#this was too good how could I not

[danibee33]

hostage

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (goes by “Saint”)

based on a post by @call-me-doll-face! your vision for this song (“hostage” by Billie Eilish) was just too perfect😭 I couldn’t get it out of my head. I hope you love it as much as I do.

tags: angst & smut, ok it’s very angsty, did I cry? yes

word count: 5.7k (sry I got carried away)

+++

The files strewn across your desk only come back into focus at the sound of three crisp, concise knocks on your door. You blink away the dryness, eyes darting toward the open window to see its pitch dark outside now- shit.

Two more knocks resound through the room, they're a little more forceful this time, urging you to push away from the organized chaos, crossing the short span on tingling feet. You hadn’t meant to lose track of time like that, but after the debrief you needed something to distract you, get your mind off the bitter taste the meeting had left in your mouth-

“Target’s in the wind after the attack in Yemen-”

You change the map, zooming in on a tiny Bedouin village- the settlement no more than a speck in the vast desert, “But we’ve intercepted and translated some chatter from local law enforcement that are on Abaza’s payroll.” – the room goes dark for half a second before the next slide flashes on the screen- “Seems he’s following his pattern of hiding behind civilians.”

The room is silent, save for the rapid clicking of Soap’s pen against the desk- one of the restless man’s many tics, and Price’s furious scribbling. Gaz is eyeing the map studiously, his lips twitching as he muses through the routes and planning- no doubt trying to predict what the Captain will do.

Ghost is just.. Looming. Perched in his usual corner, arms crossed over his chest as he contemplates the information and intel given, eyes lazy and half-lidded even when Price stands, coming to stand at your side.

“Bloody good work, Saint.”

He pats your shoulder, taking over your spot as you settle in a seat at the table, and you try to listen intently- short-handing a few notes you might have missed as the Captain dives into the plan. The others pitch in ideas along the way, logistics and safety for the civilian population; but, it was extraction that gave you pause.

“There will be no cover- that encampment is too exposed.” You only realize you had spoken the thought out loud when you hear a soft huff from behind you,

“Very perceptive, Sec.” Ghost grumbles, his usual sarcasm somehow thicker, more exasperated.

Could you have held back your overly dramatic eye roll? Of course. But it’s fucking Ghost, and all you can hope is that he sees it- just like you know he sees your middle finger held up over your shoulder.

He knows you hated the way he ignored your call sign in favor of using the belittling, diminutive of your rank instead. It’s always been ‘Sec’ for him, short for Second Lieutenant, never one to let you, or anyone else, forget that he outranks you-

But, you’re used to it. That’s just the relationship you and him have had from the start, always this brutally competitive tension between you- which never made sense to anyone else. Especially considering your specialities are on opposite ends of the spectrum, each of you serving your own unique role to make the team function and perform like the well-oiled machine it’s been honed into.

And, to be honest, you’re not sure why you ever let him get under your skin either. You’ve worked with plenty of egotistical superiors and subordinates alike, and it’s never stopped you from reaching and surpassing every single goal you set for yourself. If anything, it’s only pushed you to work that much harder- usually at the cost of any sort of personal life, which is actually how you got your callsign-

“Saint” - ‘the only officer in the SAS who might make it to heaven’

You thought it was silly, but over the years it grew on you. And now, it just feels like what your name has always been, even if everyone knows you rarely make it far in the military by being an actual saint-

“Yes, extraction will be the most difficult part-”

Price’s voice brings you back to the present moment, head snapping up when you sense the giant presence standing next to your chair, “It’s a two-person job, then?”

Ghost’s voice has lost all its amusement and sarcasm, and his gaze feels heavier somehow as he looks over the screen. You watch him for a moment, catching all the nuances in his outward body language that are so imperceptible to others- though, you sometimes wish you weren’t so in tune with him. Wish you didn’t know exactly why you could pick up on these things when no one else could..

“That’s what I was thinkin’-” Price nods, looking between his two sergeants, “Soap, you’ll be second, running interference with some well place distractions?”

You watch Johnny practically vibrate with excitement, shooting you and Ghost a wink,

“Ka-freakin’-boom, baby. You an’ me, LT. The dream team!”

But again, you notice Ghost’s lack of snarky response, verbally and non-verbally, it unnerves you-

“Saint, you’ll be with them-”

“No.”

