#it's like i'm going in circles not processing

[streamsofmoon]

mechanic!vi x f!reader

a/n: missed vi and needed to write about her 😞

vi's been working at the same mechanic for years now, and her co-workers know next to nothing about her. she's always been quiet, preferring to keep to herself because her life is her business. sure, she'll have a couple of drinks once the work day's done, but she'll never stay out later than necessary.

why?

"i gotta get home to my wife," she'll say, her eyes softening at the very thought of you. and it stuns her colleagues each time because vi's eyes don't soften. her default expression keeps people at a distance; it makes her inaccessible just the way she likes it.

but whenever she mentions you, that expression disappears to showcase a hint of genuine adoration. a love that has people going still and silent in its presence because it feels sacred—feels reverent.

for that reason alone, speculations of who vi's wife is circles the shop. some wonder if you're similar to vi or vastly different. some already have ideas of what you'd look like, all based on what they think vi would find attractive. it's all silly guessing games; a betting pool is born from these guesses, all of it done sneakily, so vi never knows.

some try to sneak glances at her phone when she's using it. on the hope that you're her background photo. but vi's always too quick, too precise with her business that even a little peek is frankly impossible.

this goes on for weeks until they decide to give it a rest, especially when vi's glare nearly killed a man when she caught him trying to sneak a look at her phone.

the guessing games die down, and the betting pool remains untouched without a winner.

work returns to normal.

until one day.

you come into the shop on a sunny afternoon, dressed in a loose pair of shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. you're holding a lunchbox in your hands, your eyes glancing around the workshop floor. like you're looking for someone in particular.

gorgeous is the first thing that comes to mind when they see you. your smile warm and friendly as you're approached to see who you're looking for. you barely get a chance to describe said person when your eyes light up like shining stars.

"vi!" you exclaim happily, immediately running over to her with outstretched arms. everyone watches with gaping jaws at the sight of vi with her arms already open, absolutely delighted at your presence. she catches you easily, lifting you into her embrace as she captures your lips in a deep kiss.

you respond enthusiastically, wrapping your arms around her neck and legs around her waist. you hum into the kiss, lips still curved in a smile before you're pulling away, giggling when vi eagerly chases after your mouth.

"stop it," you scold playfully, tapping her nose which she cutely scrunches up. "you forgot your lunch." you show her the lunchbox you hold carefully in one hand. "this is the second time this week. i feel like you're doing this on purpose."

vi gasps in feigned offense, already carrying you to the empty break room. "if you're implying i purposefully leave my lunch at home so my hot wife delivers it for me at work, then you're sorely mistaken."

"sorely mistaken, my ass," you reply, grinning as you’re carted away.

"oh yeah," vi says before turning to her shocked colleagues, her expression stoic. "i'm going on my break. be back in an hour. if you need me, don't."

then she's back to smiling at you, soft eyes and softer voice as she responds to your endearing rambling. the door to the break room opens and shuts, a startling noise in the heavy silence as everyone processes what just happened.

it's then unanimously agreed that no one wins the betting pool.

[enquire]

(late) Pride Kinjomae

Yeah, it's no longer pride month, I know. But I still wanted to get around to this so here it is. This is a redraw of the one I did last year.

This time, I included a trans flag for Yuki as well, because I've gotten attached to the trans man headcanon for Yuki and Utsuro. Otherwise, it's same as before, ace flag for Tsurugi since I tend to hc him as an asexual guy with an interest in men, and a bi flag for Yuki.

Fun fact, the ace and trans flags apply to me as well. Also, I wanted to do this traditionally like last time, it's always a little weird posting stuff that's more messy, but I can tell I've improved since last year by redrawing this, so that's nice to see.

Anyways, that's all I've got in terms of DRA, gonna leave some of my own thoughts below the cut, since I imagine most folks are just here for the art haha.

But before you go, as I said last year, this goes out to everyone else who had a quiet pride. Also to my fellow disabled queer folks. I know times have been difficult lately, but we deserve to be here and take up space.

❤️🧡💛💚💙💜 |🩵🩷🤍🩷🩵 | 💜🖤🩶🤍

In all honesty, like last year, I felt pretty gloomy during and about pride. For the most part, I still honestly feel like I'm stuck on the outskirts. I haven't really been able to muster up the courage or well, frankly, social/medical/financial ability, to transition or be more honest about who I am.

I've been feeling pretty down about it all lately. Maybe it's because it's the period between pride month and disability month again, and the state of things where I live is just, an ongoing thing so there's that too...

I think doing little things like this is my way of trying to reclaim pride for myself? Not sure how to word it. Art and writing can be very powerful when it comes to things like this.

Reflecting on my time since last year's pride though, there have been some positive things. I've been able to spend time in online spaces with others like me, and having a little circle of other queer people (weirdos like me /aff) does help a lot. It made me feel comfortable enough to try using he/him pronouns alone instead of they/them/he/him and I think after some time I can say that fits better. 🧡

Anyways, maybe next year I can come back to this again. If you've read all this, thanks and hopefully something resonated with you. I try not to go into personal stuff too much on this blog, but well, I think it's important to be visible right now if that makes sense. And it helps to process and leave notes for myself haha.

[moe-broey]

Realizing. I don't make art to make something Beautiful and Breathtaking or even just kinda cool composition wise, no. I have some sort of affliction. I have to find a way to make this incredibly time-consuming endeavor as speedy as possible for the Sole Purpose of Putting Guys in Situations. That is my true calling. There's Guys in my brain and I just need to Get Them OUT‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ And go go go gogogogogo go GOOOO GO NEXT THING NEXT THING I GOTTA. THE. SITUATIONS ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️ It's SO important to me..... One Billion Stories........... Infinite Amount of Situations....... featuring. My guiys.........

