’re on the verge of losing your mind because you know him well enough now have to predicted it. “Y’fuckin need this, don’ you?”

It's not a question. He doesn't need you to answer, because you both know how it ends anyway. But god damn him and his words. Because his filthy mouth is the second most dangerous thing to ever happen to you — right behind his fingers. You need to reply. Need to answer. He's going to force a reaction from you one way or another.

But he doesn’t give you the luxury of even trying.

His fingers still with a suddenness that makes you cry out in frustration — silver platter feeding him exactly what he was fucking looking for.

"Mhm. S’what I thought." He murmurs, hand sliding from around your throat to the back of your head. “M’guessing it’s been years. Least’ a couple.”

And it’s then, that you get it.

You get why this man is feared. You get why he’s so fucking dangerous. He’s worse than the name you know him by — because you’re certain even ghosts aren’t this knowing. This brutal. This consuming.

And through the haze in your head, you try to think back to the day you first met him. There had to have been dark signs — omens in your skies — a warning.

Yet, you can’t think of one.

“F-fuck you.” You spit it at him, because it’s apparently all your mouth is good for. “Stroke your ego any harder and it might just fucking cum before I do.”

He laughs, and then you feel it. The grip tightening in your hair, the palm slapping at your inner thigh to work your legs wider.

“Judging by tha’ mouth, y’never been fucked right either.” He mutters, fingers slipping up the slick coating your thighs. “S’alright. M’here to apologize, yeah? I’ll pay m’penance.”

Bullshit.

He’s not going to apologize by any means — if the last however many minutes aren’t proof enough of that. This is punishment in its worst form, and even that’s not enough. If you want him to make it up to you, you’re going to have to take it.

"Get on your fucking knees, then.” You’re so unbelievably wired that you hardly even realize what you’d said. You hardly even realize when you continue. “And use that mouth for something other than self elation.”

If you thought this was dangerous before - you’re not sure what the fuck this is now.

If someone had asked you an hour ago if you'd ever considered you have a death wish of this caliber, you’d have laughed. If someone had asked you if you were capable of saying half the things you’re saying right now, you’d have laughed even harder. But the fact that they’re leaving your lips - your lips that are now trembling with the realization that you just ordered one of the most dangerous men in the world to kneel — is enough to make you dizzy.

But then, he does it.

He sinks to those knees, cargos sponging the cold showered tiles as he does.

And you don’t think— not really — not for a moment.

Because if you did, you might have wondered if your pride and your dignity are even worth the way he’s looking at you right now — like he wants to eat you alive. You might have wondered if you were dreaming, if this was even physically fucking possible — the nameless, faceless man who has scared people shitless with just his reputation, kneeling between your fucking feet.

“Fuck.” It slips out in an exhale, and you don’t even hear it.

He does, though.

And in response, he holds your eyes while pulling at the edge of his balaclava. Just enough to uncover his jaw and lips — thick, pillow-full lips cocked into the type of grin you’d have expected, but steals the remainder of your breath regardless.

“M’gonna’ spell it out f’you. Nice n’ slow.” He rasps, pulling one of your thighs over his shoulder. “M’sorry.”

Oh, how you wish he meant that.

Because he isn’t. He isn’t the least bit apologetic when he pushes your back against the tiled walls with a heavy palm against your pelvis — he isn’t the least bit remorseful when he’s dragging his teeth along your inner thigh, nipping and lapping — and he’s certainly not the least bit sorry as he brings that filthy fucking mouth of his to your slit, and starts to devour you like he’s starved.

And this, you know is sin.

You know this, because you’ve never felt a mouth on you until now that made you think of god. You’ve never felt fingers dig into flesh with enough force to bruise the way his do — never felt anything that could make you forget who you are and where you are and everything in between.

It has to be sin, because no one could do this without an explicit knowledge of what sin tastes like.

There’s no other explanation for the way he can make you keen, arch and moan like this. No other excuse for the way you quiver as he curls his tongue and strokes you until you’re seeing white, just to suck on your clit with a ferocity that makes your stomach tighten and your hands shoot up to cover your own mouth.

“Feel it.” He husks against you, and the sound and sensation make your hips buck forward in response. “Relax an’ feel it.”

It’s not a request — it’s a demand. And you don’t think to defy him when he pulls your hands away, pushes you back, and buries his whole face against your pussy again like he’ll die if he doesn’t. You’re so dizzy you can’t even keep your eyes open. You can only hear your breath coming out in stilted moans and little cries of his namesake — the namesake that you realize the irony of rather briefly, but forget when your brain flatlines all over again.

Because he groans against your clit like you’re the best goddamn meal he’s ever had, and suddenly, you get how easy it is to fall. Fall into the rhythm — your hips moving in sync with the strokes of his tongue, your thighs closing around his skull. You want to scream. You almost want to cry. Your voice breaks with every sound you make, and you know your heart is only a few beats away from beating out of your chest by the way he grips your hips, pulling your cunt to his head before bringing a finger to your sopping entrance.

"Gonna’ stretch y’out a bit.” He rasps, and you aren’t sure if he’s saying it to warn you or to remind himself. “Breathe.”

You try, but then, it doesn’t matter. Because it’s happening — that thick finger pushes inside you, curling against your walls until you’re gasping and covering your mouth all over again.

And god, you aren’t going to be able to look at his skull mask the same way again. Not when you watch it’s shape shifting just slightly as he works his jaw, suckling against your clit with a hunger you can only describe as feral, eyes half-lidded as they lock with your own. You’re certain nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. It's a goddamn match to a bomb as he starts to work another finger into you, curling them in time with his tongue in a way you don’t think you’d have been able to come up with if you’d had a lifetime to consider it. You can feel that tension building — a tight coil of heat and pressure building low in your core.

Then, you feel his fingers inside you doing something odd. Something—

Oh, fuck.

You feel it before you can comprehend it — before you know he’s tracing the first letter, the shape of it hitting in just the right place that it makes your hips buck in response.

S.

Oh. Oh god.

You can feel him hum against you, like he’s savouring it — the way you’re clenching around his fingers as you realize what he’s doing. It takes everything in you not to scream, eyes squeezed shut and hand over your mouth — head back against the wall as you imagine the look in his eyes, how goddamn wicked it must be while he spells out the rest of his apology inside you.

O. Then, R. Then another. Then, Y.

“G-ghost—“ you know he must be able to tell you're almost gone, because when he hits the last R and your breath catches, his name a whoreish moan you try to smother against the back of your hand — he growls in satisfaction. It’s too much. You can't breathe because your climax is right fucking there, and you can’t stop it for a second longer. “G-ghost—m’gonna—ohgod—“

With a suddenness that makes stars burst across the backs of your eyes, he brings his free hand up, stuffing two fingers into your mouth to smother the sound and feel of his name as you cry it. He strokes you through it, pumping you with his fingers as your vision blurs into some indiscernible haze — a kaleidoscope of light and pleasure and everything you know you should never allow yourself to have.

And then, when you finally catch the breath it took to even say his name, he pulls away. Fingers slipping from your mouth and your pussy like a goddamn magician.

A ghost.

Then, he stands up, and you watch him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand like you’re all the goddamn nourishment he needs before he’s helping you get stable on your feet.

“M’sure y’feel it now.” He murmurs, lips so close to yours you can taste yourself on his breath. "M’a man of m’word, sweet’eart. Always make good on m’promises.”

You’re sure he can see it, the realization in your eyes when you come back down to earth long enough to remember what just happened. Remember that you weren't supposed to let it happen in the first place. That you were supposed to have better control over yourself — and you can guess he knows, by the way he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

"Guess I made m’point, yeah?"

He tugs his balaclava back in place, and you exhale.

“Yeah, you made your point.” He hums at that, and you tug your towel tighter. “But this—this can’t happen again.”

It takes him a beat to respond, and when he does, it’s simple.

"Of course.”

You don’t know why, but that response makes your chest tighten in a way it has no business doing. It would have been so much easier if he’d given you a smart ass smirk, or a biting response. It would be so much easier if he told you that you didn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t.

And so, you step closer to him, tilting your head back to keep his eyes.

“I mean it, Ghost.” You whisper. “I’ll take a pound of your flesh before I allow you to fuck with my paystub ever again.”

You thought, at this point, you’d have figured out some type of gauge on his reactions. But still, he proves you haven’t. You don't expect the hand coming up, cupping your jaw to hold you in place as his eyes drop to your lips. You don't expect him to lean in, and bring his own to your ear — and you definitely don’t expect the words that fill it.

“There’s a few things I wanna’ fuck. Y’paystub ain’t one.” He pauses, and you’re certain it’s because he’s enjoying the drumbeat that is now your heart rate. You’d just found your breath and he singlehandedly stole it again. “I’ll be watchin’ f’your enemies. T’let em’ know they contend with me.”

You think you get it then. The reason everyone looks at him the way they do. The reason they're so terrified of him in one second, and willing to take a bullet for him during the next. It's not even because he's trained to be a killing machine. Not because he can see what you're thinking before you even realize you are. Not because he'd walk through fire just to be close to hell.

It's because he's a man of his word, and even you understand the gravity of that kind of loyalty.

You exhale with a nod, and then he’s gone.

[syrinq]

yeah i really love it when you want to build a website and learn coding and programming and scripting and set yourself on fire and the experience is basically just this

[bobosbillionsknives]

AUTISTIC TRIGUN IS SO REAL AND TRUE I WILL SCREAM IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS !!!!!!!!!!!!

HORAAAYYY !!! I'm so glad I've been any kind of influence at all. This is too sweet :'D !!! ahhh !! <3<3

I do have some thoughts about the masking in particular tho..🤔

I see it less as Knives actively accepting his autistic traits, and more as him not being able to control them. He desperately craves control over himself. He's even been shown as self-critical of his past outbursts, referring to it as a "sin". I thought this scene was very interesting, especially with how much Knives is projecting here. "Without self control" "unable to think of anything but themselves"

sounds like someone we know, girl. ✋🙄

100% agree that Vash was the favorite child tho. Lol. Vash and Knives had very different needs as children, and Rem was way more equipped to help Vash. I actually headcanon kid Vash as very shy and reserved, wanting to always follow the rules. While Knives was very loud, outgoing, and opinionated. Knives' meltdowns have always been explosive, I don't think he'd have much of an outlet outside of violence, and Rem definitely didn't have the experience to give him the tools that he needed. Rem really did love him, but that preferential treatment for sure caused him to feel very unloved and isolated. He hates feeling like a burden, (Vash is similar in that way) he's afraid he's going to be chewed up and spit back out if he's not useful enough. "Do you think i'll be eaten some day?"