It takes you a second to react, not sure if you had heard it correctly- maybe you had missed something and he had barked the word over another matter entirely. But then, you hear Gaz and Soap be dismissed, and suddenly you’re standing beside Ghost, you and Price speaking the same question at the same time,

“No?”

Ghost shrugs, refusing to look down at you, “Don’t need ‘er there, Boss. Nothin’ she can’t feed us over radio.”

“First, I’m right here- and second, you don’t get to decide what I can or can’t do-”

Price looks at you, his expression only hinting at confusion as he watches you cross your arms now, mirroring your lieutenant's posture, “Captain-”

Something flashes through the stormy blue of his eyes then, something you can’t even begin to place. But it doesn’t really matter, because you don’t get to finish your protests- cut off instead by an apologetic hum,

“He’s right, Saint-”

“What!?”

You’re not in the business of challenging authority, at least not the authority of a man you genuinely respect like John, but you can’t help it- this wasn’t the first time you’ve been benched, and you know it’s not the first time it’s been Ghost the one ordering it.

Price glances at his watch before scrubbing a hand over his face, “Bloody hell-”, he rounds up the files and tucks them under one arm, holding his mug with the other, “We’ll finish this later, clear?”

Just like that- he’s gone. And you’re left with the suffocating shadow still staring at the image on the wall,

���Don’t take it personally, Sec.”

Your hands clench and unclench, nails leaving stinging little crescents in your palm before turning on your heel, “Fuck you, Ghost.”

You know who’s on the other side of your door. You always do. It’s been your routine for the last year and half- You do have to give it to the insufferable fucking prick for coming to you so soon after what he had done, though.

But, sure enough, the door swings open and there he is. Simon Riley, towering in your doorway, covered head to toe in a black hoodie and dark jeans, his face even further obscured under the hood- all you can see clearly are his eyes. And they’re intensely focused on you.

“Don’t worry, Price called.” You say, leaning against the frame-

He gives you nothing, seconds ticking by as he stands there like a statue, slowly scanning your face like he’s done a thousand times before. It used to make you uncomfortable, how he would look at you that way, like he was peeling you open, layer by layer- and it still does, like now. But, you’ve gotten used to his idiosyncrasies, at times even find them oddly endearing, if he weren’t such a dick.

“Can I come in?”

A sigh fills the air between you, followed by you glaring up at him- you want to say ‘no’, give him another big ‘fuck you’ middle finger and slam the door in his face; maybe even say fuck your arrangement all together, because now it’s becoming a pattern, him sidelining you.. But, you do none of those things. Because it’s him. Always fucking him.

So, you roll your eyes and turn back into the room, not bothering to invite him in because he knows the open door is your way of allowing it.

Instantly, your cozy abode feels ten times smaller and a hundred times warmer with him in it- it causes your skin to flush and your fingers to twitch, that restlessness you tend to feel when you were alone with him, crawling over you, burrowing itself in your chest.

“You’re mad.”

“Very perceptive, Ghost.” You throw his words from earlier back at him, crossing your arms because you honestly never knew what to do with your hands when you talked to him.

They always wanted to reach out for him- you were no better than Pavlov’s salivating dog when it comes to Simon fucking Riley. He had trained you so well without ever even having to try.

God, you hate him. And you hate yourself even more for know that’s not true in the slightest- “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Doin’ what?” He shifts on his feet, fists still shoved in the front pocket of his hoodie.

You throw your hands up, “Benching me like this! There’s no reason I shouldn’t be on the ground with you and Soap, just like I usually am.”

“There’s no reason you should be, either.”

That awful itch creeps down your spine, tickling your legs and feet. The need to move, to exert some kind of energy before you implode forcing you to pace. You’ll never understand him, no matter how much time you spend together, or how many nights you waste sweaty and clinging to each other, words never meant for the waking world spoken between you- you will never understand him.

Never understand why he can’t just be hot or cold, why he can’t just be mean to you all the time, because at least that way it would be easier to separate what is, and what isn’t.

“You said this wouldn’t change things- I’ve held up my end of the deal. But you.. We can’t do this if you’re going to jeopardize my career.” Simon watches you just as intently as before, eyes tracking your war path back and forth, “I mean, I know we’re competitive and petty, but I didn’t think you would start fucking blacklisting me-”

That seems to catch his attention, head perking up, “That’s not what I’m doin’, Sec-”

“Well then enlighten me, lieutenant.” You spit back, eyebrows furrowing when you see him reach for you.