[polkadotpatterson]

okeydoke as I have not had much energy for working on stuff lately (but lots of motivation) I'm not gonna do proper NaNo with a wordcount or anything, BUT I am gonna make it a goal to get some amount of work done on a writing project every day (at least until I go away on the 24th). Main priority blaseball projects are, in no particular order:

Fic about the ending

Abner fic

Simon's Quest

secret fic(s) :)

get the Talkers exchange set up

Aside from that, I've been poking at more non-blaseball stuff, which is a good excuse for me to plug my writing blog @cyndakip! All my fics get posted there, so if you're interested in my writing beyond just blaseball (especially if you like pokemon), I recommend following me there, since I don't post non-blaseball fics here.

[keeps-ache]

hm hm hm !!

[morningmask27]

god, one mild problem of asking friends who don't draw a lot for criticism is that They Don't See Shit. I'm obviously going to be Extra Critical of my own art and that's why I ask for their advise, but they just tell me it's pretty without warning me that one arm had a very fucked up anatomy or the chair I had straight up forgotten to draw for a good while.

I told them the thing was done (I meant a fucking table I had procrastinated to draw for eons and was a blue sketch in all those wip updates) while all the characters were still just colored sketches and the chair was missing and they just didn't see it; they rolled with the drawing as is.

They're wonderful people, but they are definitely not the people to go to for actual art advise and it's a bit annoying tbh

[wild-at-mind]

If you ever see me becoming one of those transmisandry people, please fucking call me out immediately.

[shirogane-oushirou]

i think a lot of people here are in the same boat as me tbh, but just to be sure: i am Not Doing Too Hot, and that's why i haven't really been as active + will probably continue to not be for a while! it might also take a few days for me to rb something you made, and my tags may be more sparse than usual, but TRUST that it's all in my drafts and i'm posting 'em when i have the energy!!! ;;; shaking hands with everyone on the dash who's going through it rn (and everyone who isn't!! ilu too!!!).

[talkorsomething]

Did everything i need to today + some fun things (game, artfight modelling) but... not enough it feels like. I'm just so tired...

I guess i should just try to go to bed since, there's some things i think i'm doing tomorrow ? But... idk. Should be practicing more and right now it's hard to find out when/where is best for that.

Want a good way to 'schedule' out my day but haven't quite gotten there yet. Of course all my reminders are set up, but i stopped the notification for practice since i wasn't doing it/was sleeping in too late for it to matter.

But it's been a year & ½ (more or less...) since then. & i have a reason to be dedicated to it. So... when to put it in my day?

...

Hmmm.

[tactfullyinappropriate]

It's like we all collectively forgot as a society that friendship and just connection in general takes effort. Even if you meet someone you immediately click with, it takes hanging out about 20 times (!) to become friends. And guess what, some of those 20 meetings might be awkward or unimpressive.

We all want to reap the benefits (having a friend circle, having a partner, getting married) without doing the work (going to events, interacting with people, learning to handle conflict maturely, dating). Myself included. If I could, I'd never leave the house or go on another mediocre date again... except, that's part of the process.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, the cure to the loneliness epidemic is touching some grass and building tolerance for tedious in-person interactions.

[beemovieerotica]

struggling with how to word this, but putting it out there anyway:

i can fully understand the posts on here from a lot of americans being tired of "vote blue no matter who" posts when the #1 thing that people are constantly (and sometimes only?) addressing is how the republican party is going treat trans/queer people if elected.

it's part of an unfortunate pattern of prioritizing the effects on a demographic that includes white + upper class people, when people of color and those in the global south are actively and currently being killed or relegated to circumstances in which their survival is very unlikely

it is genuinely exhausting to witness this, and i was also on the fence about even participating in voting because i a) felt like it didn't matter and b) every time i voiced being frustrated with the current state of the country, white queer people would immediately step in with "but what about trans people!" -> (i am mixed race trans man)

and i say this with unending patience toward people who do this, because i know that it's not something they actively think about. but everyone already knows how the republican party is going to treat queer people. you are probably talking to another queer person when you bring up project 2025. the issue is that, for those of us who aren't white, or for those of us who are but who are conscious of ongoing struggles for people of color worldwide, the safety of people around the world feels more urgent than our own. that is the calculation that's being made.

you're not going to win votes for the democratic party by dismissing or minimizing these realities and by continually centering (white) queer people.

very few people on here and twitter are actually talking about issues beyond queer rights that concern people of color, or how the two administrations differ on these issues instead of constantly circling back to single-issue politics. this isn't an exhaustive list. but these are the issues that have actually altered my perspective and motivated me to the point of committing to casting a vote

the biden administration has been engaged in a years-long fight to allow new applicants to DACA (Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, the program that allows undocumented individuals who arrived as children to remain in the country) after the Trump administration attempted to terminate it. the program is in limbo currently because of the actions of Trump-backed judges, with those who applied before the ruling being allowed to stay, but no new applications are being processed. Trump has repeatedly toyed with the idea of just deporting the 1.8 million people, but he continues to change his mind depending on whatever the fuck goes on in his head. he cannot be relied on to be sympathetic toward people of hispanic descent or to guarantee that DREAMers will be allowed stay in the country. biden + a democratic controlled congress will allow legal challenges to the DACA moratorium to gain ground.

the biden administration is open to returning and protecting portions of culturally important indigenous land in a way that the trump administration absolutely does not give a fuck. as of may 2024, they have established seven national monuments with plans to expand the San Gabriel Monument where the Gabrielino, Kizh / Tongva, the Chumash, Kitanemuk, Serrano, and Tataviam reside. the Berryessa Snow Mountain is also on the list, as a sacred region to the Patwin.

i'm recognizing that the US's plans for clean energy have often come into conflict with tribal sovereignty, and the biden administration could absolutely do better in navigating this. but the unfortunate dichotomy is that there would be zero commitment or investment in clean energy under a trump-led government, which poses an astounding existential threat and destabilizing force to the global south beyond any human-to-human conflict. climate change has caused and will continue to cause resource shortages, greater natural disasters, and near-lethal living conditions for those in the tropics - and the actions of the highest energy consumers (US) are to blame. biden has funneled billions of dollars into climate change mitigation and clean energy generation - trump does not believe that any of it matters.

i may circle back to this and add more as it comes up, but i'm hoping that those who are skeptical / discouraged / tired of the white queer-centric discourse on tumblr and twitter can at least process some of this. please feel free to add more articles + points but i'm asking for the sake of this post to please focus on issues that affect people of color.