He grew to resent Vash for his ability to control himself. To mask and be "normal." For being easier to love. He is SO jealous of Vash it's not even funny. He's losing the idgaf war so badly. This is why he keeps trying to make Vash lash out at him (like in July). It's a petty attempt to get him to understand Knives' suffering first hand. He self victimizes so bad y'all. When he sends the Gung ho guns after Vash, he seems to have no worry of his safety at all. Likely cause he sees Vash as such a perfect angel golden child, any pain actually inflicted is because Vash let it happen. He has the utmost faith in Vashes ability to fight, and is very quick to blame Vash for getting hurt in the fights that HE caused. He probably doesn't think Vash struggles in life at all. That's why he's compelled to make him suffer. (Not that any of these thoughts are very conscious, just deeply rooted insecurities he picked up from childhood. Lol.) Knives feels so fundamentally broken, unlovable, and alienated that he's essentially made it his entire personality. His superiority complex is just as much of a mask as Vashes smile. They do it to protect themselves.

Also. The Vash internalized ableism point is SOOOO true and correct☝️. Vash is completely numb. He's dissociative, and doesn't even remember half of his own life or likely his childhood. He continues to mask because it's all he knows. The only coping mechanism he's used his whole life, it's comforting now. He doesn't really know who he is outside of that mask and he definitely doesn't want to find out. He's terrified of losing control and hurting someone. He's scared of ending up like Knives. To go back to the childhood headcanons for a sec, I think in a way, they were both neglected. Because of how much more attention Knives needed to mitigate his meltdowns, Vashes needs were essentially ignored. He learned at an early age that his problems were not as important. He learned to completely depend on himself and value others as inherently above him. He loved Rem, the last thing he wanted was for her to be any more overworked. So he did whatever she said, never complained, and everyone assumed he was fine. He doesn't need help like Knives does. Knives can't take care of himself like Vash can. He felt solely responsible for Knives when Rem was gone, and crushingly guilty for (rightfully) leaving him, "don't leave Knives on his own." He does view Knives as a burden, and that makes him feel even guiltier. But this would also make Vash feel pretty entitled, I'm suffering too. But I don't bitch about it. What's his excuse?

There's a lot of disabilities that could be read into with Knives specifically, I even project my own experiences with physical disability onto him !! Knives is weaker than Vash is, both in plant powers and probably in general tbh. Knives is definitely the one getting noogied in the sibling fights. (Also why he chopped his arm off...even the playing field a bit lmfao.) Theres no way Knives had any clue Vash was going to blast an entire city and half of his body with it. If Knives was capable of leveling entire cities, he would've done it by now. All the displays of his power are more of a flashy "don't get close I'm dangerous I'll get ya" message than anything world ending. He's just not strong enough. He uses his big brain a lot more for that stuff, like taking all the plants away so the humans starve lol. I headcanon Knives as pretty sickly in general, what with his fainting spells and what not. I feel like Knives' insecurities are his absolute biggest motivator.

Knives has always deeply craved acceptance. But he's convinced himself that he'll never get it. So he lashes out instead, letting his emotions consume him, because that's all he knows how to do.

Trigun is a very autism media to me. The twins themselves are full of amazing metaphors for autism!!

The plants wings are a physical metaphor for autism! To me Rem’s and other humans fear of seeing Vash’s overtly autistic traits is shown in their reactions to his wings. We see Knives isn’t afraid of showing off his plant powers ever. The twins have a very cool dichotomy about masking. I see Vash was favored because he masked, while Knives never cared to.

When Vash and Knives see Tesla Rem goes to comfort Vash first. This seems to be slightly on favoritism, but also because she’s shocked that Vash is having a large emotional reaction. I think the fandom sees Vash as hyper-emotinal and Knives as hypo-emotional, but to me it’s switched.

Knives does not hide his emotions. And absolutely does not hide his outbursts! He has meltdowns all the time and is not ashamed of his autistic traits. He doesn’t care about being unsettling or being accepted by humans/neurotypical society. (Even more interesting to consider that all of the Gung-Ho Guns are disabled/neurodiverse in some way). Knives allows his emotions to control him, where Vash is guided by his obligations. He does what he wants, based on his wants. And what he wants is to be with the only other autistic person he knows-his brother. He also desperately wants his brother to be free from his internalized ableism and the pain of masking.

Vash on the otherhand spends all his time masking and denying his autistic traits so he can fit in with “normal“ humans. He also again, in contrast to Knives, acts based on how his mother told him to behave. He hates acting out/standing out. He still operates on Rem’s instructions to be “normal“ and unnoticeable. He does occasionally show strong emotions but they’re not his positive emotions. To be these are less examples of Vash being over emotional, but instead are examples of outbursts. The overflow of negative emotions reminds me of my meltdowns! As well most of the emotions we do see Vash show are also parts of his masking. They are deeply constructed displays of emotion. All set to Vash‘s derived sense of what’s normal. It’s what he thinks positive emotions look like. His mask is baked into everything he does. And only one person sees through it-Wolfwood!!

Wolfwood is also set apart by the narrative. He has been modified. In my view this is the story portraying that Wolfwood is also neurodivergent in some way. He is capable of seeing through Vash‘s mask, and from Vash‘s reaction is the first one to call him out on it. He also goes from being afraid of Vash‘s autistic traits-his wings-to supporting him. His last words are him encouraging Vash to express his emotions genuinely(to not worry about his “unsettling“ autism smile).

Trigun as a media deals to deeply with disability and autism(if someone remind me I’ll make another little essay thing about Meryl and Milly‘s autism). I hope this is coherent!!

Anyways! Happy Autism Month!!

[piratesexmachine420]

Thoughts on Linux (the OS)

Misconception!

I don't want to be obnoxiously pedantic, but Linux is not an OS. It is a kernel, which is just part of an OS. (Like how Windows contains a lot more than just KERNEL32.DLL). A very, very important piece, which directly shapes the ways that all the other programs will talk to each other. Think of it like a LEGO baseplate.

Everything else is built on top of the kernel. But, a baseplate does not a city make. We need buildings! A full operating system is a combination of a kernel and kernel-level (get to talk to hardware directly) utilities for talking to hardware (drivers), and userspace (get to talk to hardware ONLY through the kernel) utilities ranging in abstraction level from stuff like window management and sound servers and system bootstrapping to app launchers and file explorers and office suites. Every "Linux OS" is a combination of that LEGO baseplate with some permutation of low and high-level userspace utilities.

Now, a lot of Linux-based OSes do end up feeling (and being) very similar to each other. Sometimes because they're directly copying each other's homework (AKA forking, it's okay in the open source world as long as you follow the terms of the licenses!) but more generally it's because there just aren't very many options for a lot of those utilities.

Want your OS to be more than just a text prompt? Your pick is between X.org (old and busted but...well, not reliable, but a very well-known devil) and Wayland (new hotness, trying its damn hardest to subsume X and not completely succeeding). Want a graphics toolkit? GTK or Qt. Want to be able to start the OS? systemd or runit. (Or maybe SysVinit if you're a real caveman true believer.) Want sound? ALSA is a given, but on top of that your options are PulseAudio, PipeWire, and JACK. Want an office suite? Libreoffice is really the only name in the game at present. Want terminal utilities? Well, they're all gonna have to conform to the POSIX spec in some capacity. GNU coreutils, busybox, toybox, all more or less the same programs from a user perspective.

Only a few ever get away from the homogeneity, like Android. But I know that you're not asking about Android. When people say "Linux OS" they're talking about the homogeneity. The OSes that use terminals. The ones that range in looks from MacOS knockoff to Windows knockoff to 'impractical spaceship console'. What do I think about them?

I like them! I have my strongly-felt political and personal opinions about which building blocks are better than others (generally I fall into the 'functionality over ideology' camp; Nvidia proprietary over Nouveau, X11 over Wayland, Systemd over runit, etc.) but I like the experience most Linux OSes will give me.

I like my system to be a little bit of a hobby, so when I finally ditched Windows for the last time I picked Arch Linux. Wouldn't recommend it to anyone who doesn't want to treat their OS as a hobby, though. There are better and easier options for 'normal users'.

I like the terminal very much. I understand it's intimidating for new users, but it really is an incredible tool for doing stuff once you're in the mindset. GUIs are great when you're inexperienced, but sometimes you just wanna tell the computer what you want with your words, right? So many Linux programs will let you talk to them in the terminal, or are terminal-only. It's very flexible.

I also really, really love the near-universal concept of a 'package manager' -- a program which automatically installs other programs for you. Coming from Windows it can feel kinda restrictive that you have to go through this singular port of entry to install anything, instead of just looking up the program and running an .msi file, but I promise that if you get used to it it's very hard to go back. Want to install discord? yay -S discord. Want to install firefox? yay -S firefox. Minecraft? yay -S minecraft-launcher. etc. etc. No more fucking around in the Add/Remove Programs menu, it's all in one place! Only very rarely will you want to install something that isn't in the package manager's repositories, and when you do you're probably already doing something that requires technical know-how.

Not a big fan of the filesystem structure. It's got a lot of history. 1970s mainframe computer operation procedure history. Not relevant to desktop users, or even modern mainframe users. The folks over at freedesktop.org have tried their best to get at least the user's home directory cleaned up but...well, there's a lot of historical inertia at play. It's not a popular movement right now but I've been very interested in watching some people try to crack that nut.

Aaaaaand I think those are all the opinions I can share without losing everyone in the weeds. Hope it was worth reading!

[lieslab]

Enjoy the ride and let loose

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎ ꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

Pairing: Vampire Chan X gn reader

Summary: A lonely vampire has been searching high and low for a new pet.

Genre: Alternate reality

Word Count: 2.1K

Trigger warning: Graphic details of blood, broken bones, brief mentions of a bar, drugs, alcohol, urine, vomit, blood, more blood, mainly blood.

A/N: Someone asked for a Chan request based off the Railway music video. So um... you know what? I have nothing to say for this. This was a written sin. My heart is fluttering and I don't even swing that way. I need to go to bed. Tomorrow, we can all touch grass together

_ _ _

Empty promises and eternal salvation from a man cannot save you. The last moments of your life speckled few and far between. Grimy memories faded between who you were and who you’ve become. The dim alleyway sparse with orange light, it wasn’t the best way to get home. 

Another night working your ass off at the bar. Overtime meant more money. Customers blended together. Drinks poured. Shot glasses chimed. Rims lined with lime and salt. Beers overflowing with foam. Spirits that quite literally possessed and inebriated everyone that consumed them. 