He gently tugs you closer, gloved hand wrapped around your forearm- closer and closer until you can feel that unbearable heat he exudes, smell the spice of his cologne, the one he only ever seems to wear when he comes to your room. Like he wants to lay claim to you somehow-

“Don’t..” The command comes out without even a hint of conviction, his finger tilting your chin back,

“I don’t want to talk, Saint. Please, not right now.”

It must be comical, how wide your eyes grow at the sound of your callsign in his gruff voice, the way he breathes the small plea- something you’ve never once heard him say. You just barely catch the way his eyes crinkle at the very corners in your stupor. The audacious bastard is smiling like he knows you would melt for it.

He knows you so well.

But the smile isn’t mean, it isn’t to spite you like he does sometimes- no, this feels warmer, like you could reach out and wrap yourself in it.

“Simon.. This isn’t good for us.”

“For us?”, he leans down then, the arm around your waist pulling you close enough to feel his covered lips on your neck, “Or for you?”

Your exhale feels labored and too heavy in your lungs, cursing yourself over and over for how effortless it is for him to unravel you. How just the feeling of his big hands splayed out over your ribs, slowly traveling up and down your body, makes your legs weak- and the heat of his breath condensating on your skin has the familiar pressure steadily growing low in your belly- begging for more.

When he pulls the mask off this time, you can’t help but notice the gentility in his expression. A certain relaxed nature about it that seems so out of place for him. Most of the time, when you would find each other at the end of the day, he would be frustrated or annoyed, or he would be carrying that familiar brand of apathy written all over his face.

Not that it never cracked, you’ve gotten the privilege of seeing him show softness, even if it’s in his own way. A playful wink here and there, a genuine smirk that would reach his eyes for a fleeting moment, or when you got to see the deep dimples on either cheek- the ones that give his features an almost boyishly handsome quality.

But right now, you swear he looks.. content.

And when he kisses you, it’s languid and sweet- the softer skin of his lips contrasting to the way his five o’ clock shadow scratches your chin and mouth. He kisses you like you have all the time in the world, like there’s no place he would rather be than right here, tangling his fingers in your hair- tasting your tongue as it dances around his.

It confuses you, because this is not how it’s supposed to go. There’s rarely ever time for such thoroughness, not that Simon wasn’t incredibly adept when it comes to giving pleasure- it just tended to be like a flashfire, like throwing a lit match into gasoline, volatile and explosive. That’s what you agreed on though, agreed to use each other- use your attraction merely as a means to an end. Blowing off steam. There’s no need to be soft and languid when you could just take the emotion out of it all together.

And that’s just how you’ve always assumed it is for him. You’ve never minded, not really- you were a smart woman, reasonable and logical, but.. You were still only human. Of course you craved that connection, the physical touch; you would never admit that you wanted him to hold you until you fell asleep afterwards, that you wanted to run your fingers through his hair, or memorize every delicious curve and vein and scar on his body-

No, that would mean you thought of him beyond sex, and that was very strictly forbidden.

He walks you backward, lips and hands never straying far as you take turns undressing the other- his shirt is on the ground first, giving you not nearly long enough to revel in the sight before yours is being lazily pulled over your head.

The backs of your knees hit the bed frame, which feels like a reprieve at this point with how utterly weak you feel in his arms; so, you let yourself sink into the foamy cushion, casting your eyes upward for only a second as you quickly work at his belt.

You’re forced to stop though, leaning back when he moves, crowding your space by bending over you on the bed and propping himself up with a massive arm on either side, his face close enough to graze his nose over yours, “You in a rush tonight, baby?”

Petulantly, you lift your chin- capturing his bottom lip between your teeth, you give it just enough of a bite to hear him hiss before laving the tender spot with your tongue. But before you can kiss him again, before you can pull him down on top of you, or your hands can make their way back to his buckle- he easily lifts you up, placing you further back on the bed.

“Simon, what are you doing?”

The question comes out more harsh than you were going for, but he’s not making any fucking sense, and you feel like a top wound too tight, overly conscious of the slick staining your underwear, and the ache in your core that only he can fix-

And maybe for a second, you see a flash of anger in his eyes, standing at his full height while you stare up at him,

“What does it look like we’re doin’, Sec?”

You huff out a incredulous laugh, scooting off the mattress- eyes searching the floor for your shirt, hell, anything to cover up with,

“Oh. Back to Sec, huh?”