[monsterfactoryfanfic]

Simone de Rochefort shared the email she sent to Jim Bankoff, the CEO of Vox Media who sold Polygon, on bluesky. The text of the email is transcribed below:

"Hi Jim,

I'm writing to let you know how incredibly disappointed I am about the decision to sell Polygon to Valnet. Even though I'm one of the fortunate few to still be employed, I'm still furious and heartbroken.

I was in Europe when the sale went public. A few days later, a reader recognized me at a cafe in Paris. He couldn't believe what had happened, and asked me how it was possible, in the United States, that a workforce like ours could just be disposed of. He also added, completely unprompted, that American workers should "choose violence." I just thought I'd mention that! It was cool to be recognized halfway around the world for my work. The readers have always appreciated it, even if you don't. But I'm going to tell you about it anyway.

At Polygon, we wrote stories and made videos that were unique in entertainment media - they were weird and well-researched and funny. We also got awards for our reporting (including myself and my now-laid-off colleague Clayton Ashley - we were nominated for an ASME and we won a New York Videogame Critics Circle award).

We attracted brand sponsorships, some of which my team was in the middle of working on when my colleagues were laid off. My understanding is that Vox will be doing make-good sponsorships for the businesses that had contracted with Polygon. I wonder if they will seek out Vox Media again, once that process is finished.

My colleagues who were laid off spent years building connections and trust with sources in our industry. On the video team, subjects gave us hours of their time and resources for interviews. People trusted us to tell their stories. You can't do good journalism without that trust, and that's been at minimum bruised by this sale and the dismantling of the team.

Our readers and viewers are wonderful. I applied to work at Polygon because I read a comment chain on the site that I expected to be full of sexism and vitriol. Instead I found thoughtful people having a civil and intelligent discussion. What a rarity on the internet!

Did you know that Polygon's YouTube comments have always been overwhelmingly positive? My games journalist colleagues at other sites marveled at the fact that at Polygon, I never got hate mail. Was never harassed. That I could scroll freely through the comments of any video that I or my colleagues made and see people appreciating our work. That is so, so rare.

I worked at Vox Media for 9 years. The week before the sale, as I was preparing to go on vacation, I stayed up till 5 AM so that I could finish my next video. No one asked me to do that! That was frankly stupid, considering how little you and the company valued our work. This doesn't make me look very good or very smart, but I'm including it anyway.

The truth is I like working and the feeling of productivity, and I liked what I was making. I felt like that made it worth it.

It didn't! I suppose what I am saying is that Polygon's employees did everything possible to make the site a success. We built a profitable, respected publication.

You, and Vox Media's leadership, didn't know what to do with it. You failed to make a good thing work for you. That's quite sad, and quite an indictment on Vox Media as a whole.

I used to have a lot of faith in the company's longevity. I don't anymore, because of your poor decision-making, and your failure to listen to the people who were telling you what Polygon needed.

I had always said that Vox Media is an amazing employer. That out of all the media companies, it was the best. I encouraged people who are bright and hard-working and talented to apply for work there. I felt so lucky to have my job. I don't think you know yet how many bridges you've burned with people like me who would've jumped at the chance to work for you, and let themselves be exploited along the way.

A couple years ago, a former employee told me that digital media would never love me back, and that I should leave Vox. They said I wouldn't understand how much the company takes from its employees until I tried working somewhere else.

Well, now I work for Valnet! Thank you for the push out the door!

Meanwhile, if you couldn't make a profitable website like Polygon work, then what hope is there for my colleagues at other Vox outlets?

How many unprofitable ventures will be propped up with profits from the Polygon sale, and for how long? Before you and the folks with a head for business (or so I'm told!) have to hit the ledgers again and find something to sell, or someone to let go. Or will the company just enjoy a tax write-off for 2025 and then … what?

Polygon was special, and it was valuable, and it was profitable, and you sold it, at a time when the economy was at a low point - and when Polygon, against all odds, was still making money.

This does not make sense to me. Please feel free to respond and convince me.

Sincerely, Simone de Rochefort"

[crushedsweets]

CREEPED VISUAL NOVEL Link, tutorial, extra art, Q&A, some chatter

The CREEPED Prologue is completely free and browser-ready. Gameplay is about 10 minutes. Please read the "tutorial" and notes before playing!

Follow Y/N and their dog, Max, through their grandparents' farm and a mysterious forest filled with...less than fortunate people!

PLAY HERE; works best on PC

This visual novel is powered by GOOGLE SLIDES! It has 0 programming and was created by one person in a little over a month, so please bear with any "bugs" and clunkiness!

TUTORIAL

>Click using mouse/trackpad >Go slowly to not break game >Do not use arrow or space keys

EXTRA NOTES:

>Works best on PC/Browser, I haven't tested the full game on mobile yet >In general, clicking the PNGs on the textbox (Apple, Teddy Bear, Hatchet, etc) will lead you to the right page >If you land on a page that tells you to "go back," that's when you should click the back-arrow key. If your cursor disappears, it doesn't register the click correctly >I recommend moving your cursor periodically to avoid it disappearing and sending you to the wrong page

EXTRA ART

some WIPS and the original sprite-style i was gonna choose LOOOOOOOL

Q&A

Q: Is this an x reader? A: This is a reader-insert, but it's not romantic and I try to keep it as neutral and unidentifiable as possible! Q: What's the plot? A: GENERALLY AND WITHOUT SPOILERS, your dog gets you into trouble and you're just looking to help him!