Not the best life, but the pay was too great to give up. So you went home when the blanket of night covered the sky. You poured, sloshed, wiped, scooped, and slipped your nights away as the keeper of spirits. Keeping tabs, shutting them, and opening another. You didn’t know what downtime was, but you knew about exhaustion. 

Four twelve hour days were kicking your ass. Days blended together. You barely remembered anything. Taking the alleyway home, collapsing on the worn floral couch, waking up soaked in the scent of someone else’s alcohol. 

The dingy bar, tough crowd, scent of tobacco and skunk. When white lines appeared, when the needles came out, you kept your head low. Just as your boss instructed you to. The less you saw, the better. 

Morally, your skin soaked with sin, but what else could you do? Life didn’t throw you the greatest hand of cards. You did what you could to get by. If that meant working your ass off, nearly collapsing in the middle of that alley on the way home, so be it. 

You picked yourself up by the bootstraps because nobody else was beside you. One more day. One more conversation from intoxicated customers. One more day of dodging empty beer bottles, dealing with screams from angry customers you cut off, and the pesky reminder from your boss. Keep your head down, stay quiet, if the cops show up, you’re just the bartender. Nothing ever happens there. 

The needles poking out the women’s bathroom trash said different. Puddles of half-digested fried greasy food littered the floor, only twice, on a good day. The men’s bathroom? You begged your boss to close it. No matter how good the drunken aim, urine missed the urinal and soaked the speckled underbelly of the flushable device. 

No matter how strong the disinfectant cleaner, the gloves provided little relief from the disgusting feeling of urine soaking your hands. It dripped off the gloves. Murky ammonia scented puddles haunted your dreams. If you weren’t consumed by the scent of booze, it was the ammonia and sweat. It never got old. 

Day five happened to be the day you met the devil. Half-asleep and stumbling in the alleyway, you narrowly dodged the dumpster behind a factory. Late at night, all the workers left hours ago. In a sleepy haze, the world spiraled out of control. 

You tipped left and over-corrected right. Your legs stumbled, your head jerked back, and a soft groan of annoyance filled the air. “Why does my goddamn house have to be so far away?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” 

There was no time to spin around. Your eyes opened wider, just in time to find the silhouette of a hand shooting out to grab the bottom of your chin. Your eyes widened, your hand jerked upright to stop them, they grabbed your shoulder and then- 

Blinding pain. 

A sickening crunch. 

The morbid realization that your own neck could snap so easily. 

Your legs collapsed. 

An unknown laughter echoed in your ears. 

The night swallowed you whole and sucked you into its vortex. 

You didn’t make it to the sixth night of your shift alive. 

_ _ _ 

When you woke up, you were sure you were dead. An icy numbness harnessed your bones. It curdled your marrow, tucked away everything, and it stole your breath. The usual comforting stum of your heartbeat against your own chest disappeared. 

You scrambled to your feet, pushing out your hands to investigate your surroundings. Way up above, high window panels let in pale lighting, but other than that, darkness settled. It barely illuminated what you could make out to be some sort of cell. Iron bars, a heavy duty padlock wrapped around the door, and more darkness. 

Beneath your feet, a soft squishy material. Perhaps, a rubber mat? You brushed your shoe against it, trying to understand. Your sneaker scraped and then fell silent. You grabbed the bars and shook them, to no avail. 

“Easy there. You can’t get out of there if you try. Iron bars reinforced with iron, iron, and more iron.” A snicker laced an unknown’s voice. “Besides, you’re starving, aren’t you?” 

Step. Step. Step. Step. 

Chains rattled against one another. You searched around the area, not daring to push yourself too far against the bars, for fear of the unknown outside. A large white metal frame rusted away, coated with a thin layer of dust, it stretched in two different directions. Heavy footsteps wandered closer and closer until- 

Thunk. 

You didn’t recognize the man standing before you. You tried to comprehend everything about him all at once. The way his dark hair parted and framed his face. The single white eye and the other nearly dark as the night you fell victim to.

A large black leather bag dressed in small silver chains and a pair of handcuffs. He scrunched his shoulders up, relaxed, sucked in a deep breath, and smiled. “You must be starving, hm?” 

“Who are you?” 

“Who am I?” His lips tugged into a smirk. “Who am I? Who am I?” He chuckled, glanced over his shoulder, and grinned. “They want to know who I am. Should I tell them?” 

You took another step to the weathered bars. Across the way, similar cells sat, but they were a little different. The iron bars across your cell tucked you inside. On the opposite side of the hall, half-wooden stall bottoms were lined with thinner bars. 

Something shrieked and a pale hand jutted out. First one, then another, and then another. More and more lunged from the depths of darkness. Corpse-like fingers wiggled and grabbed air. Detailed veins coated the outside of their hands. Something groaned. Another soft shriek caused the man’s mood to sour. “Shut it! I didn’t ask if you were hungry!” 

“How many people are you keeping here?” 

He paused at your question and began to crane his head back towards you. “People?” You nodded, which led to another amused grin on his end. “Tell me, do you think your heart still beats with life?” 

“It has to be.” 

“And if it wasn’t?” 

Your head shook. Confused by the question and annoyed that you couldn’t get a proper response, you changed the question. “What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Christopher. As for you, my new little pet, I bet you’re starving. The new ones are always starving. Not many make it to this point. You’ve already beaten roughly ninety percent of those who have come before you.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he squatted, ripped open the zipper, and pulled out a dark pouch. With ease, he pushed it between two bars and tossed it towards you. It landed with a soft plot at your feet. 

Nausea filled your body at the sight. You could only describe it as a pouch full of blood. His eyes didn’t leave your body. Like a predator watching a prey, he observed your every move. “Better drink up while it’s still warm.” 

“Is this a sick joke?” You whispered. Confusion filled your eyes. You glanced at him, but from the look he carried, something in you knew this was something much darker than the anger of a drunk customer. 

“Drink up.” 

Behind him, another screech. He scowled, spun around, and grabbed the closest outstretched arm. Olive skin smeared with purple bruises in the faint sunlight. He snagged their wrist and began to squeeze it. 

“How many times do I have to mend your behavior? A new pet means being on your best behavior. You know what happens to those who don’t listen to me?” 

The hands began to retreat back into the darkness. When the only hand left was the one he held, his eyebrow furrowed. “Do not. Test me. Again.” He jerked the arm up and swung the wrist in a circle. 

Another sickening crunch caused you to gag. A faceless entity shrieked and jerked its hand free. The man glared for a few moments until he sighed and spun around. Another smirk appeared on his face as he sauntered back to your cell. 

“Where were we? Ah, yes. The blood. Drink up, you’re dehydrated.” 

“What’s wrong with you? Where am I? Please,” you uttered desperately, “I just want to go home.” 

“Home? In this state?” He laughed and shook his head. “This is your home for now. Monsters get lonely, you know? Every monster deserves a pet.” 

“Please,” you whispered desperately. You stepped closer and grabbed the bars. Not caring about the filth, you pressed your face against them. “I have a job and a life. That’s all I want. I won’t tell anyone.” 

“You won’t tell anyone I kidnapped you?” He whispered, thoughtfully. 

“Never.” 

Heterochromia eyes stared at yours. His face softened for a moment and he leaned closer. The scent of metallic blood hit your nose, but it didn’t stop you from trying to sway the stranger. 

“Promise?” He asked. 

He stopped your nod by grabbing your chin. “Interesting.” You stayed still, allowing him to run a thumb across your bottom lip. Nerves bombed your stomach and then dived back up like military helicopters. 

You didn’t pull away and you didn’t breathe. The soft pad of his thumb traced your lips again. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of someone like this. To have something, a pet, to share companionship.” 

You kept quiet, hoping it’d work out in your favor. Too busy studying his eyes and focusing on his face, you didn’t catch his second hand drifting towards the leather pouch. His sharp nail punctured another warm pouch. 

“Even monsters can get lonely.” 

For whatever reason, you clung to every word; a pastor preaching a convicting sermon, a sinner and a saint, a monster and a pet. Something pulled you to him, but you couldn’t explain it. Otherworldly and unnatural, it oddly felt comforting. 

“Open.” His thumb tapped your bottom lip. Your lips parted and his eyes lit up. “So obedient, just the way I like them. Stay like that for me.” His thumb went up and began to brush along the side of your cheek. “There you go. I won’t hurt you.” 

Before you could understand it, plastic filled your mouth. His other hand wrapped around your chin. You tried to jerk away, but you couldn’t. In an iron grip, he squeezed the bag of blood. The metallic taste filled your mouth and your face scrunched. 

“Shh. Just swallow. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I know it’s weird at first, but trust me. This is for your own good. Come on, swallow for me. Come on, sweetheart.” An index finger slipped down your throat, trying to coax you into submission. 

You hesitated, but followed his instructions. “Ah, there you go. Not too bad, hmm?” 

When your eyes pulled away to look over his shoulder, he gently squeezed your chin again. Your eyes met his and your legs felt weak. “Don’t look at them. Look at me.” 

He squeezed the plastic bag more. Sticky liquid pulsed into your parted lips. Too much, some dripped down the corner of your mouth. It fell down your cheek, slid beneath your chin, and drifted towards your shirt. 

“Such a messy little pet. How cute.” His thumb stretched out before you could stop him. He caught the end of the trail, hooked his thumb between his lips, and sucked.

You should have stepped back. He let go of your chin. You should have pulled away, but instead, you didn’t move. You watched in awe. Those feelings of fear drifted away. You swallowed without being instructed. 

The fresh blood rushed through your brain and awakened something in your soul. Something ignited and that sleepy haze disappeared. The man’s dimpled smile stretched once more.  “I think we’re going to do great things together, little pet.” 

Staring back at him, you couldn’t respond. Caught in his trance, the moans of pain and shrieks of horror from the unknown bodies behind him, none of it mattered. It didn’t matter that you were sipping someone’s blood. 

You died in that alleyway, but in the middle of this abandoned prison, something deadly; and far more intoxicating than alcohol, bloomed in your bones.

| ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ | ♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡ |

Taglist: @lia-linny @seungnishi @stellasays45 @emilyywhyy @rockstarkkami @flightlessackerman @danihwang882 @inlovewithstraykids @velvetmoonlght

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Ko-fi

[mercutio-the-velaryon]

A Close Reading of Viktor's 'ascended' Form

Disclaimer: These are very jumbled thoughts but I've been trying to articulate this for a while so I'm just baring it to the public flaws and all.