Scrubbing a palm over his face, he watches you purposely not look his way, “Fuckin’ hell, do you always have to have it out with me? Can never just let it be-”

“Let it be?”, shirt be damned, you turn back to face him- “Let what be, exactly, Ghost? This is how it’s been for over a year. I mean, fuck, longer than that! You hated me, I hated you- it was perfect. We could fuck each other, and it meant nothing-”

“Past tense.”

He cuts you off, and you feel like you might actually throw something until your brain finally registers what he said,

“What?”

“You’re usin’ the past tense.. ‘Hated’, ’meant’.”

You shake you head, hands coming up before plopping limp at your side, “What the fuck are you on about?”

When he takes a step forward, you take one back, “Words are important, love..” – another step closer, another step away, “‘Hated’ implies that you did, but you don’t anymore.”

“What is this? A language arts lesson?” You try to bring back that anger, that bitterness, but the way he’s looking at you, the way his voice is lower, brassy and rich- it’s hard to feel anything other than him.

A wall halts you, your bare skin protesting against the cold, smooth surface. You wish it would swallow you whole. But, he gets closer, and you’re still there, once again looking up at him,

“I don’t hate you, Saint. I’ve never hated you..” The back of his finger carves a slow path over your cheek, his head tilting to the side, “You were right though, about this not bein’ good.. But not for us- for you.”

“Ghost- I..”

“I’m not good for you. Never have been- I came into this selfishly, thinkin’ that it would be easy, that you would be like all the rest, get tired of me when I wasn’t able to give.. enough. And then it would be over.”

You’re held rapt by his admission, hanging on to every syllable- because you don’t think you’ve ever heard him say so much at once. And certainly never imagined it would have to do with the way he feels about you, bad or otherwise.

“Why did you stay?”

It’s because you’re so lost in the novelty of him in this moment, that it takes an awkwardly long few seconds to realize that you need to actually answer the question-

“I stayed..” — you blink, fighting to make your racing thoughts make sense, “Because you never tried to trick me- or be anything other than what you are, Simon. It was- is, enough. You’re enough.”

His eyelids flutter, a deep, soothing sigh blowing through his nose as he turns away- almost composing himself, in a way, if you know him as well as you think you do,

“You never wanted anythin’ more?”

“No.” You say, and it’s not a lie, you could leave it there- but there’s just something in his eyes that’s begging for more- “Not at first.”

“But now?”

“What do you want me to say, Simon? Of course, I want more. It’s kind of hard not to when you’ve had what we have, had sex with a person, and only that person, for over a year-”

His eyes widen, pupils consuming the honeyed amber that surrounds them right before his lips catch yours in that bruising sort of kiss you know so, so well. It’s full of every single thing he can’t put words to. And for a moment, he nearly gets lost in it, that finely threaded tether on his control slipping further and further- control he’s never been good at reining in when it comes to you.

***

I whisper your name, letting the taste of it linger over my tongue as I try to pull away, try to prolong every second I can get- quietly pleading with you to just slow down. Because I know what comes after-

But the way you chase after my lips, your nails clawing at me, my skin burning under your touch- fucking hell.

You shouldn’t be here, should’ve never agreed to this, with me. You’re too good for someone so broken. You have so much life to live, and I hate that you’ve wasted even a moment of it caring for me- wanting me.

Hm.. Saint. How fucking perfect- because only a saint could bring a devil to his knees.

And that you did. With every lingering touch, and every sweet smile you gave me, everytime you moaned my name, I let you in deeper and deeper. Until I started to hate when you left, hated that I only felt whole when I had you in my arms-

No, I’m no good for you.

Because if I had it my way, I would want to hold you hostage here, right where you belong. Where the world couldn’t touch you, couldn’t hurt you.

I would want you to crawl inside my veins, live in my bones- like you don’t already own the terrible void that’s been in my chest for longer than I can remember.

Might as well take it all. It’s as good as yours anyway.

I love you. I can’t say it- that wouldn’t be fair to you. My love is tainted and ruined, a blasphemous and dangerous thing- it’s only ever killed those I’ve given it to. So, I won’t curse you with those words.

But I hope you can feel it.

“Simon.. Please-” You frame my face in your hands, tugging at my hair, “I want you.”

***

Hearing his name, or maybe it’s the traitorous desperation in your voice, urges him to act. A small squeak escapes when he lifts you up, your legs wrapped around his waist and your arms looped over his neck,

“I’m yours.”

