#so. tasks

[bookwyrminspiration]

god I would be UNSTOPPABLE if I was capable of consistently initiating tasks. just you wait. you'll be waiting a while but just you wait

[lowkeiloki]

guys can you BELIEVE my professors rejected this illustration of litle sharks for my college project i am devastated

disabling reblogs for a short while bc theyre becoming a lot

[atalana]

the curse of adhd:

i will remember with absolute clarity, when the thought strikes me that i have a text to send someone, that this is the fourth time in three days i've attempted to send this specific text

i will forget, in the time it takes me to pick up my phone, that i picked it up intending to send a text

[birdiedoesdc]

now THIS is the tim-jason brotherism i’ve been looking for

[tickfleato]

funniest adhd thing is when you're like ugh. doing this simple task would be too hard. guess i'll do a difficult one instead

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.

[spicy-apple-pie]

Bruce didn't come here to fuck around

(also why is alex so hard to draw?)

Commission Info / Kofi (members get comics a week early)

[lanialania00]

[goatgoesmbe]

You're a medic at Taskforce 141.

Except. you're still in medical school, at the final year, and must complete an elective rotation.

You applied for a specialized field elective, which is why you're here.

So expect more stress and sleep deprivation. finals. thesis. reports. all that on top of your work.

No time to care about yourself, messy hair, crumpled uniform worn to sleep, eyebags.

Of course, you work under supervision- a decent man really. He was just doing his job, but it pissed you off how he diminished you sometimes- making you feel like you can't do your job with many stuff on your plate already (which is true I guess, but- come on, you're here for the experience)

Fortunately, there are an odd four that somehow always made your day better.

Like how the Captain stepped in every time your supervisor not acknowledging you.

Or a certain sergeant with a mohawk who for some reason always needed something to patch up. He's probably just wreckless- but you like to think it's because he wanted to see you

Another sergeant- which was the kindest of the bunch. Will sometimes get you a cup of coffee how you like it, even accompany you during lunch- handfeeding you as you are busy studying for finals.

And the lieutenant cared about you in his own way.

Like that one time you were proof-reading your thesis late at night (or early morning) in the rec room..

"Your methodology is weak."

You jumped so hard that your laptop nearly toppled over.

Lieutenant Ghost stood behind you, arms crossed over his broad chest, silent as a ghost as he glanced at your screen, unimpressed.

"What-"

He ignored the question and nodded at your laptop. "You're making assumptions about patient stabilization times. Your sample size is too small. And your survival rate data is incomplete."

You frowned, feeling offended. "Excuse me-?"

Ghost exhaled, the closest thing to a sigh you'd ever heard from him.

He reached over, scrolling through your document with annoying precision, stopping at a paragraph.

"Here. You said field tourniquet applications reduce fatality rates by 60%, but you didn’t specify by mechanism—exsanguination control or delayed shock treatment?"

You stared. Not at the screen. At him.

This man—this cold, intimidating, emotionally-unavailable lieutenant—was critiquing her thesis at one in the morning.

"You… you read this?" You asked, incredulous.

He didn’t look at her. "You left your notes unsecured last week. I glanced through them."

"Glanced? You just ripped apart my entire methodology!"

He finally met your eyes, gaze sharp, unwavering.

"If you’re going to write a thesis based on field medicine, do it right. I won’t have you publishing half-baked conclusions based on incomplete data."

You blinked. Once. Twice.

He straightened, arms still crossed. "Rewrite them all tomorrow, get some sleep, or you’ll make more mistakes."

And just like that, he turned, heading toward the exit.

You called after him. "Lieutenant."

He paused.

"…Thanks," You mumbled with a smile.

He said nothing, but in the dim light, you swore you saw the faintest blush at the high of his cheeks- peeking behind his balaclava. And then he turned to walk away, disappearing into the night.

i like making reader to be miserable but loved, so- because let's be real, we read fics because we're miserable and wanted to be loved

[screamingforests]

Ghost was pushing you. That's the only explanation for his actions. You didn't understand why he went harder on you than any other recruit.

So, you pushed yourself even more when he wasn't watching. You wanted to impress him. You wanted to impress all of your superiors. It didn't matter that your hours of sleep were dwindling dangerously low.

