#marshmallow warfare

[klaart]

The one s’more one!!

To y’all who keep saying my art looks squishy or like marshmallows🫶🏻💞

Edit: Some scaled up separate doodles + kinda in order

[moondirti]

cigarettes out the window

A colossal, behemoth of a man, trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows.

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke.

pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 9.5k summary: stakeouts and cigarettes warnings: cunnilingus, masturbation, tummy bulge, size kink, unprotected p-in-v, nicotine/smoking addiction, reader has a backstory, mentioned alcoholism and illness, self-loathing, anxiety, canon typical violence, light gore, squirting notes: absolute fucking beast of a fic that took me way longer than precedented. no plot, just vibes - listened to the tv girl song of the same name throughout this.

Tendrils of silver-blue smoke dissipate into sour air – a slow, creeping stench. You’d tried opening a window; it hadn’t been enough. Testosterone and mildew clings to this room like a second skin, crusty stubbornness, impossible to scrape even as the sickly yellow wallpaper peels off thin adhesive.

The stakeout wasn’t supposed to last this long.

Laswell had given you two, three days tops. But the sun drowns behind the horizon line, and a dull navy sky blankets over failed reconnaissance once more. Night seven – your gloves are just as much ash as they are cotton. 

A cigarette lays tucked between your forefinger and thumb. An ashtray, one you’d set, packed, glares up at you. Blown glass infracts a kaleidoscope of harsh fluorescents from the signage outside. Motel – warped on a divets edge. It’s empty.

You blink and draw another deep inhale. Your nose ignites with the acridity, tarnished herbs that rage as chemical warfare – a fog that clings to you.

Tar-coated throat, sticky with disappointment. You’d hoped for a blood red eventide, doused in merigold, full-saturation. You should have known better – Sudbury is stuck in perpetual insipidity. The season is verging on spring, yet pewter tones and lurid lighting are all that bloom. 

You’re beginning to rot alongside it; skin wilting, bruised. You never were a peach, but you think you must have held something – some ripeness, plush, primed to sink into. You feel it shrinking now, draining out to feed some ignoble cause. 

Or, perhaps, the tobacco carved it out of you years ago. 

The thought does little to temper your efforts. The stick has burnt to its end, wrinkled, blackened with dying embers. You should stop – throw your lighter out the window and wake Johnny up. It’s his turn for watch.

Instead, you light another.

The buzz is instantaneous, intoxicating. Clean water poured over a blistering wound, relief for a tender moment before the sting boils over to become unbearable. Cyanide; you rely on poison in sheep’s clothing. 

The door creaks open, rusty hinges a non negligible constant in discretion. You don’t have to peer over your shoulder to know; that manufactured energy, of which you pull from a box, triples, snapping bones to contort into something pulsing – genuine. His walks away from this decaying dollhouse are frequent; we all have our cravings. 

You wish he’d hang around more. 

The dank carpet blunts his heavy footfalls. Even then, you can’t miss his size. A colossal, behemoth of a man trapped in such a cramped room – he fills the space with brawn and the scent of wet firewood. Fresh rain on camp, sizzling coal that dies with a touch. It trumps the mould that functions as insulation, the dust that gathers on brittle rations – you’re a girl again, roasting honeyed marshmallows. 

You run your tongue along your teeth, but all that clings is the bitter taste of smoke. 

“He still asleep?” Simon – Ghost, with the hard-shell mask still fit to his face – asks. You take a puff and force your eye to train on the wet concrete outside. Softened cement, muddy puddles pool in potholes to mirror their miserable surroundings. It’s not hard to believe that the sidewalk could collapse in the weight of his presence. A distinct vacuum, all consuming yet contained. 

You wonder if he wears those layers for varied causes. Forked paths; keep out, stay in. 

In the time it takes for his laden stare to leave your back, you’ve blazed through your piece ten times quicker than the last. Crackling nerves brush across your most vulnerable parts, you’re skinned, but you manage to screw the loose bolts in your confidence. 

“Did nothing all day but act like he took a whole squadron on his own.” 

Your chuckle lacks the humour you wish it held. Bone-dry, forced – it doesn’t tend to be that way with him; with his morbid jokes, shared between gunshots and close fatalities. 

Alrigh’. I’ve got another for you, Scout. Husked in your ear, over the channel only used by the two of you.

Hm? You’re crouched on a rooftop, sniper fixed on a potential target talking to a member of the 141. It was snowing in Holland that day, powdered-ice a blanket for your moored elbows. 

What kind of streets do Ghosts haunt? 

Go on then. Spit it out.

The target had pulled a knife out on your operative. 

A dead end. 

His chuckle warmed you enough to pull the trigger with little shake.

Dead ends, dead ends. 

He provides you with a noncommittal grunt that’s lost amidst rustling fabric. Your spine is stiff, reinforced titanium, ice-cold with frigid winds that pull in from the north. You can’t look back if you tried. 

There’s little to discern from his reflection in the grimey window – where Simon starts, where Ghost ends. Deft shapes move between shadows, dressed in all black. There’s the metallic glint of a zipper, dragging down. The white smear of his mask. His shoulder catches dim light; he’s in his combat shirt, long sleeves, fit to tree-trunk arms. That familiar hum in your core returns, singing its pleas. 

You swallow back the urge to continue the conversation, to extend the joke at Johnny’s expense. Instead, you prop your foot up on your seat to rest your chin on the curve of your knee. A boot remains anchored to the ground, keeping you balanced on the broken stool. One leg shorter than the others; it hadn’t been that way when you’d gotten here, but someone had insisted the wooden piece could hold his weight. 

You slide your gaze to the man in question. He’s spread across the small cot in the corner, an arm thrown over his face. He’s rigged, gun in holster, pinky curled in its direction. In a slow wave state, but a soldier still. 

You take turns resting, you and Soap. He says you snore. 

He’s jus’ taking the piss. 

And how wad ye know that, Lt? Ye're never around.

You hid your smile, then. It was a half truth. Ghost doesn’t rest, not here, but he makes a point to take his eight hour shift when you do. 

Ever-present, as fleeting as twilight. You’ll wake every now and then to find him standing by the window (never on the seat.) In your transitional consciousness, you think his body might be slightly angled to you. But chalky stibnite smears over his eyes, and your quiet nightmares flicker like worn film – you can’t tell whether he’s looking at you; whether he stays to have your back or so he can leave when you wake.

“Anything new?” He’s crept up behind you now. A full-bodied voice, it’s muffled canon fire, sliced with that cockney inflection. Does he know his query is command? 

“Feral cats got into a fight.” You settle on something to lessen the blow of his dissatisfaction – syrup, a flavouring agent. Additives to a sharp-pill mission. “Calico attacked that ginger kitten, over there. Mother was furious.” 

If he notices your frantic dodge, he doesn’t comment on it. 

He huffs instead, and places a white plastic bag on the table next to you. In it, styrofoam cartons stacked atop one another, pressed for space. You reel a string of focus to the street outside, still on the job, then scoot a little towards it. In spite of the lack of logo, the contents are unambiguous. A heady aroma, poignantly familiar; shallots, ginger, garlic, chilli. 

Chinese. Your favourite. Yet–

You’re enraptured by sycamore; heavenly ascension into the woody musk of the overbearing body next to yours. He’s close, still standing, hips at eye level. You credit your sudden heat to his permeating warmth, and not the flush that crawls to your cheeks.

No, certainly not heaven. Purgatory – an intermediate condition. You’re waiting on some higher power to tell you what to do; move closer, hold back.

Dead ends. You itch for a third cigarette; should you offer one? You picture pink lips puckered around white paper, a sight for sore eyes. You’d suck the cancer from between his teeth, perched on one thick thigh. 

Atta’ girl. Nice shot, Scout. Hit that one right on the mark. Kandahar, Afghanistan – the mark being a general’s eye.

You’d bathe in the blood of a thousand more men to rehear the feathered praise. It sits, ingrained in the gummy lining of your skull, there to stay until you’re cleft open to the world. It’ll happen one day. 

Atta’ girl, whispered crackle into your ear.

Your heart lurches, beating on the hollow bars of your ribcage. It takes every bit of willpower to combat the reckless abandon that floods through you at the feeling. 

With trembling hands, you take out the top box and ignore the way your elbow brushes the fabric at his crotch. SZC is scribbled on its cover with dried-out ink. Szechuan chicken. 

You refuse to face him when you ask: “How’d you know?” 

He moves to hand you a bottle of flavoured water, wrapped in a large palm. Clementine.

Right.

Jaunty cheers, claps on the back. You’re squeezed between Gaz and Price on one side of a booth, still equipped in full gear. The aftermath of your first assignment with Al Bravo, minimal damage. Your cheek is cut up, but you hardly feel it in the hazy satisfaction. Dim, golden lights. The tabletop is sticky with spilled booze. 

Outlined eyes linger on the site longer than the pain does. You squirm and tell yourself it’s for lack of wiggle room. 

“--and your plans?” Laswell nods, curving attentions to you. She’d been talking about her wife, about returning to a house someone has kept alive. Watered plants, betta fish too. You search for an answer that’ll hold as much significance and come up empty. Your lone fern is long dead by now.

“Order take out. Chinese probably, something spicy. Sick of the protein bars.” 

“Mobile cooks are rare to find.” She chuckles. “but hey, I’ll drink to that.”

You don’t reciprocate, though; she turns to talk to Price in lieu of your frown. Simon’s still on you; hawk-like, scrutiny framed by the dark fabric of another mask. Bulky arms cross over his chest, his shirt folded to his elbows. You’d been surprised to find tattoos, ink shading the entirety of an exposed forearm, folded to the contours of rippling muscle. Missiles, dog tags, barbed wire.

You hope your droopy lashes are enough to hide the way you study him in turn.

Soap, ears tinged pink, beckons the barmaid. “Round o’ beers for the table, lass.” It pulls you from your stupor. 

You wave at her – “Just a LaCroix for me, thanks.” – and bite your lip through the onslaught of objecting groans. It’s your second one, she knows to get you the orange kind.

Gaz: “How d’you ever let loose?” 

Price: “You deserve as much of a break as the rest of us, Scout.” 

You grimace and shake your head until they temper down to bemused grunts. 

Then –

“You don' drink?” 

It’d been a while since he’d spoken. His voice seeps like molasses onto snow. You think of the backyard maple popsicles from girlhood, your mom on the porch, drunk as she watches, uninterested. 

“No,” You chortle. “Dangerous when I’m loose lipped.”

He’s spread across the ratty couch you’ve never bothered using – diagonal to you – legs parted with both feet on the ground. You look anywhere but the space between his knees. 

“Don’t understand why we’re still here.” Capsaicin blazes up your tongue, vengeful in the fresh bout of air as you speak. Your stomach weighs heavier, cushioned in the swell of your gut, twinging uncomfortably – not for lack of space. Uncertainty; it looms like a mushroom cloud, the devastating fallouts of nuclear strife. You can’t imagine the Lieutenant a perverse man. Yet, to be eating alone like this–

“Chicken?” You offer, tipping your box with the prods of your chopsticks.

He cocks his head to the side, pupils trained on your conciliatory expression.

“More of a sesame guy, myself.” 

Of course. Sesame; honeyed, cloying.

Las Almas – Graves’ betrayal too deep a wound to do anything but smoke as you wait for Soap to find his way back to you. Rendezvous at the church. 

I’d murder for a whiskey. 

You mean scotch? 

I drink bourbon.

You’d giggled into the collar of your coat. Ghost’s tense leg tips towards yours, bumping knees. 

Got a sweet tooth, Lt? Hummed for only him to hear.

Problem, Scout? 

Negative, sir. 

He’d taken your cigarette and extinguished it on a decorative cross, half-moon stare fixed on you as he did. 

Simon’s one for caramelised spice, smooth sugar on the senses. Johnny had been shocked – like a good ol’ boy – but you thought it fit, oddly. This life means constant calamity, precipitous wrecking balls to unsteady foundations you try to rebuild. Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water. 

It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. 

There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.

“They’re in there. Jus’ a matter of waiting for ‘em to show their hand.” He adds to your initial inquiry. Sighing, you push your food away.

“Can’t we send in an extraction team?” 

His silence is telling. Bottomless pits pin you down, an anvil in influence alone. Your lips thin to a pursed line. 

It makes sense why Laswell won’t act on it – the compound across the street, said to be packed with chemists in cahoots with foreign extremists. If they’re truly a threat to national security, their circumspection is indicative of the havoc they could wreak. A treacherous threat is a quiet one. 

Your pocket droops with evidence to the fact, your shoulders alongside it. 

Bowed posture, loaded brow – exhaustion slowly inches up on you. You hadn’t noticed your arid state, sandpaper eyes, stooping lower with every blink. You foolishly wonder if he did, though; if Simon reads you like you do him. Does he know you trace your palm when you’re tired, marking the creases an old fortune teller read long ago? Your life line is vague, hun, so too is the sun. But would you look at that, oh! Your mother should be so proud – as thick and long as a tree root, that’s your heart line, right there. Sweet girl.

Your mother couldn’t have cared less. 

You roll your neck to loosen knotted kinks and reach for the paperboard container in your hoodie’s side. 

The cigarette doesn’t fit right in your hands this time; a paper-thin thing you draw life from,  too easily collapsible. There are more substantial materials in this world. Rocks, erosive seasalt – a hobby or two. Muscle, timbre, blue-black eyes. A skull that meant death to most, but not to you. 

You hold out on lighting it. Partially for current company. (More so than you’d like to admit.) 

Simon’s arms rest on the back of the couch. He looks sinful like this, tempting. Freshly ripe apple at the centre of Eden; you don’t think he’d lead you to damnation, but his cold study tells you otherwise. 

The hush isn’t awkward, not really. You can continue; you know he’d prefer it. 

But something in him is blinding. Not a sun – red-hot, sweltering – he doesn’t make you sick after too long in his presence. No – more akin to an interrogative light; harsh, illuminating the sweat that beads at your temple. He urges you to spill, spill, spill, until what squeezes your chest releases its iron clutch and you’re panting with the release of a secret you never wanted to keep.  

So–

“Where do you go all day, anyway?” You tease, cheeks rounded with a soft – or what you hope to be soft, and not an unsure grimace – smile. 

