#as much as it disfigures the paper

[wikagirl]

A visitor aboard the vessel

Note: ummmmm head up this is really shit probably, I wrote this in like an hour and just kinda ran it through a spellcheck because I am dyslecix so proofreading is useless if I do it. Anyways have fun.

His bare feet were cold against the creaking floorboards, she allowed no shoes inside her cabin space and as it was her home, he would respect it.

The old galleons' interior was worn down by the ages and yet undeniably loved and cared for. Stains and marks covered the recently waxed and polished table of the small kitchen corner connected to the crammed space filled with bunks and hammocks one room over, only separated by a torn and tattered curtain which had been delicately stitched together with thread of various colours and strength.

He found himself at her table more often with the decline of humanity, and could you blame him? She was the most supreme of her kind, always in the know about what the other lesser ones were up to, always watching and taking note of their whims and woes. Sometimes she'd even allow one of them aboard, to mend their broken oars and stitch their cloth, all for the right price, of course. So who better to come to when you wish to inquire about their wellbeing?

Out of all her peers, she seemed to be the least affected by the fall of mankind. Where the others wandered the starless sea, seeking new purpose and fighting each other for power, she simply sailed. Sailed as far as the storms would carry her vessel, simply enjoying the peace.

She had always been a curious one, so much unlike the others. Her ship has not seen any improvements in centuries in terms of practicality; instead, she chose to decorate it, make it a home rather than a tool.

Her decks weren't empty either; others of her kind were very territorial over their vessels, murdering without thought to keep away anyone that wasn't paying for the crossing upon their decks, yet she had a companion.

A smaller one of her kind, the smallest in fact, the little ones holy cloth stitched just as carefully as the curtains to hold onto their tiny body as the wind desperately tried to tear it away from them while they kept watch in the crow's nest, their very own little gondola safely attached to the side of the ship in place of a lifeboat.

But the thing that set her apart the most from the others, at least to him, was that unlike the others, she was still undeniably human.

Sure, just like the others, she had torn off her skin and flesh, disfigured herself to distance herself from the life she walked before, to become something different. And yet, she was still....her. The others all took on the mantle of ferryman, stripping themselves of individuality as they became one of many others, working in heaven's service to repent for their sins in life.

And here she was, declaring herself something other than the mass. Ferrymother is what the others call her, and she carries the name with pride. A mother. Something undeniably human. But still, when asked, she denies still being human at all. So...

"...why?"

"Why what, dear?" she spoke, lazy amusement lacing her tone as she passed a little golden coin between her bony fingers as she sat relaxed, her head lazily resting on her other hand and her legs crossed in a somewhat slumped, almost bored, position. Her holy cloth veiled her face, but yet he could tell from just the smallest incline of her head that she had turned her attention from the coin to her visitor. "Has the mighty Father never taught you to speak in full sentences?"

“Why insist on calling yourself a mother when you hate what you were when you were human so much?"

The coin briefly stopped in its ever looping journey across her knuckles but quickly resumed with it's stoft clacking noise as it traveled over the old bones of the womans hand. She laughed and sent the coin skyward with a flip of her thumb, letting it clatter to the table where it danced until it eventually fell flat.

"Because unlike the other ferrymen, I do not regret the life I lived and I chose to be here." she said, her head turning to the entry way to the small room. the wall around the doorway was plastered with picture frames, some contained old and yellowed maps of places on the once so green and beautiful earth, others contained paintings of landscapes, some few ones had handwritten letters with faded ink in them, and hidden amonst these yellowed parchments and cracked canvases, a piece of heavenly scripture.

She pointed towards the frame containing the noticably less withered piece of text, the parchment still shone white and bright, the black ink had a soft golden shimmer to its colour and, at the very bottom, a familiar looking big swirly signature and a seal in red wax.

"A written confirmation that I cast myself into hell, choosing to forego the privelage of serving heaven as a virtue. Your brother Michael was the one who signed it." she explained "It simply seemed unfair to me that I should be allowed in heaven for slaying a flase prophet who abused the fear of god in others to oppress and abuse them while others were cast into hell for the same reason, the only difference being that the false prophet they slayed was turning his absue against those who believed in different gods. So I came down here, to give comfort to those that I feel have been sent here unjustifed and give guidence to the ones that are yet to come...or at least that's what I used to do until..." She flapped her hand around the air, a broad guesture towards the complete chaos that had spread through gods creation since the father had left and humanity had fallen.

The lost virtue was a legend in both heaven and hell alike. There are many romours about what she had been in life, some say she had been a heathen warmother who turned to god, others claim her to be a generous nun filled with devotion to her lord and nobody else, many tales had been told about her to various degrees of credibility. The only thing they all had in common was her kindess and love for the people, and her fearless pursuit of justice towards those who dared turn against their brethren for self-enrichment.

Her guest had heard many variantons of the tales about her but never would he have thought that she would have laid down her heavenly body along side her descent into hell.

The chair under her creaked as she leaned back, her gaze resting longingly on those owrn out paintings and papers "Surely you remember it well, the battle it took for heaven to let everyone in that lived a true and honest life, regardless of belief or status.....after all you were the one who fought it." An amused chuff is all her visitor gave in response.

She picked up the coin once more, returning to passing it between her fingers "I think your time is up. It seems they have gotten impatient with your absence.“ she said, pointing out the small milky window behind her visitor out the back end of the ship while holding the coin between her bony knuckles. A small blue orb wrapped in a golden chain could be seen fluttering through the rain, zipping about like a disoriented hummingbird, undoubltedly searching for the womans visitor.

"I guess it is." he answered as he rose up from his seat.

The hostess led her guest through the hallways of the ship, up to the little door just one level below her captain's cabin, connecting the ship's belly to the upper deck.

"I once again have to thank you for your hospitality. Fare well on your travels." the guest said as he bowed to the woman, bidding her goodbye.

"And it was a pleasure having you." she simply answered, her head tilting a little bit to the left as she did, a mannerism that her visitor has learned to understand as her smiling. "Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, Ferrymother?"

"Please don't forget your boots again, Gabriel."

[morganbritton132]

You probably get this all the time, and I don't know why I only thought about this now, but I'm suddenly fascinated by the idea of a government employee who knows about the Upside Down that has been tasked with keeping an eye on Eddie's TikTok page and just constantly being so frustrated

I never get this but I have thought about it at length!!! Lol.

I just picture one overworked and underpaid agent being tasked with the whole *hand waving* Hawkins Situation.

There used to a time when the Hawkins Project was a coveted position given to the best agents with the highest clearance, but now… Now all the gates to the other world have been closed. There’s been no activity in three decades. Brenner’s dead. The Russians defuncted their projects. The girl – Eleven or Jane, or whatever – hasn’t blown anything up since the nineties.

The Hawkins job is a babysitting job with CIA-level clearance, and it’s just… it was supposed to be a cakewalk but. There’s just… there are so many of them.

And for a while, they were spread all over the country.

One of them is a US Senator now and she called the head of the FBI ‘a bitch’ and ‘a coward’ on a hot mic last week, and maybe.

Maybe for the sake of national security and their own sanity, maybe this agent pulled a few strings and dotted a few more I’s than they’re authorized to just to get Lucas Sinclair, Maxine Mayfield-Sinclair, Dustin Henderson, Nancy Wheeler, and Robin Buckley back in Chicago.

Maybe they did that. There’s no paper trail, but maybe they did.

It’s easier to keep track of a ‘party’ of people if most of them are in the same state.

This Party – as they fondly call themselves – barely qualified as a threat anymore. They are barely a concern at this point. Only a few of them are considered dangerous enough to require anything more than the occasional check-in. Those people being Jane Hopper, James ‘Jim’ Hopper, Nancy Wheeler, Murray Bauman, and – much to this agent’s annoyance – Edward Munson.

Eddie wouldn’t be a cause for concern if he wasn’t so goddamn loud. He is in no way a threat to national security but the CIA doesn’t love when people allude to a defuncted Cold War project that resulted in an inter-dimensional serial killer murdering a bunch of small town high school students.

This agent does not believe that Eddie Munson knows what an NDA is or that he signed one.

It is one thing to write songs about demon bats and hell spilling into small town Americana or to make your album cover resemble the charred remains of Henry Creel’s disfigured body (‘yeah’ the agent thinks, ‘you’re not that slick, Munson’) but it is something else to announce to your millions of TikTok followers that you got rabies in a hell dimension.

This agent does not have enough pull to persuade Congress to outright ban TikTok and actually thinks that a TikTok ban would be an overreach of government control, but damn if it would not have made their life easier. Though they fear that Munson would just go to YouTube and the idea of longer content makes them shiver.

And by the way, this agent expected better from Steven Harrington!

This agent liked Steve! He was one of their favorites!!

Steve didn’t make waves. He lived a quiet life, paid his taxes, and barely had a social media presence. He was an absolute dream to be monitoring until Eddie downloaded that cursed clock app.

Steve was never viewed on the same threat level as Jane Hopper or Murray Bauman, but he was a closely monitored subject due to his long-term injuries and his time spent in the alternate dimension and the Russian bunker under Starcourt Mall. Despite close monitoring, there is no note in his file of any digression until Eddie started shoving Tiktok in his face.

This agent sits in their office at the CIA’s Chicago location.

In the basement, at the end of a long dusty corridor, beneath a buzzing fluorescent light, they get a notification on their computer. It’s from Tiktok, and this agent breathes in slowly. They rub at the forming headache between their brows and names it Eddie Munson.

They click the notification, waits a second for the shitty wifi to bring them to the app, and watches as Steve Harrington says, “Technically we’re time travelers.”

And they sigh.

[whiskeynwriting]

Recovery

Simon “Ghost” Riley x OFC “Bones” 

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Word Count: 6.8k

Warnings: 18+ (minors DNI)

Trauma, physical therapy, some reader descriptions (strong/muscles), dirty talk, size kink, grinding/dry humping, mentions of male masturbation, spanking, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, mentions of smoking, tattoos.

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A/N: Hope y’all aren’t getting sick of Ghost x Bones because they’re not leaving anytime soon lol. Also this gif has my HEART, baby has some makeup in his eye lol

ALSO also, thank you to @thesleepingmusicneek for honestly just being an amazing fucking friend but for helping me SO much with my writing 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

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Simon “Ghost” Riley Masterlist

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Nothing but scribbles stumble across the page, now disfigured with angry wrinkles. And the writer, no more frustrated than he is stubborn, sitting with the pencil’s tip just at the paper’s edge. What’s worse than watching him struggle, is knowing there’s little to nothing you can do about it. This journey is up to him; his progress, his growth, his recovery, it’s all in his hands. 

“This is bullocks.” Finally, he tosses the pencil down with an aggressive huff. “Never even was a lefty.”

“That’s not the point.”

Looking away with a frown, he mumbles, “I know.”

Simon’s physical therapist tries his best, he really does, but his patient is stubborn, and these injuries are unforgiving. Having you here is the main thing that keeps Simon going, out of both pride and general encouragement. In the therapist’s eyes, your open sass doesn’t help. But hey, it’s how the two of you bond. 

“Try it this way, Ghost.” He then offers, speaking into the growing silence. 

“I’ve already tried it that way. Fuckin’ hurts!” His left hand wasn’t ever his strongest or most favored out of the two, but practicing his writing skills is a step in the right direction in regard to his healing. 

Sometimes, this was embarrassing for him, having you watch him struggle. But even through the bad days, and the really bad days, he insisted that you come. Your support meant more to him than anything, and you were glad to tag along. He found great offense in the mere offer of you leaving, which was suggested many times by his therapist. They claimed he’d focus better without you there. A fucking distraction. 

“She’s my doctor,” He’d state firmly, eyes burning holes into his PT. “Not you.”

And this was true. Price had allowed you to be Simon’s main physician, figuring there really wasn’t anyone better. You had both personal and professional reason to be here. So, Simon’s physical therapist can suck it. 

“Perhaps if we had some privacy, maybe -”

“This again?!” Ghost shouts, and you try your best to hide your chuckle. He should’ve known better than to bring this up now, when Simon is most frustrated. “Bloody fuckin’ hell, how many times do I have to tell you?!”

“Hey,” Laying a hand on his forearm, you request gently, “Take a breath.”

Regardless of his deep inhale, Simon’s dark eyes continue to glare at the physician. Though, as irritated as he may seem now, Ghost truly has come a long way. He’s gotten a lot of feeling back in his feet and legs, and can even wiggle his toes and feel pain. On this area of his body, the therapist has moved onto moving his entire foot. 

“Why don’t we try the lower extremities?” 

“‘S difficult, too.” Glancing away, Simon focuses on the view past the windowpane. It’s a sunny day, soon to rain but nice enough now. 

The soft rub of your thumb on his forearm is what pulls him back, nodding with a sigh. “Alright, fine.”

Redirecting his focus to his feet, Simon concentrates, determined to do… something. He’s been instructed to wiggle his toes, which he does successfully. And the gentle squeeze you give him offers the slightest bit of encouragement. 

“Alright, now let’s try your ankle. Start with the right one.” 

“Rotate it fully?” Scoffing, he raises a brow.

His therapist shrugs. “Any movement at all.”

Narrowing his eyes, Simon zones in on his right foot, doing anything he can to make it move. A twitch, a wiggle, anything. But by his quick yet shallow breaths, his small grunts, you can tell he’s becoming agitated again. 

“Be patient with your body.”

“My body can do so much more than this.” He spits out in return. 

“Yeah?” You return, not one to take his sass. “Then show me.” 

There was nothing more motivating than your snarky remarks, always ready to challenge the man you love. And wouldn't you know it, a small shudder runs through his ankle. The way Simon’s head immediately snaps up toward you makes you grin, his eyes wide with little crinkles on the side, evidence of his eager smile. It's like he himself was surprised by it, and to say you’re proud of him would be an understatement. 

“Way to go, big boy.” With the widest grin, you congratulate him. “You’re making progress.”

And even though he doesn’t respond, he keeps his smile. He’s proud of himself, too.