Q: Who is in the prologue? A: Tim, Brian, Toby, and Kate! More will be added in future chapters.

Q: When will future chapters be posted? A: Not sure! This took me about a month to do, and half was spent over winter break. I will try to get chapter 1 posted before summer, but I am a full-time student, employed, have extracurriculars, etc etc

ok thats all i only remember 4 questions feel free to ask more LMAO

CHATTER(because you know i can talk forever)

ok i just wanted to be able to talk about how the process was with this and how i feel about the results and whatnot...

ive been wanting to make a google slides visual novel since i was like 13 LOL it hit the point where i was repeatedly told i should just learn to code but i was like NOOOOO ITS GOTTA BE GOOGLE SLIDESSSS which is totally stupid but hey. i think that gives it some sort of simple charm that reminds me of being 16 and doing little projects in my room LOL i like working with the easiest tools . my bad

anyway. im just very happy LOL. it's not perfect but i feel like i came full circle in a sense?!?! i've been into creepypasta since i was 9 and it comforted me when things were really hard, and when i was 18 i was going through a really hard time and got back into creepypasta as a way to distract myself. i've always had a habit of throwing myself into fiction for escapism when things suuucked.

i'm 20 now but i've met SO many amazing people, had so many fun awesome exciting projects with friends, created tons of stuff im proud of, felt more motivated to create since i was like 13, have been inspired by so many amazing artists/authors on here, etc. just so so so lucky to find community in such a tight-knit cute fandom that thrives off of creativity and playing around! i hope i can keep the momentum and make a couple more chapters this year, but im kinda busy with school and work...LOL . i'm just excited to have this posted so i can have more discussion about it T_T

anyway thank you if you read this far and thank you if you played etc etc yaahhhhhh omg ok BYE THIS IS SO EMBARRASSING im just so grateful to be in this fandom

[shapelytimber]

Pj party for the gang <3

[BG3 PRINTS] - [COMMISSIONS]

(Please don't spoil me act 3, I've still not got around to play it-)

Everytime I go to camp to clock in for the night, and a good 4 out of 6 of these fuckers go to sleep wearing *leather* outfits- I understand it from a 'this is a video game of course they don't change clothes to go sleeping' perspective..... But on the other hand I slept once in leather pants and that was one of the worst experiences of my life, so to think these people do it voluntarily everynight- freaks. All of them.

So I gave them pyjamas :D that was a lot of fun ! Also I like when characters have a more diverse builds and sizes, so I killed two birds w one stone and drew what the gang looks like in my heart <3 and of course I made a quick little line up !

A lot of yapping about the pj choices and process below vvv

Gale : fancy depressed wizard gets a fancy bathrobe type get up ! I don't think this man was getting dressed a lot in that sad year post his breakup, so why not invest in a comfy cool pj he can slip on in the morning feeling like it kinda counts as dressing up ! And I get that they didn't exactly pack before getting kidnapped by aliens, but Gale is a wizard I'm sure he can just reach into a pocket dimension where he stores some of his belongings (ala my tes mage !) or something

Astarion : I don't think astarion owns many clothes. He isn't wealthy, and well.... Let's not talk about Cazador in the fun pyjama party post- so his ruffled shirt untucked from a pair of looser cotton or silk pants it is ! Also I learned that elves are typically shorter on average in dnd and that's great, that's perfect, that's so funny, I can just picture him insisting this is true (which it is).... And then enters Halsin fjdjdk anyway

Halsin : I just know in my heart that man sleep in his bear form. It's when he's most comfortable, and he doesn't need to talk to other people when sleeping so why not. Also comfy bed mate :) ! Other option is completely nude (yes I forgot to include him in the lineup, sue me but I'm too tired to re open photoshop rn-)

Shadowheart : this is my art, and if I want the resident goth girly to be in a cute little nightgown I can >:( she gets lace and everything let me be a lesbian !!! Also she small and sturdy

Wyll : a slight variation of his canon camp clothes :) made his top less skintight, and once again changed the texture from leather to something less terrible to sleep in seriously why are all these people committed to this lifestyle-

Lae'zel : no pjs, a githyanki must be ready for battle 24/7 only the weak wear comfy clothes and don't commit to sleeping in leather pants and leather underwear. She's a freak and I love her dearly

Karlach : she deserves the best pyjamas of them all : topless in underwear. Nothing comfier than that and it's not like she'll get cold :) also she wears it very well what can I say fjdjdkd

I started working on the lineart like a month ago alongside a commission that I really didn't like working on- so anytime I got work done for the commission (btw not from someone online so it's none of you tumblrinas), I would reward myself with adding more shit to the bg3 drawing djdjdkk which resulted in a lot of details and clutter, that I didn't want to start coloring because that would be a nightmare to figure out and very long to do, so I would continue adding shit instead of starting colors- and the circle kept turning. Also 10 hands..... So this took a while to get right fjdjdk

But on the bright side, it's the most detailed illustrations I've done yet and I'm really proud of it (especially all the little story elements I could include <3)

[syofrelief]

soap who's got a little crush in the intel office

Soap, who isn't processing a word out of your mouth as you explain the complicated geometrics of this base, how normal detonations wouldn't would because of something longwinded and boring but goddamn if you didn't have the cutest face he'd seen in a while.

Soap, who sheepishly had to walk his distracted ass back to your office to ask if you could please jus' explain it one more time, i wasnae payin' any attention last time, muttering an excuse about a migraine. You didn't say anything about the demolitions expert being distracted at a demolitions debrief, welcoming him in with an eye roll.

Soap, who'd get distracted every meeting going forward if you could pull him into your office, sit so close he could smell your shampoo, and explain to him patiently the objective and geography and the coordinates and hell, you could explain year 8 geometry and he'd hang on every word. Your office was nice, cool and cozy. He didn't like group debriefs; he needed to stand up and pace or fidget with his velcro vest, or ask too many questions than Price thought appropriate.