“Out.” Simon responds, a scratch in his words. His chest squares, broadening into a behemoth that should intimidate. That’s why no one talks ta ye, Lt. Soap broached once. Ye’re too big.

All for weeding out pointless chatter, he’d said.

This is pointless. But he’s still here, drawn to bite back at your ludic jabs, tuned in to the miniscule breaths that escape you as you scramble for a response. You think you know him, think he knows you. You lick your lips. “Mmm. That’s news to me.” 

And if you hadn’t been you – if you hadn’t been talked through a bullet to the thigh by his brute reassurance and dry humour alone – you might’ve missed the amusement that laces through his next syllables. “And where do you think I go?” 

The reciprocation licks at the base of your spine. Yearning. 

You suppress a shiver; seven trumpets to the apocalypse. His deep tone calls for devastation, Armageddon. 

You spit the first thing that comes to mind. 

“To shag it up with the girl in apartment eight.” 

And still with the revelation of what you just said. 

Your hands bury into your lap, embarrassment rising like a high tide in the pit of your bowels. If you were Soap, you’d have gotten away with it. Banter; she's aye asking about ya, Simon. Y’should give ‘er a chance. 

But you’re a schoolgirl again; fresh-faced, wide-eyed. Pencil shavings, question erasers – flip it and ask about the boy you like. You’re naive enough to try it until ‘yes’ faces upwards. 

“Afraid she’s not my type.” 

And that’s all he gives you. 

A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Lt? Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – the sergeant? John Mactavish with his stupid little mohawk and sunshine grin? 

Probably far away from women who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.

But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead. 

Fuck. 

You tut and flip your cigarette – unlit – to put back in amongst the others. The exposed end, stuffed with grey cinders, sticks out like a sore thumb. 

You’ll come back to it when you’re over this, when your dependency singles down to material things. Thirteen bucks, that’s all a pack costs – your wager on Ghost veers dangerously close to bankruptcy. 

“Go to bed, Scout. I’ll take next watch.” 

You don’t tell him Soap called dibs. They can hash it out between themselves.  You dream of kissing covered lips. Dead ends.

You: Ran out of shampoo. 

read at 3:25 am 

He brings you 2-in-1, head and shoulders. Sandalwood. 

“Didn’ know what you liked.” 

You’re beside yourself – barely contained, beaming ear to ear. Your lungs push for space against the pitter-patter rhythm of your heart. 

“Is this the one you use?” It comes out softer than precedented. Warbled, almost a purr; your chin is mere centimetres away from his chest as you look up at him. They bump when he mutters an affirmative. It’s convenient. 

In your proximity, he fills the entire expanse of your vision. Simon’s massive on his worst days, titanic as he bursts through a sea of soldiers – but here, now, he’s larger than life. Impossible. Enigmatic. Either shadow or brick wall if you reach out, press yourself into him. A crook of the elbow and your hand would be at his groin. 

You can smell it on him. The thin barrier of his balaclava doesn’t prevent it from reaching you; santalol. Mixed into his firewood, earth. He has fresh paint on his eyes. 

It reminds you of scorched newspaper, doused in stimulants and the bite of tobacco. You crave it, even when your last still clouds bitter at the back of your throat. It’s more muscle memory than anything; a nervous tic. To flick a lighter and chase that short headrush. 

He’s enough to hold you over for now, a drug in his own right, but you know – you know the second you turn to the cramped bathroom, door shutting behind you, your knees will buckle. You’ll step over grimy grout and scrub yourself until your skin is irritated, red. 

You hold out for just a moment longer, peering up at your Lieutenant. 

Anxiolytic. 

Then, when you start to outline the rest of him, following the planes of his mask, you force yourself to pull away with an overturning ache. 

You lie and insist you’re not too far gone.

Yet, you touch yourself to the thought of him. 

Holed in the small square shower, your hand clamped over your mouth. The water runs discontinuous, broken by loud hisses and weak pressure. It’s cold at this point, nipping away at heated flesh. Has he left by now? 

No, you hear muffled mumbles right outside. Johnny’s laugh barks loud. 

You’ve long since finished cleaning off, engulfed in a heavy perfume. Sandalwood, masculinity. Ghost. Simon. A projected image lights your closed eyelids; him looming, cornering you into the tiled wall. The showerhead would come to his browbone at full height, but he’d crouch down and kiss you and his hair would drip, droplets beating your cheeks. 

Atta’ girl. 

Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip faster over your clit.) Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars. 

He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)

Problem, Scout?

Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.

A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes. 

You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. To trace those tattoos with washable markers, idle and lazy on a couch, laid up on his lap after a long nap. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.

A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him.

Simon.

“Ya almost done, lass?” Soap raps at the door. 

Your heels slide on wet ground. You’re able to pull your hand out from between your thighs in time – smacking against cool walls to stabilise yourself – but not before you let out an emphatic yelp. 

“Bonnie?” He exclaims, louder. 

You gather your breath, blinking. The world tilts.

You’ve been in here too long. 

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll come out in a bit.” 

Bloody hell.

You halt the spray of water and towel off in a stunned silence – floodgates locked once more. You will yourself to think of anything else – the threat across the street, chemists, terrorists, flavoured water and the saltpetre you shoot off with little thought. Kerosene, bullets lodged in gaping wounds, your mother’s liquor cabinet – closed off, cold heart. 

They always round back to him, duplicitous hands that lead you astray. Off on the wrong path.

Prominent veins that disappear behind painted gloves. Knives strapped to bullet-proof vests. Remembering you liked Chinese, and returning with supplies mere minutes after you’d sent the text. His voice, burrowing deep into marrow, thrumming the very sponge.

Or – maybe he’s everywhere, all at once. 

Dead ends.

When you emerge, your skin is still slightly damp, clinging to the loose clothes you’d thrown on in a fit. Soap leans against the door frame, waiting on you.

“Had us worried for a second.” He smirks. Us – you glance at the other. Simon stands by the window, diligent. “Hope ta God ye didn’ use up all the hot water.” 

You mimic his shit-eating expression. Faux mirth, it doesn’t quite resonate. “The cold is good for your skin, Johnny.”

“A'll take yer word for it, then.” Soap nods, patting your shoulder before slipping past.

You’re left alone with him. 

There’s a persistent twinge, still lodged up velvet walls. It returns with gnawing sincerity at the sight of him. You hold it back, dismissing your internal pleas for a promised release, and tentatively pad over to where he stands.

“Hey,” You whisper. His head tilts the slightest bit, just enough for his spilt-ink irises to latch onto yours. Your gaze flickers down to the jut of his chin. 

“Alright?” 

Three beats before your response. No. Never. Can’t be. 

“‘Course.” The tremble in your legs speaks to the contrary. Nails bite into your palm. You add – “Nothing happened?” – with a vague motion to the street, redirecting your tension to something substantial – a mission with a foreseeable goal. 

“Kitten lost its mother.” He echoes, taking in the way your expression lifts. “Roadkill.” 

“Oh.” Your chest throbs, a faint bang of the doldrums. 

“And,” He appends. “Laswell’s informants say the targets will make a move sometime tomorrow.” 

You ruminate on the knowledge, turning it over in your head. It doesn’t exactly fit, too slippery to be anything to trust. You concede for the time being.

“And when they do?” You ask. 

“We’ll be ready for them.” 

Naturally. You hold onto his tone, that grim determination fizzing through you, charged particles, rallying electricity. And the lightning, that devastating bolt that burns with every bullet, every spotted threat, is a credit to him. Lieutenant, spearhead of your team. 

You find yourself thinking about the after. When sloshing alcohol fills their stomachs in celebration, and the report has been typed, filed into a manilla folder to spoil on some general’s desk – would this memory, too, gather dust? The glimpse of you, doused in his scent, flushed. Takeout, asleep with company – a semblance of true home abandoned between these musty walls. 

It’ll be hard not to miss it. 

You click your tongue, still on the precipice of something. Like hanging off a cliff – you can’t see far enough to gauge whether there’s water to break your fall. Your orgasm is a forgotten prospect by now; you’ve depleted the limited alone time you have for the day.

But–

You search for your cigarettes, that familiar grittiness stuck to the roof of your mouth.

They’re laying on the table, next to Simon’s car keys and gun. 

You take the smallest step forward, wrist spasming. But a large hand wraps around it, completely overtaking you. 

You’re stopped before you can even reach out. He’d been following your eyes. 

“MacTavish’s certainly got bad timing, hasn’ he?” He starts, slowly pulling your hand up to his face. You’re a ragdoll, succumbing to his command. 

What did he mean by that? Bad timing? 

Your gut bottoms out, sinking to unfathomable depths. 

He can’t know. Can he? 

The Sahara Desert. Cracked lips, sunken skin. Your nose burnt, peeling under an unforgiving sun. 

He’d noticed you lagging behind. I’ve got water in my bag. 

I’m good. 

You’re not. Drink. 

And unscrewed the bottle when you proved too weak. 

Ghost is renowned for that brutal efficiency, barked demands in a chaotic field. His strength rings louder than any grenade, released strikers, thrown into your line of vision. As it charges, you picture death and the unfulfilling void your life had been. Mud blows onto your face. Mud, and flaming plastic, and the gore of other victims. A shrill sound only you can hear; danger of going deaf. Danger, danger. A final fatality. No survivors. 

He doesn’t miss a thing. 

He halts when your fingers bump the stretched fabric of his mask. You can feel his breath, hot steam. Skin prickles, and your panties pool with the reminder of his mortality. A ghost, but living nonetheless. 

He draws a deep inhale. 

He knows. 

“Didn’t finish, pet?” 

Shit.

That fucking voice – pestle onto mortar, grinding you down into a candied paste to gorge on. He’s a century old being, emerging from a prison – Tartarus – only to find you, supple and sweet as nectar and completely willing. You blink up at him with lidded eyes, damp eyelashes fanning the crease of your lid. 

“No.” Barely a whisper, all breathlessness. 

His head dips, stooping low to match your height. You can trace the lines that paint seeps into. 

“Turn around. Face the window.” 

Chastised, guilty as a child caught doing something naughty, you swallow the stone in your throat and do as he says.  Somewhere, floating in the deep recesses of your mind, you’re aware you can refuse. He won’t strike up a counter – would pat your hip and send you off to bed.

But your back is to his abdomen now, swapping body-heat and the groans of your internal organs. He’d almost bled out on you once; on a mission in Russia – limping, bread-crumb trail of maroon ichor on untouched snow. Your fear had you heaving into a metal bowl, tucked away in an aeroplane bathroom, refusing to leave until he’d been stabilised next door.

You’d be the traitor that shot him before you pass this up.

A widow’s sky; bedarkened, weeping. Clouds roll over the moon, kraken-cruel, coughing great gouts of water onto the drab buildings in your area. It’s hard to see much beyond the hazy neon sign, scintillating behind fog, and the lone street light. The weather is ideal for enemy attack; they could camouflage in the great pour. 

As it stands, though, all you focus on are the gloves that brush up and down your arms. 

“Keep an eye out. Got it?” 

Wet hair shakes when you nod – so quick to succumb to his every whim. His torso rocks from behind you – a soundless chuckle – and the air shifts as he moves, occupying himself with something, just out of observation.

You’re determined to do right by him. Atta’ girl, rumbled in that inflection of his. Squinting, you leer out on that wretched building, as it has been eight hours a day for the past nine. 

But warm hands start to run up your shirt. Calluses skim, finding the knife-wound scar at your side, pressing into dimpled flesh. He kneads you – tapping into that lush centre, tender as a peach, still there. You’re ripped from your moniker, Scout, and transformed into a blubbering miscreant. 

It takes you a stupidly long time to piece it together. You feel it before you realise; the rough-leather touch, dry enough to scrape gooseflesh. Fingernails, cut short, scratching nerves, wheedling so they shoot liquid desire down to your core.

He’d taken off his gloves. 

Your back arches with renewed vigour, jaw hinging, no barrier between the empty room and your drawn out moan. He’s fucking fire on you, licking up the available expanse of skin until his thumbs brush the plush underswell of your breasts. 

You frantically search for his forearms, scrambling for purchase in his onslaught.  It’s not exactly ecstasy, far from it — no rainbow blooms, tingling gold from your toes to your nose – but it’s been ages since you were last caressed like this. Enough for you to feel brand new, wrapped gift in a prim little bow, eager to be spread, undone. 

A plea balloons in you, knocking teeth, choking. He pinches your pebbled nipples in reprimand, a speechless warning, and you understand, tilting upwards to keep an eye out, lips shut. 

“Look at you, desperate little thing.” He groans, working your tits with Herculean strength. You nearly collapse at the glorious pain it elicits – unwavering focus pointed solely on you, that pragmatic means to an end. You tighten your hold on his wrists, his frame your only support.

“O-Only for… ah–” One hand travels down your navel to coast on the waistband of your sweats. You hiccup, forcing your resilience, staying on task. Keep an eye out

“This what you think about? When you stuff those tiny little fingers up your cunt and tell yourself they’re enough?” 

But you see nothing; nothing but glowing prospects, the sight of what you could be. Rain – inundated, broken to blacking out, sparking power lines, exposed wire. 

You wobble and tail end into a prominent bulge, lower back skimming coarse denim. Simon meets you halfway, lugging you closer, until you fit perfectly against him. Head to chest, back to –

He grinds his pelvis into you, etching himself permanently there. An invisible scar, another brand for your time with the 141 – one marked in black, virile crest onto wool. He’s massive; no one can ever be enough after him – if it was up to you, there won’t be.

“Fuck.” You pique into a whine. “Please… Please, S–” 

“Not here.” He says, slotting his nose above your ear. It’s damnation, this game of tug-of-war, tightroping the line between seething torture and bliss. 

“We can be quick,” 

And he growls, ripping into a feral noise that stuffs your senses as he cups you, finding your soaked distress at its source. “I’ll take my time with you. With this–” He twists a nipple, a sharp sting. “With this–” He pinches the plump fat of your cunt. “Fuckin’ hell, pet. Wicked, is what it is – what you do to me.” 

You bite your tongue and drink the blood that beads, vision blurring with hot tears. It’s the lull after an extinguished tab, the crawling addiction – more, more. 

You need to see him, to look straight ahead at an eclipse as it darkens your world. 