*

*

*

Subtle glances, small brushes or touches, cheeky grins and flirtatious laughs, that’s what accounts for your interactions. And while your exchanges have been sweet, they’ve also been dulled, in a way. The fire doesn’t seem to be there anymore. Your love still grows, is still everlasting, but the desire you had for one another, it’s faded.

Or at least, it seems that way. 

The first few months of Simon’s recovery were the most difficult. Getting him stable was more important than anything, and you were by his side through it all. You weren’t thinking sexually, those thoughts weren’t anywhere near your headspace, not when you were so worried. But the more Simon healed, the more touchy he should be, right? It makes sense in your head. Going so long without so much as kissing or even hugging you, you’d assumed he’d want to put his hands on you as soon as he got the chance. 

The injuries on Ghost’s face and head have healed, externally, at least. So, he’s been lifting his mask more around you, but only to the tip of his nose. And you wonder if he regrets showing himself to you. But even with that thought lingering heavily in your head, you also wonder, why hasn’t he kissed me yet? Why hasn’t he initiated anything? A small hug? A peck on the lips? Anything? Honestly, it feels like you’re losing him all over again.

Simon has shown his love for you through his actions and words. The two of you don’t often say it, but it comes up every now and then. His physical intentions, though, those were much more prominent. They came in the form of voicing his requests for you to stay, whether it be at his therapy sessions or just throughout the day. He wasn’t shy about that. Occasionally, he’d compliment you, call you smart and sweet, call you his doctor, his girl. But nothing more, nothing even remotely sexual. And it’s strange because Simon used to be so sexual. Even when he couldn't do much with you, couldn't he have said something to express his physical interest? 

On the other end, Ghost’s worrying about this topic just as much as you. While you’ve been waiting for him to make a move, he’s been waiting on you. His body has always been scarred, mutilated with cuts that ran deep and marred with burns over his flesh. But he wasn’t insecure about any of that, not until these recent injuries. He knows he looks different, especially on his left arm and legs, even his face a little bit. Simon hasn’t felt truly insecure in decades, but that rotten feeling has now been clawing at the insides of his chest, breaking free and wreaking havoc on his mind. 

Simon wanted to give you space, give you the option of turning away. He wouldn’t blame you, this wasn’t exactly part of the package. Besides, you can’t help it if you’re not attracted to him anymore because of these injuries. He’d understand it. It’d crush his entire being, but he’d understand. 

And so, he waits, wondering if the day will come where you’ll make a move, where you’ll show him that you’re still attracted to him. But he refuses to bring it up to you, he doesn’t want to push. 

“‘M sorry,” Simon grumbles quietly, somberly. 

“You don’t have to be.” His regret is obvious, and you appreciate the gesture of him apologizing. But you’re used to his attitude during those sessions, and you honestly don’t blame him one bit. You can’t imagine how frustrating this situation would be if it were you personally. 

Moving about the room, you clean up your station, sorting notes into files and wiping down the desk. And Simon watches you with thoughtful eyes, hoping for a chance to reconnect. You’re the most precious and special thing he’s ever had the pleasure of possessing. But not possess in a way of dominance, possess in a way like his own soul possesses his body. Natural, connected, at peace. 

“How was your day?” He asks, voice low and muddled by the rain tapping against the windowpane. 

Without turning, you respond with, “Normal. Nothing too crazy.” 

“What was your favorite part?” Simon pries gently, not wanting the conversation to end.

Now, you do turn. Leaning back against the edge of your desk, you grin. “Spending it with you.”

And it’s true. Regardless of the worries slowly but surely consuming you, it was nice to be with him. 

Swallowing, his pulse becomes thunderous in his ears, heart beating against his chest. He wants you, wants to feel you next to him. So, with great hesitancy, he requests, “C’mere.”

Excitement shoots through your limbs as you all too quickly prance over to him, ecstatic that he’s even asked. And your eagerness makes him smirk beneath the mask. Sitting yourself down on one of those round, swiveling chairs, you rest beside his left arm. Out of curiosity, you look down, eyeing his decorated forearm. His tattoos no longer look the same, some of them having changed with the healing of his stitches. 

“Bunch of bullshit.” Ghost murmurs, glancing down, too. “Paid good money for those.”

Laughing, you give your head a single shake. “They still look hot as hell.”

Eyes widening, he speaks before he can stop himself. “Really?”

With you being so close to him again, and now complimenting him, he feels like he’s soaring. 

“Fuck yeah.” You respond, as if it were obvious. To you, it is.

Impulsively, you lay a hand over his forearm, fingers brushing the black and white ink. And for a split second, it feels electric on his skin. But you’re quick to flinch away, wide eyes staring up at him. “I’m so sorry, did that hurt?”

But all he does is shrug. “Not at all. Stitches are healed, love.” 

Love. You swoon. 

“So, I can touch you?” It obviously isn’t meant to come off dirty, but Ghost’s brain registers it as that, anyway. 

“Of course you can.” He nearly blurts out, his tone hopeful and welcoming. And immediately, you’re wrapping both hands around his sleeve. The small hum he exudes prompts you to glance up, grinning at the sight. Ghost has closed his eyes, chest releasing a relaxing breath. 

“Feels nice.”

“Just this?” Humored doubt laces your tone. 

“Feels like ages since you’ve touched me.” 

His words twist the thoughts collecting in your head into something new. Has he… he’s wanted me to touch him?

“I know…” The way you say it expresses your sadness, your regret. “Just need you to heal, ya know?”

Because of what he’s now said, you feel the need to explain yourself, explain why you haven’t fulfilled his expectations. Throughout this entire healing process, you focused mostly on his physical health. You never once thought to tend to his emotional wellbeing. It’s a failure, on your end. 

“Does it,” Inhaling a motivating breath, he finishes with, “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

Lifting his arm slightly, he gestures to himself. “These stitches, the injuries.” 

Twisting your face in confusion, you lean back a bit. “Um… no? Why would they?”

“Just… missed your touch, is all.” He’s mumbling, quiet and very obviously insecure. “Missed you.”

“Baby… I’m so sorry.” All at once, regret hits you like a truck. He’s been suffering, and you’ve done nothing. “I’m sorry I haven’t done more for you.”

“You’ve done everything you needed to.”

“No, I haven’t. How could I let you feel this way?” 

An abrupt knock on the door dissipates your conversation into seemingly nothing. Instantly, you pull your hands away from him, turning in your chair to greet whoever’s about to approach. And to your delight, it’s Johnny.

“Hey Lt.” He grins, walking in and giving you a nod. “Lovely Bones.”

There’s that flirtatious nature again. As always, Ghost knew it meant nothing, not really. But now that he feels like you’re falling through his fingers, he wants to tighten his grasp now more than ever, wants to pull you back into his chest and never let you go, whisper all the sweet things he’s been dying to tell you. Especially when another man compliments you.

“How’ve ya been?” Striding forward, Johnny takes a seat opposite of Ghost’s bed. Spreading his legs and leaning in on his knees, he flashes that cheeky smile, giving Simon his full attention.

“I’ve been fine, Johnny. Nothing new.” Simon answers simply, almost in a kind of brain fog. Switching conversations so quickly is difficult for him, still trying to regain his focus from the incident. 

“See your scars are healin’ up nicely.” Pointing to his forearm, he nods. “That’s good to see.”

“Yeah, messed up my bloody ink, though.”

“Ah,” Soap waves a hand, “Looks better that way.” 

The team visited Simon fairly frequently. And since you’re by his side for ninety-five percent of the day, you get to see the guys every time they come by. Oftentimes, they’d bring him little treats, a snack from the cafeteria or his favorite energy drink. And while Ghost knew they had the best intentions, their pity disgusted him. Sometimes he wished they would just leave him alone. Especially now, considering the two of you were in the middle of a rather important discussion. 

“Oh!” Johnny then says, startling you. Reaching into his back pocket, he retrieves a small package. Tossing it Simon’s way, Soap says, “Know you like these.”

Catching it easily, Simon reads the wrapping. A Snickers, he can’t remember the last time he had one of these. And that was mainly due to his brain injury. 

“Thanks, Johnny.”

“I know all this can’t be easy, Si. I’m for you, ya know.”

“Yeah, I know.” Ghost sighs, staring down at the candy bar. Johnny rarely called him Si, and it tugs at his heartstrings. 

Soap can feel something is off in the room, the energy is just weird. He’s been wanting to ask about your relationship, but hasn’t had the balls to. He doesn’t want to make either of you uncomfortable and hasn’t had the chance to be alone with Simon or you. 

“Well, I’ll let you lovebirds be.” Smiling cheekily, he stands. “I’ll visit again soon, yeah, Lt.?”

“‘Course, Johnny.” 

Before Johnny leaves, he offers you a hug, strong arms embracing you fully. And you rest against him, leaning into his sturdy frame. He’s been a great part of your support system since all of this happened; Simon’s injuries have only brought you and Johnny closer together. 

“It’ll be alright, yeah, sweetheart?” He sighs quietly against your head. Nodding, you take in a steadying breath.

“Yeah, it’ll be alright.” 

Another knock, another groan from your end. “Come in.”

Opening the door is the other half of the medical team assigned to Ghost, making their way in so they can clean. Their tasks were to change the sheets, wash Simon and his clothes, wipe down surfaces and mop the floor, the list goes on. And while you were more than happy to do these things, Simon wouldn't allow it. Ghost’s recovery prompted new boundaries to arise in your relationship, lines that he was firm on setting. The first regarding this exact circumstance; you already cared for him medically and he refused for you to do anymore, he didn’t want you to be his full time caregiver. He would never want to burden you with that, and he knows it would cause nothing but strife in your relationship. Besides, the mere thought of you changing his bedpan and regularly washing his sheets was humiliating. So, whenever it was time for those types of tasks, you left, fulfilling other duties. 

But why did they have to come now? 

“I’ll, um…” Turning back to Simon, you see he’s already looking toward you with a pleading gaze. Stay. 

All you want to do is stay. 

But at the same time, Simon doesn’t want you to see him this way. 

“I’ll… see you later, Si.”

Swallowing, Simon’s rough voice then appears. “Babe,”

Immediately, your eyes widen, if only ever so slightly. For him to call you that in the presence of others speaks volumes. Sure, Price had you sign those HR papers about workplace relationships, but you hadn’t exactly made it known to others after that. The two of you favored your privacy. But right now, that simple word is speaking louder than anything else he could’ve said.

“C’mere for a sec.” Grunting, he does his best to reach out to you, using his left arm. And as soon as he does it, Johnny is letting you go, wanting you to meet Simon’s gentle plea.

Leaving the sergeant’s arms, you do just that, stepping over to Simon’s bedside. Placing both of your hands in his left, you grin, looking into those deep, warm eyes of his. 

“You’ll come back, yeah?” Ghost asks quietly, your team beginning to work around him.

“Of course, I will.”

“Eh, won’t be long.” Johnny chimes in, “She can come hangout with me and the boys, get a game of pool in.”

“Sounds lovely.” You return with a murmur, eyes not leaving Simon’s. “I’ll be back later, baby.” And that, coupled with the kiss you give his palm, is shocking to your team. Though it sends waves of butterflies through Simon’s stomach. 

These public displays of affection are entirely foreign to your relationship, but you’re both basking in the sweetness of it. And maybe this is the perfect time for you to explore it, for you to outwardly show your love and attraction for him just when he needs it most. 

On your way out, Johnny doesn’t mention the way every single person’s eyes widen in the room when your affectionate nicknames are exchanged, or the way a few heads turn. He chooses to stay silent, smiling to himself while leading you out of the room. 

*

*

*

Returning to a sleeping Simon is bittersweet. You’re glad he’s resting, but you’d do anything to finish your earlier conversation. But it’s late, and you figure at this point, you’ll have to wait until morning.

The rainfall makes you tired, too, yawning as you walk further in. It was only three days into Simon’s recovery that you started sleeping in his room, bringing a small, foldable cot for you to curl up on. His bed wasn’t big enough for the two of you, and besides, you’re pretty sure Price would light a fire up both your asses if he caught you snoozing next to him. 

As quietly as you can, you unfold your small bed and bring it to the side of his. It sits lower, but Simon often made up for that by dropping his arm, letting you hold onto his hand throughout the night. But with him asleep, you don’t think you’ll get that luxury tonight. Nevertheless, you curl up in your blanket, resting only in your underclothes as you doze off beside him. 

“Miss you.”

That rumbling voice almost scares you in the near silence, your body jolting ever so slightly. When did he wake up? Still, those two simple words make your insides burn bright. 

Lips curling happily, you mutter, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Quietly, you then ask, “Want me to come up there?” It’s happened once or twice before, but only for some cuddles. Simon’s grown quite accustomed to your touch. 

With a heavy sigh, he gives in. “You know I do.”

Absolutely thrilled with his request, you pop right up, situating yourself on the right side of his bed. Simon likes it best when you curl up on this side, allowing him to wrap his good arm around you. Cuddling into him, you revel in the closeness - you haven’t done this in weeks. He’s resting on his back, the same position he always sleeps in. And with you by his side, he turns his head in your direction, releasing a contented breath. 

“Hey, gorgeous.” He says to you sweetly, fondly, covered lips pressing to the top of your head. 

“Hm…” Sighing happily, you twine your legs between his much bulkier appendages, draping an arm across his abdomen. You’re so happy he still wants this, wants you and this relationship. 

“Cozy?” He chuckles, eyes closed as he grins. 

“Mhm,” Snuggling further into him, he can feel your smile press against his bare skin. Ghost usually slept nearly naked, only black boxers hugging his body. And you liked it best this way, for multiple reasons. One being that you’re able to see more of his tattoos. He has some on his chest, one reaching up to his collarbones and neck. And you just love them, found them incredibly interesting and undeniably sexy.

“Love this…” Tracing a particularly larger tat, your smile becomes brighter than ever. “Love the way you feel.” 

“Yeah? Even when I’m like this?” His tone expresses the dry humor he’s far too familiar with, the same dry humor that covers up his emotions. 

“Big teddy bear.” And that makes him fully laugh. “Strong.”

“Don’t feel too strong.”