But you used better explanations, sat through his often stuttered questions, and let him play with the pencil holder on your desk while you spoke.

Ghost had taken to finding him there in moments of downtime, listening doe-eyed to you murmur about a mission that didn't even belong to them. He snorted. Soap darted to his feet, stumbling over the rug.

"I...I was..." he gestured vaguely, neck purpling with embarrassment. You swiveled in your chair, grinning.

"Hi, Lieutenant," you greeted Simon, waving pleasantly. "Johnny just wanted some alone time."

Soap gaped at you because that's how you decided to phrase that?? In front of his LT?

Not even addressing the elephant in Simon's mind - Johnny. You called him Johnny.

"Price needs ya," Ghost said gruffly, disappearing down the hall.

Your cackling echoed in Soap's ears as he followed grumpily. "Sweet boy," you murmured, going back to your notes.

It was another late night of Soap's pestering. Please, bonnie, jus' need ye to explain tha' again, my ears, ye ken, all screwy from the bombs n' shite. You raised your eyebrows, surprised that, again, a detonations expert needed review on C4 placement for a relatively low-stakes assignment.

He was sitting too close again, knee brushing yours. The low lamplight shone in his dilated eyes, baby blues wide with adoration. The overt affection in his gaze made your cheeks burn a bit, until you noticed the circles growing beneath them. Soap was exhausted; the lines of his stout shoulders sagging into your cushy armchair.

"Johnny," you said when he asked another frantically inane question. He clamped his mouth shut at your tone, hands yanking on the pockets of his pants. You chose your words carefully.

"Are you sleeping?"

He blinked. "Eh? I'm- what sorta question- Yeah. Course," he blustered, puffing up a bit.

Your chin tilted. "Y'sure?"

Johnny nodded, but you saw the falter in his gaze. The bags were prominent now. Deep purple beneath his dark lashes.

"Why don't you head off to bed," you said quietly. "It's late. You've got early rollout tomorrow." You handed him a manila folder of notes to review and a tired smile. He stood quietly, head heavy with a sorrow you hadn't seen before.

You didn't see him for a while after that. It made you a lot more productive without the nagging or constant whassat? whassat? whassat? aimed at every piece of intel you had spread on your desk. But the armchair looked lonely, and you missed his cheeky teasing.

A knock startled you from your pondering. Eyes flicking to the clock - 1:00 - you frowned, opening the door a sliver.

A mountain of grime and sweat pulled you into a hug, muffling your surprised squawk.

"Johnny?"

He sluggishly dragged you into your office, finally releasing you when the door was shut. You struggled to regain your footing. Head reeling, you scaned him for injury. But...he was in pajamas?

"What..."

"Went...running," he said hoarsely. You nodded slowly, piecing apart the lie. Barefoot, dirty hems. Night terrors, probably, coupled with an unlocked door. It made your heart ache.

"Sit...sit down, Soap," you whispered, coaxing him by the shoulder. A meaty hand clapped over yours and were alarmed by the intensity in his bloodshot eyes. Too crystal to be drunk but too crazed to be...here.

"Sit, Johnny," you said, firmer. He sank shakily, keeping his eyes on yours.

"Nay...nay, nay, I can explain, I jus'...had a question a-about tha last thingie you were...you were..." he trailed off, seeing the pity in your face. "Don' look a' me like that," he muttered.

A moment as your hand shifted down his arm, fingers still laced with his. A gentle motion, petting the gooseflesh rippling over his musculature.

"You wanna hear somethin' funny?"

His eyes shot to yours, pleading. Johnny scooted closer, almost falling into your lap. A reminiscent smile flitted over your face as you continued to stroke him.

"A few recruits, while you were gone, got ahold of one of those mop buckets. Big yellow one. Well," you cleared your throat, muffling a giggle. "Well, one of the pipes burst upstairs, and the whole hallway flooded. So one of them got the great idea to make a slip'n'slide..."

You giggled at your retelling, quietly imitating the characters in your little tale. Johnny had edged closer, head inches from your chest. Not pausing your whispering, you pulled him to you. He draped over you, absolutely massive over your tiny desk chair.

It was unbelievably uncomfortable. Your legs were numb in two seconds.

The story was over, but Soap squeezed your waist the moment you had the thought of moving. "Grabbin' a pencil," you soothed, patting his sweaty head. His heart was pattering slower now, breaths coming easier.

"Can...can ye explain it again?" His forearms tightened a bit, relaxing when you stroked his hair.

You grinned. "Yeah, Johnny. Sure I can."

not as good as i wanted it but it was cute in my head.

pt 2 ish

[dawnwriterimagines]

The Guilty Plea

SIMON 'GHOST' RILEY x FEM!READER TASK FORCE 141 x FEM!READER

Traitors Among Us (Part 1) and Innocents Among You (Part 2)

Verdict Due (Part 4) Clear Skies (Part 5)

Summary: As you're discharged from the infirmary, under watchful eye, you head to Laswell to talk on the rest of your now ruined military career. Of course, you're forced to confront your team as it happens, the last people on earth you'd like to see.

If you liked this would you Buy me a Coffee?

---

Running your fingers along the raised, pink scar across you cheek, the feeling of it...it really looked terrible. A part of you thought it would disappear, hoped it would, but it didn't. It just became severely more noticeable. Looking at this, you knew you'd always have to think of it. You'd sport this reminder for the rest of your life.

Looking away from it, you find your own tired eyes in the mirror, you haven't been sleeping well. Or at all. You can't remember the last time you got 4 hours, let alone 8. Dark circles still surrounded them but at least the bruising and the swelling had gone down.

You couldn't recognize yourself. Not really.