You were getting better, your results more apparent to everyone.

You were faster than the other recruits, had better endurance, you could fight hand to hand better. You could lift more. It didn't matter that you had deep bags hanging beneath your eyes. It didn't matter that you nodded off when you had a moment to stand still. You were doing so good, you couldn't give up now.

Not until it was another day under Ghost's watchful command. Every push-up harder than the last, your vision going spotty.

"Up! Down! Up! Down!" Ghosts shouts, voice in time with a metronome. He was stomping around all the recruits, correcting postures or yelling at someone. "Get up, recruit!"

You start to get up, vision going dangerously blurry. You think you slur out an affirmative, you aren't sure. Time seems to slow for a second before your vision goes completely black.

~

What you don't see is the way Ghost's eyes widen as your body suddenly collapses, the way he jerks to try and catch you before your head hits the ground. He's fast but not fast enough. Guilts paints his mind, worry smudging his clear thoughts.

Picking you up is easy, even for a recruit of your size, you should be weighing more. Especially with the amount of muscle on you.

Ghost rushes to the infirmary, yelling at them for attention. He's directed to laying you on a bed, he's so deceptively gentle with it.

The nurses ask him to leave but the dead-eye stare he gives them in return has them flustering and murmuring its okay. He doesn't want to leave you, he has to make sure you're okay. It was all his fault- he had been pushing you too hard.

Pushing you so hard the rest of the Task Force noticed.

Ghost remembers Price telling him to take it easier on you, Soap trying to take over his training days to keep you away. His sharp eyes didn't miss the way Gaz tried to slide you more energy bars to make up for Guost's harshness.

He had caused this.

~

By time you wake up, some several hours later, Ghost has cleared out. But in his place stands Price, carefully watching over you and your vitals. He didn't want to make it worse and scar you when you woke up so he entrusted you to Price - Price could take care of you if Ghost couldn't.

Even when you're cleared from infirmary, he makes his guilt apparent in other ways. He's softer towards you, softer than he should be. It leaves you reeling. You aren't sure how to handle this new side of him.

Ghost makes the cooks give you a larger portion to make up for the calorie deficit. Gaz and Soap enforce stricter lights out rules for him - making sure you don't have any midnight trainings.

He just wants to protect you but he's not sure how to show you that. Ghost can't show you how important you are to him.

[skyrigel]

Simon “Domesticated” Riley is my favourite.

Yes, he would kill for you and he would die for you but his affections and undying love isn't limited to oaths. It's boundless and endless.

He will cook for you, learn because he wasn't taught very good and he wants everything to be good for you.

He will sing for you, because you'd heard him in the shower and couldn't get past to fall asleep without his husky songs to make you fall asleep on his chest.

He will wash the dishes, side by side you. Laughing along as you dry the plates and using his hands at work to your own advantage to play mischief on him.

He will hear you, as you would continue to talk about everything because nothing was out of field, and despite you being a very seducing distraction, he's always trying his best.

He's a “my girlfriend, my wife” guy despite the other Task force guys teasing him about it, he doesn't mind holding your purse, instead he prods on it, he's always on his knees to tie your shoelaces, to help you out from those pointy heels. He doesn't mind being whipped, as Soap christened it, or smitten as Gaz chortled, because he is, as he should.

He's not patronising, despite being raised up to be one. He's gentle and kind and soft for you, and he's working on becoming a better man everyday for you.

He doesn't let his anger that's so unforgiving and terrible get the better of him, he's not a monster despite the blood on his hands as you've always told him so, he would pace around the lawn, sit in the grass, wash his face but he wouldn't let his anger be something you should be scared off, he wouldn't let it get between this holy thing called love.

He talks things out, understands your opinion, values them openly. 

He expresses everything even so it'd become difficult after being told to be stoic for so long, but he tries, always for you. 

He's always startled and flushed when you compliment him and he's trying to learn that you mean every word of it.

Masterlist

[pythonmoth]

cw: violence. torture. waterboarding. hurt/no comfort.

> i haven't written in a long time. it's good to be back.

× framed traitor f!reader x lt ghost. poly tf141.