Simon was never one to be insecure of his body, of the multitude of scars on it. Cuts that dug deep, burns that marred his skin, none of it bothered him, not even when he showed himself to you like this. What did bother him, though, was the fact that he looked weak. He couldn't stand it, and to say his ego was taking a hit would be an understatement. 

“Baby,” With a heavy breath, you shake your head lightly beneath him. “You’re so fucking hard on yourself.”

All he does is grunt in response, becoming quite pensive. Though, he tries not to be. Getting lost in his thoughts wasn’t something Simon liked doing. Lucky for him, your hand serves as a distraction. Running your palm down his torso, you take this opportunity to feel the muscles along his stomach and ribs, the v-line leading down to his pelvis. And it makes him shiver with anticipation. 

You’re not sure how to start this conversation again, mainly because of how distracted you’ve become. Feeling Simon’s naked body always made you feel excited inside, always made you feel eager and lustful. But you want to care for him emotionally, too. 

“I hope you know how much I still love you.” Continuing to lower your hand, you suddenly feel Simon’s chest dip, releasing a heated breath. “How much I love your body…”

“Hm…” The further you get, the more interested he becomes. The fact that you still find him appealing, even like this, it’s repairing his ego bit by bit. Truthfully, it’s everything he’s needed. “Miss you touchin’ me…” 

“Do you miss this, too?” Lightly, ever so lightly, you cup him over his clothes. And the gentle stimulation is more than enough to arouse him.

The intimacy you share with Simon is addicting, and the withdrawal has been a bitch. But just like that, as soon as you get the tiniest taste, you’re hooked all over again. 

“Fuck, yes.” Groaning in frustration, he forces out a breath. And fuck you’ve missed that, hearing the eager roughness to his tone. “Been so long since I’ve had you.” 

Feeling your hand on his crotch like that, it lights a fire inside him. All over again, he wants you, wants to throw you down on this bed and take you. Shove himself inside until you’re fluttering, spurting with cum before he releases his own. Hold you down and make you take it, for however long he likes. Rub his face over your chest, down the valley between your breasts, sucking on their soft flesh. Haul your leg up over his waist and grab a fistful of your ass, spanking it until the pain turns into something irresistibly sweet. 

But he can’t. He physically can’t. 

The arm holding you tightens against your body, against your own strong muscles. Irritation courses through his veins, knowing he can’t do much but god damn if he won’t try to do what he can. Turning his head, he ducks down, pressing his covered lips to your own with a forceful breath. Easily, wholeheartedly, you embrace him, hand lifting to cup his jaw. Your mouth presses to the shape of his lips, the covered kiss far too teasing for the current moment. 

“Baby, can we? Please?” Sliding down ever so slightly, your fingertips graze the edge of his mask, wanting desperately to see him; any part of him.

“I… I want to, B.” The hesitancy in his voice is worrying. “But it just… it won’t be the same.” 

Even through the mask, you can feel his breath, experiencing the humid touch of it against your face. 

“I don’t care how it is, I just want it. I want you, Simon. I’ve missed you so fucking much.” Impatiently, you tug on his mask, leaning up against to press your mouth to his skull covering. It’s needy, it’s wanting, so openly throwing yourself at him he honestly can’t believe it. He hasn’t seen you like this in far too long, and he’d be an idiot to let this opportunity go, especially when it’s all he’s fucking thought about.

The way your tongue slides out, pressing against the white and black fabric, it makes him growl with passion. Quickly, yet shakily, his left hand rises, flipping the edge of his mask up before grabbing onto your jaw. Squishing your cheeks a bit he brings you in, bare lips crashing into your own. Open mouths press together, wet and warm and familiar. And those thick fingers dig into the fabric along your hip, wishing it were bare skin. 

“Baby,” With your fingernails scraping down his chest, you have to stop yourself from digging in too deeply. But it’s difficult when he’s kissing you like this, when he’s shoving his tongue inside your mouth so he can map it out all over again. “How could you ever think I’m not attracted to you?” 

The air leaving your chest is instantly sucked back in, your chest rising and falling as you feel Simon’s hand glide down your waist. He’s bringing you in even closer, pressing your body to his, feeling your warmth. 

“Don’t you know how fucking sexy you are, Simon?”

“Get up here,” That gruff voice suddenly demands, “On my lap, B.” 

He doesn’t have to ask you twice, your eager movements are evidence of that. Slipping your shorts and panties down your legs, you leave them on the cot as you slide easily on top of him. Your thighs encase his hips as you make yourself comfortable on him, center lowered right onto his. And your lips don’t even leave, he wouldn’t allow it.

“That’s so good…” Both of Simon’s hands now fall to your hips, holding onto you firmly. 

The way his teeth nip at your lips makes you sigh, little whines spilling from your mouth when they turn into bites. And all at once, his hands are roaming your body, sliding up beneath your shirt to feel your bare stomach, the skin of your hips and sides. The way you’re embracing each other is so lustful, so impassioned and fervent. It’s like it’s the first time all over again.

“You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” His words make you laugh, but he’s insistent. “Every goddamn day, whether you’re working or not, even on that bloody mission, you’re stunning, B.” 

“Simon,” You begin to protest, but he continues, mouthing at your lips as he bursts with praise for you. 

“Such a pretty girl for me,” Your lover says, hips beginning to grind up against you. “Always so pretty…” 

“Ugh, I fucking missed you. I need you, Si. I need this.” Holding his face with both hands, you lean in, resting your forehead over his own as you begin to meet his gentle thrusts. “I don’t give a shit how many scars you have, how many injuries I have to see through. I’m here, Simon. I’m here and I’m not fucking leaving you.”

“I love you.” He suddenly blurts out, as if he’d been dying to say it this entire time. “I can’t lose you, B. Never opened myself up to anyone but you.” 

“I know, baby. I know… and I love everything you’ve given me. Everything you are.”

“Not everything.” Giving his head a quick shake, hands guiding the sway of your hips over him. 

“Everything.” 

Your correction prompts Simon’s direct eye contact, a small pause in this heated moment. Flickering between your irises, Ghost’s own pupils widen, filled with something akin to adoration, something made of lust and absolute devotion. 

“Simon,” Whining quietly, you resume your subtle shifts over his lap, his own hips easily resuming their pace, too. “Please, I need you again, baby.” 

“I, I just… it won’t be the same, Bones.” But he’s still kissing you, still grinding up against your sensitive core and breathing the air puffing past your lips. And you can feel him, having fully hardened and sitting firm between your legs. 

“I don’t fucking care, Simon. If you want this, tell me. And I’ll make it happen.”

“Yeah? And what’ll you do?” He asks, grinning while lifting his good hand to the back of your head.

“Ride you,” Panting, you grind yourself over the thickness of the erection rising steadily in his briefs. “Just like I used to.”

Betraying his rotten inner emotions, the ones that had convinced him you no longer saw him with the same desire in your eyes, a smirk forms on those smooth lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Devouring him, your tongue slides into his mouth, swallowing his moan while dragging the wet muscle over his own. But he quickly takes the lead, using the hand on your head to move you how he likes. He takes great pleasure in this, in having some semblance of control while you’re like this. 

“Fuck, do it.” He finally decides, his entire body shuddering with desire. “Fucking do it.”

Instantly, you’re dropping one hand from his face and reaching for his boxers. You find him easily, pulling aside the fabric and watching as he practically jumps into your hand. 

“Christ,” Red and leaking, throbbing, Simon’s cock weighs heavy in your hand.

“Excited?” Grinning wildly, you lean in, running the tip of your nose over his cheek. 

“Very.” Evidenced by the liquid warmth drooling from his cockhead, he’s correct. 

Running your thumb over his slit, you take great pride in watching him twitch. “Don - Don’t tease. Just put it in.”

It’s too damn easy for you to listen to him, to follow his every command. Lifting yourself, your eyes fall to the sight you’ve so dearly missed. And with both of you watching, you line him up with your entrance, licking your lower lip with anticipation. 

“C’mon, come down now…” His hands are pulling on your hips, becoming impatient. “Put the tip of my cock against that pretty little hole.”

Fuck, you missed this, the way he talked to you during times like this. He was always so good with it.

“Mm…” Slowly, you sink down, inch by thick inch. The whine that slips past your lips is shrill, feeling his head spread you open. But Simon is quick to hush you, bringing you in for a bruising kiss. 

“You can do it, just like before.” He says to you through sweet, wet kisses. 

“Simon…”

“Just like that, just like that, princess.” His hands continue to urge you on, pulling you down onto him. “What happened, huh? Get a little tighter without me around?”

“F-Fuck,” Dropping your head onto his shoulder boosts his confidence incredibly; your submissive side is coming out again, and it’s making him feel dominant. 

“Oh, just look at the way it stretches for me, Christ…” Feeling your velvety inside envelope his tip, it’s almost too much for him. “Such a good pussy.”

“Baby…” Turning your head, you press a flurry of fervent kisses to his mask. “I’ve needed you for so long, you don’t know how bad I’ve missed this.” 

“I know, trust me.” Releasing a dry laugh, Simon’s eyes raise with awareness. 

Clinging to his shoulders, you gasp when he finally bottoms out inside you, sitting entirely over his pelvis. And with your ass flush against his lap, he throbs violently against your walls, every thick vein pulsing beneath your core’s hot squeeze.

“Sweetheart,” Taking in a lungful of air, he says, “You know how many times I’ve thought about this? Thought about fuckin’ you again? Thought about this sweet ass on my lap, about the way this pretty pussy grips me…” 

 “Tell me,” Clinging to his shoulders, your nails dig into him once again, lips pressing to his neck. “Please tell me.”

Wrapping his right arm around your back, he pulls you flush against his chest. The sudden movement knocks you away from his neck, with Simon’s lips returning to yours all over again. The embrace is sweet and smooth, his talented lips captivating your attention. 

“Whenever you weren’t here… I took every goddamn opportunity. Fucked my fist to the thought of you, B. But, ngh…” Feeling you wiggle over his lap, he grunts. “It’s never the same. Not even bloody close.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Using those broad shoulders as leverage, you lift yourself, setting a steady pace over him. 

“Christ,” Head lolling back, his eyes follow. “Didn’t, fuck… didn’t want to pressure you.”

“I like when you do that to me. Make me feel small, and needed.” 

The stride you continue with over Simon’s lap is baffling to him, riddling his body with overstimulation. Every time you meet his pelvis, you grind down onto him, onto the grown-out hairs surrounding his base. 

“You’re always needed.” He whispers to you, kissing your cheek as it rests beside him. “Fucking hell, princess, I can feel you dripping down my shaft.” 

The sound your wetness creates resonates throughout the room, prompting a bashfulness to rise hotly in your cheeks. Dropping your forehead to his shoulder, you moan openly into his ear, feeling both of those broad hands lower to your cheeks. Summoning every ounce of strength he has, he bounces you down onto his lap, punching himself into your depths. And every thrust he gives shoves him even deeper inside, his tip nudging your most sensitive skin. 

“No,” He then seethes, moving his head in your direction. “Don’t hide yourself from me, not now. Not when I finally have you again.”

But when he turns his head to the side, his mask shifts, a bout of frustration rising within him. “Fucking, ngh.”

It’s a quick decision, one he makes out of genuine love for you. 

Reaching up, Simon tears his mask from his head, tossing it to the floor and grabbing your face again. Before you can get a good look at him, his mouth is on you, the hand he used on his mask now pawing at your breasts. 

“Take it off, love. Take this off for me.” 

But you’re still processing the fact that he just took off his mask, and you want to see him. He doesn’t let you, though, he’s too busy tugging at the ends of your shirt. So, you oblige him, leaning back to lift it from your torso. Just as it leaves your head, Simon is lifting his chin up to your chest, mouth enveloping your left nipple. 

“Baby, let me,” Hands holding his head, your own tips back, mouth falling agape with a graceful moan. 

Ghost’s mouth sucks on you fervently, tongue flicking over the delicate peak before biting at it ever so gently. 

“Please let me see you.”

Insecurity overtakes him then, now that you’ve fully asked. And you can tell - he practically curls in on himself. 

“You don’t want me to?” And with that gentle inquiry, he’s taking in a steadying breath, eyes beginning to lift. 

From beneath his brow, those dark eyes lift to yours, chin following soon after. And for the first time since this horrid incident, you’re seeing him, fully seeing him. 

“No,” Giving his head a light shake, he stares into your dazzling orbs. “Don’t stop, babe. Please, don’t.” 

And you want to listen, want to give him what he wants but it’s hard when you’re witnessing the beauty of Simon’s face. The scars, the cuts and curves, his nose and jawline, all of his features coming together as one, once again. The memory of his face was once a painful thought, but now… it can be replaced. 

“It’s so nice to see you again, baby.” 

The strength of his arms and hands continues your movement, pushing you forward onto his chest. Here, he nuzzles into you, arms securing themselves around your midsection. Simon’s nose rubs against your neck, committing your scent, your feel, to memory. 

“Only for you.” He murmurs, placing a tender kiss. “Can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” 

“You’re everything I need.” Grinding up into your center, he forces a gasp from your chest, spreading your cheeks until slight pain begins to bloom. “Christ, I’m not going to last long like this, not with these gorgeous fucking tits pressed against me like this.”

“Baby, we need this more… can we please? Please?”

“Every chance we get.” Nipping at your ear, the low groan he exudes sends a shiver right through you. 

The pleasurable waves flowing through your hips are nothing compared to the sharp jolts of ecstasy every thrust of his hips gives. At times, you think about how foolish he is to think that his strength has left him, what with the way his muscles bend and ripple with every firm grab, every harsh slap he now delivers. 

“Look at me.” Ghost demands in that deep, rough tone. “Look at me, and listen well.”

Lifting your head, you do just that, memorizing every feature of his face. Subconsciously, your hand lifts, cupping his clean jawline with your thumb stroking his cheek. 

“You’re mine, understand? Mine to fucking keep. And there’ll be no more misunderstandings between us.”

“No more,” Shaking your head, you hold his gaze, lips parting from his continued movements. “F-Fuck.”