This woman looked so exhausted, so frail and so goddamn angry. It was accurate, it was how you felt. All of it. So, you supposed that the mirror's reflection was the truth, this was you indeed.

"If you need another day or two, no one will ask questions."

You glance over towards your psychologist, your fucking therapist, a nice little 'gift' sent over by the bureau to check in on your mental state after your ordeal. Glaring at him through the reflection of your mirror, he sighs, putting down his pen that slaps against his notepad, "I can't help you if you don't talk to me."

"I'm going to Laswell." Ignoring his statement, you speak. "I'm ready. I'll pack up. Get back to base. Vera had me discharged from the infirmary. I can start ov--"

"Vera?"

"My nurse. You met her," you continued, annoyance spiking at the interruption. Your wrist brace squeaking quietly under the pressure of your fist tightening beneath the table.

"Right..."

"Do you listen to a word I say outside of...my 'trauma'?" You wonder, bluntly.

Your psychologist blinks, surprised, before clearing his throat, appalled. "If you feel I can be more attentive to your state of well-being throughout our process, than by all means--"

"Oh, so 'no'?" you lean back into your seat, a strained laugh leaving you. His lips press together and you continue before he can find the words. "Because whenever I mention leaving this fucking team, you either adjust our schedule for another two weeks or suggest hypnotic therapy, as if I need anyone else digging around to fuck up my mental state."

"I never meant to imply--"

"Oh, you implied it," you interrupted, gritting your teeth. "I know what I want. And I want off Task Force 141."

He taps at the leather of his notebook. "Scars heal, just remember that, Ms. (L/n). The reminders of your experience shouldn't have to haunt you."

"It's not the scars, I've had my share way before this," you admitted, rising to your feet. You exhale deeply that tells to the effort of it, the steel gear hinges along your leg braces shift with your change of position. Still getting use to them. "It's the person."

"Has she changed, you think?" the psychologist begins to write, getting somewhere.

"She doesn't exist anymore."

Finally, placing the mirror down and onto the side table, you pushed off of the table, rolling your IV pole along with you. Passing the chair your psychologist sits on, he closes his notebook with a frustrated huff, looking over his shoulder. "Session over for you already, Ms. (L/n)?" he sighs. "We've still got the hour."

"I'm done," you take the knob in your hand. Turning.

In more ways than one.

"You understand that, informing your captain on your leave is required of you. Have you spoken to any of them, in the last few weeks?" he spoke up, quickly. "I'm sure giving them a space to open up, share from their view--"

"Why should I care--"

"--will give you better understanding, better clarity of the situation they were in--

Appalled. "What the fuck?" Jamming the door closed with a loud, shuttering thud, you whip around. "IT'S NOT ABOUT THEM!" you could just rip your hair out. "Who--who says that to someone?!"

Your psychologist sits there, eyes wide in confusion. "What--"

"Christ, can you hear me? Can you--can you see me? I've got metal plates in my spine, braces holding my knees in place and nerve damage that'll never heal! Who gives a fuck about them!" your skin feels red hot, your face twisted in rage. "I gave my life! My life to this! And then I'm tortured, I'm threatened, drugged and beaten by my own team, my f--my family for eight fucking years..."

You continue with a heavy chest. "And I'm supposed to invite them for dinner to talk and listen them bitch and moan about why they thought it was necessary to beat me to death for two weeks?! Fuck you!" you spat. "I don't owe them anything!"

"That's not what I was trying to say, Ms. (L/N). I apologize, I overstepped. Come sit down--"

"Of course you meant it," you interrupted, mock humor. "Don't be a pussy, own up to it. Revel in your truth. Be tter yet--" you snatch a journal from the cabinet. Tossing it his way. "Make a note of it."

Turning the knob, you leave the room with a slam of the metal door.

---

You were officially famous. On the base, you were now a legend.

A story that would be mentioned and told at lunch for months. Probably years.

First, you were a rat. Next, you were innocent. This was the most gossip any of those in service had ever seen in their years of service.

An interesting reminder to those in service that you weren't safe off duty either.

You learned a few days ago that there was an update put into the interrogational unit, something about how to properly go about dissecting evidence and being on the lookout for enemy spies in the militia.

You guessed you had been told about it in an effort to be appeased by the thought that the head of control paid attention to anything beyond their own noses for once. But, you had little to no faith in a system that's nearly killed you on and off the field by now, so it didn't matter.

You doubted the new rules would be followed though, there was a plethora of things they'd done to you in that cell that were both illegal and unsanctioned. Most of all, that were expected towards an enemy, a prisoner of war at best, and not a fellow marine.

You arrive at the housing quarters, swiping your key card, pulling the handle and entering the wing. Immediately, you're greeted by a dozen eyes, conversations stopping short and clothes ruffling to silence, suddenly whispers fill the space and eyes turn away.

"Oh, god, it's her..." says one man in the far corner.

"Shut the fuck up, man!" came a harsh whisper back.

"I didn't know it was that bad..."

All those eyes on you, makes you pause in your step, looking around at all of your fellow soldiers, the men and women you've served with for years. Many you recognized, ate with, fought beside that turned their backs to you now. Out of respect? Out of distaste, morale, nerves, pity, it all didn't matter. It all felt the same.

The wheels attached to your IV pole suddenly sounded much too loud on the polished flooring, as you walked down the hall as fast as you were able to.

Breathing out deeply, you get to an elevator, pushing on the button, once, twice, three times, just open goddamn it.

With a ding, the metal doors open, and suddenly you're aware that people could be in the elevator, they could be in this elevator, he could be in this elevator. Your eyes flicker down to the floor, your grip on the pole of your iv tightens, your shoulders stiffen, waiting for a blow that will never come.

You stand there as the doors open up, the small space empty, the metal walls reflect only her and a streak of lighting from the ceiling.

Looking up slowly, finally taking a breath, before sliding the iv up and onto the elevator, following it as you press your floor number along the way.