“Yours. I– D-Do whatever… you want,” 

Simon shudders, shaking you along with it, as though you’re one. “I’ll ruin you.”

“M’already there.”   

And then two digits press into your folds, gathering the slick that drips. It must be phantom, with the way the sensation shoots through you, undeterred, stirring that coil of buried pleasure. It must be – supernatural, unreal, startlingly mythological, spoken only through word of mouth for fear of what legends can wreak on paper. 

But it’s fucking real. You’re far too familiar with fleeting dreams, of grinding down on pillows that are too pliable to compare to him. Reading fairy tales to take you someplace else, those books burnt, along with your oak shelves.

This tangibility – the true ripple of muscles under, behind, around you – is nothing of the sort. You feel it in your liver, your throat. Picking the plaque that lines your lungs. 

Simon absolves you of all treason, all guilt. You only exist as you are now, a puddle of divinity.

But as he starts circling your clit, you’re able to discern a slip in the shadows through your bleary lust. 

Along the perimeter of the compound walls, just across the street. 

“H-Hey–” You croak. He tugs you tighter against him, thick finger starting to breach you. Seizing his arm, you bury your lips into his sleeve. “Simon.” 

He slows his efforts, buried quarter way, at the first knuckle. It twitches within you – he can taste the gravitas in your tone. 

“Lt… I think– I think I see something.” 

Destiny switches on its axis, warping back to grim reality. When Ghost instantly withdraws, bolting for his gun, you emerge from the pool of ignorance you’d so willingly dove into. Disappointment, devastation. Undeserving of more than this fleeting touch, non-ordained. Whatever good deed you’d committed to be able to encounter heaven, combated by the kills you’d enacted – hellish girl. 

“SOAP, OUT, NOW.” Ghost bangs at the bathroom door.

He turns to order you – something about spotting him as he goes to confront the threat. 

You’re at a standstill, paralysed – your irises the only things that move as you hunt the cause to his sudden urgency.

Why’s he so worried? 

It was only a shadow. 

Could have been the kitten. Or the Calico that terrorises it. 

A car. Some teenager reckless enough to drive in this downpour. 

You’d ruined your one chance. Your position will be compromised, and when the gunpowder clears, he’ll wake from this purgatory and paint you just as you are. His teammate, relative rookie, nicotine kiss. 

And him, Ghost – Lieutenant. You’ll be stuck searching for Simon in the fissures. 

But your name is not for nothing. 

Scout. You’d earned it in Mexico, on your first mission with him. Spotted a cartel’s corps from a mile away, crouched in the undergrowth, dressed in all green. 

You’re the reason we’re alive, kid. 

It comes to you clear as diamond, purified with static pressure and graphite. Filling in the scratches, glinting – winking – at you. 

A red laser, pointed straight at your chest. 

Sniper. 

“GET DOWN.” That cockney cadence, launched louder than ever before. 

Your Lieutenant doesn’t yell, not at you. 

At Soap. At Gaz. Sometimes even at Price. 

Never at you. 

“SCOUT.”

A careening mass throws you down onto the carpeted floor – a crushing boulder in weight alone. You hardly register the solid arms that wrap around you – the hard-plate chest you’re tucked against – before a clamorous whistle strikes the motel.

The blast bursts near your head, spewing merciless fusillade. The walls cave in, fire rupturing from the screeching bomb. 

Red clouds your vision – blood or ire or your harrowing life, flashing before your eyes.

There’s a ringing in your ears. You think of Simon, of climbing sycamore trees and sleeping on its branches. Eating honey from a pot, disposing of your damned habits – that one upturned stick, to be lit once you’d moved on. Your Papa had told you the tale, skin-wrapped bones, laying on his deathbed. 

Back in the trenches, my friends and I would invert a single cigarette upon buying a new pack. If we lived long enough to smoke it, we were of the lucky few.

You lose consciousness, buried beneath rubble and a hulking body.

Kerosene, arson – gunmetal sulphur pouring into your bedroom in the dead of night. You had owned a collection of vintage dolls, dressed in decorative lace and bonnets, given to you by a distant relative. Their porcelain faces had melted in the heat. 

You’d been counting stars the evening before, perched on a ledge, waiting for one to blink onto the obsidian. There was a meteorite instead, a streak of glimmering marvel on the edges of a tree, dissolving in earth’s atmosphere. You hadn’t made a wish, but you’d left the window open for your Papa to come back. 

It was the only exit out when your door crumbled to ash. 

A vermillion blaze versus a two story drop. You took your chances barefoot when your mother’s liquor cabinet fed the flames, inferno now. Jumping out into the muggy yard, your nightgown snagging splinters. Cushioned by a rosebush she had stopped tending to – dry, with razor-sharp thorns. 

She was too inebriated to rise on her own two feet. Dead, along with the house, once home.

When you come to, you’re in the medbay back on base. 

You suffered a second-degree burn on your shoulder and a head trauma worth eight stitches, and not much else. 

Your brain, switched out for bromine-doused cotton, takes a while to recall the events that led you here. You play a game of catchup before you greet the world, memories stuck behind a blurry pane of overwhelming emotion. You don’t exactly remember so much as you feel; desire, confusion, a terrifying sense of peace while embraced by a force that meant safety. 

No, that’s not quite right. 

Your neck aches. When was the last time you ate? 

You need a cigarette.  

Not embraced. 

Your eyes fly open. 

Simon. 

“Hey, hey.” Gentle hands press your torso, thumbing you back down on the stiff cot. The voice is higher-pitched than his, softer. Laswell. “Easy there, Scout. You’re still hurt.”

The monitor picks up on your alarm, beeping in tandem to the staggering tread of your heart. Your ribcage closes in on itself, paradigm of dread – you can’t stop the nervous tremor in your fingers. 

A white halo frames the Inspector General, highlighting the flyaways on her blonde bun. Her blouse, typically steam-pressed to perfection, gathers in wrinkles instead. 

You’re sure you look worse. Your tongue wilts with lack of hydration.  

“W-What happened,” Thankfully, she picks up on the croak in your tone and hands you a bottle of water. Unflavoured – not clementine. 

She goes about explaining as you drink. Faulty information, distorted by word of mouth. Turned out to be one day off. They’d been intent on transporting their cargo – the unlawful compounds worked on for months – until someone tipped them to your location. One too many sightings, I’m afraid. The boys were reckless with how often they left. 

You digest the events with little more than a nod. Building anticipation constricts your throat; your attempt to address it comes out unsteady,

“And…” The question dies before it's posed, breaking off to clot the air. Your fears; too afraid to speak them into fruition.

But Laswell gives you a small smile, patting your blanketed calf. 

“They’re alright. MacTavish is still out – he got the worst of it I’m afraid. Was as naked as the day he was born when we found him, but he’s stable.” A cold wave of relief urges the humourless chortle to tumble from your lips – an excavation of a grim unease, fossilised deep in your gut. “The Lieutenant was discharged last week.” 

Biting your lip, you duck your head to idly observe the IV taped to your forearm. A new haar of synthetic smoke purges you; for once, a deep inhale of a substance that won’t rot. The knowledge that he’s okay – fully whole, out there, somewhere – lends itself to that tantalising urge, fulfils it better than thirteen bucks every will. 

You follow the tube that pumps you full of drugs and land on your phone, glowing on your nightstand. 

“We were able to salvage a few things. It’s broken, but it works.” 

You blink and hope your appreciation flashes through.

Lemon antiseptic, the metallic tang of stainless steel left out in the open. An intercom, someplace distant, blares static orders to the late night nurses that bustle down the hall.

It’s not until Laswell leaves and you’re alone, restless, entangled in taut sheets, that you check your messages. 

Two unopened. Both under one contact – Lt.

Found him in the wreckage.

sent tuesday

Accompanied by a photo.

A ginger kitten with a scalded nose, curled up in the crook of a tattooed forearm.

You don’t see him for a month afterwards. 

The Captain and Kyle visit after Soap wakes. They crowd into your room, in full arms, and tell you stories about Damascus. 

Kibbeh, they call it. I was just about ready to stuff ten into my pockets. It was just that good.

Don’ tempt me, Garrick. A'v been livin’ off soup an jello for two weeks.

You slump into your single pillow and imagine you’re anywhere but here. 

Bulgur wheat pounded with meat, rolled into a ball – toasted pine nuts and spice. Standing below mosaic arches, cover from the light shower and a fragile, pellucid sky. Backgammon in a cafe. 

Atop a windowsill, legs swinging as you look for your Papa in the night. Still full from your peanut-butter and jelly sandwich dinner, made with grubby little hands, tiptoeing to reach the kitchen counter. Roses, just watered, still thriving.

Coffin nail, death stick. Flipping a cigarette, seated across a man who refuses to let you light it. Szechuan chicken smeared down your throat, a disused motel transformed sanctuary. That titillating crush, culminating to desperate gropes, attuned to what you like. 

As your sutures dissolve, you spend an endless stretch of time hovering over a keypad. Your last sent message – what’d you name him – left with no response. Dead ends.

You ask Laswell to get you a pack of Marlboro red and deplete the twenty before you’re discharged. She brings along a fresh set of clothes; leggings, a hoodie and gloves. They keep you snug when you step out into the winter wind. 

Snow detonates under the crunch of your boots, the world around you imprisoned in a glair-white silence. Nothing sounds, nothing stirs, nothing sings. Your breath is visible, glittering like angel-fire. A buzzing mind – founded in two cigarettes over the past hour – entices you to act beyond reason. You rent a car and drive three hours out. 

It’s 9:02 pm when you text him, curled up on the couch in your safehouse.

You: finally out

[attached: current location] 

And you don’t wait for a response. You place your phone face down and click to a random gossip network. All on D-list celebrities – you forgot to pay your cable bill. 

Actress baby bumps and divorce scandals sing you to sleep.

read at 9:03 pm

Broad shoulders – dusted in powder from the storm outside – occlude your entryway. 

You bat away the exhaustion roiling your senses, breathing through the obnoxious lurch of your stomach. 

Ghost towers over you, ball cap and mask covered, larger than you remember him. 

You’re the one who invited him. And yet–

His actual appearance unnerves you to the point of emphysema. 

It all comes swarming back to you.

The pulsing ardour, renewed vitality pumped into a hollow conch. Wet firewood, camp smouldering as fat droplets, sobbing clouds, splash on a barbecue. That smell that carries in with harsh weather – coal and warmth from an unknown source, snuggling under a quilt with a window swung open because you just can’t get enough. 

Bottomless chasms, anointed scelaras – central heterochromia, flecks of blue and a ring of black painted onto pupils that pin you down. 

Your brow furrows, indents to store the unspoken, bereft of assurance. Your inquiry cracks with a petrifying amount of vulnerability.

“How are you?” 

He takes a step forward. “Your head–” 

“Almost a scar at this point,” You grin, brushing over the wound. 

“And Johnny?” 

“Better than ever.”

“You mean to tell me, you haven’t been in contact with anyone since Sudbury?” 

A candle flickers from its place on your television console – peppermint and the aroma of melted wax. You’d muted the program at one point. Now, all there is to go on is the polychromatic motley of cartoon characters, suffering injuries that progressively grow more animated. 

The scene illuminates Simon’s otherwise shadowed form – pink and blues lighting the skull on his face mask. You’d travelled to your couch, spread across its length with him seated at your feet. His thigh tenses by your ankle. 

“Hm.” Pinky twitching, it brushes your heel. 

“Sent on some other mission, then?” 

“Negative.” He gruffs, the clipped answer popping like kindling logs, and shifts towards you. Cushions sink, unused to his musculature, and LED hues warp along the exposed skin of his forehead. His hood is still up, hat fixed on his head – you can’t see his hair – but ashen eyelashes tell you it's blonde. 

You watch the way his knee jumps, boot tapping the hardwood floor. Since you invited him in, suspense has radiated off everything he does. Like he’s primed, in that instinctual mode that triggers before a fight, panther on its haunches. 

You think you know why. 

“It’s not your fault, Lt.” 

His brow bone sets, hanging over the boundless stare that slides to you. 

Knees bending, you tuck your legs underneath you to move closer. Pandora’s box.

“I left too often. Got spotted too many times.” 

The concession comes in an earth-shattering quietness. 

Simon tends to corners, alleyways too narrow to fit him, eclipse, his subtlety the upper-hand in every battle. Dressed in tenebrosity – a gloaming shade, stibnite eyes – he veers on the precipice of anonymity. He had been, for the longest time. Ghost and that’s all, assurance to a quick kill before he fades from the radar. No safehouse, no name, a quick glimpse at a face. His file, composed of black bar censors.

Who’s he? Newly introduced to the 141, tail of liquor not far behind you. 

That’s your Lieutenant. You’d do well to keep him as just that. 

When you were a kid, you thought twilight was when the world would be plunged into the slag, a stygian crypt. Darling child, you should be in bed. When the moon turns its back on you and you’re left with nothing but the northern star.

But your Papa pointed the truth out on one of your several camping trips, just the two of you in the midst of a congested wood, laying against thick Sycamore trunks. 

Twilight is when the sun rounds just below the horizon. 

That little clarity, paling blue. When you wake up to the reflection of its rays blushing your tent walls, and you’re able to see the outline of your hands. Still dark enough to go back to bed, but a sign you have a new day waiting on you. The tipping point of tranquillity. 

He’s twilight; here, now. Laying down a slice of guilt he stuffs bone-deep.

“And you saved my life.” 

Simon takes a moment, then nods, a minute incline of his head. 

“I’m sorry too, y’know.” You smooth over the hair that feathers his forearm. This one is a blank canvas, completely bare save for the white scars that cross it. “If I hadn’t distracted–”

“No.” His hand is sweltering when it engulfs yours. “Don’ apologise for that.” 

An ignored promise rustles. Not here. I’ll take my time with you.

“Simon…” 

He murmurs your real name in response, the sound pulled deep from within the recesses of his chest, as though it’s been stored there for aeons. A gem in a dragon’s den. It calls to vertigo, a surge of adrenaline, free-falling. Like tilting your body back on a swing, legs kicked to the air – knowing there’s sand to break your tumble but screaming nonetheless. 

“I still–” 

His head dips low to face yours. Nose on nose. A warning rumble as he snarls. 

“I know, pet. Me too.”