“You gonna cum for me, huh? Just like you used to? Back when you first cared for me, back when we’d smoke in the Jeep…”

“Yes,” You don’t want to look away from him, but your head drops regardless. The pleasure flowing through your thighs turns every muscle you have to jelly, the wetness growing beneath you evidence of this. “I miss it.”

“Then give it to me, before I give mine to you.” 

The way he phrases it has you falling apart in his arms, still strong enough to keep you together on his chest. His body, thick and bulky, holds you tightly against him, feeling your limbs quiver above him. His fingers continue to dig into the softness of your cheeks before landing another harsh smack, listening to your shrill cry while you shake on his lap. It’s all-consuming, blinding, the euphoria bursting inside your body. 

“Goddamn,” Simon huffs out, his voice tense and strained. 

The grip he has on you turns bruising, his body curling around you as he releases. And his teeth bite into your shoulder as he does, the muscles in his abdomen flinching with every milky rope that leaves him. 

You can feel it, the evidence of his pleasure washing your insides white. The way he throbs against your walls, swollen and pulsing, his entire body releasing. Every ounce of worry and stress, any bit of anxiety, it’s flushed away with the help of your reassurance, of your devotion and unwavering passion. 

Fully wrapping your arms around his neck, you rest flush against him, mouth pressing to his stubbled cheek over and over again. And the next sound to delight your ears is Simon’s laugh. 

“Mm…” His groan sounds… content, relaxed. “You make me happy, B. Happier than I’ve been in… a long time.” 

“Happier than you’ve ever been,” You correct him cheekily, shuddering slightly as you come down from the pleasure he so wonderfully brings. “You can say it, baby.” 

Rolling his eyes, he gives your backside a light tap. “Don’t get cocky with it, now.” 

“Simon,” Inhaling a deep breath, you allow yourself to be fully vulnerable with him. “I don’t ever want to be that far from you again.”

And he knows what you mean. Ghost was never known as an emotional man, and likely never will be. But with you, it’s a different story. 

“You won’t be.” He reassures you quietly, calmly. “We’re here, everything’s just like it should be.”

“Mhm,” Nodding, you keep your arms around him, not wanting to let go. 

“It’s just you and me, B.” 

[00-hawkboi-00]

War is Over (and what have we done?)

Part One

Paring; Graves x m!reader

Word Count; ~3.3k

Warnings; slight mention of s/h in beginning. For like 2 sentences. A side character is in a coma.

A/n; Another installment already? So soon? It's more likely than you'd think. (also the title was orig. something else, but it was too long so I changed it. So enjoy this ref to that one depressing Christmas song lol.)

--- "code orange" ---

You were the acting Commander of Shadow Company. After the retreat from Las Almas, you and the other Shadows had been left without a leader. So, seeing as you had been second in command since the company had begun, you were indirectly assigned the position. It wasn't exactly something the others gave much thought to; you just happened to be there, barking orders of retreat when the fire caught.

Eleven months later, and here you were. Sitting at a cold, metal desk in a chair that squealed with every movement.

Almost forty-seven weeks after that nightmare had landed you back at home base. A little duller than you remembered, but it was still standing and it wasn't born from the seeds of betrayal. It was yours, it had always belonged to you and the others. That's all that mattered, you told yourself. They were still standing, just like this old, dusty facility, and that is all that counted.

Three-hundred-thirty-four and a half days since you had dug a virgin blade into the back of someone almost considered a friend, and had withdrawn sin instead. You fiddled with that blade now. Between burnt fingertips, singed with the flames of betrayal. Your usual gloves were discarded for this.. ritual of sorts; balancing the knife from finger to finger, slipping it between webbing. Watching it, feeling that cool metal against your mutilated skin, seeing your hidden reflection thrown back at you. You should have left it buried in his flesh, left it back in a whole other country. You hadn't.

Over eight thousand hours have passed, and you hadn't gotten far. Lounging in your familiar yet foreign office, the sharp edge of a blade pressing much too close to scarred, unfeeling palms. The only evidence that it was even there was found in the crimson droplets landing in muted thud's on your desk.

Four hundred and eighty-one thousand, eight hundred and one minutes after the fact and you had an untouched stack of recruitment papers piling up somewhere to your left. Forms you had yet to even make a conscious effort to flip through, even though the choice to reopen enlistments had been your own. Just the mere sight of that new, friendly face smiling on top of the mountain of documents had you grimacing. The bright image plastered there, far too optimistic for your taste, only brought back memories. Memories of other faces. Other names. Names that are lost, but never forgotten. Not to you. One shiny-new recruit could never fill the void of dozens of expertly trained, heartbreakingly familiar war-hardened soldiers.

An ungodly amount of seconds later and here you sat, in all your unholy, defaced glory. With burn scars traveling from the tips of your fingers and along your forearms. Over time you had found that a particularly nasty scar covering parts of your throat and consuming the edges of your jaw often brought back memories you weren't too fond of. It wasn't unusual to wear a mask when on a mission, all the Shadows did, but these days you would never be caught alive without that secure piece of cloth. Concealed and buried deep under, just like your disfigured hands.

So much time had passed, but it never felt like enough.

The first call of a mourning dove is what kick-starts your morning. Sleep wasn't a thing you did often these days, so you would wait in your office after tossing and turning in your bed for who knows how long. Doing the same little ritual every day before daybreak, before that first sorrowful trill.

Then, now that it was socially acceptable for you to, you would exit your office. Chin held high and every inch of skin–apart from the, thankfully, untouched flesh of your upper face–covered, shrouded in black.

Now that your Shadows were beginning to stir, the first part of your morning routine started with you making rounds. Giving a light knock to each metallic door, rousing them from the lingering remnants of sleep.

Once you were finished with that, you'd swing by each place where an exhausted Shadow was stationed. And–with the knowledge that they'd be replaced pretty soon–you would quietly relieve them from their duties. Allowing them to get a few more hours of sleep before the liveliness of the facility was in full swing.

With a murmured; "thanks, Lt." They'd be on their way.

After that, you'd swing by the mess hall and grab a protein bar. Making your way down to medical you would try your damnedest to keep the paranoia-ridden thoughts at bay. Thoughts like he was probably dead. Had died while you were away and you weren't there to see him pass. You ignored them because, just like every other day, when you made it back to his bedside; he was still breathing.

Shadow 0-9. Or, to his friends, Viper. One of the few from your original squad who had made it out of that godforsaken city alive. Well, barely. He was hooked up to various beeping machines, numerous tubes running in and out of his body. You weren't well versed in the knowledge of medical terminology, but you knew the main tube stuck down his throat was hooked up to a ventilator. The main thing keeping him breathing. Assisting his weak lungs in the seemingly daunting task.

Other than the medical tools keeping him breathing and his body stable, there was the–in your humble opinion–excessive amount of medical tape and bandages wrapped around practically his entire body. A near-fatal concussion. Several broken bones. Including, but not limited to, ribs, a wrist, mandible, femur, and humerus. In other words; the entire left side of his body was a mangled mess. A light dusting of his own fair share of burn wounds littered his body, but they weren't extreme and most likely wouldn't scar too badly. The same couldn't be said for you.

Some of the medics had joked that it was a miracle he was still alive. You hadn't laughed.

So there you sat. Watching his comatose sleeping form, nibbling at the protein bar you'd taken from mess. You'd sit there watching waiting for a few hours, guarding him from nothing in particular. There was nothing here that could hurt him. You trusted your medical staff, and they knew how important he was. How important all of your Shadows were. So, really, there was no reason for you to worry. No reason for you to sit here, watching over a man who barely even thought of you as a friend anymore.

But there was a tiny portion of your brain that told you as long as you were here, protecting him, he was untouchable. As if your mere presence was enough to keep the hands of death from reaching out and claiming his already half-dead body.

You could only sit there for so long before the intrusive thoughts became too much and your backside grew numb from sitting in that, frankly hard as hell, metal chair. With one last glance at him, you'd stand, turn around, throw your half-eaten protein bar away, and leave. Not even uttering a goodbye to the fresh morning staff before you were halfway through the door.

Next on your daily schedule was supervising afternoon drills. There had been a prolonged period of time after you all's return that these fields had been empty, the shooting range void of any life, and even the well-frequented gym was dead silent. With over half of the crew injured and the other half too shell-shocked to pick up a weapon or throw a punch, training had come to a standstill. But now, several grueling months later, the grounds were filled with bodies once more.

You didn't join in on the activities much these days. Preferring to train alone, usually when everyone else was asleep and under the blanket of night. But you found a bit of reprieve in watching. A small part of you settled at the sight of your Shadows performing their old drills, laughing and joking around with each other during breaks. It felt almost like old times. It reminded you that–while you'd lost more soldiers than you could sanely count–there was still good here. That they were alive and well, and not attached to an ungodly amount of life-stabilizing medical equipment.

You preferred them laughing without restraint–even if that meant you were a little lax on the rules he had put in place–over the sight of them bed bound to a thin, uncomfortable cot.

When afternoon training lulled to an end, you would silently take your leave. Not even glancing at the now-crowded mess hall–you should probably hire more staff, especially if there would soon be fresh recruits joining in soon–you would head straight for your office once more. Head up in the clouds–rainy, dark grey clouds.

You hated how familiar these walls were. How you could still hear the laughter of long-since dead soldiers lingering behind every corner. Their voices haunted you. It's what kept you up at night. Well, that and the unrelenting burn of your otherwise dead flesh.

The med team had said it should stop soon. They had even sent you on your way with a tube of burn cream. Something about nerve endings needing to scar over. That, besides an itching now and again, your marred skin should heal over pretty well over the course of a few months.

That had been a week after your return to base, and the tube had long since been used months ago. It still burned, still felt like you were surrounded by that scalding metal. Like you could still feel those flames melting your skin, even through your uniform, that acrid smoke scorching your heaving lungs.

You didn't think to mention this to the med staff. They had enough on their hands as it was, they didn't need you taking up their valuable time on top of it.

They had had to peel the cloth off your body. The mixture of nylon and cotton had melted, welding itself to your burning flesh. You'd been bed-bound for weeks. After that, though it was strongly encouraged you stayed still, you had had enough and we're walking around the base with the top half of your body wrapped in an excessive amount of gauze. It's not like they could stop you, after all.

Since you and the others had returned, missing a large chunk of the team that had gone with–including a certain someone no one had dared to mention–, not a single person had said a word against you. None of them questioned your authority. Not even the most hard-headed, he-who-shall-not-be-named loyal soldiers had opened their mouths. You had that going for you at least.

Now, pushing open your office door, it was time for the most dreadful time of your day. You had spent months getting your team back together and making sure everyone was at an acceptable level of okay before you made the company's presence known again. You had begun reasserting your credibility with other organizations, strengthening ties with old allies. No one else was going to do it, so it may as well have been you.

It was several, several more months after that when you had taken the step to reopen communications with the very team you had backstabbed. More time after that for their leader, the Captain himself, to even acknowledge your attempts at lending an olive branch.

After all of that, he had finally agreed to speak to you. And only you. His only prerequisites were that you were only to communicate with him directly and that you had no connections with the supposed dead man and the General. The Captain had required proof that the old commander was no longer in your ranks–you couldn't offer confirmed death, but several invasive questions later were enough for him. Failure to comply with these demands–and on the impossible chance he was alive–was followed by an unspoken threat of your untimely death.

Insurance. He'd called it.

So, here you were. Sitting in front of your laptop and waiting for that god-awful video call, hoping you would be able to salvage the shredded remains that were your allyship with task force 141. A bond that had been clawed apart and mutilated by your own sinful hands.

The ringtone pierced through the deafening silence of the room, ice-cold dread clutches at your chest and your body seizes. It takes you far too long to uncurl your clenched fist–a blank icon along with the phrase Capt. Price blinking on the screen–and urge a gloved finger to press that button and accept the call.

The fuzzy, pixelated screen eventually smoothes out and suddenly you have lost the ability to talk. You had never spoken to this man before, outside of encrypted emails.

"Evening, Lieutenant." His graveled, British voice echoes through the speaker. You had never even directly traded words with him in person, a silent shadow–hah–behind that arrogant man. An observer. Not much of a talker.

"You alright there?" He's obviously sitting in his own office. That wooden desk and warm-toned background is a high contrast to your own metal desk and dull, grey theme. "Lieutenant?"

"Jus'-" your accent had a habit of sneaking out of that latched box of professionalism when anxiety flooded your veins. You cleared your throat with a small cough to correct it. "Just peachy, Captain."

An awkward silence lulls on. This is why you didn't do this. You had always been a trusted soldier, well-versed in various strategies of combat. You could clear a room of unfriendlies with only your favorite blade without breaking a sweat. But this? You didn't do this. Communication. The very idea of it sent your mind reeling, all coherent thoughts scrambling.

"Good." Ohthankgod. "Now, are you ready to begin?"

"Affirmative, sir." Ew. Why did you sound like that? All… strained and unnatural. As if you were a robot imitating a human, or an alien occupying a body for the first time.

"Very well." The sound of some papers shuffling and a chair adjusting emit from his side of the call. "So we have already established that Gra-"

"The old commander." You quickly, and unthinkingly, interject. You internally cringe at your reflex reaction and you're about to apologize when the Captain says;

"Right. The old commander. The hopefully deceased commander."

"I cannot say for sure that he is, Captain." You really can't. There was a lot of fire. A lot of blood. "But I can confirm he does not reside with us any longer."

"And where would that be?"

"I'd rather not discuss this topic, sir." Ah, yes. Tell him the location of you and your Shadows. That sounded like a perfectly safe and wise decision.

"Of course." A beat of silence. "On to other matters then. Would you say your team has-"

A frantic knock at your door halts his question. You don't mute the call, but you do give a slight raise of your hand. For professionalism's sake, you wouldn't typically answer the door. But this sounded urgent. Hardly anyone ever knocked.

Looking up from your laptop, you call out a clipped; "Come in."

Venn opens the door quickly, barely catching it from slamming against the wall behind it. Her eyes are wide with panic, breathing slightly labored. Fear grips your heart and your already tense body goes eerily rigid.