I am being dead serious when I say that Melvik is a lens of viewing that serves to recentre Mel as a major character and reassert her value in the hextech trio dynamic. I will be utilsing this lens to analyse Viktor's choice to make his 'perfected' beings carry Mel's attributes.

Immediately, I will preface by saying, that although I read Jayce and Viktor's relationship as romantic, this choice has nothing to do with Jayce, at least, not in relation to feelings of romantic jealousy or romantic insecurity.

So, what does it mean when Viktor wears Mel's white and gold? I think it shows that he views Mel as the epitome of Piltover priivilege and the personification of the social barrier he could not supercede through hard work and picking himself up by his own bootstraps.

The scene above where Mel seems to be singularly be imploring Jayce to militarise Hextech as defensive action is essential to understanding why Viktor views her this way.

In this sequence, Mel is originally conversing with Viktor and Jayce on an equal physical level until she presents her ideal plan of action then she stands straight and focuses more on convincing Jayce rather than Viktor. This is not an attempt to be cruel or malicious, though it very well be an expression of her irritation because in Mel's eyes Viktor's reasonable protest seems like a juvenile outburst. As a Noxian and a Medarda Mel is accustomed to war and bloodshed she does not want the carnage of such an event to bring Piltover to ruin. However, she is also painstakingly aware that losing a war would be a death sentence. The stakes are life and death, and I believe based on what I understand of Mel's character that she would not attempt to bypass Viktor's opposition in more normal circumstances. She respects him to an extent but not more than she respects her position, her legacy and not more than she fears the consequences of losing a war.

Additionally, I view the way she stands and directs attention at Jayce as a demonstration of how she is by nature of the social system always above him. That she and Jayce, are classist as is everyone conditioned and socialised in this system, and for them as citizens of Piltover, as members of the bourgeoisie, and the council their dismissal of Viktor is not that active of a choice, its a reflex, its a manifestation of their biases. Which is terrible in its own right. Viktor discovers in this scene, that Jayce can and will go over his head despite hextech being a joint creation because his social positioning is just higher than his is. It always was and it always will be. These are unchangeable factors and immovable dynamics.

That is to say, that I think Mel's show of power in this scene, her long-term investment in hextech as well as very likely witnessing her political maneuvers from a distance during his time as Heimerdinger's assistant has cemented Mel in Viktor's mind as the paragon of Piltover privilege.

I like to imagine this reaction to Mel's powers "the arcane stirs within you" as a twisted delight. Magic is a natural force, its wild and uncharted and its presence in Mel has this undoing effect, it perplexes her, to use it she physically exerts herself, it makes her bare her teeth. It's a side of Mel, Viktor would have never witnessed, in her struggle with this he finds a glimmer of kindredness that briefly enthralls him.

When he creates his ideal form, a white and gold, sleek and slim faceless robot with a gentle elegent gait and manner of movement and is seeking to conform the entire world to it, know that Viktor in his mind is equalising both himself and the rest of the world to what he considers the apex of privilege, therefore ridding the world of social hierarchy, difference and struggle.

The grand irony of this act is that he ends up bypassing the autonomy of literally everyone by subjecting them to this much like Mel bypassed him. Meaning, he hasn't rid the world of this hierarchy at all, he's put all these people beneath him and robbed them of choice and freedom.

Separate Melvik spiel:

Mel and Viktor's inherent relationship to each other through nature, disposition and as narrative foils is just so meticulous I can no longer genuinely view Arcane as a text without noticing the absence of an established personal dynamic between them. The groundwork for a romance is embedded in the text, their relation to each other is already by itself canonically quite romantic, all of their qualities and attributes are either contrasting or is eerily similar, everything about them serves to say something about the other within the constraints of the Arcane narrative (I doubt this will continue in game and in the follow up series). His admiration of her is tainted by his resentfulness at her position and the way she's wielded it. So many characters in media have kissed for less than that.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hi, odd question I’m about to ask you. But with Skully did we technically make a time paradox? For example in Minecraft there was this theory that the player went back in time and started everything and became their own great great(a lot of greats) grandparents. So considering the fact that the TWST characters was the reason that Skully became the King Of Halloween and created the Halloween that the TWST characters know to day. Sorry if this is confusing it’s just the only way I know how to explain this.

Yup, I believe the specific term is “bootstrap paradox”. This is when an event makes itself to happen, thus creating a loop of causality.

The NRC characters mention the importance of Halloween in their world, as well as all of their fun traditions. Then they share these ideas with Skully (who was sucked in from his own time period hundreds of years ago) within the book. After leaving the book, their memories of the events within were erased but everyone is still left with a faint feeling resulting from those experiences. It’s based on that vague feeling that Skully is inspired to share the jubilant version of Halloween the NRC boys shared with him all over the world. This made Halloween the phenomenon it is today, and Skully the historical figure in Twisted Wonderland responsible for it. The Nightmare Suit he wears in the real world is even a design he recreated based on the memory of a “dream” he had.

Halloween in the real world continues to be a huge thing… but if Skully was the one who spread Halloween around (it existed in his hometown already but was quite niche beyond his home) then that means he must have already been inspired… meaning he already encountered the NRC students… meaning Halloween is already a big deal… etc. Thus the event causes itself to happen!

[lizardsfromspace]

An entire belief system based on those memes that say "pills aren't medicine, this is medicine" over a photo of a mountain. He will bootstraps mentally ill people and addicts into wellness through hard work, discipline, and 4-6 years of forced labor at a camp. Genuinely amazing that someone this fringe and weird gets to frame himself as like, a political blank slate for people to project good opinions onto

[lucid-loves]

Hi there!

🍄💛-anon here

I’m recently new to your bling and have to say that I absolutely love love LOVE your writing style, word choice, and plot structure. It is so interesting to read these stories recently while I’m off on break.

Now onto the real thing: I don’t know if you’re requests are open but I cannot get out of my head y/n seeing ghost go berserk for the first time because someone injured them either during training, while flirting with them and they reject it, or during a actual mission. Once y/n gets better she tells ghost that it was hot and spicy stuff happens (or not completely up to you).

If requests aren’t open please just ignore this. Have a great day!

-🍄💛!

Sorry for such a late reply. A lot of things going on in my life, one of which was moving into my own place! Anyway, here's a story that I hope satisfies that itch in your brain~

Down With Your Love

Pairing: Ghost x sick!reader (fem!reader, 141!reader, callsign “Moth”)

Word Count: 9.8k, One-Shot

CW: strong language, angst, violence, blood, fluff, attraction, one-shot, reader POV and Ghost POV, minors DNI, EXPLICIT SMUT, P in V, passionate kisses, hickeys, oral, praise kink, passionate sex, possessive sex

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: You are one of the new recruits that have been trying to prove yourself on base. Every day you have been pushing yourself to achieve your goals and stand out amongst your peers. However, you pushed yourself too hard and woke up one morning with a fever. On sparring day monitored by Ghost of all days. Ghost, a man that has had his eye on you for several reasons, steps more into your life as he determines that if you won’t take care of yourself, he will do it for you.

As soon as you came back to the realm of daylight, you knew that you were sick. Last night’s sleep was spotty at best, moments here and there of waking up with a creeping ache, heated turn, or throbbing headache that followed you into your dreams. Your mouth was drier than the canteen’s toast, the world spinned on a slow record, and god, your head wouldn’t stop pounding. 

You groaned as your eyes adjusted to the sunlight pouring through your barrack window, the annoying buzz of your alarm clock sending wave after wave of ache through your delicate skull. It was always way too early to do anything, but it was especially too early to even wake up with a fever that stuck to your skin. 

Turning in your firm bed took a lot of energy out of you alone, but you had to get up. You didn’t have the luxury of calling in sick. You were a newer recruit, eager to prove yourself and earn a spot into one of the more elite task forces. If you were to call in sick today, on sparring day of all days, everyone would think that you chickened out. You’d rather eat your boots than have anyone think that of you.

Pulling yourself up by your bootstraps, you got dressed and ready for what was no doubt going to be a long day. You wiped the sweat off your forehead with a soft cloth before heading out, joining the throng of recruits making their way to breakfast.

Who knows, maybe all you needed was something in your stomach to lift your spirits. As you got closer to the canteen, the typical smell of bland eggs, bacon, sausage, and toast filled your nose. Your stomach flipped violently as the scent, your body revolting against even the notion of food now that you could smell it. Feeling dizzy, you leaned against the wall to catch your breath. A couple of on-lookers glanced your way, but ultimately decided to mind their own business.

Well, you couldn’t not eat. You needed something light at least. Maybe some ice cold orange juice with toast topped with jam. Or perhaps some oatmeal with sweet brown sugar and a banana. You felt your stomach ease some at the thought of an easier, lighter breakfast.

Once you caught your breath, you headed in, bracing yourself against the onslaught of voices rumbling for the new day. The sound of everyone chatting and chewing at once made you wince in pain. What wouldn’t you give for just a second of peace and quiet right now. 

As you expected, the line for the oatmeal was short. Many of the soldiers, mostly men, often opted for the usual hearty breakfast packed with protein. You preferred that kind of breakfast too most days, but not today. Instead, you scooped a medium portion of sticky, warm oatmeal into a cheap white bowl. The smell was a breath of fresh air compared to the fatty stench that permeated throughout the canteen. The brown sugar began to melt into the oats rapidly while you grabbed a banana and fresh orange juice. 

You took your usual seat in the back corner, no one inviting you over or joining you. Not that you minded. You usually kept to yourself, slipping under the radar of a lot of social circles. Not that you were anti-social, but you preferred quietness when you could get it. Ever since joining the base, it’s been nonstop activity with testing, working out, training, and talking. Pushing yourself to the limits with everything that landed on your plate probably caused you to get sick in the first place.

There wasn’t much choice though if you wanted to survive, to stand out amongst all of the recruits that joined with you. You wanted to be elite. Someone that could hold their own on the field. Not who you were now.

That’s why it was so important to attend the sparring today. That, and the fact that the base’s best was leading it.

Thinking of the devil, in walked the guys that everyone wanted to be. The 141. Countless missions, countless successes. Some of what they accomplished sounded straight from some hero comic book. There was a buzz wherever they walked. Everyone gave their utmost respect when they passed. 

And that’s exactly where you want to be. 

You played it cool, only sparing a quick look in respectful acknowledgment, before turning back to focus on holding down your oatmeal. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, your instincts telling you that someone was staring at you. Slowly, you looked around the room to see if your hunch was right. 

Maybe your fever was making you paranoid. 

You finished up your breakfast, downed your orange juice like your life depended on it, and rushed to leave. A little break in the Records Room would probably be good for you before the sparring class began.