Your pulse thumps, centred in on that bundle of nerves at your core. Cornered prey, backed into the arm of your couch. Touching yourself to the thought of this very thing, enclosed in a shower, him right outside – he fills your view. All you see are those eyes that light with lechery. All you feel is his arm, rounding your waist.

“Y-You– haven’t… haven’t seen my bedroom yet.” He shudders, then stiffens, clasping you securely to his man of steel. His mouth tucks to your ear, subsequent whisper a savage vow.

“I think I’ll be able to find it.” 

With one swift heave, he throws you over his shoulder, resolute against your coquettish squeals.

“Don’t you fucking hide from me. Spread your legs, pet, let me see that cunt.” 

An iron wall presses you down onto the duvet, suffocating, completely submerging you in skin-wrapped sinew, meaty arms caging you in on either side. Your panties were the last to go, stubbornly moist and clinging to glossy lips. He had helped you slip them from your ankles. 

“J-Jus’ fuck me… We can do the oth… other stuff– ah-” 

He’s still in his jeans, a staunch contrast against your nude, slot between your trembling legs. Nails graze the edge of his belt buckle. The bulge constrained by denim is enough to tempt you in forgoing the foreplay.

But he slaps your thigh, the blow sharp as the sting that blossoms under impact. Your hips buck, a hiss blowing from between your teeth.

“It won’t fit like this,” Simon grits, hooking those large hands under your knees. He manoeuvres you with little effort, folding you in half to bear your pussy to his wandering eyes. The hoodie slips off when he hangs his head low. 

Honey tresses, dirtied blonde – streaks of brown. Cropped short at the sides but unkempt where he’s able to brush it back under the balaclava. 

Your panting halts for the second you take him in. Eyes flicker up to your open expression, lips parted. You don’t see it, but he smiles – just the slightest bit – under the mask. 

“You’re quivering.” 

“Huh?” 

His thumb swipes over your hole. 

“Oh–” 

He takes advantage of your reverential state and dives, sliding to lay on his front. You’re hardly able to register it when he flips off his mask, before his nose presses to your clit, stifling heat completely engulfing you. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” A groan, muffled by lewd slurps and squelches. Your back arches, and his arms move to support it as you thrust into his eager mouth. 

Simon fucking devours you, absorbed in the endless slick that seeps. Dextrous, mimicking the motion’s you’ve long since memorised in your fantasies. Those nights in Sudbury, where he kept you company as you dreamt of being splayed on that cot, three fingers plunging into your airtights depths. He sucks the moisture, that sticky sweetness that transforms into something else in his presence. From polluted waste, toxic chemicals rung from cigarettes and self-loathing, to nostalgia, nectar – life before it had gone to shit. 

He’s stone while keeping you in place, intractable, offering you no choice but to clutch onto fresh sheets and sob out to nothing. No prayers, no pleas; you’re an incoherent mess in his onslaught, tangent syllables of Si…mon and so g-good. You don’t beg for release or deceleration – nothing you say goes. It’s just him, just that fucking… expert tongue, sinful desire. Fingers buried into flesh, calling sore bruises.

To find purchase in that hair, clinging onto locks that are still somewhat damp. He’d showered before he came, soaped in sandalwood – 2-in-1. It’s convenient. You’ve gained an affection for the fragrance, foraging for it everywhere. Cologne, air-freshener, chapstick. Jotted on your grocery list, shampoo, body wash – timbre tinted, essence of him. You capsize into the masculinity that emanates from those honey curls, pushing him onto you, tongue swatching deeper. Deeper. 

You’d take him raw, too. Post-workout, sweat-coated. Stripping those layers after a mission, laying him down. Lemme take care of you. Musk, unadulterated redolence. The salty tang down his pecs, licking fervent adoration, a four letter word spelt in glistening spit upon a muscled abdomen. Cupping his balls with steadfast devotion, gaping fauces clicking with the ram of his tip, swallowing him deeper. Deeper. 

The digits that had been there – testing waters before the motel was bombed – return, gathering the liquid that pools down the crest of your ass. He brushes the tight ring of muscle, pauses, then carries on in his endeavour to stretch you open on his fingers. 

Nothing could prepare you for the empyrean pleasure that wracks through you when the two are fully situated, up to their ends, quirking back to hit that spongy wall. 

“So fuckin’ tight. Can barely move ‘em, pet.” He groans. Your eyes squeeze shut, neck thrown back, rising into salvation. Paradise. 

No; beyond that. This gratification wasn’t born in strife, no wars were waged in its name – the first crusade, witch hunts. It’s a thread, separate from it all, diverging from literature and alcohol, taking with it nicotiana, an uprooted plant. It’s something new, something the two of you create – Simon, Ghost, embedded into someone who’s waiting a lifetime for him. 

“I– I’m–” Your insides entwine, tingling self-indulgence skipping up your spine, hightailing your head. He’s added a third, scissoring your velvet walls apart, giving into the vacuum and delving with twice the power. “Simon! Ple… Please–”

“Give it to me, c’mon.” Your calves curve over his back, holding him there. Gut, intestines, your heart; they threaten to snap, to succumb to the eternal gravitas of the force between your legs. 

You gush into his wide mouth, flooding him in a heady ambrosia. 

And Simon – leviathan that prospers in the cavernous wet – swallows it all, kneading tempting circles under your knees.

“Atta’ girl.”

“I bought you something.” You mention between hushed moans.

His heavy body wraps around yours, holding you to a bare chest, his hips pistoning lazily into the plummet of your pussy. A swollen cock spears your open, wedged so deep it touches your cervix with flighty pecks. 

Likewise, he presses sloppy kisses on the bend where your neck meets your shoulder. His chin is still soaked with liquid sex. 

“Yeah?” The taunt vibrates through you. You feel it settle in the place you reserve, just for him. 

Delirious, stuffed chock-full of your favourite vice, you giggle. “Mmm. Chocolates.” 

Rough fingertips seek your clit, deliciously abrasive as they rub it in, unyielding. Your fourth orgasm slithers up on you. 

“Chocolate?” 

You turn to meet his lips, clacking teeth. When you speak again, you realise with dizzying lucidity that the taste of tobacco is long gone, replaced by the evidence of intimacy and lingering bourbon. 

“Y-yeah… Sweet tooth.” 

Simon drives himself deeper into you.

“There are sweeter things.”

He’d named the kitten Tommy.

[hoofpeet]

You know the peeps marshmallows? What if joltik peep in Pokémon? What if cafes just has marshmallows shaped as Pokémon during a certain holiday? Do they have those animal cages but only for a certain Pokémon that not everyone can care for or that only elite trainers have? Like when you become a trainer to you need a license to own Pokémon and if so do some Pokémon require to get permits?

Went off track. What I was going to say is, Ingo eats marshmallow joltik in front of Emmet. Just a silly little prank some would say, others would call it psychological warfare. Both pretty much the same thing.

Joltiks are the perfect pokemon to peepify.... Emmet considers disowning his brother for a solid 30 seocnds

[makethatelevenrings]

Two Scoops // J. Todd x gn!reader

Requested? Yes!

WARNINGS: swearing, gun violence, food

Summary: The infamous vigilante of Gotham, Red Hood, comes walking into your work one night, slaps down a twenty, and asks for the most disgusting combination of flavors you can possibly make. He keeps coming back.

Part two here

The first night should be revelatory. It should be the thing that jump starts your moving process and gets you to look at Indeed for the first time in months. If it were any other city, you would turn in your apron and that stupid fucking visor you had to wear and move out of this godforsaken shithole.

But this is Gotham and you really aren’t that surprised.

The artificial buzzing of the fluorescent lights of Creamy’s Ice Cream was nearly drowned out by the sheer artistic talent of Carly Rae Jepsen. You don’t know why Creamy’s was open until two in the morning but, again, this is Gotham. Potheads, drunken college students, and tearful twenty year olds ensnared by the hells of capitalism needed a sugary pick-me-up in the wee hours, you supposed. It was a decent paying job for part time and the late hours weren’t as packed as earlier in the day.

But it did come with certain drawbacks. Heading home late at night was the biggest one, but crime seemed to be on a steady decline with the presence of the various vigilantes.

And that’s where you found yourself one summer night. The clock creeped towards one and you were so grateful to have just one more hour left to go. Humidity clung to the air like a wet blanket and even the freezing temperature you kept the store at wasn’t helping. Only two customers were in the store, some young couple on a date, and other than that it was just another slow night.

Until the door swung open and in strode one of Gotham’s most infamous vigilantes. The Red Hood’s emotionless mask swung side to side as he took in the store around him before he marched up to the counter and slapped down a twenty dollar bill.

“I need three scoops of the most disgusting, heinous, criminal flavors you have,” he announced. His voice was distorted thanks to the mask, but the rough, robotic tone of it shocked you out of the frozen reverie you had found yourself in when he had walked in.

“This is a gun free zone.” There. A stellar fucking reply. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you pointed to the sign on the door and watched as he slowly turned to stare at it. Or, at least, you hoped he was staring at it. You couldn’t tell with the mask.

Red Hood nodded to himself. “How about we pretend you never saw these and I add another twenty.”

“That was three scoops you said?” You busied yourself behind the counter, already knowing which three flavors you were going to pick. “Any sauces or additions on top?”

“Whatever you think would make it obscenely disgusting.”

With a grin, you added two pumps onto the monstrosity you had constructed and added some sprinkles and a cherry on top for fun. After sticking a spoon into the cup, you placed it on the counter and nudged it towards the hulking figure standing on the other side of the counter. He scooped it up and cradled it in his huge, leather covered hands like it was a football.

“Bubblegum, cotton candy, and bacon with marshmallow and caramel drizzle,” you reported. The vigilante glanced down at the biological warfare you had concocted and reached into his pocket to extract another twenty. And then another.

“Keep the change.” He promptly walked out and, thanks to the door still being open, looked up at a rooftop and shouted out something.

“Hey N! Come get your ice cream.” Nightwing dropped from a nearby skyscraper and gratefully accepted Red Hood’s offered treat. Damn, you liked Nightwing. Poor fella was going to experience the worst flavor mixture you could conceive.

Eh, you got a good tip out of it, though.

Red Hood came in a few times after that, getting either an increasingly complex combination of flavors in an attempt to get Nightwing to twitch or getting just a simple cup of one scoop cookie dough and one scoop of cookies and cream ice cream. He always left you a large tip and left without ever taking off that mask.

The routine changed, however, when the bell over the door chimed around midnight one day and you looked up to find no one there. Squinting your eyes, you searched for any sign of a customer.

“I require confectionery sustenance,” a voice declared from the other side of the counter. You leaned over and found Robin staring up at you from behind his mask. At this point, you couldn’t be bothered to be surprised and just nodded.

“Cone or cup?” He stared blankly at you and you pursed your lips, considering your next question.

“How many scoops?”

Silence. This kid didn’t even look old enough to know what That’s So Raven was and yet he was more intimidating than that one crotchety grandma that lived on your floor. You were about to ask what flavor he wanted when the door swung open so hard that the handle hit the wall behind it. You jumped in shock and the red helmet swiveled towards you.

“Sorry,” he apologized before his attention shifted to the tiny vigilante standing before you. He pointed a finger at Robin like a disappointed parent chastizing a child.

“Nope. No. Nada. This is my ice cream shop. Get your own,” Red Hood barked. Robin merely sniffed in disdain and primly pushed a ten dollar bill over the counter.

“One scoop of vanilla. Cone.”

“At least say please, for fuck’s sake,” Hood sighed. “I’m sorry. We’re still teaching him manners.”

“It’s fine.” You busied yourself with making Robin’s ice cream because that was your life now. Could you put “Gotham vigilante’s ice cream scooper” on your resume?

“No, it’s not fine. Say please and thank you, demon brat, or I’ll tell N that you’re looking like you need a hug.”

“You are a sadist, Hood.”

You passed the cone down to the gloved hand and moved to start counting the change when a twenty landed on the counter.

“I thought we came to an agreement. You give me cavities with the stipulation that you keep the change,” Hood said. You smirked and jutted your chin over towards the tiny, knife wielding Robin who was eating his ice cream like it was his only job.

“Not your money so…”

“You may retain ownership of the change,” Robin said in that strictly formal way of his. “I require no need for coins.”

“What he means is that his pockets are already full and he doesn’t need coins jangling around as he swings from one building to another,” a new voice said from the doorway. Red Robin leaned against the glass, fiddling with what looked like a phone in his hand but with the bats and the birds, you could never be sure. Maybe it was some kind of device that controlled the weather. Maybe they could get it to stop raining all the damn time.

Hood let out a quiet, “oh my fucking god” as Red Robin pocketed his phone and joined him at the counter. Red Robin ruffled Robin’s hair and casually evaded a knife that Robin had pulled out of seemingly nowhere.

“Two scoops of coffee in a cup, please,” Red Robin ordered. “Spoiler and Black Bat should be here in a second.”

“No. You fucks need to go back to whatever hole you all crawled out of tonight. This is my spot. Go terrorize somewhere else,” Hood grunted. You washed out your scoop and set about making Red Robin’s order. You passed it over to him, not blinking an eye at the fifty that landed on the counter, and then silently set about preparing Hood’s order as well. When you looked up again, a figure stood next to the others in a full black suit.

“Holy shit,” the exclamation slipped out before you could stop yourself and then cringed. “Sorry, I just didn’t hear you come in.”

“She does that,” Spoiler announced, peeking out from behind Black Bat’s shoulder. “We’ll have two scoops each in a cup, please. Blackberry for me, strawberry for her. Oh wait.”

Spoiler tilted her head to the side as if she was listening to something before she nodded. “And two scoops in a cup of pistachio ice cream, please.”

Normally, you would have one, maybe two customers in at this late hour. But now the shop was filling up with vigilantes and you couldn’t help but wonder if there were any crimes they should be stopping at the moment, but you weren’t going to bother asking. They were the professionals, after all.

Three cups slid across the counter and the two girls grabbed them. Black Bat nodded in thanks as Spoiler saluted you. Red Hood was staring off somewhere in the distance, or so you assumed thanks to the helmet, as the door rang again.

“There you guys are!” Nightwing exclaimed. “B noticed all the trackers were in one place but the comms were dead.”