She's about to open her mouth when you give a pointed look back down at your laptop and the in-progress video call. Venn nods slightly in acknowledgment and takes a moment to calm herself.

"Lieutenant." She says, voice level and stiff.

"Is there something wrong, 2-1?" You do your best to keep your own tone even but damnit it's taking everything in you not to launch to your feet and into action. You don't even know the problem yet.

"There's…" Venn takes a second to think, breathing deeply through her nose. "We've got a.. we've got ourselves a code orange, sir."

You inhale sharply through clenched teeth.

"A code orange. Are you certain, 2-1?"

"Yes." Her quick reply. You nod and look back down to the waiting man on the screen.

"Sorry, Captain." You grit out. "But I'm 'fraid we'll have to reschedule."

"Tomorrow then?" He looks suspicious of your behavior, even more, concerned with the words you and your Shadow had shared. You couldn't worry about that right now. Not with a fucking code orange.

"Sure." You slam the end call button with a little more pressure than necessary. Poor keyboard. It was a surprise the damned thing was still running.

When the Captain's image closes and disappears from your screen, you jump to your feet.

"Are you sure?" You ask again as you stalk around your desk. Venn moves out of the way to allow you to exit your office, hurrying to catch up to you as you don't stop. You don't even know where you're heading.

"Where?"

Those implemented codes had never actually been used before. This was a first. No one knew what to do with themselves.

"The front gate, sir." Her voice trembles–hell, her whole body is shaking–and there's obviously something she's not telling you. You don't press for more. You will find out soon enough.

"The front gate?"

A fucking code orange.

"Yes."

An intruder.

You both more or less start jogging after that. She doesn't expand further. Simply half walk-half running by your side.

It takes a few minutes to make your way down to the first level of the facility–and that's far too much in your opinion. Every second that went by was a second you didn't know what was happening. A second out of your control. What if someone was hurt? Dead? Was the intruder attacking? Was it someone you knew? An outsider? Maybe just a lost tourist. This far away from the city made that last one very unlikely.

You push through the final door that leads to the front lawn and slow your pace to an assertive walk. It wouldn't do you well to let the unknown subject know their presence was a major concern for you. You didn't want to give them that pleasure.

Venn leaves your side to join–when the hell did they all get outside??–the alarmingly large grouping of your Shadows at the gate.

When she gets there and announces your arrival to the first Shadow she sees, they all turn to look at you. It takes you being a couple of feet from the group for the man she had whispered to to speak.

"Lieutenant." Kip sighs, raising both hands out in a placating manner. There's a certain wariness in his tone you aren't too fond of. "Don't panic. Lemme just preface this by saying-"

"Show me." You had no time for pleasantries.

Another sigh. "As you wish."

The sea of soldiers parts, giving you a front-row seat to the person standing in the middle of the opened gate.

A person you had never thought you'd see again. Never wanted to see again. Especially not smiling.

"Hey, there, Pha-"

"Detain him." It's a simple command. And your Shadows follow without a second thought. As you had mentioned; no one questioned your authority.

He lets himself be grabbed. Excessive ties around his wrists, strained a little more roughly behind his back than necessary. They herd him away quickly and silently, not uttering a word.

"What are you gonna do, sir?" Venn, very hesitantly–shifting her weight from side to side–asks.

"Whatever is necessary."

So much time had passed,

Midnight laughs, shared glances, desperate touches, breathy gasps, skin on skin-

But it was never enough.

___

Masterlist | Next

___

@cptg00s3 @ruthgrimxiao @20nerd04-blog @gloma08 @mikahrh @in-down @hauntedapplefarm

If you want to be added to the tag list, let me know in the comments!

I figured I'd tag y'all just in case. I know it's probably not the fic you were expecting, but it's a part of the same AU and their paths with eventually cross. If you don't wanna be tagged for this fic in particular let me know! ^-^

[gulnarsultan]

“I’m fine.”- says Modern Reader with bags under her eyes, sitting around the table with a pile of papers and letters. Modern Reader tries to get over with trauma (Aemma’s death) and since she can’t sleep at night due to the nightmares, she decides to spend her time with solving problems like building orphanage houses and schools for children from all classes (from peasants to nobles) so they could have a good future, or Modern Reader reads a lot of books of history of all houses, so she could stop the rivalry between houses. Or Modern Reader uses her knowledge from her (our) world, mostly medical knowledge like: anesthesia, caesarean section. And Modern Reader explains maesters and midwives how caesarean section works, so women and children could survive the labour. Also Reader explains the importance of hygiene and making sure there won’t be any infection or danger for women.

Thanks to this knowledge many women and children survive the labour, which means Laena could survive the labour when she’s pregnant with a third child. Although the child would be disfigured and would die unfortunately, but Laena would stay alive. That would also mean yandere platonic Laena, Alicent and Rhaenyra won’t feel any pain during the labour.

But that also means that Aemond won’t claim Vhagar, but Reader found a solution for this matter, she gave him a dragon egg that hatched or he found a dragon that accepts Aemond as a dragon rider. As for Alicent’s children, Modern Reader would show so much love and care towards Aegon, Helaena, Aemond and Daeron, the same goes for Rhaenyra’s children. And since Laena would be alive and Rhaenyra would want to marry Daemon, but Modern Reader says “Aegon the Conqueror had two wives, Maegor had six wives. I don’t see a problem for Daemon to take you as his second wife as well as Laena, since you guys get along pretty well.” And if Daemon takes Rhaenyra as his second wife, then I have no doubts that everyone would like to know why he did it. “I allowed him, I gave them my blessings.”- Modern Reader explains.

In other words Modern Reader won’t allow the war happen in her family. She’s also solving problems of Seven Kingdoms with Otto Hightower and Corlys Velaryon and other members of the Small Council. (Everyone in the Small Council thinks that Modern Reader has a lot of good ideas, solutions and which is great for a future Queen, but Reader would say “I’m not sure of it and I’m not interested in becoming a Queen, but I want to be able to help.”) So yeah, Modern Reader could become the Hand of the future ruler, but she would need advices, which everyone (Otto, Corlys, Rhaenys and Daemon) are eager to give.

Bonus: Modern Reader looks so sad and is about to cry.🥺😢

Yandere platonic Alicent: Y/N, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?

Modern Reader: I found a solution to make sure that pregnant women and children survive the labour. If I found this solution earlier, my mother could have survived.”😖😭 And more tears coming out of her eyes. Yandere Alicent holds Modern Reader close, saying that it’s not her fault.

Thanks to the reader, all pregnant women survive childbirth. Laenada survives thanks to the reader. Daemon, Rhaenyra and Laena are happily married thanks to the reader. Aemond gets his dragon and his eye remains intact. All of Alicent's children have a good life thanks to the reader. Reader Rhaenyra is close to her children. Alicent tries to console her reader. They both hug each other and try to pull themselves together.The realm is governed better. No fights between houses.

[firesmokeandashes]

Greetings, Tumblr dwellers. I am here today with a bunch of bkdk/mha incorrect/correct quotes. Because I, unfortunately, am lacking inspiration to write anything else at the moment :[

Please enjoy.

□□□□□□□

Izuku and Katsuki: *arguing about something*

Katsuki: "Stop yelling at me, nerd!"

Izuku: "IM NOT YELLING AT YOU! IM SIMPLY... PROJECTING MY VOICE TO MAKE A POINT!"

Katsuki: "OTHERWISE KNOWN AS YELLING!!"

Izuku: "BUT NOW, YOU'RE YELLING!!"

Katsuki: "ONLY BECAUSE YOU YELLED AT ME FIRST!"

Izuku: *starts powering up one for all and charges at Katsuki* "AHHHHHHHH!!!"

Katsuki: *powers up his explosions and charges at Izuku* "AHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Izuku and Katsuki: *catches each others fists and begin making out aggressively instead*

Denki: "...."

Todoroki: *sipping coffee tiredly*

Denki: "So.... why were they fighting again..."

Todoroki: "Deku said he thought Bakugou was the better hero out of the both of them. Which made Bakugou extremely angry because he thinks Deku is the better hero out of both them, and it kind of escalated from there."

Denki: "...."

Izuku and Katsuki: *intense angry making out noises*

Todoroki: *continues sipping coffee out of his '#No.1 Wonder Duo Supporter' mug*

□□□□□□□□

Katsuki: "...."

Izuku: *standing in a slightly burnt looking pile of paper towles and plates covered in hot chocolate and feathers*

Katsuki: *watches as a featherless and slightly disoriented duck imerges from the pile*

Izuku: "I may have made a mistake..."

Katsuki: "Actually, it seems you've made several mistakes all within the past 5 minutes while I was changing my clothes"

□□□□□□□

Katsuki: "Hey, Izuku! What'd ya say about coming with me on a road trip to the mountains for some hiking?"

Izuku: "I would say 'yes', but Im still recovering from the last road trip we went on"

Katsuki: "Izuku, that was ten years ago, and we were in high school!"

Izuku: "And you got kidnapped! And we had to come and rescue you!"

Katsuki: "That was one time, Izuku. ONE. TIME."

Izuku: "Yes, and I would very much not like to repeat the experience!"

Katsuki: "We're full grown-ass adults Izuku!"

Izuku: "I don't care! It was a traumatic experience that could still happen now that we're adults!"

Katsuki: "We're two of the highest ranking pro-heroes in Japan! WE FUCKING BEAT ALL FOR ONE! I highly doubt anyone is going to try kidnap either one of us!"

Izuku: "...."

Katsuki: *incredulous annoyed silence*

Izuku: "I'll go pack my bags..."

Katsuki: *silent contemplating look of disappointment at his boyfriend's ridiculousness*

□□□□□□

Katsuki: "You have to make a decision."

Izuku: "I did. I've decided not to decide."

Katsuki: "We're in the fucking drive-through Izuku! You have to choose something to eat!"

Izuku: "I can't! It's too much pressure!"

Katsuki: "You're the fucking number one hero you live under pressure! And you can't decide what to eat at a drive-through!?"

Izuku: "That's different!"

Katsuki: "How is saving people from birning buildings less stressful than choosing a meal at a fucking fast food joint!?"

Izuku: "Because saving people doesn't involve having to choose between chicken nuggets shapped like dinosaurs or chicken nuggets shapped like space ships!"

Katsuki: "....."

□□□□□□□□

Katsuki and Izuku: *staring at horribly disfigured homemade clay All Might figure with a hand(??) sticking out of his head and four legs 3 of which look like tree stumps, that they made the night before while partially drunk*

Izuku: "So.... Do you think we can fix it?"

Katsuki: "No. And Im not even going to try"

□□□□□□□

Katsuki: *walking around a hero gala, his PR agent dragged him to*

Izuku: *walking slightly behind Kacchan, following him*

Izuku: "Where are you going, Kacchan?"

Katsuki: "Towards the answer of all my problems"

Izuku: But Kacchan, you're walking towards the exit"

Katsuki: "Exactly."

Izuku: "...."

Izuku: "Can I tag along with you, then? Because I really want to go home and finish watching the final episode of Sasaki to Miyano, but my ride won't be leaving for a while."

Katsuki: "Sure. We can pick up some ramen on the way to your place so we can eat it while we watch those two idiots finally get together."

Izuku: "Yay! Thanks, Kacchan! You're the best!"

Katsuki: "I know, I know. Now, let's get going before my PR agent catches me and makes me go talk to more people."

□□□□□

Welp! That's all I got for now! I hope you guys liked them!

[cup1dt3a]

Wanna Doodle With Me?

Summary: In the middle of another long lecture from your teacher the infamous Leech twin Floyd notices you drawing in your sketchbook and now wants you to draw more so he can watch. So will you keep the big scary eel entertained?💖

“ As for what happened yesterday with the sub I am very disappointed in this class and embarrassed that….” Your teacher stressed to the class. 

For yesterday everyone hadn’t been on their “ best behavior” while the teacher was out and so a bad note from the sub was left. So now as your upset teacher rants on about respect and some other things you just draw in your sketchbook. You were and weren’t really listening, but thankfully your seat was far in the back. With no one to bother you while you drew in your sketchbook. No one except the infamous Leech twin. Floyd Leech. For some reason instead of sitting near his brother he decided to sit right next to you. Not that you minded that much but with his unpredictable mood swings you feared for what his moody self would do. 

Soon forgetting about the moody twin as you hovered over your drawing. Now peaking holes into the thick paper as you anxiously traced your lines shading in any of the smaller or more detailed places you hadn’t noticed. Along with  the heterochromia eyes peering down right at your drawing. With very much peaked interest in every stroke of your pen. As your pen danced along the guidelines you placed a sudden raspy voice whispered. Along with a sudden tapping on your cheek.

“ Hey….Hey…Shrimpy…Shrimp-chan~.” The recognizable voice called out with an undeniable hint of mischief in it. 

Looking up from your project Floyd with his head laid right next your elbow and his gemed pens tip now tapping onto your nose from your head turning.

“ Whatcha doin?” His now honeyed voice questioned. With a tilt to his head and signature wide grim. 

“ Nothing” you sighed softly pushing his pen down to the desk. 

“ That’s nothing?” He questioned again now pointing his finger at your rough drafted sketch.

Sighing as he was now starting to pout with his bottom lip out. Acting like you had just told him he had told him he had to eat his vegetables before dessert. 

Now flatly commenting “ Your being so boring right now! I just wanted to be nice.” 

He now sat up with a slight slouch crossing his arms on the wooden desk. Now only bearing short annoyed glances at you for being so “ mean” to him when all he wanted to do was socialize. What a hard life for the poor menacing eel. 

“What do you want Floyd?” You sighed out in defeat as he now grinned wildly holding up a messy drawing of many shrimp. 

Some of them were either big, small, or vey disfigured. He proudly displayed his masterpiece as if it was better than the Mona Lisa. But other than the many-many shrimp there were also a few octopus and eels. But what mostly caught your attention was the eel and shrimp at the bottom. It looked as if the poorly drawn eel was either strangling,hugging , or the twin’s favorite thing to do squeezing its poor captive shrimp. A mystery that will never be solved. But the poorly drawn sea creatures were oddly very cute. 