It stuns you, how fluid and thoughtless he says it, like it’s nothing, like he’s said it a hundred times before. Like he didn’t just tell you exactly what you had mindlessly dreamed of hearing from him for months now.

He doesn’t pause though, kissing you again, swallowing your thoughts in his lips- and time slows as your back sinks into the covers. The comfort of his weight settling over you, his hips nestled between your thighs. It’s all so much, too much and not enough at the same time; but you think you could stay here forever, pinned under him, be the object of his desire for as long as he wanted, have him tell you that he’s yours over and over-

The bed dips as he breaks away, working your button and zipper open with practiced movements-

“Lift up, baby.”

You lift your hips, helping him gently tug your cargo pants down before standing and stripping out of his own. And like so many times before, you can’t help but to very disrespectfully let your eyes rake over his bulky frame- your bottom lip trapped between your teeth,

“Jesus, Simon.. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair for who?” He coos, crawling over you again, pressing chaste kisses over your torso as he goes.

A sharp gasp echoes when he latches onto your nipple, his teeth grazing across the sensitive bud, the thrill of blissful pain simmering through you-

“It’s just not fair..” You whine, back arching as he does the same thing to your other, the wet skin cooling too quickly when you feel him chuckle.

“‘M sorry, lovie.”

He teases you for what feels like an eternity, having learned your body better than you know it yourself anymore- only Simon knows how to turn you into putty in his hands, make you soft and pliable, keening and whimpering, a teary eyed mess. And usually he never takes it so far, never ruins you so thoroughly before you’ve even had his cock- but tonight he does.

Tonight, he seems determined to map out every inch of you, even allowing you to do the same in small doses. He lets your fingertips trace over his scars, lets your lips kiss all the broken parts of him-

“Will you tell me about them one day?” You ask, the question muffled against his neck.

It’s an innocent inquiry, honest and genuine, but you don’t miss how he tenses above you before pulling away just enough to see your face. Maybe if you knew him better, had more time with him like this, you would be able to discern the anguish in his eyes- but you don’t see it. Even though you’ll remember it.. this particular moment, it will stick with you far beyond just tonight.

“One day.”

You aren’t sure why you don’t believe him.

All too quickly the thought is lost when you feel him readjust, leaning up on his knees- and your mouth waters at the view, how his chest heaves, already covered in a satiny sheen of sweat; how he strokes his length before looking down to watch how he sinks into you, how you take him so fucking perfectly-

Just like in everything else tonight, he moves at an achingly languid pace- thrusting forward inch by inch, and pulling out just as slow- reveling in the way your slick glistens, all for him.

“Simon..”, you reach for him, needing him close, needing more, “Mh.. Simon- please..”

He comes to you, lets you pull his face down to yours, “Please what, baby?”

When he pushes into you again, it takes your breath away, your muscles clenching as he drives right up against the fleshy wall of your cervix, “You want more?”

You nod, squeezing your eyes shut until you feel him cradle your face, “Mm-mm, I want you to look at me, Saint.. Keep your eyes on me, yeah?”

Without another thought, you open them, your brows knitting together as you search his face. You expect to see something close to his usual bravado, maybe even a devious smirk, or a wolfish gleam; but it’s none of those things. His expression is one of longing and adoration- his demand wasn’t being made out of a desire to control you, he simply wants to see you.

He wants to be seen.

“Ok, Simon..”, you place your hand over his, turning into his palm to plant a kiss to the rough skin there, “On you.”

His next thrust is harder, causing your legs to tighten around him- and even when he finally gives in, driving into you faster and deeper, each time hitting that spot that has you clenching and whimpering, he still holds your face, still keeps his eyes steady on you- entranced at the way you fight to keep your own open for him.

“That’s it.. fuck-” He grunts, crushing his lips to yours, “My good girl.”

The praises he whispers next are far sweeter than anything he’s ever said before, punctuated and interrupted by his own breathless moans. His words and each building noise he gives only drives you toward your end- dragging him right along with it until you’re both falling over the edge.

And it’s your name he says as he spills deep inside you, your name said again like an answered prayer when you hug him closer- both of you holding onto the other like if you let go for even a second, you might drift away.

“I’ve got you..” You say it without really knowing why, but knowing that it feels right. Knowing that he has you, too. At least in this moment- and that’s enough. He’s enough.