“He’ll take two scoops of cotton candy on a sugar cone,” Red Hood said dryly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that they would all come here.”

“Hey, it’s my job.” You brushed it off with an easy grin. “Besides, this is a story I can use at parties.”

“Yeah, well, it’s about to get a bit more wild in five, four, three, two…”

Batman walked through the door. Yes, that Batman. The head honcho. The Dark Knight. The master brooder. He looked at all the various bats and birds strewn around your store and then stalked towards the counter. A thousand excuses built up on your tongue to explain their presence. Why would you be apologizing for doing your job? You had no clue. You just felt like you were in trouble for some reason.

“Butter pecan,” he rasped. “Two scoops. Cup, please.”

A hundred dollar bill landed on the counter on the neat stack already present before his gauntlet covered hands slipped back under his cape. You tried to control the trembling in your hands as you prepared his order and nearly squeaked as he took the cup from you. Batman nodded in thanks and then promptly swept out of the shop with the gaggle of crime fighters following like little ducklings. Only Red Hood remained.

“Did that actually just happen?” you whispered, staring at the door where they had disappeared seconds before.

“Unfortunately,” Hood drawled.

“Batman eats butter pecan ice cream.”

“He’s ancient.”

“Alright. Well, have a good night. Try not to get shot or stabbed or anything.”

“I’ll try my best.”

Although every night was quiet, this night in particular found Gotham to be particularly silent. You hadn’t had a customer all night and even though you had asked to close early, your boss refused. No one would come in, you reasoned, because they were still reeling from a Joker attack the night before.

It had been sudden and terrifying, even if he had been terrorizing Gotham for years at this point. You and your roommates had holed up in your apartment with gas masks at the ready in case some of the Joker toxin got into your building. You sat there and listened as people on the streets fell into fits of uncontrollable laughter that you knew signaled the end was near for them. But the bats and the birds saved the day once again and the Joker was back in Arkham.

The wounds were still felt in the city.

Exhaustion clung to your very bones as you methodically wiped down the counters. You wished so badly for your shift to end so you could go home, crawl into bed, and not emerge for a few hours with the hopes of that wicked, maniacal laugh being gone from your memory.

The doorbell chimed and you couldn’t help but wince before plastering on a cheery if albeit fake smile. Hood walked up to the counter and set down a twenty. You wordlessly scooped up the ice cream and set it down in front of him, fully expecting him to leave.

Since the whole batclan, minus Signal who only appeared during the day, came in that one night, Hood had started to frequent more and more to an almost everyday thing. You treated him like every other customer, but truth be told, you didn’t look forward to your other customers coming in every night. He would chat for a few minutes about Gotham, new movies, books, anything under the sun. He would ask you about your day and you both would commiserate over the idiocy of retail and customer service. If he couldn’t come that night, one of the other birds would swing by and order something, acting as if this was a normal part of their routine but you knew better. He was checking up on you, even when he wasn’t there.

But tonight was different. Hood stared down at the ice cream in front of him and then around at the empty store. He reached up and with a soft hiss, removed the helmet from his head. He had one of the masks on his face that the others wore, but it was the most you had seen of him ever. Dark hair with a white streak in the front, a strong jaw, full lips…he was hot, plain and simple.

“You should sit down,” he said. His voice wasn’t as raspy and distorted with the mask on, but he still had a low, deep timbre. You let out a chuckle and sighed.

“Wish I could but policy states I have to stay standing.”

“Cameras?” he asked. You jerked your head towards one of them and he nodded. He fiddled with something on his tactical belt and then beckoned you forward.

“It’ll be on a loop for the next half hour. Your boss won’t even know I was here.”

You considered your options and figured what the hell. Taking off your apron, you hung it on the employee hooks, grabbed two waters, and joined him at one of the seats in the back. He faced the door, leaving you to sit with your back to the door. The bell would tell you if a customer came in so you weren’t worried. You could also tell that he felt better seeing the exit.

“You alright?” you asked. He shrugged and pushed the cup of ice cream into the middle of the table, a second spoon following it. You raised an eyebrow but picked up the spoon anyway. You rarely got to eat on the job so if he was offering, you would take it.

“Were you affected? Last night,” he clarified at the end.

“Aside from the psychological portions of it, no. I’m fine. You?”

He cleared his throat and took a bite of cookie dough ice cream before answering. “He’s back in the hole, isn’t he?”

You could see it in the tense lines of his shoulders, the clench of his fist, the flexing muscle of his neck. Reaching out, you rested your hand over his and slowly slid your fingers into the vice-like grasp he held on his hand. His fingers unfurled and you slid your fingers down to trace the lines of his palm. He relaxed slowly but finally looked as though he could breathe without breaking a rib from how tense he was.

“So, my neighbor Mrs. Umansky told me something interesting yesterday. She said that if I dab three dots of lavender essential oil on each wrist, then I would never have a headache again,” you said. He let out a quiet laugh and leaned back in his seat, his hand never leaving yours.

“Oh, really?” he teased. “Do you get headaches a lot?”

“Ugh, only when vigilantes come to visit,” you hummed. “Eat your ice cream before it melts.”

He scooped more onto his spoon and pointed it at you. “I’m only doing this because I want ice cream. Not because you’re ordering me around.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

It was bound to happen at some point. Late hours in Gotham practically beckoned robbers like a moth to a flame. So you really weren’t all that surprised when a guy with a balaclava covering his face stormed into the shop and pointed a loaded gun at your face.

“Money. Now,” he snarled.

“Okay, okay.” You raised your hands up to show him you weren’t reaching for any panic buttons and then slowly lowered them to the register. His hands were shaking as he held the gun and you realized belatedly that he was scared. And a scared idiot with a gun was far more dangerous than a normal idiot with a gun.

His finger twitched and the gun moved far enough to the left that the bullet struck the wall behind you, shattering a line of decorative old-fashioned ice cream dishes. You shrieked and covered your head as glass rained down behind you. The guy swore and slammed his hand down on the counter, the other still pointing the gun at you.

“This is a gun free zone, you fucking idiot.”

You had never felt such relief at hearing a robotic voice until that moment. Hood’s gloved hand wrapped around the robber’s wrist and he did some ninja move that made the guy drop the gun into Hood’s other hand. The robber let out a literal whimper as Hood grabbed the back of his jacket like a mother cat picking her baby up by the scruff of the neck.

“You and I are going to have a little talk,” he snarled. The vigilante dragged the man outside, leaving you to take a moment to catch your breath. Hood returned sooner than you expected, however, and you jumped when warm skin touched your cheek.

“Hey, hey. It’s just me.” He had his helmet off again but the domino mask was firmly in place. You took in the sight of him, one that had become familiar and comforting these past few months of him coming in, and let out a quiet sob. He jumped over the counter in one easy move and wrapped his thick arms around you.

“Hey, I gotcha.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I know. You always come.”

Because he wasn’t coming to this shitty ice cream shop for its subpar ice cream. He wasn’t stopping in every night just because it was a random spot on his route. He wasn’t sending in his teammates to check in on you when he couldn’t because he liked shitty ice cream. He came because he could because he did because he wanted to. He came because he cared.

“Gotta keep the best ice cream artist in Gotham safe,” he teased. His lips pressed against your temple and you shut your eyes at the touch. 

“I’m quitting this stupid fucking job,” you declared. He laughed, breath fanning across your cheek.

“Then where am I gonna go to get my usual?”

You shrugged and nestled in closer to his touch. “I’ll leave a window unlocked and a fridge stocked.”

“Deal.”

Tag List: @annalayton19 @tiannamortis @khaetiin​ @gone-batty-fics​

[voskhozhdeniye]

I used to think it was wrong for Israel to be killing tens of thousands of Gazans with airstrikes and starving hundreds of thousands with siege warfare, but then Israel apologists informed me that some Palestinians did mean things to Israelis in the past, so now I support it.

What Israel is doing in Gaza would only be unethical if everyone in Gaza were a perfect little cherub who’d never committed any violence or done anything wrong ever. I could see getting upset if the IDF was raining military explosives upon a giant concentration camp full of squishy marshmallow-like beings made of pure love and conceived without original sin who do nothing but coo and sing lullabies all day, but in reality the concentration camp is populated by beings who are not nearly that perfect.

I hear people calling this a genocide, but that’s ridiculous. What’s been explained to me is that the assault on Gaza is completely different from all the genocidal massacres you’ve read about in history, because the Israelis believe what they are doing is right. See, this time the ones who are carrying out the mass-scale extermination programs and ethnic cleansing plans have reasons for doing so.

As we all know, in a proper genocide the perpetrators have no reasons for carrying out their mass extermination programs and ethnic cleansing plans; they do it solely because they are evil and like doing evil things. In a proper genocide the perpetrators historically spend most of their time cackling like cartoon supervillains and talking about how delightfully evil their genocidal actions are.

This isn’t like that at all. You see, the Israelis sincerely feel that the population they are eliminating is very bad, and they believe removing that population will make the land a much better and safer place to live. They see the Palestinians as a major problem, and, unlike a proper genocide, they are simply trying to find a solution to that problem which will be permanent and final.

So when you see Israel apologists defending Israel’s actions in Gaza, please try to keep in mind that they’re just helpfully explaining that the Israeli government has reasons and motives for doing what it’s doing, and that it believes what it is doing is correct. If this were a proper genocide, that wouldn’t be the case.

You’ve seen what genocide looks like. It looks like Nazis rounding up Jews and killing them. Are the Israelis wearing swastikas? Are the Palestinians Jewish? No? Okay then. That proves this cannot possibly be a genocide, because if it was, it would look exactly the same as a previous historical instance of genocide in every conceivable way. It’s not even the early 1940s right now, it’s a completely different time period. Like, duh.

So relax. Everything is fine. This isn’t a genocide, and if it is, we can read about it in our history books later on and be sure to get it right next time.

[horizon-verizon]

It's so dumb to say Aemond is on Ramsay's level, how is he on that level of sadism and where can I read about it? Were the Conquerors also similar to Ramsay when they were burning people at war? Complaining that a character is more explored in the show compared to the book (and as vague and inaccurate as F&B is........) is just plain stupid. Cersei, Tyrion were all whitewashed in the show, Tywin was acting like a kind grandpa to Arya, many of Cersei's crimes were erased or given to Joffrey, Jorah is turned into a heroic character when he is a creep in the books, etc. It's just hilarious that people are so mad at Aemond who only had 20 minutes of screentime and we're barely know him yet.

Then what is the point of adapting from a book you say and imply is totally untrustworthy?

Have you actually read F&B, anon, or just skimmed it, or took Gyldayn and his sources at their word? If so, you're not someone who should be talking about how Fire and Blood is written, because you don't know that one could still parse out truths in a biased text through research, language analysis, looking for textual and cultural contradictions, and comparison/contrast analysis.

Also, burning people at war =/= being a sadist. Sadism is when you enjoy harming others and it doesn't have to be sexual, so if you send an ask, make a comment, or reblog with a joke to try to make this all seem irrelevant, I will block you.

What the Targs did was conquest and warfare and use the materials available to them, which in their case were dragons. Without those dragons, the war would have continued for longer, because of how destructive/effective dragons are, ironically. The North surrendered especially to avoid such a future, and Aegon I proved himself capable enough.

Finally, the present Baratheons and Lannisters are only able to rule Westeros because Aegon I and the Targs unified the previously always-fighting Westerosi kings under the new central Westerosi monarchy. Those kings before the Conquest waged war against each other all the fucking time and each king definitely wanted to rule every other region. Don't act like the Targs were worse for their warfare-to-unification for it.

Do you think that historians and students now do not read texts written by biased writers like monks and religious lawyers, anon? We still get facts and truths as well as see what kind of perspective the writer has. Also, dates and ages, are those things that HotD "fixes" for the horrid Rhaenicent ship, which actually ruins the entire timeline.

And the fact that we "barely know" Aemond yet while this is the first season is a discredit against you and the writers. We and you should know by now who this guy is....yet you say we "barely know him"?! Are you trying to defend HotD, or expose yourself and its atrocious writing, anon?!

Finally, do not try and use GoT's shitty writing as a measure of how bad the original book story is or how bad Fire and Blood is written, because both adaptations have taken liberties that are either dumb as fuck or/and are racist/sexist/blood purist/classist. There are too many posts by the people I follow (especially brideoffires and jackoftheshadows ).

Aemond is being compared to Ramsay for his cruelty. I also have many posts explaining how Aemond is heinous in his cruelty. Check them or don't, not my problem.

Don't try to dumb anyone else down because you want to live a marshmallow life where no one analyzes media or pays attention to patterns that aren't spoonfed to them.

[aconstructofamind]

Get To Know Me!

Thanks @fleurtygurl for tagging me!

A scent you love:

Ok, so this has a small backstory to it. My mom has worked in the Public Library in my city since I was 4 (so about 27 years), and I spent too much time at her job. The smell of books instantly relaxes me, and brings me to my happy place. I also love rain!

What's something you're looking forward to this week?

I'm looking forward to getting my new glasses!

What's a book you're currently reading?

I'm currently rereading The Hobbit and Rapture. Those are two of my favorite books, and my last before I start my classes.

What's a game you're currently playing?

Bioshock, Planet Zoo, and Modern Warfare.

What's the most recent movie you watched?

The last movie I watched was... goodness, I'm not entirely sure. According to my mom it was Dog Soldiers, which makes sense to me.

Are you watching anything on TV or listening to any shows?

My boyfriend and I are currently watching Foundation, and my mom and I are watching The Purge. I don't do much without those two.

Favorite season?

Winter! I first of all adore snow, but I'm pretty sure that's because it doesn't snow often where I'm from. I also have an allergy to the sun, so I struggle with heat of any kind. I am that crazy person who walks out during a snow storm with a T shirt on and no jacket.

What's something you've learned recently?

I learned the ingredients of Marshmallows, we have a lesson plan that includes them, but we have some severe allergies, so we have to research all parts of whatever food objects we serve.

Have you had any water lately?

Um...How recent is recent? Like I had water an hour ago.

Here are some people I'm tagging, please don't feel obligated to participate!

