ghost is off limits. not just emotionally or romantically, but physically. you have seen the aftermath of when someone so much as bumps into him or brushes past his arm in a tight hallway. they learn very quickly that lieutenant riley isn't to be touched, not even a little, not at all. (18+)
ohhhh but not for the medic. your touch is clinical. necessary. ordered. ghost glares, but he does not tell you to go away when you make your way into captain price's office. it's late; they just touched down not even ten minutes ago, exhausted and burdened by an op that took a few weeks of their absence.
he smells like sweat, like grime, and you can taste the sand in the air when you take a seat next to him. even seated, he is taller than you. he takes up a ridiculous amount of space, dwarfing the office chair he sits in. you set your kit down on your captain's desk, turning to face your lieutenant.
"uhm...could you show it to me?"
he huffs in annoyance before he pulls his tactical vest over his head, tossing it onto the floor. you swallow, blinking, focusing, as he unzips the jacket he wears and lets it fall at his feet. your lips part a little as he reveals the strength of his arms, tight muscles straining against the shirt he wears and showing off the sleeve of ugly military tattoos that are sunburnt along one arm.
gorgeous, giant man, but then your eyes take interest on the nasty gash along one arm, a jagged wound that stretches nearly from shoulder to elbow. it looks angry and irritated, much like the look in his eyes.
when you put your hands on him for the first time, he flinches. not because he is in pain, but the feeling of skin against skin is so foreign, like a wound of its own. you blink up at him, soft and sweet, and you show him your hands, what you're doing with them.
"just going to clean it out and stitch you up, lieutenant. promise i won't take too long."
but he likes it. the way your soft palm cups his scarred forearm, running a cloth over the lines of blood that trace along the length to his wrist and drip onto the floor. the warm drag of your fingers pushing his skin together so you can hook the needle through and stitch him up solid and effectively. those easy, gentle strokes, threading through skin as you would hem a skirt, a pattern that you have not forgotten that is now being weaved onto his very body.
he'll wear your stitch pattern like a patch he has so dutifully earned. and you will wear his marks just the same, yes she will, the good girl that she is.
when you finish, he grunts, flexing his fist to gauge the tautness of his skin and the way the wound burns as he stretches his arm. he tilts his head to the side, glaring. your hands rest easy there, still pressed up against him, and he nods at you expectantly.
"open y'r mouth, sergeant."
and you do. because he's your lieutenant, and he has given you an order. he hikes his mask up, revealing a disgusting grin and the sharp edge of a torn lip, a face mangled beyond recognition. when he spits in your mouth, he tastes just as you expected--like sand and smoke.
"now swallow."
and you do, but not because he's your lieutenant, it's something else, something more. not afraid, but intrigued, somehow not put off, but needing sustenance.
when he crowds you in the infirmary later that night, you don't understand. you don't understand the sudden need to touch, the way he grips your ass, the nasty way he bites at your jaw and pushes your pants down your thighs and puts his cock between your thighs.
he promises he won't fuck you, promises he'll be nice this time, but it's hard to discern between reality and heaven when he lets the tip catch on your clit with every frantic stroke. you squeak with every rough thrust, pressing your ass against his pelvis as you arch your back, wanting to see his face, wanting to kiss him, wanting to make this tender and soft and a little romantic, but that isn't ghost.
ghost is mean. ghost isn't a giver, he's a taker. ghost is made of sharp edges only, broken glass on all sides, it's such a shame his cock is so nice and so big and so good, lieutenant, please, i need it--
"need more," is what you beg, even though you know he can't give it to you. you know, but he does it anyway, he slips a big hand between your thighs and opens you up, and you cry when he finally sinks deep, hoisting you up, your back tight against his chest as he learns how quiet the voices in his head are when he's so deep in your pretty, pretty pussy.
he slips another hand around your throat, baring it, giving himself room so he can bite at your neck and lick over the salt and brand you with the evidence of the reprieve he refuses to give, but you don't care, all you can do is smile.
you know his secrets now, the things he would never tell, the things he can't say out loud.
it's almost frightening that you don't really care if he has to kill you to keep you quiet.