Little did you know that you were being watched. Watched by someone you would never expect either. Ghost, the man, the myth, the legend, watched you hustle out with a slightly more rock in your step than usual. He found your breakfast of choice this morning odd as well. 

Ever since you joined the base, he’s had his eye on you. He was stuck in a meeting room with large windows overlooking the base. He was bored out of his mind as the higher-ups droned on about statistics he didn’t care about one bit. He was a man of action. He delivered the results, not analyzed them. 

He had settled on people watching to entertain himself. He saw the bus pull up, dumping fresh meat onto the mass of concrete that was home to everyone here. A sadistic side of him enjoyed seeing the wide-eyes and hopeful smiles. He loved breaking them. Make them realize that this shit was no joke. He also liked seeing them filter out over time, making those that didn’t belong call it quits.

It was easy for him to pick out the ones that thought they were hot shit. Smirks, muscles meant to show off rather than be functional, side-checks against the recruits they thought were in the way. Those were always the most fun breaking. The military was no walk in the park.

But then, you stepped off the bus. Your hair was military tight, as it should be. Spick, span, and way to pretty to be here. You had a hard look, taking everything with a serious attitude, committing everything to memory so you didn’t look too foolish as you navigated around the first few days. 

He had blinked a few times, hardly believing that a beauty like you wanted to be here. As soon as the meeting was over, he found your file. You had big dreams. Almost all new recruits did, but your aspirations were motivated by something more than just wanting to tell people what to do. 

You had people to save. To do that, you need strength and power.

He could relate.

Since then, he’s been checking your progress subtly. Your test scores have been great and only improving with each month. Your aim has been getting much better since your first day. You have been doing good with building up your muscles and stamina too. As far as he could tell, you were adjusting well and taking care of yourself.

Except maybe for today.

It was odd to see you eat so light to start off your day. You seemed tired as well. Late night studying? Not wanting to spar on a full stomach? That would be smart. You seemed like the type to consider something smart like that as well.

For now, he let it go, chalking it all up to you just needing a little more sleep tonight. He was sure that you had the sense to take a break if you needed it.

~

You sat in the back corner of the gym, keeping yourself away from as many warm bodies as possible. Christ, you were on fire. Your head felt heavy too as you cooled it against the brick wall. You took a deep breath, trying to stop your heart from feverishly racing. Please, just last until after class.

Ghost walked into the class, everyone standing to salute, including yourself despite how much you felt the room blur. When he signaled for ease, you gladly took your seat. 

“Sparring day. You’ve been training with bags and instructors up to this point. Now, you train with each other. No pull backs, no instructions. You will bruise. You will ache. It’s better than being dead on a field, so be grateful. First up, Blue and Jets.” The lieutenant commanded right away. The recruits exchanged worried looks as the first two victims got up. 

You watched the men circle each other, trying to read each other’s movements before striking. Blue, the recruit nicknamed after the constant blues music coming from his room, made the first advance. An attempted straight punch to the chest to knock his opponent off his feet. Jets back stepped just in time and grabbed the arm, twisting it to pin Blue down. 

As the men continued to tackle one another, you felt your eyelids get heavy. The break in the Records Room was short-lived, people coming in and out to find important information. You pinched your thigh hard to stay awake.

After the two men were done throwing fists, the next couple of recruits were called up. Then another. Then another, each called by the moniker if they already earned one. You suppressed a yawn and kept your head up despite how hot your body burned. 

Finally, it was your turn. “Moth, you’re up against Will.”

You got up a little too fast, the world smearing before your eyes as you made your way to the mat. No one seemed to notice that you were sick thanks to how you stubbornly maintained your composure. Solid stance. Hard eyes. Purposefully slowed breath. Yeah, your body was screaming for you to lay down, but you weren’t a quitter.

Ghost watched you carefully, noticing how your usually smooth movements were just slightly choppy. It was a millisecond delay that didn’t seem significant to everyone else, but could mean life or death if this wasn’t practice. Nervous, perhaps? 

Your opponent rushed forward, banking on his strength to overpower yours. Even if you weren’t sick, it would have worked. While you worked hard to build more of that physical power, you could never measure up to the strength of some of these men. Your body wasn’t built for it. Instead, you relied on stamina, quick reflexes, and proper timing to gain the upper hand.

With a quick sidestep and lean, you dodged the first attack. A surging headache washed over your skull as if someone took a hammer to it. The world went white for a second. A second too long. You lost your balance in your momentum, allowing an opening for your opponent to land a blow. 

A terrible, agonizing pain immediately spread across your face. Your cheek was sure to bruise and blood began pouring out of your nose. You tasted metal on your tongue, a disgusting flavor that almost purged your breakfast right there. God, was this what dying felt like? 

Your body finally checked out, your vision turning black through forceful rest. You were plunged so deep into a sleep that not even the yelling in the room registered in your exhausted brain. 

As soon as Ghost saw you lose your balance, he knew that something was wrong. Everything happened so fast. Your stagger, the punch, the fall, the blood. The horrific fire bubbling in his soul at seeing you get hurt burst like a volcano once he realized that you weren’t getting up. 

“What the fuck do you think you are doing, recruit?!” He began to scream as he touched your forehead. Bloody hell, you were scorching. Why did you even get out of bed this morning?!

“Wh-What?! I-I didn’t know she was sick!” He began to defend himself, his face flushing as he realized what he has done to you. So much blood pooled on the mat from your nose. It wasn’t broken, but it was damn hurt.

Ghost shot him a deadly glare, not tolerating his excuse. His gaze then settled on everyone else. They shifted uncomfortably, unsure why they were also receiving some grief for something only one recruit did. “Did no one in this room fucking notice that their comrade was ill?!”

His voice came out like gravel, striking their hearts with fear and guilt. They looked at each other, knowing that either answer was the wrong answer. There was no escaping whatever punishment they had to face.

“But, Lieutenant, Moth should’ve stayed in bed if they were sick, right? Is that really our fault?” One recruit piped up, earning some angry scowls as he dug everyone’s grave. They felt the same way, but they would have never said it out loud.

Ghost clenched his jaw tight, embers burning within his eyes that only seemed more deadly with the skull fastened to his mask. He recognized this guy. One of the hot-shots that was in it for his ego. He couldn’t help himself from standing up from your side, strolling over to the boy, and socking him right in the stomach. 

He keeled over, gasping for air with tears threatening to spill. Everyone didn’t even dare to come to his aid. “All of you are responsible for your comrades! If your comrade is sick or hurt, it is part of your duty as a soldier to notice! Do I make myself clear?!”

“Yes, Lieutenant!” The recruits responded in sync. The notion that it was every man for themself was snuffed out immediately. It almost always only took one example to whip everyone into shape. 

“Burpees for everyone and don’t you dare stop. I will know if you do.” He finally commanded. While everyone got to their exercises, Ghost gingerly lifted you up in his arms to take you to the infirmary. Light as a feather and burning with fever. Not even ovens burned as hot as you did right now. Your class was responsible for noticing your illness, but that wasn’t to say that Ghost didn’t also blame you for this. 

You should have stayed in bed today.

~

Hours passed since you first knocked out. The sky was a lazy purple-pink haze, the sun plunging everything into a golden hour. It was the only time of day where all the drab military colors of the base seemed pretty. Your body was sore, your face painfully bruised. The fever dropped some, but not enough to warrant getting back to work tomorrow. 

You tried to sit up slowly, feeling a damp, cold cloth fall off your forehead in the process. A large, gloved hand settled on your shoulder to guide you back down. “You need more rest.”

“L-Lieutenant?” You nearly gasped when you recognized the voice. Turning your head, you confirmed that it really was your Lieutenant sitting next to you, not some fever dream. Your heart quickened as he took the cloth, the scent of his cologne becoming apparent. You would think that he would smell like sweat and gunpowder. Yet, it was the opposite. Clean laundry, fresh oak, smoldering sage.

“In the flesh. You’re still warm. Been asleep for hours now. You should listen to your body when you need a break.” He briefed you. His tone was mixed with a chastise and relief as he soaked the cloth in fresh, cool water. 

A deep sigh escaped your lips as the wrung-out cloth was placed back on your forehead. “My apologies, Lieutenant. I won’t let it happen again.”

Somehow, he doubted that. He thought that you would have been smart enough to know better before, but not anymore. Now he knew that you were stubborn when it came to your health. It only took this instance to know that. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Sir?” You scrunched your brows, unsure of what he meant by that. Instead of elaborating, he just took his seat again. You noticed the indent in it before he sat.

“Why they call you Moth?” He suddenly asked. He didn’t normally care about how people earned their moniker. Sure, he could be a little curious if it was strange, though  he still tended to not dig deep into business that wasn’t his. 

When it came to you, he wanted to know everything. Especially how a pretty thing like you got this nickname instead of its more beautiful counterpart; Butterfly.

It felt odd to have such a casual conversation with your higher up. Or rather, it felt odd to have a casual conversation with Ghost. You could picture yourself being at ease with someone like Price or Soap, who outranked you, due to how approachable they were. Ghost was never seen casually socializing with anyone but his team normally.

What made you different?

“I rescue a lot of moths that get trapped inside. Someone caught me releasing some outside in the middle of night and the name stuck.” You confessed. You released any bug that was found inside back outside, especially moths. 

Your habits were moth-like, too. You liked to stay up late, finding yourself at your most productive while the world was asleep. You liked warmth and comfy sweaters. Not that anyone but you knew that. You were hesitant to reveal that to your lieutenant as well. 

Ghost couldn’t suppress the smirk forming on his face. Thank god it was hidden under his mask. For a moment, he thought that you were quite precious for displaying such kindness. Most people would kill or ignore the pests that come in. “Qualities of a good leader.”

“Sir?”

“Looking out for the weak. Taking initiative despite what people think. You just gotta learn to take care of yourself more.” He both complemented and scolded, earning a small smile from you. Seeing those pearly white of yours made his heart flutter. Even with a bruising face, you were still the most beautiful woman he’s met. 

Never in your wildest dreams did you think you would be comfortable enough with Ghost to crack a smile in his presence. Slowly getting more comfortable with him, you allow yourself to relax in the infirmary bed. Your headache began to dull as you took a deep breath. 

“Good girl.” Ghost praised naturally, blush infecting your cheeks to blend with your fever. It was completely unfair that his voice was so deep and smooth for you. You wondered if he talked to other recruits like this. 

The both of you sat like this for a while. Quiet. Resting. Ghost crossed his arms over his chest and learned back. He didn’t have to be here anymore. The both of you knew that. Yet, he wanted to stay. He was determined to stay by your side until you were ready for dinner and then tucked into your own bed. He hasn’t even checked on the recruits doing burpees. Someone would’ve probably relieved them of their exercises after a while, not that he cared. He just hoped they learned their lesson.