The ride up is fast, a little rumble as it stops, and then the doors open. Faster than you were prepared for.

Peeking out down the hallway, luckily no one to bump into, which you were thankful for. But, it didn't make this hall any less haunting. You'd been cornered in this same hall, you could recall being hauled out of the room after the solid handle of a knife hits your temple.

You don't go down fast enough, whipping around as you stumble to take the wrist of your attacker, mostly for balance, it's Price. In shock, you're unprepared as Johnny's arm encircle your neck, locking you into position as you both stumble backwards onto the floor. He blocks your airways, hushing you harshly as you struggle, feet kicking out and your vision blurring as your team surrounds you. Your family.

That was quite the headache to wakeup with afterwards.

You hadn't quite remembered until now. Being back served as a hell of a kickstart to your memory.

Just a few more reasons to get the fuck off of 141.

Getting off the elevators, the metal doors sliding closed behind you, you make your way down the hall. The polished flooring creates a subtle squeak through the wheels of your iv pole, your hand absently running over the fading stitches along your side.

Passing the shadows of your tortured memory, the doorway of the office was closed, locked.

You pass Kyle's room.

Johnny's.

Finally, you rush up to the next room on the left, grabbing the handle, before beginning to twist, but then you're yanking your hand back as if the metal had burned you. Your back ramming into the back wall, catching yourself, this wasn't your room.

It was Simon's.

You'd spent hours, days, in that room. More than your own.

Why wouldn't you? You were about to get married to the man. You had more in this room than you had in yours.

Sharp breaths leave you, shivering in your effort to keep yourself together, your head goes back into the wall, swallowing down the ache in your chest.

You wait, muscles tensed and your body pressing back into the wall, hoping it'd absorb you if that door opens. Listening for every sound, any pin drop, even an exhale from beyond that doorway. Luckily, Simon seemed to be out for the day.

Hurriedly, nearly running, you steady yourself against the wall as you rush down to the corner of the hallway, finally finding your room.

Turning the handle, it's not locked, it's broken. It opens with ease.

Entering the room slowly, pushing the doorway aside, the crackle of glass beneath your boots as you step forwards, clothes and picture frames laying scattered.

The mattress flipped and ripped open, springs and cotton cut from it. Your wall of metals and certificates, from acts of bravery and mementos of valor, discarded, later you'd find them in the trash, one with a bullet lodged into the gold.

Sniffling as you leaned down, picking a specific frame off the ground, the only one that hadn't been broken. Laying along the ruined rug, with no care for the glass digging through your jeans, you stare at the still shot of your family.

The only family you had outside of Task Force 141, your father and his sister, military brats themselves, until their retirement. Your mother had passed, or just up and left, days after your 5th birthday, you weren't completely sure, the story kept changing every year. But, these two were the only family you've ever known, ever had, until you joined the military, following in their footsteps.

They'd been so proud when you arrived back after your first assignment, in truth you were heavily traumatized, but seeing them, you just had to smile. Having a family that understood the harsh toll on the line of a trooper, now a lieutenant, it was always easier to bring your troubles to them. But, they were also military nuts so "suck it up" was also a quick go to answer from your aunt, while your father was the smoother talker.

They had met Simon, loved him, his rank, his love for you, his seriousness. They trusted him completely with your heart.

So, when he called them, after the evidence leaked...

They believed him.

"What're you talking about?" You took the handle of the chair in your grip, easing you down into it as your legs do weak at what you were hearing. "I didn't...I didn't do it, Dad."

"Do you know how humiliating and disappointing--how it felt to hear him say that to me, hm?" he says, static crackles on the reciever. "My daughter...my own flesh and blood...working with terrorists--"

"I'm not working with anyone! Are you-" you huff out a breath of disbelief. "Are you even listening to me? I've never betrayed the code. How can you think that way of me?"

For a moment, he's silent. "Alright, then," he began. "Than, what'd you do? huh?"

"What--what..."

"Oh, come on, (Y/n)!" your father yells. "What did you do?! What could they possibly have had on you that made you the most likely target? You had to have had done something, been somewhere, were with somebody you weren't supposed to be with! They didn't just get that information from anywhere."

"What the fuck--" Your expression twists with frustration and misery, running your hand through your hair, pulling at it. "I've sacrificed every part of myself for this job, for this team, what do I have to gain from throwing that all away? They send me everywhere, places you've never heard of, places you'll never hear about and people you'll never have to meet, because of me! Why would you just believe Simon? Why couldn't you just wait to talk to me?!"

Hearing your father scoff at your words was painful. "What reason do I have not to believe him? He knows you, maybe even better than any of us. Besides, he was going to be my son in law--"

"I'm your daughter! Fuck Simon, what about me? You'd believe him instead?"

He sighs. "Listen, you're upsetting Cass. We didn't expect your call. I gotta make this brief..."

"You're upset?" pulling at your hair, sucking in sharply. "I'm the one who's permanently fucking altered here. What do either of you have to be upset about?!"

"Watch your fucking mouth!" he seethes. The anger in his voice isn't new, but the way he spits it at you is. "You did this to yourself, I didn't. Maybe that's what your nightmares were about, am I right? Your guilt?"

Wiping the streaks of tears that had fallen down your face, lips quivering and chest aching with sobs you frustratedly shoved down. "Why don't you believe me?"

"I don't deserve the disgrace that will come with you as my kin, I've lived my part of this war. No daughter of mine should even be in this fucking position," your father spat, disgusted into the receiver. Suddenly, he was the cruel, bitter old man your mother had always known him to be, you wished she had stayed to at least remind you of that. Maybe it wouldn't have hurt as much. "You should be ashamed of yourself, but at least you got yourself out it. The least you could do for us."

"Well--what does that mean?" you spoke, quietly.

"Don't call again..."

"Dad, no--" you break this time, a sob escaping you.

"Me and your Aunt Cass..."