“ Cute…let me guess I’m the little shrimp over here huh?” You joked pointing to the eel’s captive shrimp in the corner. 

The mans smile only got wider as he happily grinned from ear to ear nodding. Happy that you guessed his drawing right.

“ And that must be you…strangling me?” you chuckled pointing at the eel.

The artist quietly scoffed looking sad and offended you would even say that. With a fake sad face and even a fake single tear running down his pale skin.

“ Shrimpy I would never!” He gasped throwing an arm over his head while dramatically turning away from you. 

You both giggled at the each other for a little trying to keep your volume in check. Almost failing as the teacher snapped his head over to the two of you while you tried to not burst out laughing at him. The teacher only quirked an eyebrow as he went back to his exaggerated rant towards the class. Leaving you and the eel to go back to clowning around. He then sighed with his laughter coming to an end. Making your laughs of joy soon calm down into a few short chuckles of awkwardness as he stared you right in the eye. He then slowly moved closer to you popping your personal space bubble faster than a Karen. Only to start  scaring you as he then quietly spoke up into your ear. Fanning your sensitive ear with his hot shallow breaths tickling it. 

“Besides what fun would it be to strangle you when I could just squeeze you everywhere I want to~?” He questioned with a tilt to his head now backing away from you seeing that the lecture was finally over.

Along with whatever the hell just happened in that short timespan of 30 seconds. As it settled into your mind on reply along with your heart’s constant rapid beating he finally yawned stretching out looking over at you.

“ I’m bored now…”

“ Wanna doodle with me? Come on we were just having so much fun~ ❤︎”

Hope you’re all having a good day/night and enjoyed this!

Sincerely ~ Cup1dT3a༺♥︎༻

[silent-raven13]

Miles' work husband

Hobby casually walking with Pavtri and Gwen, the three finished a mission from a world filled with fairies. So they were covered in pixie dust that got Gwen sniffing like crazy. "AH-CHOO! Ugh, man! This is worse than pollen!" She sniffs feeling terrible.

"Oh no, you need some allergy medication?" Pavtri asked with worry, "Maybe we should go to Med-Bay and get some pills."

"AH-CHOO!" Gwen sneezed next to Hobie. Luckily they were all wearing all their Spidey mask, which was bad for Gwen. All her snot and spit went her mask making Pavtri give a disgusted look.

Hobie gave a stank expression under his mask. YUCK! "Aye, you good, Gwendy?"

Gwen groans, "UGH! This is so gross. I'm going to Med-Bay. I need some allergy pills!" She remove her masks showing her upper lip being wet.

"Maybe go to the bathroom first, because that looks really nasty." Pavtri hums at her trying to be kind.

"Yeah, I should." She cover her lower face feeling grossed out and embarrassed about it. "God, I wish Kaine was here! At least, I know he would warned me about that place!"

"Oh yeah, he has a cute fanny pack now!" Pavtri giggles.

Hobie's arched his left eyebrow being curious about this new Spider-man. "Kaine?"

"Oh, he's recently new to HQ- um, I'll go wash up. Pav, give Hobie the TEA and DON'T TELL HIM ABOUT WHAT THE PEEPS ARE SAYING ABOUT HIM AND... mm-mmm!" Gwen left at that, she rushes through the restroom.

"OHHHHH! OKAY!" Pavtri nodded at this being excited about sharing some sweet gossip.

Hobie being a laid back person, he never cared about other people business or their own drama in Spider Society. Also, Pavtri always keeps the punker well informed about everything going on HQ. The bubbly guy is an encyclopedia of every Spider-men and their drama. He can tell which Spider-man ate a blueberry muffin at the cafeteria at twelve in the afternoon.

"So," Pavtri's voice broke Hobie's train of thought. The punker finally looks at his friend with interest. "Kaine Parker is a clone of Peter Parker! He was one of the first clones before Ben Riley, and he's so nice! I mean, really really nice!"

"Okay? How does he look?"

"His suit is sort of like Miles' color scheme, black and red. Mostly red." Pavtri said, "As his face? Hmm, I dunno know how he looks. I heard he had a defect so part of his face is disfigured and he's very self conscious about it."

"Ah, poor lad." Hobie simply said.

"Yeah! He's a sweet guy! You should meet him! He's into a lot of nerd stuff like Lord of the Rings, Star trek or Starwars." Pavtri happily ramble, "And he's so awkward, too. I'm glad he got Miles to help him out on missions."

"Miles know him?" Hobie casually asked, he wasn't jealous... yet. He learned to not get his insecurities get the best of him.

"Yeah, they work on the same schedule, and they tend to always team up. I'm surprised you haven't seen him! He's always around here hanging out, and helping as much as he can."

"Sounds like a nice mate."

"Oh yeah!" Pavtri kept talking without thinking about what he was going to say, "Everyone knows him, so you gotta meet him. Him and Miles also does this funny handshake every time they meet."

"So they're friends?" Hobie asked, his magazine body turning into a muted yellow being curious about this. He's okay, no jealousy here.

"Huh uh, everyone thinks they are funny together, even on missions they get each other." The wavy haired Spider-man giggles at the memories, "It's no wonder they called each other work husbands-OPP!." He quickly slap his mouth shut by his own words leaving him out.

"What?" Hobie's whole body turned into a dark grey mixed with red alerted fonts.

"NOTHING!" Pavtri quickly meep.

"Pav, mate...'" Hobie creepily sway himself like a snake to meet his friend's eyes, "What did you say?"

Pavtri nervously stood holding his breath, damn he sometimes wish he sew his mouth shut. Hobie always reacts like this. Oh why he couldn't keep quiet!

Without a second heartbeat Gwen came to the rescue, she came with paper towels wiping her wet hands from using the restroom. Her face refreshed and clean from snot, "Gwen! Oh thank Brahma!" Pavtri quickly hides behind her with a small whisper. "I'm sorry."

"Wha?" Her blue eyes look back and forth between her friend, "PAV, you didn't!" She hissed as she noticed Hobie turning red with black fonts flashing through him.

"I'm sorry! I didn't-" Hobie cut them arguing, "Gwendy, what is going on?"

"Uhhh.... nothing, heh?" Gwen stood nervously with Pavtri hugging her.

"Gwen. Pavtri." A warning sound from their Hobie which they never heard his voice deep and it was rare for him to use their names! "What. Is. Going. On?" His dark eyes on them.

"Uhhhhh...." Gwen looks down the floor to the open space of the hallway, "promise you won't get mad?"

"Mm...." He saw them waiting for him to make the promise. "Fine. I promise." His black and red colors on his were showing more seeing he was frustrated.

Gwen and Pavtri look at each other then decided to tell him. "Okay, so Kaine and Miles been on missions and hanging out for a while...."

"I heard." Hobie crosses his arms across his chest feeling upset.

"So everyone that worked with them since they are friends... they like to say they are each other work husbands... heh." Gwen slowly said.

"Work husbands? And what is that?" Hobie scowls a bit already having a foul mood.

"It's like having a husband, but at work! They just work so well on missions, Hobie. Everyone makes fun of them being so sync- there's nothing wrong with having a bit fun! Hobie, we swear him and Miles are-" Gwen saw Hobie walking off already jealous. "Ah, shit! Pav, I told you to stay quiet about this!" She walks to follow Hobie before the punker does anything ridiculous.

"I'm sorry! But what did you expect! I'm always talking!" Pav defend himself. He follows her with a panic in his mind. "You don't think he'll get upset!"

"Gawd, I hope not!" She said out loud as they follow Hobie.

Hobie follows his watch where he sync with his beloved Sunflower. The moment he got to a room where a lot of Spider-heroes appeared from their portals, he saw Miles coming out of the portal with a Spider-man wearing red and black.

"Wow, man. That was such an awesome world! I didn't know we had to learn magic!" Miles laughs along side the Spider-man.

"Right! The fight with the orcs! I never thought it would be so much fun!" Kaine laughs along being taller than Miles, possibly the same height as Hobie, but with more muscle. The guy accidentally tripped, "OPP!"

"I gotcha man!" Miles quickly caught Kaine in his arms and they were laughing. The two were being goofy. Hobie felt a wave of jealousy seeing his Sunflower smiling with that perfect smile from a Spider-man. No, only he gets to make him smile.

"Haha, thanks man!" Kaine gave him a side hug. "I can't wait for next week."

Next week? Hobie tilted his head being confused.

"Oh yeah, Ganke so want a rematch." Miles giggles.

Kaine was about to speak until, he noticed the famous Spider Punk appearing behind the Miles with one hand around Miles' waist being protective. "Hobie!" Miles turns to be startled by his man.

"Hello, luv!" Hobie pulls Miles close to him, then his eyes stare over to Kaine, "Who's this?"

"OH this is Kaine!" Miles introduce him.

Kaine nodded with his hand sticking out, "Hi, Kaine Parker! Earth 617! I'm sort of a clone of Peter Parker, but in my world he actually died by some complicated stuff and I got to take over.... it's a whole thing!"

"Huh..." The tall punker sounded like he's listening but his eyes would go back to his partner. This time he slouches on Miles making him stumble a bit by his weight.

"Ohfff, baby! You gotta warn me next time! I almost fell." Miles found his stance and stood while holding on to his partners' weight.

Kaine's brow bone arched showing from his mask, "He's a cuddler?" He stood amazing on Hobie's body changing into a soft pink with hearts all over. It's very fascinating to watch. Kaine had more a dark harsh lines like an intense ink comic book style.

"Yeah, always!" Miles giggles as Hobie acted like a toddler wanting his parent to pay attention to him. He rubs his cheek against Miles' soft baby cheeks, he's like a cat. "Bae, I'm talking."

Hobie quickly hugs him being jealous. "Oh, I'm sorry, Kaine!" Miles chuckles nervously, "Hobie is always like this."

"Nah, your good! I didn't know the famous Spider Punk was this friendly." Kaine chuckles.

"Hey, you two!" A Spider-woman with duo chrome of green and yellow metallic spider suit with a black spider printed on the middle of her chest. This one had a high pony tail with long brown hair.

Hobie turns his head looking confused, "Who's this, luv?" He asked.

"Oh this is Kitty Pryde! She's a Spider-woman on Earth XM129, she got sweet super powers like me!" Miles said happily.

"Hahaha, I go through solid objects." She took off her mask to reveal her face. Kitty had such a pretty face almost like angelic doll with brown eyes and soft pink lips with small nose. "Spider Punk?"

"I don't believe in labels."

"Ahh, gotcha." Kitty heard Spider Punk is a pro activist at heart, always going against the government, the system. Not surprised of this introduction. Then she turned to Kaine, "So Kaine, how was your hubby in the magical world?"

"Hubby?" Hobie's head pop up from his cuddle with his boyfriend, he's full on alert. His body turning grey with a flash of yellow.

Miles placed his hand on his boyfriend's chest, "Relax, bae. It's a funny nickname everyone says about me and Kaine."

"Ohh, are you jealous?" Kitty watches at Hobie's body with amusement, "Don't worry it's all a joke. Miles and Kaine are work hubbies."

"Work hubbies?" Hobie turns his head at Miles, then places his hands on his lover's shoulders, "No, this is MY boyfriend, mates!"

Miles rolled his eyes, "Hobie! It's all a joke-" His boyfriend buries his head into his chest, "No, you're my boyfriend, luv!"

Kaine held his hands up in defense, "We get it, but it's everyone that likes to joke about it. Don't worry I'm a taken man!"

Kitty giggles having her arms wrapping around Kaine's right arm, "Hehe, he's not listening, bae."

Hobie already acting like a child about this, "Luv, I thought you and I were supposed to be together forever!"

"We are! Baby, we're just friends that work well on- WHOA! Hobie, put me down!" Miles never felt so embarrassed being picked up like a bride.

Hobie nuzzles his partner's cheeks again, "This is better, Sunflower!" He protectively carry his boyfriend. "Ain't I make a better work husband for you."

Miles let out a loud sigh, "Yeah..." No use now! His boyfriend is already jealous.

"I love you, Sunflower!" Hobie planted kisses on his cheeks.

Kitty giggles, "Awe, so cute! Hobie, you know Miles and Kaine put their names as Hubby 1 and 2 on our logs!" A log where many Spider-heroes sign up to partner up or go in groups for missions.

"AH!" Hobie stood in shock before he whines, "SUNFLOWER!"

"DON'T ENCOURAGE HIM, KITTY!" Miles shouted, "Ahh, Hobie!" His boyfriend began telling him how much he loves him and snuggling him. A whole rant about he never felt so betray!

"Kitty, you know you did that with Gwen!" Kaine said to his girlfriend.

"Hehehe, I know. It's just I heard Hobie gets all cute with his boo when a man comes into Mimi's life." Kitty giggles as she watches the two. Pavtri's blog on Spider So-City was never wrong. They are a cute couple.

[veryinnovative]

professional chef regulus can't sleep and works a mcdonald's graveyard shift. a small thingie inspired by this. 1486 words & totally sfw!

It came and went in waves, the bouts of insomnia that held him captive in sleep-elusive nights. Those hours of darkness where finding his rest proved itself to be no more than a fleeting chore, often resulting in Regulus dragging himself out from underneath his covers to find respite elsewhere. A place that wasn't a nightmare materialized in four enclosing walls, turning the small space of his bedroom into a reenactment of past events that only surface when he's stuck in that liminal space between consciousness and sleep.

An enigma, truly, the inability to sleep regardless of how much running a restaurant deprives him of his energy. What’s even more riddling, however, is the sight of Regulus Arcturus Black appearing in Stebbins’ office at 1:45 a.m. on a Saturday night, already wearing a McDonald’s polo he keeps stored in the bottom of his nightstand drawer. Why an award-winning chef with a long history of working in upscale establishments turns up at a fast-food chain is a mystery no one has been able to solve yet. Then again, people drink two liters of room-temperature chocolate milk to combat head-splintering migraines so there is no questioning a seasoned insomniac’s methods.