As the sun began to dip lower towards the horizon, your stomach grumbled, the oatmeal breakfast long gone at this point. Ghost immediately stood up to get you something to eat. “Any dietary restrictions?”

“No. Just something light?” You answered, surprised that he was going this far to take care of you. If you were slow and steady, you would’ve been able to get up and make your way to the canteen yourself. You weren’t going to argue with your superior, though.

The room was peacefully quiet as you waited for Ghost to return. The light hum of the air conditioner was white noise within your ears, making you close to dozing off once again. Carefully, you sat up in bed, propping yourself up using the pillow and wall behind you. You watched a few soldiers walk across base, killing time before calling it a night. 

You could smell the chicken soup from down the hall, a salty, savory scent that made your stomach grumble. Just as expected, Ghost was considerate in choosing your dinner given your health. “Chicken and rice with crackers. Gotcha a ginger-ale too. Think you can stomach it?”

“I can. Thank you, Lieutenant.” You graciously accepted as you watched Ghost set everything on a rolling table for you. He stayed while you ate, making light conversations, getting to know you. 

The more he talked with you, the deeper he fell. You were strong, intelligent, and beautiful, a perfect trifecta. At the same time, your crush grew every time Ghost demonstrated his approval of something. Whether it was your opinion or observation, he gave an accepting nod of respect. Every now and then, you could see the corner of his eye crinkle slightly, indicating at least a smirk under that mask. 

Once you were done, Ghost took your clean bowl back to the canteen. While you waited, you prepared yourself to make your way back to your room for the night. By the time your superior returned, you were ready to head back.

“You’re gonna rest, right?”

“Yes, sir. I won’t be coming to training tomorrow.” You reassured, Ghost having insisted on escorting you through the base just in case you were feeling weak mid-walk.

He hummed in approval. “Good girl.”

Damn, that still made you blush like mad. You hid your cheeks as best you could behind your hair, but Ghost still spotted the red that graced the tips of your ears. He suppressed a chuckle, finding it cute how you blushed at his praise.

He liked women that liked to be praised.

You felt awkward when you finally reached your door. What do you say now? Saying a simple thanks seemed cheap for some reason. He looked out for you the whole day. But, it wasn’t like this was a date that deserved a goodbye kiss. Besides that, he was still your superior. 

Thankfully, Ghost could sense your apprehension. He made the goodbye for you. “Get some sleep now, Moth. I won’t be seeing you tomorrow.”

You gave a short giggle that had his heart leap. Finally, you laughed for him. It was much prettier than he imagined it to be. “Sounds ominous when you say it like that. Thank you for everything, Lieutenant. Have a good night.”

~

As promised, you didn’t show up for training the following day. Ghost was both pleased and disappointed by your absence. He already somehow missed your presence. To keep his mind off you, he worked the recruits hard, still punishing them for their neglect of you. Has he ever been this tough on recruits like this? No. How else were they gonna learn, though?

The basic training didn’t stop until he heard groans of complete exhaustion. Exhaustion strong enough to have their knees weak. When he finally let them have a break, many of them just crashed on the floor mats. 

The following day, you showed up, body lighter and healthier than ever. It seemed that your body really needed that break. Now that you were back, you were determined to demonstrate to your class that you weren’t as fragile as you seemed to be when you collapsed. 

When you did rejoin the class, you earned a few scowls, still blaming you for all of the work they have had to do recently. Ghost noticed, but bit his tongue as you brushed it all off. In fact, when it was time to spar, you volunteered to go first. He was a bit hesitant to throw you into the ring so quickly, yet he couldn’t deny the determined look on your face.

Your movements were fast and purposeful, no energy wasted. Dodges were perfectly timed, giving you an opportunity to spot your opponent’s weak points. A little too much weight on one foot. A too consistent pattern of attacks. You read them all like open books once they threw a few punches. 

You didn’t need to be the strongest, just the smartest. Ghost was thoroughly impressed and attracted. He knew in that moment of pinning another classmate to the ground that he had to have you. 

~ 

You had been Ghost’s personal protege for a few months. When the offer came up, you couldn’t say no. It was a dream come true to be recognized by someone you admired so much. Not that you were treated much more special compared to your class in terms of training. You actually trained twice as hard as them to prove your discipline. It was only in private that you were treated “special.”

And by “special,” it was really just being able to enjoy more personal conversations with your superiors. It wasn’t just Ghost that talked to you, it was also the rest of the 141. Of course, they were keen on getting to know you as soon as they heard that Ghost took you on as your protege. It was rare when someone caught Ghost’s eye, let alone a recruit. 

When they saw you in action at the various training facilities, they couldn’t deny your raw talent.

Breakfast was less lonely now that you had people to enjoy it with, the 141 taking it upon themselves to include you when they could. More responsibilities, more conversations, more opportunities. It seemed that getting sick was the best thing that happened to you oddly enough.

You really knew that they took you seriously when you were formally asked to come with them on a mission. Nothing too intense. Basic undercover to retrieve some highly sensitive information. If you did well and pulled more than your weight, it could potentially slingshot you into a permanent spot among the 141 team.

Like hell you were going to let this opportunity pass you by. 

“You feeling alright, Moth?” Ghost spoke into your ear, the sound of his voice crystal clear through the earpiece. It sent chills through you to hear it so close.

“Slight jitters, but nothing I can’t handle, sir.” You spoke honestly, tipping your baseball cap further to cover your face. The target was moving casually, not noticing that they were being tailed along the busy street. It was a dinner rush hour with plenty of people walking, so it was easy to blend in with the crowd.

“Deep breaths. You got this. Eye on the prize.” He continued to talk you through it, watching you from across the street where he also stayed undercover. It wasn’t that he doubted your capabilities, but anything could happen. He felt personally responsible for you too. You wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him, for good or for worse.

Another voice chimed in. A friendly voice laced with a thick Scottish accent that you had come to recognize. “The both of you got this. Now, less flirting, more sneaking.”

The tips of your ears turned red at the insinuation. Ghost gruffed in response, neither denying or confirming that he was flirting in the first place. When it came to you and how differently Ghost treated you, he was always flirting in his own way.

The target began to weave through the crowd to reach the exchange point. You noticed the fabric of their jean pockets shift, their hands fiddling with what was no doubt the flash drive you needed. Keeping a safe distance, you followed. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Ghost also keeping pace across the street. 

No sudden movements. Blend in. Don’t stare. The target looked around every now and then, pretending to read shop signs for the place they were looking for. You knew they were just checking to see if they were being followed. You took a deep breath, nerves jumping as their eyes passed over you.

No, you were safe. Written off as just another pedestrian making their way to a casual, late dinner. This was fine. You’re fine.

The target turned the corner into an alleyway. You lingered back, knowing that you would be caught immediately if you were to go after them too quickly. After about a minute, you cautiously peered around the corner. You spotted the familiar red jacket further down the alley. Listening carefully, you determined that the target was alone. 

If this was the exchange spot, the buyer wasn’t here yet. Perhaps this was your chance to apprehend the target and take that drive. 

As quietly as you could, you stealthily snuck up on the target. It was going to be a quick knockout. Everything was planned to a tee. Yet, nothing could have prepared you for an accomplice to warn the target of your approach. Before you could react, the target turned and pistol whipped you hard against your temple. 

Your vision went dark, a horrible deja vu washing over you. A worse one. This wasn’t some sparring match on the gym’s base. This was real. This was your life on the line. Maybe you weren’t ready for this. Maybe all of the talent you had only worked in a controlled setting. 

Maybe Ghost was wrong. 

In your haze, you saw the barrel aimed at your head. A quick roll over saved you from an early grave, but you weren’t fast enough in getting up. The gun went off in your shoulder, a silencer protecting the conflict from the public. A sharp pain that spread like wildfire burned your shoulder. Blood began to pool against your clothes. No amount of washing could possibly get it all out. 

You didn’t yell. You winced from the pain, but there was no screaming. Your adrenaline was kicking your brain into high gear in order to survive. Grabbing your own sidearm, you attempted to defend, but your goddamn shoulder wouldn’t allow you to aim properly. It was like something was caught in the gears of your movement. Was the bullet still stuck in you?

Everything seemed like it was over for you when your bullet missed. You were going to be gunned down like a dog on the street. Closing your eyes tight, you waited for impact.

It came, but not on you.

Ghost was blind with rage as soon as he saw the gun pointed at you. The blood on your clothes made it worse, his killer instinct taking hold of him. The target was no match for him normally, but especially not like this. Ghost slammed them into the wall, head cracked against brick. In their concussion, they were thrown onto the ground, the pistol spiraling out of their hands in the momentum. 

It didn’t stop there, though. The only way to ensure that you wouldn’t be shot at again was to break their whole fucking hands. From fingers to wrist to arms, Ghost snapped the bones like twigs. Having shoved a dirty cloth from the ground into the target’s mouth, the screams were muted. 

You watched as your lieutenant unleashed his wrath, the cracking of bones seeming to echo through the alley. When that wasn’t good enough for Ghost anymore, you watched him punch the living daylights out of the target until blood splattered across the concrete. 

Watching the scene unfold didn’t make you scared, sad, or even angry. Something dark came over you. You were glad to see this asshole get beaten almost to death. It was punishment to not mess around with things they shouldn’t mess with, not including you. Sensitive information like what you needed to extract weren’t toys to barter or sell. 

Besides that, seeing Ghost nearly kill a guy for you was kinda hot.

“Lieutenant! That’s enough!” Captain Price suddenly arrived, grabbing Ghost’s shoulders to pull him off on what could now be considered a victim. Ghost shook his head as if clearing whatever steam was still smothering his brain. When he no longer felt the full weight of rage, his attention turned to you. 

Clutching your shoulder tight. Bloody. No tears. No screams. No whimpers. Just a steady breath and pressure on your own wound. You were a tough cookie. Most recruits would have cried.

He gingerly tucked loose strands of hair behind your ear. Slowly, he peeled your hand away from your gunshot wound. You winced and sucked in a quick breath, the fire shooting through you. It felt like your muscles were ripped to shreds. The fiery string spread down your whole arm and clavicle. 

“It’ll hurt like hell for a while, but you’ll be okay.” He quietly reassured you, trying to see if he could spot the bullet embedded in your arm. 

You watched Captain Price search the pockets of the target, coming up with nothing in the hoodie. “Front left pants pocket. They were fiddling with it earlier. Did I fail the mission?”