@persephotea @rain-on-kamino @nahoney22 @arctrooper69

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Aoide (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- Lady Cadence by the people of Olympius

amore mio by her mother

Age- 19 (immortal)

Location- Boeotia, Olympius

Personality- She's a true artistic individual that prides originality above everything else. She's also quite enterprising- finding it natural to be in a leadership role despite being soft spoken. She doesn't mind when she's refered as being a diva, as most talented songtresses are! She's a lesbian & is in a relationship.

She has the standard abilities of a goddess except shapeshifting. As the goddess of voice & song, her other powers/abilities include audiokinesis, having super sonic hearing, and being able to hit a vocal pitch that can shatter adamantine coated glass.

Aoide is the oldest daughter of her mother Lyrikós (Titaness of voice & song). She has two younger sisters- Melete (goddess of thought & meditation) and Mneme (goddess of remembrance).

She lives in the state of Boeotia in a mansion built out of marble & ivory with gold accents. The foundation is held by 12 Greek columns, representing the 12 notes of a voice. The color scheme inside is cream, beige, powder blue, blush pink, glittery silver, and periwinkle- complete with many silk & satin curtains on the high arched windows. The marbled floors are spotlessly polished while her bedroom floors are covered in soft white mink carpeting. Aoide sleeps in a large canopy bed. She has her own personal recording studio built in the basement as well as a concert hall room. She has pets- a poodle (a girl) named Belladonna), a maltese (a boy) named Massimo, and a pegasus (a girl) named Sonata, who's usually Aoide's mode of transportation.

She can play the harp, lyre, & piano.

Her fav. jewelry accessories which she always wears are her white gold diamond studded music note shaped earrings and the white gold charm bracelet (with music note shaped charms). Her mom & sisters have matching ones too.

Go-to drinks for her include martinis, cosmopolitans, champagne, limoncello gin cocktails, a costa del sol (a drink made with white rum, club soda, lemon juice, sweet vermouth, & sugar syrup), sparkling water (with mint & lime), and toasted marshmallow milkshakes. Her usuals from The Roasted Bean include a large cinnamon chai creme frappuccino & an iced black tea lemonade.

Most mornings after she wakes up, Aoide will do a series of vocal excercises followed by a session of acupuncture and tai chi.

Her favorite thing to eat for breakfast are the spinach egg white fritattas and lightly toasted bagels (topped with butter and cream cheese). She also likes her mom's ricotta pancakes (topped with whipped cream and caramel sauce) & Earthly Harvest's vanilla almond cereal (with soy milk).

In the pantheon Aoide's friends with Méli (goddess of bees & honey), Eleutheria (goddess of liberty), Pandaisia (goddess of banquets), Ganymede (god of homosexual love & desire), Phaenna (goddess of jewels), Zephyrus (god of the west wind), Aerin (goddess of the ethereal), Pasithea (goddess of hallucinations & relaxation), Nephele (goddess of clouds), Apollo (god of the sun, music, poetry, healing, medicine, archery, plague, light, & knowledge), Móda (goddess of fashion), Peitho (goddess of persuasion & sensuality), Iris (goddess of the rainbow), Paregoros (Rae) (goddess of soothing words), Eupraxia (goddess of well-being & success), Pothos (god of longing & yearning), and Ailuros (goddess of cats & warfare). Aoide doesn't mind Pheme (goddess of fame). She hasn't been in contact with her former best friends (The Muses) in nearly a century! Most people don't know that M9 used to be The Harmonies- with Aoide being an honorary member and contributing songwriter to many of the songs that they ended up using as M9. She prefers not to dredge up the past & instead co-exist in the world with them. Aoide makes sure not to show up as the same time as them at gold carpet events.

Whatever main radio stations that aren't in the music god's grasp, Aoide owns. She also owns the 2nd largest & well known record company- Platinum Hall Records. Two of her most successful artists are Pale Blu (a nephelai- cloud nymph) and O (Orithyia- an oread, mountain nymph). The Gypsy Belles (the seasonal goddesses) are also signed to the label. Aoide herself hasn't released music of her own except a duet she did with her mother- an operatic orchestral song called "Lacrime Agrodolci", which is a semi-biographical account of her mom's experience during the Titanomachy. The song was nominated at the Golden Laurel Awards for Record of the Year, but lost to M9's "Watercolor Dreams."

She really likes the warm buttery croissants from The Bread Box.

For other work Aoide models for/endorses Persuasions, Stella Ferrea, Maison du Drame, No. 3 & Co., Graces' Glam, Paloma, Diamond Ave., & Euryphaessa. She's currently working with Philyra (and her Olmorfia cosmetics brand) to release a themed make-up palette, Aoide's also thinking about releasing her own parfum.

She loves wearing the Luxuria shimmering body oil in "Sunkissed."

Aoide has a girlfriend, a siren named Philomela. They've been together for a year and made their public debut at the Olympian Gala. She loves her girlfriend's sultry voice, mesmerizing long blue black braids, & the breathless feeling she experiences after kissing her soft full lips.

Her favorite dessert from Hollyhock's Bakery are the cinnamon rolls. She also likes her mom's tiramisu, coconut gelato, white peach tart, & almond semifreddo.

She's starting a growing collection of jeweled Diamond Ave. clutches- so far having the violin shaped one and the boombox shaped one.

Aoide made the best dressed list at the Olympian Gala, where the theme was "Celestial Bodies." She wore a high waisted floor length off-the-shoulder shimmering ivory tulle gown with a 10 ft train, the bodice being lined with pearls and diamonds, and custom made platinum heels. Her hair was in its signature high bouncy ponytail and her make-up kept up with the galatic theme with shimmering silver, dark blue, & violet eyeshadow, jeweled eyebrows (using face jewels), and iridescent lipgloss. She completed the look with oversized white gold diamond studded celestial drop earrings from Stella Ferrea.

Some of her favorite meals include lemon chicken piccata, fettuccine alfredo, margherita pizza, osso buco, tomato basil soup, and caprese pasta salad. She also likes the grilled chicken sandwich combo from Olympic Chef.

In her free time when she's not writing songs or working on music she enjoys ballroom dancing, ballet, going to the cinema, pottery, going to the museum, pottery, cloud surfing, going to the spa, sunbathing, reading, going to the opera, shopping, & painting.

"Singing doesn't necessarily have to be perfect for it to be magical!"

[klaart]

S'more-Tac!!

Körangi origin story vvv

S'more-Tac!!

König’s a factory error but Horangi still likes them:)

[gobboguy]

Chapter 40: A People Reunited

In the heart of the Frozen Spine Mountains, where the icy wind danced through jagged peaks, a lone figure pressed on through the biting cold. Wrapped in thick furs, the cloak billowed in the relentless gale, revealing occasional glimpses of the weathered face beneath. The hood, straining against the wind, suddenly whipped back to unveil Gelbeg, the last of the Orcs, his eyes squinting against the icy onslaught.

As he crested a rocky crag, a desolate expanse of snow-covered peaks stretched endlessly before him. Gelbeg's breath turned to frost in the frigid air as he scanned the frozen landscape. Hope had led him here, to the rumor of his people's survival, but the cruel reality of the Frozen Spine offered little solace. He shivered, drawing his furs tighter, a feeble attempt to stave off the relentless cold.

For weeks, Gelbeg had wandered through the treacherous terrain, each step echoing with the weight of uncertainty. As the hours wore on, he trudged onward, the biting cold seeping through his garments. The relentless chill penetrated his bones, and, despite his indomitable will, he stumbled to his knees, a lone figure succumbing to the merciless grip of winter.

In those final moments, as the cold claimed him, Gelbeg's thoughts swirled with memories of his people, the promise of a future extinguished, and the face of the one he sought. The Frozen Spine Mountains, indifferent to the struggles of a solitary Orc, bore witness to the culmination of Gelbeg's quest, a poignant tale etched into the unforgiving landscape.

In the realm of dreams, Gelbeg found himself immersed in a vision of serenity. Soft grass tickled his senses, and a boundless blue sky stretched overhead, clouds whipped by the wind like fluffy marshmallows. As his eyes fluttered open, a bountiful scene unfolded before him. Orcs, living harmoniously with the land, had forsaken the ways of warfare, bloodshed, and conquest. Gelbeg, struck by the revelation, recalled his conversations with Kathur in Dunn's training house. Could it be that the Orcs' bloodthirsty nature had been their downfall, causing strife with the Snaga?

Overwhelmed by the implications of this peaceful future for the Orcish people, Gelbeg sank to his knees in silent prayer for salvation. He yearned for the survival of his race, an aspiration now embodied in the idyllic scene playing out in his mind. In a moment of celestial brilliance, a star streaked across the sky, capturing Gelbeg's attention. Suddenly, he found himself soaring above the land, witnessing the star's descent in the east of the Kingdom of Farfield. It became clear—an auspicious sign that this distant land held the promise of a new home for the Orcish people.

The dream unfolded like a celestial tapestry, weaving threads of hope and revelation as Gelbeg beheld the potential for a future where Orcs and the land lived in harmony, a destiny set against the backdrop of the Kingdom of Farfield.

In the stillness of slumber, Gelbeg lay upon a stone slab, his eyes tightly closed. Guttural voices resonated in the air above him, their unfamiliar cadence weaving through the quiet. As he groaned, every sinew in his body protested, the ache a testament to the trials he'd endured. Deep breaths drew in the cold, cool, and damp air, carrying with it a scent long forgotten—a fragrance of Orcish body odor, a memory from over ten years past. The voices, now discernible as the rough cadence of Orcish, spoke a language he hadn't heard in what felt like an eternity.

With a sudden jolt, Gelbeg's eyes snapped open to reveal his naked form sprawled on the stone slab, adorned with furs and a heavy fur blanket. Above him loomed the face of an Orc male—greyish green skin, a jutting forehead, a pig-like snout, tusks, and a dull gaze in red eyes. A surge of recognition overwhelmed him, for standing beside the Orc was none other than his long-lost comrade, Arrowcatcher. Gelbeg, flooded with relief and joy, rose from the slab. Grasping the necks of the two Orcs, he uttered words of reunion in their native tongue, "Aav gujat laukav, mausan gijak. mausan gijak," which translated to, "At long last, my people…my people…"

[thespamman24]

Something I found on an old document. I don’t know where it came from:

The problem with god, and most other things and places like that, is thnot ahtnone of them can ever know what its like to be Eatheldred the conqueror, king os the high seas. You see, Spongebob was a very very very good friend of mine he didn’t speak much at all but i helped hind drink his vino joy to all the world joy to al the knishes in the bib blue sea the sea is not it blue it is fiv different colors: turnouise red and starfish. They are all stars when they are born a star fish is born when lady gaga was born the doctors all die. It was a terrible thing that happened and the doctors never all fully reo cevered because theyw ere dea.d I shoukd go to the pound and pound out some sick beats and base lines adn racioactive motor functions I should lose myself in the rhymes and the time and the cat I once new. The world is like a vampire, but I am but a humble bat. A mosquoyo for vampires, if you will. VGam0iies don’t get malaria, becaus eytjey’re not Teddy Roosevelet and he stole all the amalaria a long,l long time ag. Sleep pretty darling do not cry I am Pual Mccarcru. I live in my car an dcry all day. Very sad :( 

He all lives in a yellow yello yellow beaglemobile where that is at yes yes oh yes that is where you must be to be the tree man, the ent of all things the king of all ents the dent the rent the sent. We all live in seasons, in volices, in worlds, in volvos, in serpents ad sand kings. I think believe that the hot dogs are cold a=g-o on in th titanic the hot dogs were all cold. Wait a minut did hot dogs exist back then>? I don’t know hwho knows. ThbeHot dogs were iunvenyted in the chicago worlds gaor because queen victoria got so mad she explodes into 983486238034 zombies so many zombies by lady but they’re all british.

British zombies are lime : “Ello mate mind if I eat your brains? Tally ho!”

American zombies are like “Give  me your fucing brains

“Boston zombies

Bew YOrk Zombies: ‘Ey, pal listen I just want your brains. Just a little bit of your brains, pal. Buddy.

Ausyralian  zombies are like: ah, mate om going to take your barains for me brain stew.

The most essential emost essential worlds of clas warfare is that the hsitory class, and the panih class and all the other clases, well theyre all like marshmallows in the wind, just being tossed aside byu the winds and rides of time and the lime, lime lima beans in tima beans. And the beach is aon the sneeches with the stitches thats what snitcjhes gets and if you dust the dagger the dist will rdust and rust and Rhoududust and if you go to Russia then you will forget what airplanes are they are es muy not allowed in russia the hate airplanes thefe because they smell lieke goat and also kerosene and oh my god it’s the ham sandwich queen of brooklyn, new orleans its time to exoc mminutecate your fae,y our mom and the pope he bee pooping, popping and rocking on the rokcs. He likes to rap about wraps and burritoes with Aaarn, Aaron Aaron aaaaaaaaaaaa just like his mothers father, he was a tree, eryainly a tree for all seasons. Salt, pepper, honey, musard, garlic, salt, onion garlic garden si where th garlic trows all day ee hey thats wher my ass libes in piedmont row I dar enot go for the watermeoons smell wa to much tof jnnny for me I do not like them no I do know knii i am the king ot he book men menstruation stations, come insode it’s fun inside. Okay listen to me kids, it’s time to het seriosu aluminum foil si coming for your lids, house and family. The Vietma, os gpong to marr uopir sister like a jesus in the night and the comedians will run amok throught ehs rteets have les vegas no name man in his no name land eating all jos np na,e ham for no one does not have a pob he is the king of the quen of humans. They live in the most NEwsy of Hampshire. The old hampire os a hamsyer in a hamper in tedau sinday afternoon. There ar eonly tewo daus we sold the fibe other dasy now guys I’m so sorry. Just Tuesday abd Monday from now on and also the Vicitorian eyra of shcarlegamngebe steetha nd beard and dentist,. The royal colonooscopist shall no observe his majesties buttocks.!!!! Ye she shallezt! AAh, Charlemagne!