“Sup, Regulus. Another of those nights, eh?” Stebbins asks him with his feet planted on his desk. There is a monstrosity of a half-eaten quintuple cheeseburger in front of him – the equivalent of a heart attack between two buns. On the computer screen, a game of Solitaire is opened instead of the Excel file of expenditures he should probably be working on.

“Grill or cashier?” Regulus asks while working the pin into its place. It says ‘Mark’. Don’t ask him about that either.

Stebbins slurps his soda, the paper straw soggy and disfigured with the indents of teeth. “Sorry, mate, it’s drive-thru for you tonight. Got a newbie who’s gotta learn how to make the patties. Still know how it works?”

There is something incredibly surreal about having a three-star Michelin chef turn up at your restaurant and have them take orders instead, but Regulus doubts that his culinary prowess could elevate the taste of a Quarter Pounder by a large margin. That and Stebbins is high as a kite if the red-rimmed eyes are anything to go by.

“Shit– aren’t you that dude from Food & Wine? Begulus Rack?”

“In the flesh.”

“Man, this is a McDonald’s, you know that right?”

“Yes. Can I work here for a few hours? I’ll only need unlimited coffee as pay.”

“Why?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“You’re fucking hired.”

It’s how it had become a common occurrence. Once in a month or two, Regulus would enter the shabby building and take his spot at whatever station was available at the time. Stebbins, the manager working graveyard shifts, welcomed him with little inquiries every time. 

It’s how Regulus finds himself nearly thirty minutes into his shift, wireless headset on, and the seconds ticking by with little hustle and bustle. It’s not the social interaction that bothers him, but the lack of attention the entire ordeal demands. He’s bored. Not tired enough. And wonders if he should go for his nth cup of coffee since sleep is most definitely not going to be it.

Then, a car pulls up to the intercom post, and he taps on the screen before him, pulling up the order tab. “Welcome to McDonald's, may I take your order?”

A loud yawn reverberates through his earpiece before a gravelly voice mumbles, “A McDick menu, please.”

Regulus is going to stick his head in the deep fryer. “Go away, Barty.”

Then, another voice joins, the rasp of a French accent lilting his words, “I’ll have the same. Can I upgrade mine to a large?”

Barty snickers into the intercom and Regulus bridles at both their voices. “Can you both sod off?”

Evan tuts. “Now, that’s no way to speak to a customer now, is it?”

“Yeah,” Barty interjects, sucking his teeth. “Where the fuck is your manager? I want to talk to him.”

“Probably off wanking somewhere or getting high,” Evan mumbles in the background, to which Barty hums in approval.

“Go home, you both stayed out late tonight.” Barty and Evan had not returned to their shared apartment after their shift at L’Astre and had instead chosen to use their night to mindlessly drive around. 

“We went home and you weren’t there, Reg. We’re here to pick you up.”

“Barty, I’m fine. Just go.”

“Don’t be like that, Reg. Come home and I’ll make you a hot choccy before cuddling you to sleep. How’s that sound?”

“Evan, we both know you and Barty are going to be fucking each other's brains out. If I’m not going to be able to sleep, I might as well do that here.”

“Look at this git,” Barty barks out, “some cuddles from his Jamie and suddenly he’s giving us the cold shoulder, Evs. Are you telling me that Mr. Sunshine is a better spooner than I am? We might have to hold a spoon-off.”

More angry grumbling before Evan sounds through the intercom again. “I’ll call in James to drag your greasy ass home. Bring one of those Sugar Donuts with you.”

“You will do no such th–” The sound of tires screeching cut him off before the intercom goes quiet again and Regulus sighs, deeply, lamenting the fact that is his best friends always butting in.

Does he have unhealthy coping methods? Yes. Definitely. Without a shadow of a doubt.

Does this warrant cosseting (his friends just caring for him)? No. Absolutely not.

So it’s no surprise that when a car pulls up, approximately twenty minutes later, James’ voice resounds through the intercom, speech slurred with sleep.

“Mi vida,” he sighs, “come home.”

“I’m working.”

“You're not working,” James counters. “You're tiring yourself out in the most ridiculous of ways."

“I'm not tiring myself. This is quite calming, actually.”

“Baby, there is nothing remotely calming about working at a McDonald's at almost three in the morning.”

“Order. You're holding up the line.”

“Wha– there's no line! It isn't common practise to drive to a McDonald's this late, amor.”

“Your order.”

James groans loud enough for the intercom to fill his headpiece with static. “The usual.”

Regulus types in a singular Cadbury Flake Chocolate McFlurry.

“That will be one ninety-nine. Pull up to the window.”

James pulls up to the first window, driving a fancy trust-fund-baby Porsche, to pay for his purchase, and Regulus slides open the window to extend the terminal toward him. Only to end up watching how James turns off the engine, exits the vehicle, keys in hand, and dressed in pajamas still.

Regulus blinks. “Why did y– James!”

There is a startled sound when he suddenly climbs through the window.

“Get out,” Regulus hisses, trying to push him. “You can’t–”

“Watch me.”

“Are you mad?!”

“Not mad enough to work a McDonald's shift,” James grumbles, flinging both his legs over and coming to stand before Regulus. His hair is mussed and there are rabbit slippers on his feet, the socks mismatched like they were haphazardly put on before leaving through the door.

“Out.” Regulus points his finger to the window.

The thing is, James is an amiable man – not easily deterred nor someone who can be promptly riled up with little to no effort. 

None of that is applicable when he is woken up between the sacred hours of one and four for inconveniences. And Regulus working a graveyard shift hardly counted as an emergency.

What’s the worst that can happen when two boyfriends have a stare-off in the ass of the night, in a McDonald’s?

“Oh, James, here to pick up Regulus?” Comes Stebbins’ voice.

James doesn’t look up. “Yeah, could you make me my order real quick?”

“Sure thing, mate. The usual?”

“Extra chocolate drizzle, please.”

“Right on.”

Regulus isn’t backing out now. He keeps his gaze glued to his, expression indifferent and arms defiantly crossed over his chest. 

“Regulus.”

“Oh, it’s Regulus now, is it?”

“Your other nickname rights have been rescinded until you enter the car.”

“I think I can decide for myself, Potter.”

“You– That’s unfair!”

James’ bottom lip juts out just slightly in the makings of a pout and, well, Regulus is a weak man.

He sighs, tired, and rubs his eyes. “I’m tired.”

There are arms around him immediately, tugging his exhausted body into a warm, tight embrace, despite his aversion to public displays of affection. “Let me drive you to my place instead, baby, how’s that sound?”

Regulus snorts against his shoulder. “I doubt much sleeping will happen.”

“Maybe, but it will tire you out for sure. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it much more than working the drive-thru.”

No other incentive is needed for Regulus to open the window and clamber out of it, followed by a grinning James who is undoubtedly happy with having obtained a McFlurry and one Regulus Black for a two-for-free deal.

[shuutingstar]

I’ve been watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine recently and I had the idea of a detective/cop au with the sbg cast because it’d be funny.

Under the cut cuz I made it too long.

Basically, what I’m working with here is that Ashlyn’s either the sergeant or captain of the squad. I haven’t completely decided yet but I’m fine with either. Anyhow, Aiden’s kinda like Jake in B99 where he’s really smart and can solve a case no problem but has a tendency to joke around and not follow the rules entirely. He’s also really stubborn. I was thinking Tyler and Aiden could have the rivalry/bet that Amy and Jake had going on in s1 ‘cause it’d be funny to see them try and beat the other in most cases solved.

For Logan I was thinking he’d be the best on-field (cuz yk he’s good with a gun) and best shooter the precinct has. Taylor would be good at getting info from perps and she’d be an amazing “good cop” while Ashlyn would play “bad cop” or they could switch. I don’t think it matters. Ben would be real intimidating but he’s just a big softie. He’s like the nicest cop at the precinct and enjoys being a secondary rather than a primary (like he doesn’t want to take the lead role on cases a lotta the time cuz yk he can’t talk) but he’s still a very valuable person to the squad.

For whatever plot this au has I think it’d be cool to have it interlink with the phantoms and the phantom dimension in some way. Like maybe there are a series of murders where the killer maims/disfigures the victims’ bodies and the squad have to solve it, but it’s a difficult case because there are people trying to cover up the murders — like maybe the Cranes (or whatever their organisation is called) or something. Also, they could give the serial killer a name like “the phantom or smth” or you can still add the phantom dimension into the au if you want to but at its core this au is just about shits and giggles.

Like I want to see Aiden arrive at work and drink his third tea of the day — cuz he’s a tea guy — and I wanna see Ben sit at his desk and prolong his paper work because listening to music is so much better. I want to see Logan have tons of flowers at his desk because his grandparents were so happy he’d finally gotten the job he had worked for; Taylor fixing the printers everyday because Logan got kind of mad when the printer stops working. (He took a hammer and smashed it.) I wanna see Tyler come to work with more than one lunch bag because he decided to make the others lunch. I WANT TO SEE FLUFF. If you get what I mean.

I’d also like to clarify that im not trying to undermine anyone’s intelligence/skills in any way. They’re all skilled and perceptive and great detectives they just show it differently. Like Ben get intel by silently reading you whereas Tyler tries a more aggressive approach which contrasts with Taylor’s calculated questions and answers and Ashlyn’s perceptiveness to body language. Logan’s all about finding the facts first and building off of there, so he’s kind of in between everything when solving a case but the clue board is his go-to and Aiden just kinda fuck’s around and finds out.

[cheesycatz]

(ACID THEORY)

He got deep-fried

In my personal version of Acid Theory, the battery acid is a catalyst rather than a reactant; it simply sped up a process that was already happening. Spamton's "puppetification" was a supernatural consequence of his connection with his benefactor on the phone. Before the acid incident, he had already been experiencing progressively worse symptoms. He had peeled off so much dead skin from his hands that the plastic growing underneath was fully visible. Spamton's decaying body and inability to make profit without his benefactors strings drove him towards the NEO body, where the swatchlings witnessed him kneel before it, praying for hours at a time. Due to Spamton's trespassing in the basement, inability to pay rent, and visually declining mental state, Queen saw the acid river as both a way to get rid of him and maybe get him to relax. After all, the acid isn't supposed to dangerous and the river is only a few feet deep. No one bore witness to the disfigured amalgamation of plastic and flesh crawling from the acid river and its trash filled shores. Ball joints strung with tendons, enamel teeth growing from a yellowing plastic face, wet glassy eyes, amputated feet molded into fake shoes—a breathing, living puppet. Swatch assumed that Spamton somehow transferred his soul to a new body—the alternative was both horrifying and surely impossible.

(This is a remake of my first acid theory drawing (not on my tumblr) from a little over 2 years ago. Both were done with the same paper and markers.)

[ju-vondy]

Headcanon Gwynriel Scene PART 1

Hey guys. I'm brazilian and this is the first time I'm translating my writing from portuguese to english so please take it easy on me 😅 I hope you all enjoy it! This scene is a part of my fanfiction (which I'm posting currently on Wattpad only in portuguese, but if any of you show interest I may post it in english as well) Good reading... ~*~ Some context before u start reading: The last chapter wass Nesta and Cassian's cerimony and she offered Gwyn to move to the House of Wind because when Cassian leaves for missions she feels way too lonly. ~*~ It was in that last conversation that Gwyn was thinking about when she woke up that weekend. It had been two weeks since Nesta had been away. Gwyn arrived earlier at the training ring each day and spent the afternoons working in the library. In her free time, she read Nesta's improper romances - which she was particularly enjoying.

But in that particular week, Merril was incredibly demanding with the research content, so much so that Gwyn took her manuscripts to her room. She rolled over in bed, thoughtful. What would a normal citizen of Velaris do at the end of the week?

Take a stroll around the city.

And that's what she should do too. But there she was, locked in her room. She had promised herself that she would give it a chance.

But the other part, the one that screamed that everything would go wrong... It was still stronger. Besides, there were the nights when she woke up screaming and crying from a bad nightmare. The fateful day in Sangravah haunted her constantly. The disfigured ghost of her sister, Catrin, used to make the nightmares much worse. She didn't want do bother Nestha with that.

Gwyn huffed at Merrill's research papers and decided she had had enough. She had spent the last twelve hours working on the translation of two ancient tomes and was not seeing any progress. Besides... Weekend meant resting. Gwyn sighed loudly and dropped the pen on the desk.

"By the Mother..." she stretched her arms before getting up from the chair. "I wonder what Merril's next obsession will be after she finally proves her theory of connection between the realms."

Gwyn took a deep breath again as she stopped in front of the window. She put her hands on her waist, thoughtful. The research could wait. And the romance was getting so interesting when she had to stop to focus on the new content for Merril...

The priestess sighed and picked up the book, lying down on her bed. But she couldn't read. Not there. Then she felt tempted to go up to Nesta's private library. The one they had had so much fun making silly requests to the House.

Gwyneth had a better idea: to read outdoors. The sky must be beautiful out there. She could lie down on the training ring that would be empty and...

Yes, that's what she would do.

Without thinking twice, she put on something that would protect her from any possible cold, grabbed what was necessary, and went to the House. The lights were on, but there was no one there. Gwyn vaguely remembered hearing Nesta telling Cassian that while they were away, Azriel would teach in the mornings on weekdays, but on weekends he would cross over to Vallahan to accompany Mor in whatever they were doing.

Gwyn hummed as she headed towards the large arch that led to the roof of the House, but then... He was there.

Gwyn halted her movements before crossing the arch and held her breath as she saw those muscular backs without a shirt to hide the tanned skin. Azriel stopped his blows on the makeshift punching bag and turned his body to look at who was present, even though he already knew to whom that voice and scent belonged.

Gwyn cleared her throat before starting to explain herself:

"Sorry, I... I thought there was no one in the House, and I had this desire to read outdoors, so I thought it wouldn't be a problem if I came up here, but..." she stopped abruptly to catch her breath and continue: "If this is a problem for you, I can go back and..."

"Gwyneth," Azriel interrupted her, holding back a laugh. "You can stay."

The priestess widened her eyes.

"Really?"

"Yes."

Gwyn quietly celebrated.