Part 1

Traitor.

That's what Price thinks as Simon and Soap drag you from the table, nearly choking on your food as they give you no time to understand what's going on.

Alarms ring in your ears as you force the piece of stale bread down your throat, trying to stand on your feet but they're taller than you, so your feet end up dangling, useless. You take a deep breath, your voice shaking as much as you are.

"What's going on? Is this some kind of sick joke?", you ask, looking at Simon, desperate to find an explanation for this other than the anger and torment in his eyes.

Simon doesn't answer. Nobody does. Soap's grip tightens, but he doesn't say anything, his expression hard.

No.

No.

You can tell they are not joking when you realize they're taking you downstairs. Sweat rolls down your face, fear creeping from the base of your neck to your toes, making you snap. You beg them to tell you what's going on, to explain why you're being dragged down there. You kick and struggle, a sob ripped deep from your chest as you start screaming, begging for a reaction. And then, pain.

Tears fill your eyes when it's Simon who hits your stomach with his fist, effectively shutting you up. You can smell the blood from past tortures mixed with bleach, and, distantly, the scent of forgotten wet rags. There's something salty in the air, and that's when you freeze, the pain in your stomach becoming nothing compared to the fear that grows in your chest.

They know you.

You've been with them for nine years. They know your fears.

"No. No. Please. Simon, Johnny— Please, please, please" you beg, sobbing as you can't do anything but go limp and heavy in their grip, doing the best you can to keep them from tying you to the chair. But it's useless.

Stars and colors dance behind your eyes as a fist connects with the side of your chin. You wonder if it would be better if they made you pass out right now. Maybe if you bite your tongue, it could—

"Gag her" Price tells them.

He's trained you for nine years.

He knows you.

You try to bite down on Johnny's fingers as he stuffs your mouth with an old rag, but it's difficult when your senses are unfocused after such a hard punch. The rag wet and disgusting, the scent and the taste making you sob again, shaking your head, your eyes big as you look at Simon.

Please.

Then a wet rag is pressed to your face. You inhale sharply as cold buckets of salty water are dropped right on your face, the cloth making it impossible for you to breathe. Salty water fills your lungs, making you choke and cough around the gagging rag.

You can hear questions, accusations, but you're paralized with fear, with pain and grief.

Grief.

They've been your friends, your family for so long. It's impossible to tell if you'll live through this. It's impossible for you to think of them as anything but monsters.

You know they usually did this with traitors, with enemies when it was necessary.

And you know they never enjoy it.

You've scolded Simon for smoking so late at night, you've had so many drinks next to him when he can't even speak. Simon often flinches awake from nightmares, startling you and then sharing quiet nights side to side.

You know this.

But then Simon hits your face again, taking the rag out of your mouth, and you can't find the love you have for him. It's expelled from your body with each hard cough, with each drop of blood falling from your nose.

"Did you not hear me?" Price demands, his arms crossed. "I'll ask one more time, then."

Smack.

Your chest is heaving, the fear so paralizing you can't even feel each punch as much as you should.

"What did you tell them?" Price continues, not looking one bit anxious for you to answer. He stands in front of you, his feet dry despite the salt burning your lungs.

"I don't know what you're talking about" you manage, looking up at Price, your eyes wide and bloodshot.

With a hard yank on your hair until your head is thrown back again, you're gagged once more, and the rag is pressed to your face. The salty water keeps on filling your lungs, unable to breathe, unable to cough around the gag.

You can't say anything. You truly don't know shit.

Hours later, when it becomes clear you won't speak, Price kicks you across the chest, hard, and the chair flips back.

You're tied up to the chair, exhausted and wet, your lungs burning with salt.

Memories of you as a child, nearly drown to death by your cousins, fill your mind. It had been a good day, until it wasn't.

Simon had held you when you told him, kissed you, and tucked you in for a good night sleep.

Johnny managed to make you crackle when you told him, patting your head, and saying your cousin had awful skills.

Now, there's nothing. Nothing but pain, and the burning in your lungs.

The door springs open, and the three men leave.

Only then do you close your eyes, passing out.