How long you stay that way, you can’t be sure- long enough for your bodies to grow limp and the sweat on your skin to dry before he finally peels himself away. And you could cry from the abrupt absence of his warmth, his weight, him.

Thankfully, he’s back just as quick, a warm cloth in hand and a tender touch to clean you up- which isn’t new, Simon’s always taken the time for aftercare, but it’s never felt so.. intimate. He goes about it just as tenderly and thoroughly as he had causing the mess in the first place, his eyes never leaving your skin, lips pressing sweet kisses nearly every place he wipes.

It pulls at you, the pesky prickling of tears stinging your eyes again. Because you know there must be a reason for his stark change tonight- but, you just can’t bring yourself to break the moment by asking why.

He stays with you. It’s not an entirely spoken agreement, he doesn’t ask and you don’t suggest, but when he slips back into the covers with you, you certainly don’t complain. You let him pull you under his arm, smiling into his chest when he kisses the top of your head,

“Good night, Simon.”

You hear him take a deep breath, the muscles under your cheek relaxing as he exhales just as deep and long, “G’ night, Saint.”

***

Watery rays of sunlight wake you, the glow behind your eyelids rousing your mind enough to realize the spot beside you is vacant, the sheets long since cooled. It doesn’t bother you, not really, it’s just Simon. The only clues he left to prove last night wasn’t just some fucked up dream being his scent, still lingering so heavily on his pillow, and the blissful ache between your legs.

And you wish you could stay here, covered in the blankets, wrapped in his smell, reliving the vivid memories as they flash through your head- his words replaying on a loop in your ears.

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

I’m yours.

But your alarm has other plans, your chosen vocation entirely undeterred by your relationships woes and break-throughs. Just another day, right? You would see him at the morning debrief, and again for range training- nothing changes externally. But everything had changed on the inside, for you anyway.

Is it wrong to hope it had for him, too?

You go about your morning routine, joyfully unaware of the decisions made without your knowledge, of the actions taken and the consequences that would follow- you hum along to your music, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

What a lovesick fucking fool you are.

It’s only when you’re reaching for your phone and keys from the desk that you see the piece of paper, carefully ripped from your own notepad and the silver metallic glint sticking out just beyond the corner.

You don’t recall the next seconds, or minutes- not really even the next hour. It all feels like that soft whooshing of TV static, endless and without form. And you find yourself begging for it to have been a dream, silently hoping that none of it really happened, that he hadn’t knocked on your door, that you hadn’t let him in.

That you hadn’t given him everything, and you hadn’t let him convince you he was yours.

Still stuck in that awful whooshing, you grip the piece of metal so hard you think the impression of his name might just brand itself into your palm, your boots stomping against the tile as you pass by all those familiar doors-

“What is this?”

Price looks up at you, and that dreadful nausea settles in the pit of your stomach when you see the resignation in his eyes.

“Saint-”

“When did they leave?”

“0400.”

They could already be there- Price wouldn’t let him do this.. Right?

“Recall them then, there’s still time. We’ll-”

He gives a long sigh, lips set into a thin line, “This might be our only shot, Saint. It’s not perfect, but there’s still a chance.”

***

There was never a chance.

Two weeks later, you stood on the tarmac- hair whipping violently in the wind as you watch the plane land. You stay there ,silently partaking in your own morbid, self-loathing vigil, still somehow hoping it isn’t true.

But there he is.

Simon Riley. His pine coffin draped with the flag he had fought for.

You watch Soap do his best, limping alongside it, his arms shaking and his eyes stained with tears. He gives you a hug afterward, whispering that he tried, he tried to bring everyone home.

You don’t blame him. Not for a second. You knew when you found Simon’s dog tag on your desk that he never intended on coming back. You knew when you read his neatly written note that you would never see him again. You would never hear his voice or feel his lips against yours. You would never get the chance to tell him that you were his, and that you always had been.

You didn’t know then, that a part of you always would be, didn’t know that he had left more behind than either of you could have imagined.

***

When the doorbell rings, you tear your eyes away from the now framed note. Flitting through the cozy flat with a smile growing on your face,

“Saint!” Gaz sweeps you into a bruising hug, your feet coming off the floor and a giggle erupting from your chest.

“I’m glad you all could make it.” You say a bit breathlessly once you're back on solid ground.

Price gives you a hug next, his beard tickling your cheek, “Wouldn’t miss it, sweetheart.”

“Aye, are ye kiddin’?” Johnny’s kiss lands just at the corner of your lips, his hold tighter, more familiar than the rest- “Miss our big lad’s first birthday? Never, bonnie.”