Ghost and Price’s eyes widened at your question. You should’ve had more concern for your injury, not if your job was on the line. You didn’t doubt that you would be okay. Most people didn’t die from where you were shot. Some time, physical therapy, and painkillers should make you right as rain again.

Recovery wouldn’t matter if they demoted you.

“No. Soap picked up extra feed from another source right before the conflict. The accomplice. There wasn’t any way for us to know until now. You are a good soldier.” Price explained, watching the worry melt from your face. It was obvious that you cared and wanted to be here. Now he knew more clearly what exactly Ghost saw in you.

You did some deep breathing while you waited for a recovery pickup. When the unmarked van pulled up, your body felt lighter. They were going to take care of you. They looked out for each other, now including you. You’ve always wanted this kind of support.

Ghost followed you into the back, the inside set up like an ambulance. You were laid out on a gurney, medical officials doing their best to keep you comfortable. It was hard to do that when every bump in the road knocked against your shoulder. 

Soon enough, you were back on base in the familiar medical facility, a doctor prodding at your wound to fish out the bullet. Ghost was there the entire time, hating that you were in pain like this. He couldn’t be more proud of how you handled it, though. 

You gave an agonizing groan as the bullet was extracted, but the relief after was euphoric. It was like getting a pebble out of your shoes after walking with it for miles. The bullet hit the metal bowl beside you with a light clink. “Can I keep it?”

“Why would you want to do that?” Ghost questioned, a tone of surprise light in his voice. 

You instinctively shrugged your shoulders, causing pain to surge through you. Your doctor began to wrap you up. “Seems important to keep, I guess.”

A memento. A reminder. It could’ve killed you if the shot was anywhere else. For those reasons, it felt like something you couldn’t just throw away. After the doctor secured your bandages, they disinfected your odd souvenir and handed it to you in a small zip bag. 

You held it up to the light, catching the fluorescent light on it. Ghost gave a brief chuckle as he thought about how you were full of surprises. 

He was most definitely going to make you his. 

~

It’s been a few weeks since your injury and you were healing nicely. You were dedicated to your physical therapy, taking the proper workouts and epsom salts bath needed to ensure peak physical performance. 

You graduated from calling your lieutenant by his moniker when it was just the two of you. He had given you permission to call him by his real name if no one else was around. When he first gave you that honor, your heart raced within your chest as you played with it on your tongue. Hearing his own name come from your lips made him feel closer to you as well, a fire igniting within his soul. 

You only fed the flames when you said it with a deep blush on the tips of your ears the first few times you used it.

The both of you were hanging out in one of the break rooms near the offices. It was a quiet day, many soldiers busy with work. You were taking a coffee break after grueling hours of paperwork. The coffee tasted better in Simon’s building. It was probably because they deserved higher quality beans as seniors. That, and the fact that you shared a cup of coffee with him. 

The conversation was casual. Just the two of you in a small kitchenette that brought you close in proximity. You could smell his cologne as he moved about. His body brushed against your knees while you sat on the counter. It never failed to make your heart skip a beat.

“Wanna go out on a date?”

You nearly choked on your coffee when you heard the question, his bluntness something that you were still not quite used to. Simon never was the type to beat around the bush. “A date? An official one?”

“Of course. Don’t you know I like you?” Simon smirked under his mask, watching pink creep along your cheeks. You had an inkling of his feelings for you, but you didn’t want to jump to conclusions. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself from assuming that your superior saw you more than his trainee. 

You gave it some consideration. Simon didn’t know that he could feel nervous anymore, yet he did as you gave it some careful thought. It was like he could feel each second passing by when you were quiet. 

Finally, you gave a nod, accepting his invitation. “I would love to go out on a date with you.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up tonight. Wear something nice, but comfortable.” He instructed, a weight lifting off his chest from your answer. With that, he left you in the kitchenette with his finished tea, getting back to the paperwork. You took a moment to let everything sink in. It felt almost surreal. A date with the lieutenant. You. 

Paperwork felt like a breeze when you were in high spirits. There was a spring in your step as you moved across the office, the base, and eventually, your barrack. You were good at following directions, picking out an outfit that seemed perfect for whatever Simon had planned with you. 

You normally weren’t one to dress up or do your makeup, but it was a special occasion. Some light makeup and a clean outfit made you look like someone worthy of dating Simon. Just when you were finishing up some lip gloss, there was a knock at your door. 

Your breath was stolen as Simon stood in the hall, casual clothes showing off his build. His personal sense of style was masculine, a black jacket and nice jeans paired with boots, black button down, and dog tags. He still wore his skull balaclava, demanding respect from anyone on base that happened to spot him in casuals. Not that you minded.

Simon was also speechless as he witnessed you at your more casual. Such pretty eyes. Lips that were plump and kissable. He wanted to hold you close and never let go. He loved how you dolled yourself up for him, yet still stayed true to your natural beauty. 

“Pretty girl. Shall we?” He extended his hand, demonstrating a more gentlemanly side that you didn’t know he had. Graciously, you took it, feeling his ungloved hands for the first time. Calloused, warm, comforting. It was a hand that you wished you could hold forever. 

Wow, you’ve really fallen for him. . .

He escorted you to his truck, a simple black one that fit in with all the other cars on the base. It was kept clean, not even a leftover empty water bottle in sight. An air freshener in the shape of a tree hung from his mirror. The radio softly played for a moment before he turned it off to talk to you. 

You saw a new side of Simon. As soon as the truck left the property, you talked about your interests other than work. You got to learn about his hobbies, his habits, his likes, and his dislikes. He put it clearly what his red flags were as did you. 

A few miles in and Simon removed his mask, allowing you to see his face. A strong, clean jaw. Eyes so blue you could swim in them. A scar along his brow that gave him character. You giggled in your seat. He quirked that brow. “What’s so funny?”

“I wasn’t expecting you to be the blonde and blue-eyed kind.” You admitted, your gaze averting toward the window. 

“What were you expecting?” He played along. The trees flying by slowly turned into buildings as you got closer to the city. 

The familiar golden hour showered over you. “Honestly? Another skull.”

At that he laughed. One that came right from his belly. It felt full and near magical. There was something about you that made him feel comfortable. Normal. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time. “Is this a disappointment for you then? Me not being undead?”

“Not at all. I’m glad you’re living, Simon.” You reassured him. You got to see his smile as clear as day, your stomach doing flips and triggering your own smile.

“I’m glad you’re living too. . .” He confessed, his tone now becoming a little darker. He recalled the day you got shot. Your first outing on the job shouldn’t have gone down like that. He had his eye on you the whole time, but when you turned into that alley, it was like you had completely disappeared. A few seconds too late and you wouldn’t have been sitting next to him now. 

You noticed how his face fell, his grip on the clutch getting tighter. Your own smile faltered in worry. “Simon?”

“I’m sorry for not being there soon enough, Y/n. You shouldn’t have been shot in the first place. If I was following you more closely, it wouldn’t have happened.” He formally apologized. You didn’t realize that he still thought about that day.

Your attention turned towards the window again, knots in your stomach circling over like snakes. “I don’t blame you for what happened that day. I blame myself more than anything. For a split second, I thought that you were wrong for believing in me so much. That I wasn’t as talented as everyone thought I was. You saved my life that day. So rather than saying I forgive you, I want to say thank you.”

Simon took your hand in his and squeezed it tight. He’s never felt close to anyone like this. So raw and open. When it came to you, he didn’t have to worry about being judged. You weren’t the type to be unreasonable or hold grudges. He had his team for support for a long time, but it could never replace the need for a real partner. In that department, he’s been alone for a long time.

If anything, you saved his life. 

"Thought I scared you off back then with my blow up." He admitted, the atmosphere lighter for more honesty.

You felt it too. "Not at all. Honestly, I thought it was pretty hot. . ."

The two of you didn’t need to say anything else to each other on the matter. Both of you understood with just a squeeze of your hands. The security washed over you like a blanket. That, and both of you were near grinning like lovesick teens.

As long as Simon was by your side, everything would be okay. There was no need to focus on the past while there was such a bright future. 

The rest of the ride was comfortable, the city now filling up the whole window. It didn’t take long for Simon to get to the restaurant, find a parking spot, and open your passenger door. The restaurant was nothing too fancy. Up-scaled comfort food. Simon had good tastes. You could tell that he thought about this date carefully.

The host led you towards the back of the restaurant, a special request to ensure as much privacy as possible. You took a seat, Simon sliding in your chair before taking his own. You took in the restaurant. Antique-style lights, fresh pothos plants weaving along the walls, quiet jazz over the speakers. The air was filled with salty, savory, and even sweet scents as the kitchen made both mains and desserts. There was light chatter across the floor, other couples and families enjoying a good meal.

You smiled at the menu selection, already spying several things you wanted to try. One of which being a house cocktail. The waiter took your drink order while Simon settled on a few appetizers to share. 

There was no mention of work during the date. There wasn’t much to say about it anyways since you worked together. Instead, you focused on a little more personal details. You skipped over talking about his family. From the way he stiffened in his chair, you could tell that that subject was touchy. When you switched topics, Simon eased up.

He was grateful that you respected his boundaries. In return, he respected yours. There was a sense of guilt having read your files before and knowing a lot of information already, but he wouldn’t bring it up until you were ready to talk about it. It had to be natural. 

The more drinks you had, the more you loosened up. You felt yourself smiling and laughing a lot more, the air as light as your head. The food was fantastic, the flavors dancing on your tastebuds even after you have swallowed. Of course, for you, dessert was the best part. You’ve never tasted a chocolate lava cake so warm and rich in your life. 

After the meal, the two of you took time to savor your drinks. The restaurant began to filter out as the night went on. You were wrapped up in conversation for a couple hours before the two of you decided to call it a night. Once you got in the car, though, you dropped a subtle hint. “I’m not ready to go to bed yet. . .”

“What a coincidence. I’m not either.” He responded coolly despite his heart racing. A buzz of excitement traveled through the both of you as anticipation to take things further built up. Simon was no longer driving in the direction of the base. He was taking you to his apartment.

The combination of leftover alcohol and rampant emotions put a spring in your step. The two of you practically raced to his place, Simon unlocking his door in record time. You didn’t even have a chance to take a look around as he pulled you into his arms and gave you an earth-shattering kiss. 

Fireworks erupted throughout your body, his kisses sweeter than the lava cake that melted on your tongue. God damn, he was a good kisser. His teeth lightly nipped your bottom lip, determined to make you shiver under his hands. An involuntary gasp parted your lips enough for him to taste you more. As soon as his tongue wrapped around yours, you moaned. 