Masterlist | Part 2

buy me a coffee

[slowlyfurryblizzard]

I should wear my hair in a ponytail more

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ bouncer simon 'ghost' riley - 01

cw : sexual theme, small sexual assault scene, violence

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤ collection - prev ⋆ next

the new bouncer had all the girls intrigued. you'd been working here for almost a year, and you'd never seen anyone like him. and god, you'd seen some weirdos in a strip club.

on his first day, the girls had been mostly intrigued by his physique-big, strong, face covered by a surgical mask and the hood of his hoodie, with 'security' written in bold across his back. but now, all the girls, you included, had one goal… hearing his voice.

that was the thing with ghost-how he had been introduced to the staff-he didn't talk. when drunk men started bothering the dancers, he didn't need to say a word. he just approached, and the fuckers got the message. if they didn't, he grabbed them and threw them outside. not a single word spoken.

word was that he was ex-military, and it would make sense. his sheer physical strength alone was proof-you had seen him throw a man to the floor like he weighed nothing, and that guy had to be at least 130 kilos. his posture was another giveaway, rigid and disciplined, always on his feet, eyes scanning the room like a hawk. then there was his silence-no one ever heard him coming. sure, the music was loud, but even without it, he moved like a ghost, blending so seamlessly into his environment that predicting his next move was nearly impossible. guess he earned that nickname.

but why would an ex-military man end up in a strip club in manchester? he either fucked up bad, or he was just done.

truth was, simon had been injured-his knee was shot, pain was constant, and command had benched him for good. no more deployments, no more battlefield. just a desk and a slow death in an office. so he walked.

he hated the way he would softly limp. to untrained eyes, it was barely noticeable, but to him? he felt like he was half of himself . this job was the only thing he'd found outside the military that still required some of his skills. he had no interest in working around soldiers-too petty for that. they didn't want him anymore, so he sure as hell wasn't going to help them train new recruits.

so he ended up here, at the magic stick. what a stupid fucking name. but the job? same as always-observe, analyze, attack.

it wasn't so bad. the job was easy, the place mostly clean, and the pay was good. he didn't need to socialize. sure, the girls had tried to sweet-talk him, but he'd just deadpanned them until they gave up. the only one who never really tried was the one he always had his eyes on. his gaze lingered on you when you were on the pole, when you walked past him to head to the back, when you led a man by the hand to the private rooms.

you were on your break, smoking by the staff door when he stepped out. normally, you were never shy-especially not around men, given your line of work-but there was something about ghost that made your hands sweat. you meekly offered him a fag, your voice quieter than usual. he said nothing. just looked at you, unreadable as ever. yet, somehow, the silence wasn't awkward. you were.

maybe it was nerves, maybe it was the way he carried himself, all stillness and power, but something had you spiraling. before you could stop yourself, you started ranting about customers, the same way you did with the girls inside. anything to fill the space, anything to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. call it a defense mechanism, call it whatever you wanted-but right now, you just needed to stop feeling so damn flustered.

once you were finished with both the rant and the fag, you made your way inside, quickly. "thanks for the therapy, ghost." you'd said. he still had his eyes on you, his expression unreadable, but you guessed you had annoyed him. just as you turned your back on him, passing through the door, you heard him.

"name's simon," he grunted, voice thick with that unmistakable manchester accent.

back inside, your cheeks were burning. his voice was so deep it should be illegal. it suited him, no doubt, and you'd be lying if you said just hearing his name didn't send a shiver down your spine. how could a man you had no shot with be that damn attractive? as you made up your little scenarios at night, you imagined his groans in your ears. you'd known he'd groan.

but life went on. you danced, he watched. until one night…

it was a busy night, even with only an hour until closing. many men were still sitting, watching all the girls on stage. you were out looking for the biggest fish-the man with the most drinks on his table, the one whose clothes looked the most expensive. it hadn't been a slow night, but you liked the money. little did you know, you were being observed too.

when you had chosen your target, you took him to the back. men here were always so eager for private dances. you explained everything meekly- how long, how expensive. and most importantly, you told him: no touching, not from him. "i do all the work, honey," you said, sitting down on his lap.