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
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soon it'll be dawn again
transcript under the cut ⏬
page 01
Fig: no way? - you're still up?
Riz: Wh– yes?
Riz: Why'd I not be.
page 02
Fig: I me~~ean - that took.
Fig: whole day.
Riz: Yeah?
Fig: 'm beat.
Riz: you should sleep.
page 03
Fig: nah. my guy's still up
Fig: I wanna hang out.
page 04
Riz: That's really nice.
Fig: Hah! - Nobody ever expects an Archdevil rockstar to be nice.
Riz: … yeah. - 's just budget work tho. (the stuff I'm working on) - I've heard it's boring.
page 05
Fig: yeah, but you do it…
Riz: It keeps things going, right? - Nothing happens if nobody sits down and - does the thing.
Fig: That's right… - though. Yeah.
page 06
Fig: sometimes it's someone else who - doesn't want the same thing to happen.
Riz: … - mm.
page 07
Riz (off screen): …It took me a long time to get that not everyone likes doing what I do. - 's probably because you guys are so nice– - or. - kind.
Riz (off screen): to anyone too, not just. - the people you /love/.
page 08
Riz: that's not how it is elsewhere. - The world's– not. hostile. - but 's not like it's kind.
Riz: So I'm doing as much as I can now…
page 09
Fig: Hey.
Riz: ?
Fig: Go dig some dirt with me.
page 10
Riz: [blank speech bubble] - oh you meant like - actual dirt. (not incriminating information)
Fig: o yea.
Fig: there's clay in the backyard soil. - sometimes when I'm sun deficient or something I go touch dirt for a bit.
page 11
Fig: here u go
page 12
Riz: uh
Fig: now we make a thing! - 'm pretty good at freehanding a bowl.
Fig: I'll show u
page 13
Fig: just– yep, flatten that out as evenly as u can, then–! - actually ur nails'd be so good at cutting out the strip. [larger than usual space] wait. - wait. wait u can carve patterns with them! we HAVE to try
Riz: uh - What. do I carve?
Fig: anything!!!
page 14
Fig: and– yep just seal the inside uh. seam?
Fig: yep that works - okay time's up! all contestant hands up
Riz: [blank speech bubble] - okay - wh. what's next?
Fig: haha - watch this.
(sound effect text): FWOO—MP
page 15
Riz: WH– DON'T JUST DO THAT???
Fig: Now it's fired!
Riz: THAT WAS NOT SAFE
Fig: (actually it's just dry. if u add water rn it'll dissolve)
Fig: ok catch!
Riz: [blank speech bubble] - careful!!
Fig: dw no need haha
page 16
Riz (thought bubble): oh - it's warm…
Fig: now I want you to throw this.
page 17
Fig: u gotta do it - c'mon
page 18
Riz: wh– - It's like 3AM right now
Fig: oh it's not /fired/ fired it's not gonna make a loud noise
Riz: And then just? leave a pile out here?
Fig: pour water over it & it'll be gone I told u
Riz: but
page 19
Fig (off screen): RIz.
page 20
Fig: I've done all this before.
Fig: Can you trust that at least?
page 21
Riz: no, I– - I do. - I trust you.
page 23
Riz: okay what happens now
(sound effect text): glob
page 24
Fig: we do it again!
page 25
Riz: wh. [larger than usual space] What do you mean. (this clay's too wet also)
Fig: see! you're already learning
Fig: [blank speech bubble] - there are flows that are futile to fight. - The world changes.
Fig: Things change.
page 26
Fig: I've learned my lessons with "forevers". - But - as an artist
Fig: I can give you one thing: - You can always do it again.
page 27
Fig: most of everything depends on the rest of the world, - but this. - making new. - that's yours as long as you want it.
page 28
Fig: So?
page 29
Riz: Yeah. - Yeah! - let's make another one.
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