On cue, you turn at the sound of excited babbling to see the birthday boy in question, looking between the four of you. His copper brown eyes wide with curiosity, and a mess of honey blonde curls on his head.

I was so lucky to have had you..

I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.

Your Simon.

+++

well, I’m ruined. and I hope you enjoyed it. I’m really not good at leaving angst too angsty, I’m too much of a hoe for silver linings and happy endings and all that fluffy sh*t.

forever just a lover girl at heart 🥲

[severedegg]

theyre like the cop and jake from subway surfing

[artist-rat]

more gif inspired kitty hugs 💌

[kizzer55555]

DP x DC: The Most Dangerous Card Game

Ok so Danny has essentially claimed earth as his. And he is fully aware that there are constant threats to the planet. Now he can’t stop a threat that originates on earth (that’s something he’ll leave to the Justice league) but he can do something about outside threats. Doing some research on ancient spells, rituals, and artifacts, he cast a world wide barrier on the planet to protect it from hostile threats so they cannot enter. This will prevent another Pariah Dark incident. However, barriers like this come at a price. You see, there are two ways to make a barrier. Either make one powered up by your own energy and power (which would be constantly draining) or set up a barrier with rules. The way magic works is that nothing can be absolutely indestructible. It must have a weakness. The most powerful barriers weren’t the ones reinforced with layer after layer of protective charms and buffed up with power. Those could eventually be destroyed either by being overpowered, wearing them down, or by cutting off the original power source. No, the most powerful barriers were the ones with a deliberate weakness. A barrier indestructible except for one spot. A cage that can only be opened from the outside. Or that can only be passed with a key or by solving a riddle. So Danny chooses this type of barrier and does the necessary ritual and pours in enough power to make it. And he adds his condition for anyone to enter. 

Now the Justice league? Find out about the barrier when Trigon attempts to attack, they were preparing after he threatened what he would do once he got to earth. How he would destroy them. The Justice league tried to take the fight to him first but were utterly destroyed, so they retreated home to tend to their injuries, and fortify earth for one. Last. Stand. Only when Trigon makes his big entrance…he’s stopped.

The Justice league watch in awe as this thin see-through barrier with beautiful green swirls and speckled white lights like stars apears blocking Trigon and his army’s advance. The barrier looks so thin and fragile yet no matter how hard the warlord hits, none of his attacks can get through and neither can he damage said barrier. That’s when Constantine and Zatanna recognizes what this barrier is. Something only a powerful entity could create. For a moment, the league is filled with hope that Trigon can’t get through yet Constantine also explains that it’s not impenetrable. And clearly Trigon knows this too for he calls out a challenge. 

And that’s when, in a flash of light, a tiny glowing teenager appears. He looked absolutly minuscule compared to Trigon and yet practically glowed with power (this isn’t a King Danny AU though).

And that is when the conditions for passing the barrier are revealed. And the Justice realize that the only thing stopping Trigon and his army from decimating earth. The only way he can get through….is by beating this glowing teenager in a card game. 

Not just any card game though. The most convoluted game Sam, Danny, and Tucker invented themselves. It’s like the infinite realms version of magic the gathering, combined with Pokémon, and chess. And Danny is the master. So sit down Trigon and let’s play.

(The most intense card game of the Justice league’s life).

After Danny wins, this happens a few more times with outer word beings and possibly even demons attempting to invade earth, yet none have been able to beat the mysterious teenager in a card game. Constantine might even take a crack at it and try to figure out how to play. He’s really bad though. Every time this happens, the Justice league worry that this might be the time the teenager looses. Yet every time, he wins (even if only barely). 

Meanwhile, Danny, Sam, and Tucker have gotten addicted to the game and play it almost daily. Some teachers might seem them playing the game are are like ‘awww how cute’ not realizing this game is literally saving the world. Jazz is just happy they aren’t spending as much time on their screens playing Doomed.

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

Hey hey hey may 31th anon! How's 2024 going? ☆ヾ(*´▽｀)ﾉ This year I have for you a leaked Sherlock season 5 image. Thinking of you!! And everyone!!

[obsob]

happy and proud!!

✷(print shop)✷

[dizzybizz]

"this is regrettably the best kiss of your life, you understand?"