It wasn’t enough for Simon. He wanted to hear you cry out for him. Pushing your back against the wall, he pinned you in place to take more of his passionate kisses. His hand roamed up your back, desperately searching for the zipper to strip you down. The other was around your thigh, lifting your leg up so he could insert himself closer to you. You felt his erection press against your body, your stomach filling with a pleasurable fire that consumed you.

The zipper went down along with your top, your breasts bouncing free as he took your bra with it. God, he wanted to take you right there by the front door. He wanted to pound into you so hard you would scream and let everyone know in the complex that you belonged to him. 

It seemed that you wanted the same thing as your panties became wet with need, your hips grinding into that massive erection. Drool dripped down the side of your mouth, each kiss wonderfully invasive. Your freed chest jumped with each breath and heartbeat, also aching to be manhandled.

You put your hands on his chest, feeling a burning heat like warming your hands by a fire. Simon smiled against your mouth as your own hands roamed and tugged for him to be a little more exposed too. Taking your hint, he threw his shirt off, feeling your eyes wander over every inch of skin that you could see. Strong. Powerful. Scarred. Perfect.

Even marble statues couldn’t compare to the strength of his body. Simon drove you crazy, your natural honey dripped past your panties and down your thighs. You’ve never been so turned on like this before. It made you want to go feral. It made you want to not only make love to Simon, but to fuck him too. 

You slipped off your bottoms with your panties, wanting him to see just how slick you were. Of course, Simon stared. He couldn’t help it. Truely, how could ever let a pretty thing like you go. 

A borderline evil smirk graced his face, his sharp eyes glimmering in mischief. It would be a waste if he didn’t drink from you tonight. Crouching down, he lifted a leg up over his shoulder for full access to what would undoubtedly be the best meal in his life. Your breath quickened as his fingers spread you open. “Such a pretty pink, dove.”

“I don’t think I have ever received a compliment for my pussy before.” You chuckled easily. Your laugh turned into a sharp moan as he kissed your swollen clit. Fuck, you were dripping. 

“I’ll gladly be the first. Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Simon praised, appealing to that kink he knew you had. And Christ did that fan the flames. 

He kissed the inside of your thighs, opting to leave hickeys on each side. Your propped leg jumped with each bite, your hands gripping his soft locks tugging. “Simon. . .” 

“I know, dove. But I need to do this to make you mine.” He claimed before leaving another mark on your soft skin. Your impatient moan filled the space, but you didn’t stop him. You wanted to belong to Simon. And if this was how he claimed you, so be it. He could cover you head to toe with hickeys if he wanted, as long as you belonged to each other now.

You waited for him to be satisfied. He wasn’t, his possessive nature wanting to mark you in more obvious places. He didn’t want to put you in a bad position when you had to work, however, so he stopped. Looking up at you, he smiled, watching you bite your lip in hopes that he would go for your juicy pussy. “Such a good girl, waiting for me. You want me to eat you out?”

The baritone of his voice echoed in your head like a bass string. You nodded eagerly, quaking as his hands teased your legs. “Yes please.”

He hummed in approval. “Good girl.”

His tongue brushed against your clit hard, feeling it throb in celebration against his buds. You threw your head back and moaned, back arching as shockwaves traveled along your spine. Your grip on his hair got tighter. It was a struggle not to pull it as you desired a deeper sensation. Not that Simon would have minded. What he wouldn’t give to be crushed between those luscious thighs of yours.

Simon swiped the full length of you, nectar flowing down his throat like the ripest peach. He loved the way your hips twitched to grind on his face. How you shuttered and moaned and gasped with each lick. He pulled you closer, a large hand groping your ass in the process. Plump. Soft. Heavenly.

You were so close to a climax. You felt the pleasure pooling deep within you waiting to turn into a tsunami. Right at the cusp, you moaned louder, begging with each breath. “Simon~! More~!”

He angled you more to push his tongue inside you. You were tight around it, tasting even more of the honey that flowed out of you. Stars began to swarm your vision as he pushed you closer to the edge. Now, you were really taking advantage of him. Simon felt his hair being pulled harder, just short of it being painful. Your soft thighs enveloped his face as well, a dream come true as far as he was concerned.

You rode his face harder and harder until you exploded. Eyes fluttered closed as you tensed, every cell in your body so blissfully singing in your blood. You screamed as he continued to tongue-fuck you through your orgasm, eager to not waste a single drop of you. His grip on you hardened to keep you from squirming too much. 

Finally, he loosened his hold and pulled back. You struggled to catch your breath and your heartbeat. While you took a short breather, Simon stood to unbuckle his pants. His  girthy, powerful cock sprang up, relieved to be out of its confinement. As soon as you saw it, pulsing and strong, you knew that you were in for an even better time.

“Hands on the door, dove.” He commanded. 

You didn’t have to be told twice.

The palms of your hands settled on his front door, your body bent and ready to take him from behind. The tips of his fingers traced deliciously along your smooth back, down to your hips, and then tapped your butt in approval. “Perfect girl. I really can’t get enough of you, dove.”

His hands gripped your hips to hold you steady while he worked himself in. Despite how wet you were, Simon didn’t want to hurt you with his size. He wanted to make sure you could take it before he went wild. 

You bit your lip and whined as he stretched you out, feeling pleasure already from his erection. His tongue felt great, but it couldn’t possibly beat the weight of his dick. It satisfied that need for something bigger. Harder. And did Simon fit the bill just right.

He pushed in deeper, slowly, until he was flush. You took deep breaths as you got used to having his all. Behind you, you could hear Simon giving a satisfied groan. “So fucking tight around me. Soaking too.”

The praises had you smiling like an idiot. It felt so good to hear him enjoy your body. It helped you relax a little too, allowing him some room to start moving. With a shake of your hips, you encouraged him to thrust as much as he wanted.

Simon started off slow at first. Agonizingly slow. You felt every inch of him slide, twitch, and rub as he moved at a snail’s pace. He wanted to make sure you could feel all of him. That your pussy would remember him and only ever want him. From base to tip, he carved his shape into you. 

A small whimper escaped you as he took his time. He chuckled and watched your ears turn red as you realized he heard you. “Growing restless?”

“Maybe a little. . .” You admitted, your voice shaky as he plunged himself back into you. You could’ve sworn that he was deep enough to kiss your cervix, he was so deep. It made you salivate, drool threatening to dribble out with each parted breath.

“I didn’t realize that my girl could get impatient.” He teased further.

My girl. It had a nice ring to it coming from Simon. That was right. You were his girl now. “Your girl wants to be further claimed by her man.”

You couldn’t be more perfect to him. You said and did all the right things. That itself deserved a reward. Exactly what you wanted. 

He thrusted into you harder this time, making you cry out as he most definitely kissed your cervix that time. His movements quickened, rubbing the sweet spots in you that made you feel alive. Your nails clawed the door, some of the paint scraping off by accident. Not that it mattered right now. In fact, Simon thought it was a good way to remember this day.

Your pussy tightened with each thrust. Honey dripped down your thighs and onto the floor. His grip on your hips got stronger, leaving another version of his claim on your skin. He groaned each time he pushed in, your warmth too good to be separated from for too long. 

“H-Harder~!” You begged, vocal cords raw from moaning so much, but you couldn’t get enough. Just like you wanted, Simon stepped up to satisfy your craving. His chest pressed against your back as he reached underneath you to pinch that sensitive clit. Your vision saw white as he rubbed, pistoning harder into you. His other hand took hold of your breast, tweaking a solid nipple. That made you become undone.

You screamed out your orgasm, too invested in all of the pleasure to care if neighbors heard you. More of your slick coated his cock down to his balls, adding more mess to the puddle of honey on the floor. While you shouted and cried for Simon, he just continued to fuck you. He was getting close to his own climax and it was going to be a big one. 

Simon bit your shoulder, the same one you got shot in. This bite sent earthquakes in you, the pain of it turning into nirvana instantly. His groans turned into growls as he moved rougher, short and hard movements making sure he was deep as he could possibly go. Your tight pussy squeezed around him more as your mind went numb from the bliss. 

His hold tensed as he pulled out, holding you in place to shoot his cum over your back. It came out hot and thick before cooling quickly from the air. The sensation was welcomed as it brought your temperature down. You felt numb and dumb from the sex, legs wobbling for you to rest. 

After Simon’s brain didn’t feel like complete mush anymore, he picked you up in a bridal hold to carry you to his bathroom. Getting off your feet was instant relief. “Don’t worry, dove. I’ll clean you up. Gotta take care of my girl properly, yeah?”

[ultraviolet-divergence]

The strain of the neoliberal movement that crystallized in the 1990s out of these ideas marked the rise of a new fusionism. While the original fusionism of the 1950s and 1960s melded libertarianism and religious traditionalism in the style of William F. Buckley and the National Review, the new fusionism defended neoliberal policies through arguments borrowed from cognitive, behavioral, and evolutionary psychology and in some cases genetics, genomics, and biological anthropology. The phenomenon was apparent as early as 1987 to conservative historian Paul Gottfried. Whereas older conservatives may have used a language of religion to back up claims about human differences, Gottfried noted that they had begun to use disciplines like sociobiology in order to “biologicize” ethics, in the words of E.O. Wilson. Contrary to claims that recent years have seen a decisive repudiation of neoliberalism by right-wing populists, it is this strange new coalition that underlies in part the ascent of today’s global right. In its ranks we can count not only a host of bit players—the likes of Murray Rothbard, Hans-Hermann Hoppe, and Peter Brimelow—but some of the right’s ringleaders: Steve Bannon, Peter Thiel, and Elon Musk. (Gottfried, for his part, has been a “reluctant mentor” to Unite the Right’s keynote white nationalist in Charlottesville, Richard Spencer.) In many ways, ideas like Murray’s are the glue holding the whole edifice together. Over the past two decades, the self-avowed libertarian’s melding of genetic pronouncements with bootstrapping family-values talk has served as the bridge spanning divergent factions of the racialist right, from its IQ-obsessed, DEI-hating Silicon Valley wing to its white nationalist fringes. In other words, this new right does not really reject globalism but advances a new strain of it—one that accepts an international division of labor while tightening controls on certain kinds of migration. It assigns intelligence averages to countries in a way that collectivizes and renders innate the concept of “human capital.” It appeals to values and traditions that cannot be captured statistically, shading into a language of national essences and national character. The fix it finds in race, culture, and nation is but the most recent iteration of a pro-market philosophy based not on the idea that we are all the same but that we are in a fundamental, and perhaps permanent way, different.