I’ve started getting really into taking the sorbet out of the cauldron and killing King Max for his treason against his dick. The only way we have to feat is itself that is itself I am me, myself and I. If I was not mysel than I would take myself into the future to see what human sare like, I bet they have more heads. One for work, one for business, one for pleasure, one for romance, one for sex, and one for listeninh to Imagine Dragons. However, they don’t call it Imagien Dragons they call it Teddy Wur. If I need the China becaust ehe batteries. Oh no i removed the bagtteries needed to make Norway function for my remote now Norway has stopped. THe only solution is to eat Norway. MMMMjhhhmm tastes like chocolate cabbage. Teabsolute erribnle. I have seventeen ears of corn and five easts of human flesh. I”m, pretty sire elves are just corn because they’re ears look verty similar. You know, I;ve seen ears if cirb vyt U;m vebver actuakkyt seeb a cirbs fukk body. I reakkky wsug U was a witch evcayse U”m living in Antarctuca and i’ts cold, I need a fire. Santa cLaus refuses to accept my invitation to become a boy band called The Santastics unfortunately I a akso the man of mahy lizatrds, but few delights ibA ystst or September tgen the dying rose will yes yes Like a tiger in a glass jar of picjles, I simply just do not fit into this world. I am sware and the world is circular. I wish I was s2uare because then I would be more easily portable. Circle are hard to port. That’s why they put pizza in swuqare boxes whgeb toy put pizza into the boix then the pizza becomes the box, it feikls up the sun with butternut milk ice cream on hr Tunasday salad dressing up in drag. Ah,, ues I to am the king of New umberlandorleans when the aliens come will they shake our hads, or eat them? That’s for you to decide, Mr. Melviun Luncoln chief washerman of the Canadian States iof abafa. If i was not for fava bean, I’d be against the curtain rolling rolling ride of m[pembrose eyes in the night is bitter, absolutely disgusting. Th night is not that much like a lizard, it is much bigger.

The mechanic is on his hands on the roof on the run from the rung Jiungian. Well, you see if Freud was a man he’d be the king os all the widdle eedeie beedle Pink Floyd they are the serpents of New Jerseuw here the saints come tumbling in and down and up and right and left. Hey-ho! If I was a not the littlesy of the mushroom men than I would ebay the garfield spinach pizza pie but alas. I can not for i am to many men and women and children all at once. I’m so glad yo know that children don’t have genders It’s really great If my beard was a man he would he Dusting Hoffman, kurelest man int he scotttmans hillburghohoro. The queen, yes she is sppphic yes she’s is in the silver movies made of silvers. Vikers i mean vampires can’t watch movie. Viking vampires viking vampires oh fuck yeah oh hell yeahes! Piraes of the caibbean but it’s vikings of the cariibean in canada where the maple labes are a basketball team where they throw the baskeys in the vvall for the volleyball wbaleyuwood is where the woold is just ufcking balling. What does that mean? It means there are balls. So many, goshdarm balls I love them I hate them fuck them they are the sceteys of all Pjnocchio ihidden desires yreasures of Morhgoths kitchenet oh no i must do the eays the magazine before the pink, golden rose comes falling down from the sku and his chest explodes with volluptouse readiness to, I’ll see you on the p9nes tereee that looks like the ugliest fucking swan you’ve ever seen oh and oh no the ugly little duckling was a sytripper tjat’s bad, not good if you ares on the brroks Spinrhrstein then you are a hammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm alojios uou can fuck the ham sadnw asand hidden in the hiding place thay’s where oh la omigi bad the imniiii the man is thenot he knows what the money is it is him. He is the king greatest, ryker 9foa ll the money in scotland. Scotland is not made of bricks there are nl bricks other then the wet, pastry flour that tastes like selvir cupcakes made of raserrie pie but oh what the fsunflwers yiesdau where yu going to? Are you made the of sun, or ais that just your friend, or is your friend the dpillow food demons is your friend the nordic man witht he beard that is a human person from the iconic set of youtube videos titled, this man is the horneist of all the bulls who knows how to be a kite flyinjg welder of the baldiest blades but he alss, he is not the buffalo man he si ada, sp ad, chking on his own misery

‘But he can’t fuk anyone he’s to afraid of the

World in spanish is nothing’it is not the reason we are still here it is raining purple. And silka nd silver

Wehn I was a boy I thought we should return every rock back to the volcanoes

I thought we sh0uld pick them all up and discover all the bugs inside

WHo knows what happens to all th crows we threw away? Where have they flown to?

Have they found another friend, one more shaped liek them in that 

Sweet, beautiful

B ird shape that birds ahre shaped in by the gaudy hands of god

Or are they just going to explode?

Ah, but alas I am the badger I am the worser I am the better I amt eh gooder goo goog goo kooo koo cachoo. I amt he cashew I sneeze on your emmbrane but I do nmot eist for pleasure, oh no no, I s3eat up the udnerwear like a man addicted strawberry flowers fruit h9oneyscukle eyes speeing at you from on the clover, gilded gravestones that laugh like malicious ducks and evil birds from beyond the plane, and the valley of the cursed crimson calling cards of dusks peering in small tufts of dense fur, dense hairless loss of innocent paper napkins b

But where have these words i”ve lost? Where are they running dripping, from yut swollen amiable tongue, carved from obsolescence by that great Renaiisssance carvesman Dutarte or whatever his name was. Where are the dictator over the needless river of neon vuiing war ships and the longstanding food between feud between the bitter, ocean current and the lovely sky damped windowsill?

(Dm) C7 Bb Gm  A7 C7 Bb A7 Fmaj7 Gm Bb A7 Gm Edim 

          7   6    4      5    7    6   5     3      4       6   5    4    2       3   5  4

A funny little story.

I like ducks. They are so cute. I love them so much.

The beach boys live on the dpcks and eat ham like it’s in asyring like it’s poptarts from the great god dyinoussu. Pop poppopppppppppppppppppp there’s the hamstrings the ham percussion, the ham horns and the ham vocalists or something I dont know I am not the orchestra man I fear all things shiny that go in your mouth hole and make noise and I am tired.hu

And so the day begins and so you walk home with your friend your hand in your apple in your hand and you smile and wave and laugh and finally have the urge to kiss them on the lips byt then you open your eyes and realize your eyes and mouth have switched and you were just kissing a daisy flower and it doesn’t really matter anymore, now does it? And seeing as since your apples are now pie and with adams apples you can make an adams apple pie and the american dream is now american pie and the american dream is dead, but alive and I am bread, yet I jize along to the subtle bop, bop bop bopping of the smooth-ass music smooth as shaving cream on a sunny day. Shoobee-doob bop a shoo be doobe doo bop and if you feel the love tonight an the bright reds and greens and blue ina  peppermint orientation that is semu vertical to every angle out there than you can fish for the hearts of irrational men ina  sea of lost desires in a sea of honking desires, lost to fetuse of time in the omb of the great whale of the ocean and the speaker for the day has cried there hands away they can no longer ho;d the microphone todaaaaaaaaaaay! And all the bad dogs have gone away, you will never see them again except in your most idle of dream where your car is tied up in knots of silicon remorse inside your waxy-wishy washy heart and infertile popcorn seems to uniniviting.

Now they lay Richard Nixons body down. Sad old man who ran this town. I can still remember the way he lead the charge and saved the day. Clorox bleach and rain I can hear the beagle saying “We’v seen the last of the librarian woman. She is now gone from entirely fo our hearts. Smoke is like a whisper in the wind to me now, a bitter reflection coasting off the planes wings. Birds of a feather soon learn that they have something better to do. You’re guts swimming around like seals in a pit of brine? Well, they’ve started a union against you. IIIIIIIII. The shrimpsons parents were shrimps but then they died when they realized the hill was too steep to climb and I am to sleep to rhyme anything else but then the time. Let me try being the moon for just a while, I could use some moments being giant white and an orb that is also a rock in the sky. If you’re not a giant spherical rock then that’s not optimal. But that’s okay. We don’t have to be optimal to be amazing, or even perfect. However, no body is perfect anyhow but that’s fine, you don’t have to be perfect to be enough or not to be that is the queso!!!!!!!!!!!!!! CheesE CHEESE!JIHUOBNUBUINLJIerhw3o2jhuverf I am so leired of th epostman bringing back m daughters to me the postman bakes the daughters and the carpenter makes the sons and the postman rakes the nonbinary chuldren and cthulhu still watches overhead, waiting for us all to lose our skin and become gooey-and thereby much, much easier to swallow. Just like the news! Except the news is extremely hard to swallow, because the harder to swallow the better it sells. This also applies to other professions, I think you can figure those out. There are professions and there are amateurfessions and there are professors but some fessors are amateurs in their status their stats are not ours to give nor or they ours to take. We gake and we bake and make the rake blake thompson sinnyboy brown. We are stuck on the lovely visage of weeds while the rainy day bloody festival occurs. And yes, you need time to buy the scarlet labryinths heels, toes shoulders

It is our time to scale the scarlet labyrinths tower of David Lynch. Wrestling with yourself in a cesspool of arrogance and a tornado of macabre delights. Instead of the weather, let’s bleed into each other and call it a fair game, we can lie to the seasons, and to the gods living under flakes of dust, but the only thing we can’t lie to is the screaming orange that lies at the center of the sun, it is to far away and it can not hear you, so. AAAAAAh yes, the latin! The history! It all comes crashing down! So many, many, many years!

[renegad3spectre]

another one from @incorrectcodmw

[inc0rrectmyths]

DO ZARO AND MAZRIA GET IN FIGHTS WITH THEIR PARENTS AND WHEN THEY DO IS IT OVER PETTY STUFF MOSTLY OR SOMETHING SERIOUS?

I LOVE YOUR HEADCANNONS ABOUT THEM💞💞💞

Zaro is a very protective boy. For him, his two dads are real lovers. So when the first time he saw Ares and Apollo with other girls, in love. He was heartbroken. He thought his two daddies are cheating on each other. And he refused to talk to them both. But Artemis, made Zaro sit on her lap and explained everything to him. And then little Zaro apologized to his dads. And Ares and Apollo forgave him and later decided to not talk about their other lovers in front of Zaro cuz that subject kinda made him nervous.

Mazria spent most of her time with Artemis and her hunters cuz Athena was always busy in warfare. And she hated when the hunters insulted Athena. The hunters weren't really fond of Athena and kinda liked bitching about her. Once Mazria heard that and was furious, she complained to Artemis and the goddess didnt pay much attention to the kid cuz she was used to the hunters rambling about Athena. So Mazria fought with Artemis and the hunters. Later Athena told Mazria to apologize to everyone and that she doesn't mind the hunters saying bad things about her.

The two babies dont really fight with their parents. Yeah they annoy them alot! But since they are such pampered kiddos, they don't fight they are really sweet as marshmallows!

AND THANK YOU! I CAN'T BELIEVE WE BOTH ACTUALLY ARE WORKING ON THEM TOGETHER AAAHHH

[dearcat1]

Hi there! I absolutely adore Xanxu's parenting adventures, but I could only find 8 & 9. Is there a tag I can check out for the others? Sorry for the bother, super excited to read it! Thank you for writing it!

Screw it hahaha that tag is not working no matter what I do about it. I'm just going to post everything that's already published here. So: sorry about the long post.

And for anybody who's interested in reading it, I'm putting the next ones under "parenting adventures au". That should be a better tag.

I hope you like it! I meant for it to be cute.

[Xanxus’s terrible bad day]

Part 1 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus does not, in any way shape or form, appreciate mad scientists. He spits out the blood, cleaning up the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. The other hand keeping a tight grip on his remaining x-gun. Irritated, he just keeps glaring at the toddler whimpering in front of him. 

Seriously?

What the fuck!

How is this even his life, Xanxus doesn't know but he demands a fucking raise. And all the goddam alcohol. All of it. Every single fucking drop.

This is ridiculous. The enemy is dead and even Xanxus feels a little uncomfortable with the amount of blood and dead bodies surrounding a two-year-old. Or what looks like a two-year-old, in Xanxus rather uninformed opinion. 

Brat picks himself up, eyes still watery and then… oh no, oh no, no, no. He makes grabby hands at Xanxus. Xanxus sneers, uncomfortable but the newly miniaturized Sawada just pouts stubbornly, stumbling on wet sticky blood as he tries to make his way to the older Sky. 

Xanxus's reaction is pure instinct. He lunges forward, grabs the kid by the back of his overly large hoodie and pulls him up. Brat settles on Xanxus's hip, tiny face hidden against Xanxus's shoulder and the Wrath stands there, feeling more than a little awkward. 

Alright, then, he thinks. Fuck it. So an armful of mini-mini-Sawada in one arm, a gun in the other hand. Base full of dead people who are either already dead or soon to be. Because Xanxus is through like that. 

Clearing his throat, Xanxus hoists the brat up a little more and stalks out of the room. Cleaning up the base is easy enough, finding Byakuran's little note on the desk should be more of a surprise than it is. 

"Have fun on your vacation! You can bond now ~ :3"

Right, Xanxus needs a raise, all the alcohol, and a marshmallow enthusiast killing season. 

[Cabin by the sea]

Part 2 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Finding the little cabin by the sea is easy enough with the handy map the marshmallow freak left for them. Mini-mini-Sawada is a surprisingly obedient toddler so Xanxus is still uncomfortable but at least he isn't deaf from crying fits. 

The only time the brat had cried, it had been silent sad tears that managed to make Xanxus feel like an ass when the brat confessed to being hungry. 

Note to self: brats need food. 

So Xanxus had settled in in the little cabin, laid the brat down on the smaller bed for the night and thrown himself to his own bed, intent on waiting this shit out. 

Except that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by a toddler sneaking into his bed and now Xanxus can't sleep because mini-mini-Sawada is tiny. As in smaller than Xanxus's chest tiny and Xanxus is not a good man, he's not a kind man. 

But there's a toddler sleeping on his chest, all trust and far too delicate limbs and Xanxus finds himself terrified of falling asleep because what if when he does, he moves and crushes the little brat under him? Then the brat would suffocate and die. 

And yes, Xanxus could, potentially, just pick up the brat and return him to his own bed. But what if he doesn't wake up the next time the brat sneaks in? Because if Xanxus has learned something these last couple of days is that mini-mini-Sawada might be mellow but he also has a stubborn bone that won't be reasoned with.

In the end, Xanxus ends up staying awake all night, staring at the ceiling with a hand keeping the toddler in place, just in case he rolls over and falls to his death or something. He waits until the hour changes from absolutely ridiculous to marginally decent to leave the bed.