[inkskinned]

you were raised in comparison.

it wasn't always obvious (well. except for the times that it was), but you internalized it young. you had to eat what you didn't like, other people are going hungry, and you should be grateful. you had to suck it up and walk on the twisted ankle, it wasn't broken, you were just being a baby. you were never actually suffering, people obviously had it worse than you did.

you had a roof over your head - imagine! with the way you behaved, with how you talked back to your parents? you're lucky they didn't kick you out on your ass. they had friends who had to deal with that. hell, you have friends who had to deal with that. and how dare you imply your father isn't there for you - just because he doesn't ever actually talk to you and just because he's completely emotionally checked out of your life doesn't mean you're not fucking lucky. think about your cousins, who don't even get to speak to their dad. so what if yours has a mean streak; is aggressive and rude. at least you have a father to be rude to you.

you really think you're hurting? you were raised in a home! you had access to clean water! you never so much as came close to experiencing a real problem. sure, okay. you have this "mental illness" thing, but teenagers are always depressed, right. it's a phase, you'll move on with your life.

what do you mean you feel burnt out at work. what do you mean you mean you never "formed healthy coping mechanisms?" we raised you better than that. you were supposed to just shoulder through things. to hold yourself to high expectations. "burning out" is for people with real jobs and real stress. burnout is for people who have sick kids and people who have high-paying jobs and people who are actually experiencing something difficult. recently you almost cried because you couldn't find your fucking car keys. you just have lost your sense of gratitude, and honestly, we're kind of hurt. we tell you we love you, isn't that enough? if you want us to stick around, you need to be better about proving it. you need to shut up about how your mental health is ruined.

it could be worse! what if you were actually experiencing executive dysfunction. if you were really actually sick, would you even be able to look at things on the internet about it? you just spend too much time on webMD. you just like to freak yourself out and feel like you belong to something. you just like playing the victim. this is always how you have been - you've always been so fucking dramatic. you have no idea how good you have it - you're too fucking sensitive.

you were like, maybe too good of a kid. unwilling to make a real fuss. and the whole time - the little points, the little validations - they went unnoticed. it isn't that you were looking for love, specifically - more like you'd just wanted any one person to actually listen. that was all you'd really need. you just needed to be witnessed. it wasn't that you couldn't withstand the burden, but you did want to know that anyone was watching. these days, you are so accustomed to the idea of comparison - you don't even think you belong in your own communities. someone always fits better than you do. you're always the outlier. they made these places safe, and then you go in, and you are just not... quite the same way that would actually-fit.

you watch the little white ocean of your numbness lap at your ankles. the tide has been coming in for a while, you need to do something about it. what you want to do is take a nap. what you want to do is develop some kind of time machine - it's not like you want your life to stop, not completely, but it would really nice if you could just get everything to freeze, just for a little while, just until you're finished resting. but at least you're not the worst you've been. at least you have anything. you're so fucking lucky. do you have any concept of the amount of global suffering?

a little ant dies at the side of your kitchen sink. you look at its strange chitinous body and think - if you could just somehow convince yourself it is enough, it will finally be enough and you can be happy. no changes will have to be made. you just need to remember what you could lose. what is still precious to you.

you can't stop staring at the ant. you could be an ant instead of a person, that is how lucky you are. it's just - you didn't know the name of the ant, did you. it's just - ants spend their whole life working, and never complain. never pull the car over to weep.

it's just - when it died, it curled up into a tight little ball.

something kind of uncomfortable: you do that when you sleep.

[retroautomaton]

🍳🐖🌱

[a2zillustration]

Gale and I had the exact same reaction when we opened that door.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

[rillette]

recolored an old jason sketch 👍

[omaano]

If you're still taking those polyam sketch prompts...D2 for Cody/Obi-Wan/Rex?

Obi-Wan deserves a pair of handsome space heaters for the cold Tatooine nights :3 nap piles for everyone! Thanks for asking (and for adjusting the requested pose so that I can keep drawing different poses)❤️

Polyamorous/platonic poses for sketching

[miwtual]

im so fucking tired of the disrespect gifmakers get on the gifmaker website

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[mischefous]

Could you possibly do Legend and Warriors, whump? I love making those two suffer for some reason. (Your art is amazing, and I love it!)

awwweee!! Thank you @insane-twilight-fan and Anon for these requests💙💙 I friggen loooove this duo, especially if it's Legend getting whumped >:3

CW! Blood/coughing up blood

[bloobydabloob]

Alternative hairstyle ideas for Roxy