"Daddy please, don't do this--"

"..We've decided to cut ties. We're not taking any heat from this, you're on your own," he finishes, clearing his throat, waiting a moment, listening to the pleads and cries of his only daughter, his once pride. "You take care of yourself. Goodbye, kid."

"Why can't you just believe me? Why?!" you cried.

"Don't come to the house."

"No, no,--" the line goes dead. And staring down at your phone, his caller id going blank and the call disconnecting.

Your phone all of a sudden feels heavy, the device and your hand falling down to your thigh, before the phone slips out of your grip and onto the floor. You sit there silently, until your tears drop up and even after.

Staring at the photo now was haunting in its own way, it was just another painful reminder.

Using the bed frame to stand to your feet, your grip on the frame is painful as you squeeze it, the glass cracks audibly.

"Bonnie..."

Whipping around at the sound of John MacTavish's voice, you back up a few steps at the sight of him, your back hitting the edge of your desk.

He reaches out as you stumble, before his fingers curl back into his palm as you find your balance, his hands receding back to his sides. He doesn't enter the room, just lingering just beyond the doorway, his eyes flickering around the room, guiltily.

"I didn't know--we didn't know you were out," he speaks quietly, as opposed prideful personality that translated into his voice usually.

You say nothing.

In the dark, your eyes are wide and your shoulders are tensed up, he can see the glint of your leg braces, the iv pole at the side, the scar beneath your eye. You looked terrified to see him.

"We were coming back to clean up today, just got back from...from a mission..." he stutters on his words, shifting his feet.

"It's been a week."

His lips press together hearing your voice. "I know..." Johnny glances around at the room he'd let those officers destroy, it hadn't been them, but they might as well had done it. "I know...we just...didn't know it was so bad."

"Really?" your voice is mockingly sweet, drawing out the word. "You didn't know? Well look..." you hold up your family photo, the light in the hallway catching on the glass. "You missed one."

Your hand dropping, the heavy frame comes down just as fast, ramming into the ground, the glass practically exploding on impact.

Johnny flinches, the photo of your family...He looks back to you, surprised. "Bonnie..."

Snatching the next closest thing from your desk, a ceramic cup. "Oh, wow, can't believe you guys missed this one," you chuck it into the wall. It breaks on impact, the remains scatter along the flipped mattress and onto the floor. "That used to be my favorite mug by the way."

The Scotsman worriedly steps forwards, 'Lass, I'm sorry--"

"FUCK YOU!" you spat, coming into the light. You're sure you look deranged, and you didn't care. You could've wrapped your hands around his throat, killed him right on the floor and you wouldn't have blinked. "It doesn't mean anything! 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', 'I'm sorry', over and over and over again! As if you shouldn't be! Your apologies mean fuck all."

"I know...I know," he breathes. "But, I've gotta say it anyway, bonnie. I should've believed you, there was no reason not to. I know that now. I just--"

"Believe me!" you cut him off with a yell. "Trust me! Fucking 'HELP ME'!" you screamed with the same fever as your days in the interrogation room, that terrible cell, the cold, the burn and pain. "I cried it all to you, to all of you, and nobody came. Nobody came for me," you breathe in sharply. "It doesn't matter what you should've done. You didn't do it!"

Johnny's eyes are red, he opens his mouth, closes it and then swallows down whatever chokes him up as he looks at you. "I should've came for you. I wish I did. I wanted to, Bonnie..." he steps forwards, and you recede back away from him, your eyes narrowed with violence. "I'll never forgive myself for not listening to you. For not coming to help you. For laying a hand on you. I'm so sorry, (Y/n). I'm sorry..."

I'll never forgive myself... "That makes two of us," you assured.

Johnny's eyes widen, before they close, his guilt ever consuming. He can't help but understand, to respect your decision, to know things can never be ok again. "(Y/n)...."

Grabbing hold of the nearest thing, a pencil cup, you hurl it at Johnny. He doesn't put his hands up, flinching as it hits him, the metal clinking against his kevlar, eyes closing then opening, he stands still. "I don't forgive. I don't accept your apology. I don't fucking care about it!" with each sentence you throw something else his way, a broken frame, the trash bin, a pillow, the CD player.

His hand has to come up for the knife you unsheathe, a memento from one of your missions, it's rusted, ancient probably. But, you hadn't given it up to a museum or to pawn, you had nearly died on this mission, saving Johnny ironically. You had to keep it.

Seeing the weapon, his defensive position is instinctive but his hands drop just as fast, he understands, you need this. You deserve this. "If you need to..." he speaks. Your eyes flicker up to him, away from the knife. "If you need to, I get it..."

And you need to. You really fucking do.

Your grip on the knife is dangerously hard, it hurts.

Looking at Johnny, he'd been your brother in more than a few ways on and off the field, he had been your comfort, your friend, your family. You had bled with him, held onto him as he carried you from the battlefield, joked, laughed, screamed and cried. You've loved him for years.

He'd had a rough few nights you could see that. He was quieter, reserved. Almost as terrified to see you, as you had been of him.

And you could kill him right now and never bat an eye.

And so, throwing that knife was so fucking easy.

Johnny's eyes close as you do just that, fists clenching and teeth biting down on his tongue to prepare for the pain.

The ancient weapon whiz's through the air, the sound is sharp and he knows it will cut through him like butter.

The thud rings in the room, and Johnny's eyes blow open wide, holding his breath as he collapses to his knees, before turning to you.

You dig into the pile of clothes that had been cast aside, a pair of sneakers and a new shirt. You don't look at him a single time as you take it all, stuffing them in a bag, and leaving the room, passing him completely, a limp in your step.

Johnny releases a pained breath, tears finally leaving him as he looks up, the knife lodged into the frame of the doorway, just barely missing him. The sleeve of his uniform ripped open.

He sits there in the quiet, destroyed room. A testimony to the relationship he's destroyed between you.

Part 4!! OUT NOW