Doing stuff with a toddler on his arm is easier now that he has practice, his morning routine is no different. It's just when he reaches the point of taking a shower that he finds himself at a loss. They stink, they need to wash. Xanxus has no idea how to clean a brat and he's pretty sure that toddlers don't wash themselves. 

Xanxus looks longingly at his phone and snarls, ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi stirring in his arm. "Fucking dimension without YouTube. What the fuck."

[Watery warfare]

Part 3 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures

Xanxus decides on the bathtub for practicality. It seems like a bath would be easier to handle with a toddler than a shower. Especially a sleepy, clingy toddler. Except that the second Xanxus set the brat down, brat went absolutely fucking insane. 

Watching bemusedly as the brat slaps the water around, Xanxus ignores the mess it's making on the floor and chuckles. "Yeah? Show it who's the boss, shitty brat." 

Tsunayoshi just screams louder, cackling like a maniac.

"Yeah, yeah." Shrugging, Xanxus sits down on the tub, ready to wash himself. He'll clean up mini-mini-Sawada after.

Mini-mini-Sawada has other ideas, however. As soon as Xanxus settles down, the toddler reaches for him and Xanxus helps him sit beside him, lest he falls down and drowns. "What? I thought you were in the middle of a war, trash. Can't just abandon that, you know?" 

The toddler just sticks his fingers in the shampoo Xanxus has just poured into his hand.

"No, that's not for you." Xanxus rolls his eyes, scrubbing his hair and ignoring mini-Tsunayoshi watching him curiously. Ok, so maybe Xanxus might be developing a bit of a soft spot for the toddler. Maybe. It's just… the brat's flames might still be dormant at this age but that doesn't change the fact that whatever is still there… it resonates with Xanxus. 

And that's a relief. It is, because it means that Xanxus might not be Timoteo's but he's still Vongola enough for this. Besides, the resonance helped Xanxus get over his initial 'ew, baby' aversion and is probably the reason the brat was so quick to trust Xanxus.

He wonders if it'll translate to the grown Sawada, once he returns. 

There's just something about mini-mini-Sawada, so small, so breakable and so trusting, that makes Xanxus feel a little protective.

[Shopping trip]

Part 4 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

It takes Xanxus about a week to concede that this won't be a quick matter. Which means that they need clothes. Xanxus could, in theory, keep washing his uniform daily and it wouldn't be a problem. Except he's fucking tired of doing laundry and the brat can't keep wearing the same oversized hoodie for days on end. 

He turns to look at mini-mini-Sawada, who is curled up in Bester's flank, fast asleep, and sighs. It seems they're going shopping.

Which is easier said than done. Unearthing the wad of cash and credit card the marshmallow freak left behind is easy enough, taking mini-mini-Sawada is easy as well. As long as Xanxus doesn't put him down, they're alright. 

No, the issue comes from the clerk who is watching Xanxus like he's wondering whether he should seek the police on him for kidnapping. But Xanxus is still a Sky, no matter that he doesn't do the polite charming shit that Tsunayoshi and Cavallone are so fond of. 

"We had a little accident," Xanxus shrugs, gruff. "He needs clothes." 

Still, the clerk seems unsure until mini-mini-Sawada straightens in Xanxus's hold to point at something in the store. "Ansus! Beste! Look, Beste!" 

Bester, Xanxus knows, is back in his box but he turns to look all the same. He takes a good look at the white cat plushie and laughs. "Yeah, that's Bester alright."

Ignoring the now bemused clerk, Xanxus makes his way to that rack and offers Mini-Tsunayoshi the plushie. The toddler grabs it instantly, cuddling it to his chest and Xanxus snorts, catching a look at bath toys down the ail. Well, fuck it. They're spending Byakuran's money anyway, might as well treat themselves.

"Come on, you need ammunition for your next bath."

It is entirely possible that Xanxus got a little shopping happy but he gives about zero shits, the tiny shirt with a printed 'Mini-Boss' on it is Xanxus's absolute favourite. 

He buys his own clothes quickly and makes a bee-line for the cabin, mini-mini-Sawada cheerfully waving goodbye to the shopping mall.

[Nap]

Part 5 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

What the fuck, Xanxus thinks, bemusedly. It should have been fine. The weather had been nice and the cabin has a nice piece of beach right there so Xanxus had taken the brat out and yes, maybe, Xanxus took advantage of the nice weather to take a nice nap.

But it should have been fine, Bester had been napping with the brat. Covered by the shade. And the brat never wanders off anyway. Bester would have woken Xanxus up if something had happened or handled it himself.

And yet, here they are. 

Xanxus wakes up to find Tsunayoshi sitting next to a hole, definitely of Bester’s making and lapping the water from it? 

He has questions, Xanxus has so many questions. 

First, how did they get water inside the hole? Where does this water come from? Also, why? Bester looks too damn proud of himself, Xanxus adores him but right now, he’s not sure he trusts the liger. Tsunayoshi laps the water again, makes a disgusted face and repeats. “What the fuck?”

Laughing helplessly, Xanxus stands up, patting the sand off of his clothes. “What are you doing, you little shit?” He picks mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling him on his hip.

The brat tries to reach for Bester, “juice?”

“No,” Xanxus chortles, gesturing for Bester to follow. “That’s not juice, trash. That’s seawater at best. What the fuck.”

“Fuck!”

“Shit,” Xanxus picks up their stuff with their other hand and makes his way back inside the cabin to hunt down some juice. “Your parents are going to lose their shit over that, aren’t they?” Toddlers usually don’t use curse words, he knows that much. Then, he remembers that the father in question is fucking Iemitsu and shrugs it off.

[Tuna-fishy]

Part 6 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

They get returned to their original universe about 4 months in, to them at least. It looks like they’ve been gone for barely a week on their own. Xanxus doesn’t care about that, he’s more concentrated on the strained little smile Byakuran is sending to mini-mini-Sawada. 

“What!?” Xanxus snaps, ignoring the toddler’s face hidden against his neck. Brat is shy, that’s all.

“Aaah, yes,” Byakuran shifts uncomfortably, sending a bemused look Xanxus’s way before looking back down to Sawada. “That wasn’t part of the plan?”

“Are you fucking asking?” Xanxus ignores mini-mini-Sawada trying to share his crumpled snack and twitches, debating the virtues of calling Bester or seeking his elements on this moron. 

Iemitsu, apparently, decides that’s his moment to shine. Bastard has been starry-eyed since the second he caught sight of the toddler in Xanxus’s arms. And no, Xanxus is, in no way, shape or form, annoyed by this. The consigliere steps forward, big goofy smile on his face, “Tuna-fishy! Come to papa!”

And mini-Tsunayoshi loses his shit, loses it completely. As in loud screams and tears and a grip hard enough on Xanxus’s shirt that the Wrath wonders for a second whether he’ll rip it. Xanxus reacts on instinct because he’s been looking after this tiny brat for months now.

He shifts his weight to put distance between his toddler and the idiotic blonde and points his gun directly between the asshole’s eyes. His elements react with him, of course, and Xanxus finds himself bracketed between Squalo and Lussuria, all traces of humour lost. 

“What the fuck, trash?” The question is met with silence but all of them saw the way the toddler’s mostly dormant flames recoiled from the man. 

Byakuran steps forward, hands up in placation. “Now, now, no need for this.” He lays a restraining hand on Sawada’s shoulder, “I do believe it might be sweet Tsuna’s nap time?”

Xanxus takes the out, pivoting from his spot but not holstering his gun until he makes it all the way to the car. The brat is still making his best impression of a limpet and Xanxus sighs, cleaning some of the tears off the kid’s face. 

“Fuck, Ansus,” the brat mutters sadly into the fabric of his plushie.

“Yeah, yeah, what the fuck.”

Somewhere in the background, Lussuria coos.

[Apple Slices]

Part 7 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures.

Xanxus wakes up with a tiny brat nestled on his stomach and Bester stretched out by his side. Right. He starts the morning routine without thinking much about it before he remembers that they’re not in the little cabin by the beach anymore. 

And by remembers, he means he gets forcibly reminded by Squalo breaking down his door with a “voi! Wake up, shitty boss!” Lusurria trailing happily after the swordsman with breakfast in hand. 

“You trash!” Xanxus growls quietly, “if you wake up the little brat, you’re dealing with the pouting!”

Luckily for all of them, the toddler has migrated to Bester’s flank while Xanxus went around preparing the things needed for the bad and is now busy sleeping away, face buried in his plushie. 

“And get more napkins,” at Lussuria's odd look he adds, "brat's a messy eater."

Though now it seems like they'll be eating before bathing which is actually more practical. Why hadn't he thought of that? Doesn't really matter, this is how they will do things now. He picks up his own plate and eats quietly, ignoring Squalo's attempts to get Xanxus to do paperwork with the ease of long practice. Only once he's done he goes to pick mini-Tsunayoshi up, settling the sleepy toddler on his lap.

Tsunayoshi is more asleep than awake but he’s docile enough. “Juice?”

Xanxus’s mouth twitches up, “yeah, sure.”

Lussuria squeals, offering him a glass and Xanxus just knows, with one look, that shit is going to get messy. He accepts the apple slice being shoved into his mouth and says nothing. Luss can deal with this shit. "It's good," Xanxus approves, giving the brat another.

Mini-Mini-Sawada bites half of it off and then promptly falls asleep, slumping bonelessly to the side. Xanxus catches him before he can fall off, caught between incredulity and laughter. "The fuck?"

(Juice)

Part 8 of Xanxus’s Parenting Adventures

Xanxus stalks into his office with mini-mini-Sawada on his hip. The Varia as a whole are smart enough to know that if he has one arm tied up in keeping the toddler in place, it means he still has one hand free to shoot them dead. “You trash,” he growls at the closest grunt, “bring me my wine!”

“Juice!” Mini-mini-Sawada adds, waving happily.

“And juice,” Xanxus adds, patting mini-mini-Sawada’s head agreeably. He lets the brat down on the floor inside his office, eyeing the paperwork. Fuck that thing, honestly. 

By mini-mini-Sawada’s side, Bester chuffs gently, picking the toddler up by the back of his shirt and settling him between his paws. Mini-Tsunayoshi turns to hug the liger as best he can, happily waving his stuffed toy around and babbling up whatever comes through his head.

Toys, Xanxus decides, they're going to need those. Is two years old too young for a toy gun? Hmm… Well now he has google, doesn't he? Oh look, Timoteo's weekly ridiculous requests. He picks them up with a snort, fishing for some pencils in the drawer. "Here," Xanxus offers them to his brat, "this is your portion."

Mini-Mini-Sawada has taken to imitating everything Xanxus does. If Xanxus indulges him, it's simply because it makes things easier and no other reason whatsoever. He ignores the happy little squeal, smirking at his paperwork. When Squalo comes to pick up their finished piles, he makes a face at the brat's handiwork.

Xanxus glares, absent-mindedly cleaning the toddler's face after their snack. 

Squalo just huffs, irritably pushing his hair out of his face. "Voi, FINE! Don't complain to me if they bitch!"

"Fuck that trash," Xanxus doesn't care about what they want. 

"Trash!" His toddler smashes his juice box in agreement. Xanxus lips twitch. Ok, so he's a little fond.

(Strategy)

Part 9 of Xanxus's Parenting Adventures 

Timoteo knows something is going on the moment that the door opens for the Varia's scheduled paperwork drop and it's not only Squalo coming through it but also Mammon and Lussuria. He has half of the Varia in his office when it usually takes months of cajoling to get so much as one other than Squalo. And even then, for this very same dropoff. 

But the Varia are a lot like cats, there's no use in pushing them too much. You have to dangle the bribe and wait for them to come to you. So Timoteo doesn't show hesitation, he simply settles in to give their paperwork a quick check. There's never any blood but he does get a kick out of seeing the progressively more ridiculous fake signatures over the line with his son's name.

This time, it's a toddler’s handprint in ink so strong that some of the text is no longer legible. Timoteo blinks once, twice and then looks up at the gleeful faces of the Varia Officers. "What is this?"

"The mini-boss," Mammon begins, smug and greedy, "is living up to his name,"

Oh, Timoteo realizes, thumbing through the paperwork with new eyes and finding the sort of drawings he hasn't seen in over a decade. Iemitsu had been over yesterday, Timoteo had listened to his ramblings with half an ear but now it's starting to make sense. It hadn't been Iemitsu's usual delusions, Tsunayoshi really is a toddler now. Carefully, Timoteo picks the drawings from the rest of the papers. "Name your price."

Squalo smirks, "vacation. One week, full expenses covered, anywhere we want."

"Done," Timoteo stretches his hand, waiting patiently while Squalo looks inside his bag and comes up with a little plate. Tsunayoshi's small palm is etched on it, colourful kid's drawing decorating the outer sides, under it, in Xanxus's elegant writing, it's Tsunayoshi's name in perfect japanese.

"It's perfect."

"Whatever," Squalo snorts. "Voi, nice doing business with you." Squalo turns on his heel and walks out the door, his two tag-alongs following behind him.

[universallywriting]

Ok so I want the opinion of an intelligent, cultured author on a debate going on on another blog I like: who do you think would win in a fight between a human child, and Peridot before acquiring her metal powers. I believe it would be a tie, as Peridot could not overpower the child, but the child could not restrain or harm Peridot.

Well, I mean, it’s gonna depend on the age and ferocity of the child. For sake of argument, we’ll assume this is a normal child who has not been trained by Pearl.

0-3: At this age, the child needs interference in order to continue surviving. I believe Peridot would win, if only because the child would walk off the side of the sky arena, into a lava pit, etc.

4-9: Here’s where it’s a little murky. I think it’s going to depend on how badly the child wants to win. Obviously, no matter what the scenario, Peridot is going to want to win. Losing to a child is humiliating. On the younger side, I think Peridot might get a lucky hit in and knock out the child, but towards the middle and older spectrum, I think the child would have a good chance of fighting Peridot until she retreated.

10-12: I believe a child in this range could defeat Peridot. I feel like a child of this age would be aware of tool usage, and would throw rocks at Peridot until she surrendered. Peridot surrendered to marshmallows, so I believe pebbles would obliterate her. These children would also likely be old enough to be competent bullies, and I do not believe that Peridot can handle the psychological warfare that middle schoolers are capable of.

Thank you for this very compelling question.