"Thank you," she smiled, walking towards the covered area. "I'll remember this before cursing you in training tomorrow, Shadowsinger."

Azriel chuckled softly.

"Good reading," he said and, after a brief nod, turned to go to the nearest rock where his shirt was thrown. No Illyrian leather, just casual clothing. Azriel put it on and then focused on the punching bag again.

Gwyn sighed, grateful for the small gesture. She opened her mouth to say that he didn't need to put on the shirt, and that she felt comfortable in his presence — even without knowing the reason — and that furthermore she didn't need anyone's pity, but changed her mind at the last moment.

"I don't bite, you know," Azriel said over his shoulder, offering only a half-smile to the Valkyrie.

Gwyn wanted to smack herself. She was there, busy enough — standing, observing those dressed backs and concluding that she preferred the previous sight — to remember to move and choose a place to settle.

The priestess took a step forward, eyebrows raised.

"For your luck, Shadowsinger, I don't bite either," Gwyn replied, keeping her tone calm and serious. "Unless if it is absolutely necessary."

Azriel chuckled. Of course Gwyn would have a smart-ass reply ready. Since the day they didn't win an award for completing the qualifying circuit for the Rite, Gwyn was determined to wipe the smug and presumptuous smiles off his and Cassian's faces whenever she could.

And he kind of liked that.

The priestess started humming softly and cheerfully to herself as she prepared a comfortable place to sit on the icy surface. She had brought a cushion and a sheet to line the floor, not wanting to bother the House with it.

Before she could sit, however, a comfortable mat appeared on top of the sheet and more cushions joined the one Gwyn had strategically positioned against the wall. Additionally, there was a pile with a comfortable blanket, scarf, and gloves. Gwyn rolled her eyes.

Seriously? I can do this myself. I'm not a child, you know.

In response, a mug of hot chocolate appeared next to the blanket. Gwyn chuckled quietly and stuck her tongue out at the House. The mug disappeared.

Hey, I was joking. Sorry.

The mug reappeared, along with a plate full of warm cookies, how fragrant. Gwyn smiled. Thank you.

The redhead settled into a cozy position while humming some soft "humming" sounds. She felt a warm breeze caress her cheeks. Gwyn shrugged, stopped vocalizing, and opened the book while whispering to herself that the House was too dramatic.

On the other side, Azriel, who was absolutely tense and with clenched jaw, relaxed. The shadows were incredibly out of control that night. It was true that Gwyn's presence caused some movement among them. Not agitation, but a small... Commotion.

Even a simple breath exercise from the redhead seemed to stir the shadows. However, it was Gwyneth's voice, her laugh in particular, that seemed to be the real call.

And the shadows... They were happy with a mere murmured singing from Gwyn. That was undeniable. But how was that possible? At that very moment, they were spying on her from afar: crazy to dance with her. They only awaited the master's permission, who, to his discontent, kept a firm hand.

Azriel rolled his eyes. He would have to do something about it, and soon. Gwyn laughed, causing the shadows to threaten to approach again. Azriel gave a scathing look to the shadows over his shoulder, to reprimand them.

"Sorry," Gwyn widened her eyes at Azriel and raised the book. "Funny scene."

Azriel tilted his head, wanting to beat himself up. Obviously, Gwyn would think that the unfriendly look was directed at her.

"It wasn't..." Azriel clicked his tongue. How to explain that he wasn't angry with her without sounding like a lunatic? "No problem."

"Okay." Gwyn shrugged and returned her attention to reading. She tried to laugh quietly to herself, with little success. Azriel smiled. At least she was trying. The shadows whispered to him.

Listen. Closer. Approach.

The Illyrian rolled his eyes: No.

The shadows hissed stubbornly: You're such a brat. Listen to us.

Azriel exhaled in response: Leave her alone.

Azriel swallowed a grunt. Should he leave? No, that would seem too rude. Gwyn had already presumed that he wouldn't like her presence there. Leaving would leave her, at the very least, intrigued. And if there was one thing the master spy didn't feel like dealing with right now, it was Gwyneth Berdara's curious and dangerously sharp inquiries.

So he was left with only one thing: ignore.

Ignore. Ignore. And ignore.

[docgold13]

Batman: The Animated Series - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Harvey Dent

Revered as a steadfast and tireless advocate of law and order, Harvey Dent had a reputation for producing results. After being made Gotham City's District Attorney, Dent doubled his efforts to root out corruption and take down organized crim.  Dent’s hard work was driven by his pursuit for justice as well as his desperate effort to cope with severe mental illness.   

Dent suffered from a dissociative identity disorder.  He found his angry and hateful feelings to be so intolerable, so dystonic, that they needed to be banished from his consciousness.  Years of suppressed anger reemerged in the form of a completely different persona; a persona that called itself ‘Big Bad Harv.’  Harvey was kind and composed and followed the letter of the law; whereas Big Bad Harv was vicious, impulsive and would restore to anything, even murder, to get his way.  The division between these two sides became so extreme that they were essentially two different people; two entities fighting one another for control.  

Dent worked with psychologist Nora Crest to help him understand and better contend with this matter.  As the pressures of his work and his efforts to be reelected District Attorney mounted, however, it became increasingly more difficult for Dent to manage his two sides.  When overly stressed or upset, Dent would experience fugue episodes where Big Bad Harv would take control and enact the aggressive impulses he had been holding in.  

Dent won his reelection by a landslide and he was finally planning on proposing to his longtime sweetheart Grace Lamont.  It was then that Dent was contacted by the mob boss, Rupert Thorne.  Thorne had pilfered Dr. Crest’s records and he threatened to expose Dent's psychological troubles the press unless Dent agreed to drop all legal pursuits against Thorne’s enterprises.  Dent snapped and Big Bad Harv took control.  He attacked Thorne and his men. In the ensuing scuffle Dent was caught in a terrible explosion.  

The explosion severely scarred the entire left half of Dent’s face, leaving him horribly disfigured.  The trauma resulted in the creation of a third persona within Dent’s mind, a persona that would maintain control over him for much of the rest of his life.  A person that called itself ‘Two-Face.’  

The terrific Richard Moll provided the voice of Harvey Dent, first appearing in the second episode of the first season of Batman: The Animated Series, ‘On Leather Wings.’  

[aedesluminis]

Simonne Évrard's speech of 8 August 1793 in the National Convention

"I am not here to ask you the favors of cupidity that claims and craves for indigence. Marat’s widow just needs a grave. Before I get to the relieving end of my tormented life, I come to ask you for justice towards the new attacks committed against the memory of the most intrepid and outraged of the people’s defenders. These monsters, how much gold did they lavish! How many hypocritical pamphleteers were paid to put his name to shame! With such hateful rage, they tried so hard to give him a colossal political existence and a detestable celebrity, in order to dishonor the people’s cause that he proudly defended. This day, still stained by his blood, they persecute him to his grave; some other day, they still dare to murder his memory. They are even trying to depict the monster, who pierced his chest with the parricide iron, as an intriguing heroine. In this circle we see the vilest of them all, the Carra, the Ducos, the Dulaure, the shameless praises in their periodicals to encourage their peers to slaughter what is left of the defenders of liberty. I do not talk about the vile Pétion who, in Caen, during a meeting with his accomplices, dared to say that the murder was a virtue.

Soon enough the foolish treachery of the conspirators, who pretend to honor the civic virtues, will make the infamous publications grow, where the horrible murder is presented in favorable ways and the martyr of the patrie is disfigured by the most hideous convulsions.

But here it is the most wicked of their schemes: They bribed some foolish writers who shamelessly usurp his name and tarnish his principles to immortalize the empires of lies which he was victim of! Cowards! First, they flatter the people’s pain to get their praise, then they speak the language of patriotism and morality so that the people believe to still be listening to Marat; but all of this is just to slander the most zealous defenders who have protected them. It is to preach, in Marat’s name, the exaggerations that his enemies attributed to him.

I denounce two men in particular, Jacques Roux and Leclerc, who claim to carry on his patriotic papers and make his shadow talk to insult his memory and to betray the people. After spouting revolutionary platitudes, they encourage the people to outlaw the government. It is in those occasions that they use his name to stain in blood the day of the 10th of August, because his sensitive soul, devastated by the sight of the crimes of tyranny and the uneasiness of humanity, sometimes let out some rightful curses towards the people’s oppressors and public leeches. They try to preserve the parricide lie that persecuted him and made him look like a foolish apostle of anarchy and chaos. And who are these men that claim his place? It is a priest, who the day after the faithful deputies triumphed over their cowardly enemies, came to insult the National Convention through a seditious and wicked speech. There is another man, no less perverse, who is associated with the mercenary furors of said impostor. What is important to remark is that these two men are the same who had been denounced by him at the Cordeliers’ club  just a few days before his death as people paid by our enemies to create public disorder and, on the same occasion, they were also formally expelled from this popular society. What is the aim of this perfidious faction that fuels these criminal intrigues? It is to vilify the people who honor the memory of the one who died for their cause. It is to slander all the friends of the patrie, whom it has designated as Maratists; to deceive all the French people across the whole republic, who gather for the reunion of August the 10th, by presenting them their perfidious writings, in which they preach the teaching of the very people’s representative they slaughtered. It is to cause disturbance in these solemn days through some disastrous catastrophe.

God! What will become of the people? If these men can usurp their trust! What is the deplorable condition of their intrepid defenders if death itself cannot avoid them the fury of their murderers! Legislators, for how long would you endure it if crime insulted virtue? Where does this privilege come from, of English and Austrian emissaries to trap public opinion, to give daggers to the defenders of our laws and to know the founding valor of our raising republic? If you let them go unpunished then I denounce them all here to the French people, to the universe. The memory of the martyrs of liberty and the heritage of the people; that of Marat is the only good deed left to me, I devote to his defense the last days of a languid life. Legislators, avenge the patrie, the honesty, the misfortune and the virtue, striking at the most cowardly of all the enemies.”

Original in French

I personally did the translation in English. Let me know if I made some mistakes or if some parts need revision! Last edit: 31/10/23

[nightcourtseer]

Elain Week Day 2: Love Languages

A Benediction in Flowers

Pairing: Elriel

A vase full of flowers sat on his bedside table, next to the vial of headache powder and unused earbuds. Artfully arranged with blue hydrangeas, pink tulips, lavender and greens, they filled the whole room with fragrance.

If he closed his eyes, he could almost taste the green tea on his lips, wings warm from the afternoon sun, as he had sat with Elain in the garden to keep her company. At first, it had been a chore. A favor, even, to Rhys and his High Lady.

It soon became the very best part of his day.

His cheeks flushed when he realized she would have seen her gifts to him sat so close to where he sought sleep each night. A careful shrine of his wants and desires, of her, constructed like some fae would create altars to the Mother in their homes.

But it would not be an untrue assumption. For he did pray to it each night, that by some miracle they would make their way to each other. And in his dreams, he went down on his knees to worship her.

He moved closer, closing his eyes as he allowed himself an indulgent, stuttering breath. A low, unintentional moan loosed from deep in his chest as he scented traces of her among even the most potent blooms.

Honey and jasmine and life.

Rhysand was wrong to assume that only Azriel did not deserve a life with her. No, she did not deserve a life to be rotted away by him.

He knew his prayers would go unanswered, and yet, he also knew that he would never quit his faith, never deny a day of prayer to his very religion. And he knew that those flowers would be kept alive as long as he could manage, until he could press them between the pages of his favorite book, which would only become that much more special to have touched a thing that had once been carefully selected by her.

As if in a trance, he lifted a disfigured hand to stroke the velvet petal of a blossom. Careful to not allow the tremors of his bones to lay ruin to the delicate thing. Regret ignited high in his chest as he remembered the feeling of her soft skin beneath those same fingers, on the very best and absolute worst night of his life.

The beginning and end of a life of possibility.

As he moved away, the arrangement shifted ever so slightly, and a space opened between the stems to reveal a bit of parchment tucked between the tightly bound stalks.

He did not dare breathe as he unfolded it. Its creamy stock decorated with a thin, scrawling script.

“Your past does not mean you do not deserve beautiful things.”

She had written it, written it to him. And he knew why, as he had one day divulged that he felt out of place in the garden with her, dressed in blood-stained armor and leathers. Unseen blood coating every inch of his skin, soaking him to the bone.

He was drowning in it.

And he had been pulled away, before she had had an opportunity to reply. For which he had been glad, that he would not see the pity, or even worse, fear, fill her eyes.

Logically, he knew that this was her response to that conversation. But just maybe… he thought to himself as he lay down on the bed, clutching the small piece of paper to his heart. Just maybe, it meant more than that.

Maybe…

Tag List: @elainweekofficial

[sleepy-crypt1d]

it's so disappointing when almost all handsome jack fanart is inaccurate :(( like, people just blatantly ignoring very Important character design details. It happens in fics too, where people will simply ignore basic details about his design.

Specifically, here, im referencing 1. him being brown and 2. him being disfigured and disabled.

If you actually look at his models, you can very much tell he's Not White and barely anyone draws him with his real skin tone!!! everyday i see so many cool pieces of fan merch or fanart and then im like 'oh nope he's a different color nevermind'

and then on top of making him paper white they'll draw him with this small shaky line across his face when, in canon, he was disfigured so heavily he needed to get a prosthetic face. that and HE'S HALF BLIND!!! HE LOST AN EYE!! IT WAS SET ON FIRE????

it's gross seeing people completely ignore his accurate injuries to try and make him the stereotypical Sexy Man with Clear White Skin

i know that most people probably dont know that jack is half blind but if you look at his unmasked face, he very clearly is! whether his mask has a cover up eye, or he's wearing a glass eye, or its cybernetics is never explained but when he takes his mask off his left eye is gone/scarred over! and the vault scar has severely carved into his face!!! you can SEE how deep it digs in!! barely anyone draws him like that :((

his mask isnt just covering some dainty little scrape, it's a prosthetic that aids his disability! that AND HE'S FUCKING BROWN.

EDIT: AND HE HAS GRAY HAIR!!! THAT BITCH IS AGING!!!! SHOW IT YOU COWARDS!!!!