as you started your show, you knew he was going to be a difficult one. he kept trying to reach for your hips, your thighs. at first, you stayed calm, pushing his hands down gently with a soft smile on your lips. but as he insisted on moving his hands, you decided you were done. you quickly put your top back on, told him it was on the house, and that he could just leave now.

he didn't really seem happy with the idea. you knew what was coming, so you reached for the hidden button, pressing it to call security.

the man had approached you, trying to grab you again, pulling at your top, yelling for you to go back to dancing, calling you a whore. he even went as far as grabbing a handful of your arse. but before he could do more, he was on the floor, ghost on him, fists landing on his face.

once he decided the fucker had had enough, he dragged him outside. he glanced back at you before leaving, like he was waiting for something. "'m 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘦," you said, nodding at him. to be honest, you were more than fine-you were hot and bothered. he had been protecting you. you.

you had worked in far worse strip clubs; you were no stranger to that type of behavior. that's why you liked this place so much: the security was efficient. even the guys before ghost didn't make you wait 10 minutes here. and ghost-he arrived in a matter of seconds. you didn't really care how he had gotten there so quickly.

after closing, you decided to take a shower at the club. even though you were sadly used to vile men, it was never a pleasant experience. you told the girls not to wait up for you; you knew the manager wouldn't be leaving for another hour, so you took your time.

what you didn't know was that simon always waited for you in the shadows. he liked to watch you reach your car, making sure nothing happened to you on the short walk from the door to the parking lot. so when he saw all the girls making their way out, but not you, he got concerned. he decided to investigate. he never thought he'd stumble upon this.

you were in the showers, and he heard the water running. reassured that you were okay, he was about to make his way out, ready to wait in the dark like a good guard dog. but just as he put his hand on the handle, the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard reached his ears.

"simon," you moaned.

you had no idea he was here, he knew that. he smirked, wondering how long you had been touching yourself to the thought of him. probably as long as he had with you. he had seen the look on your face in the private room, your eyes screaming '𝘧uck m𝘦.' he hadn't thought anything of it then, chalking it up to the adrenaline. but now? you were going to get what you asked for.

silently taking his clothes off, he made sure to lock the bathroom door. no one was here but you and the manager, but he was still thorough. old habits died hard. he took his mask off too. after all, he had no intention of this being a one-time thing. his sweet girl could see his face; he didn't care.

pulling the shower curtain open, you didn't even notice that. tsk. oh, that wouldn't do. he'd have to teach you to be more aware of your surroundings. the world was a very bad place.

you jumped when you felt a warm body behind you, hands on your hips. you were about to move your own hand from between your legs, but it was stopped. "don't stop on my account, lovie," simon murmured in your ear, his voice low and rough. "wanna hear all those sweet sounds you're makin'"

when you didn't do anything, you felt his teeth nip at your throat. "what? gettin' shy on me?" he laughed darkly, and you just whimpered in response. "ah, i see. need me to do all the work, yeah?" he asked, the smirk clear in his voice. and so, he did all the work.

you had been right, he did groan.

[tojisun]

something something the squad blindfolding you for that typical sex game that is popular right now which is: they’ll fuck you and you have to guess which cock is whose, and they’ll only stop when you finally get all four of them right.

you thought it was going to be easy—you’re all so familiar with each other’s bodies, both because of missions but also because of the way you all paw at each other, trying to smother the nightmares through sex, but then they’re fucking you in the dark and you can’t glean who it is.

not just because you’re blindfolded, but you’re also bound to deter you from cheating. and the pleasure is also just too much that you don’t have the ability to feel every different ridge or curl of their cocks or how the bulbed head feels different—johnny’s the only one cut between all of them, and even then you don’t know which one is his.

you’re crying by the end of it, exhausted and spent, but another cock is fucking into you, and then john’s voice croons from somewhere behind you, “c’mon pretty bird. we don’t have all night.”

the game continues on or something something.

[tiredkatzz]

F1 X 141 crossover?

Definitely didn't forget about this for way too long...

YEP. HERE IT IS.

Soap and Gaz are the drivers while Price and Ghost are their race engineers (the people in the driver's ear while they're in the car). Hope y'all like my choices!

If there are any other f1 enjoyers here that wanna suggest other roles for characters in their team pls tell me :3