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dcxdpdabbles · 5 months ago

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I was thinking about Danny talking about Dan to the Justice League and all it would take would be a little slip of the tongue for Danny's "he's my evil future self" to be heard as "he's my evil future son." Because it's one thing to have futures where You turn evil, but another thing to have futures where your family members, your KIDS, turn evil.

Phantom was new to the Justice League team. He had been inducted only three months ago and could be seen coming and going at odd hours. No one really knew much about him.

Phantom was recommended by Wonder Woman during the last selection. Apparently, she knew him due to a mutual acquaintance, a woman named Pandora, who had asked the princess to meet the boy—teenager? Man? It was hard to know what to call him because his physical appearance was that of a youth when he was immortal. She rarely nominated anyone for membership, but the person was precious to the team when she did.

And the ghost was.

Although he needed some formal training, Phantom had an excellent grasp of his powers and the cleverness to pull off moves with them, which Batman even praised. Many of the members adored Phantom's willingness to take on any role in a team.

He never complained about letting someone else take the lead, followed orders without much trouble, blended well with anyone as a teammate, and, most of all, had compassion for civilians. Phantom was often the hero who lingered after a battle to help clean up and provide relief aid.

Civilians adored him, and his fans were growing in numbers.

Despite all of this, Phantom wasn't really close with anyone. The ghost rarely lingered after his missions or monitor duty. He flew in, kept to himself, and left out once he was done.

Phantom never started or helped the conversation progress if it was not mission-related. He wasn't as bad as Batman, but he made it hard to connect to him. Diana assured everyone it wasn't because Phantom did not like them—he was only shy.

It was hard to put the being who single-handedly held off Superman the last time he was mind-controlled next to the word shy. Yet they've seen it.

They saw him nervously play with his gloves as someone spoke to him, struggled to think of what to say in conversations, and even ducked his head when he got too anxious.

It was like whiplash to see the ghost go from a shy, nervous teenager to the one that stopped and held Superman in a taekwondo hold until Batman could stab the needle to get him free of mind control.

Then, that same powerful fighter drags himself to the crowd and the smocking city, ready to assist in any way.

Despite being exhausted and covered in wounds, Phantom helped the crew in charge of clearing the debris by lifting heavy objects and scanning the building for people needing medical attention.

Phantom had been more than willing to follow emergency services' commands, personally thanking the EMTs and firefighters once the chaos was over. When a little boy asked for a photo, Phantom told him they could take one when everything settled.

No one expected the ghost to keep to his word, finding the boy and his mother later at a hospital for that photo. He has been awfully apologetic that the camera could only catch a blurry outline of him with his glowing green eyes.

The little boy hadn't stopped grinning despite suffering a broken leg.

He was literally the sweetest little hero—Bruce had to remind himself that he was not an actual child and was, in fact, thousands of years old whenever he saw the ghost fidgeting with something while on monitor duty.

That's why, the day Phantom threw himself into one of the lounges couches with a distressed sigh, everyone in the area surrounded him.

"Everything alright, Phantom?" Asked Oliver as the ghost's glow flickered in and out of his usual glow.

The immortal did not remove his hands from his face but nodded. His glow lowered again as if reacting to his lie.

The heroes gave each other loaded looks before Diana stepped forward. "You seemed troubled, dear friend. Are you willing to allow us to lead an ear to your woes?"

"Dan is just giving me trouble," Phantom mumbled, his words muffled by his hands.

Wonder glanced at the others, but when they shrugged in confusion, she sat next to the teenager. Placing one supporting hand on his shoulder, she rubbed it gently and leaned towards him. "Who is Dan?"

"Me."

Barry blinks. "You?"

"Yeah, the evil me of the future."

Phantom becoming evil? That was inconceivable.

"Did something happen to make you think you're going evil?" Barry asks gently, taking the other open seat on Phantom's left. He places a warm hand on Phantom's hunched-over back and is violently reminded of how tiny the boy must have been when he died.

It breaks his heart. He's smaller than Wally.

"The ancient of Time showed me that he destroyed the world. I helped create him, so I had to be the one to stop him. For the good of the world."

Diana sucks in a gasp, making Oliver, Hal, Barry, and Dinah weary at once. She made the hand motion, signaling that she would explain later, making the other heroes nod. "I know you may blame yourself, but that was merely a warning from the gods. You still have time to change the outcome."

Phantom glances up from behind his fingers. "You really think so?"

"Yes, of course."

The ghost offers everyone a small smile before vanishing from sight. There are gasps and a desperate cry for his name, but eventually, they realize the ghost has left.

"What was that about?" Hal asks after a moment.

Wonder Woman stands, striding over to the large windows of the watch tower. Her eyes turn to the brightest star visible with a small, sad smile. "Clockwork is the name of the ancient- one of the gods- that controls time. He rarely has champions, but when he does, he often gives them glances of their future. Many claim it's more of a curse than a blessing, for they often see the worse of what is to become."

Dinah straightens. "You're saying Phantom really will go evil?"

"No." Diana closes her eyes. "Ghosts are formed in three ways. The first is death. Someone or something dies, and they are formed from the souls getting attached to ectoplasm. The second is that they are bestowed a duty and are created to keep that duty alive. It often governs a part of our reality- space, dreams, wishes, and even plants. The last is the least common due to how rare it is for ghosts to have powerful enough cores. It is to be born from a stronger ghost, taking pieces of their core and growing into their own person."

Diana turns back to the confused-looking heroes to deliver her blow. "Phantom said it was himself that turned evil, but referred to himself as "Dan". Ghosts do not change their names, for their names are part of what holds their cores together. This means Dan is not him but came from him. His son will grow to be evil, and Phantom will likely have to put him down per Clockwork's instructions for the good of the world."

Hal bites out a curse. "That's sick. How could the time god ask Phantom to kill his own kid? Even if he is evil, Phantom doesn't deserve to have that duty placed on his shoulders. He's just a kid."

"But he isn't," Barry sighs. "Phantom is older than ancient Egypt. He just looks like a kid."

"It does not matter." Wonder Woman declares. "Clockwork's warnings can be overturned. We just need to help Dan off the road of darkness while he is still young."

They call for a Justice League meeting, one that only includes the original team that founded the league, to discuss a strategy plan. At first, some want to change the meeting to discuss how to put down Dan, wondering if being Phantom's son made him just as powerful before Batman stands up.

Bruce does not like the idea that the boy will end up destroying the world, but he is the most outspoken about Dan's innocence in the present day. His scorching words make a few ashamed of themselves for giving up on saving the boy before even meeting him.

The meeting drags on for hours until they eventually agree that they will monitor the child. If they realize he is too far gone to save, they will be the ones to end him. Phantom did not deserve to be the killer.

Clark asked Phantom to bring Dan around and introduce him. They dress the indentation as a league-wide party for the member's family (those in the know). The ghost looked spooked before he agreed to bring his child to meet the team.

A week later, every hero smiles politely at the six-foot-tall man with flaming hair who introduces himself as Dan. He's as bulky as Bane, and his low, dark voice echoes through the room. It's comedic compared to the cracking voice of his father, who has to flout to make them the same height.

As soon as the pair of ghosts fly away to speak to Supergirl and Robin, Barry grabs Bruce's cape. "That's a full-grown man."

"I know"

"Bats, that man is built like a brick house. "

"Yes"

"I thought Phantom said he was three? How in the Speed force is that man three?"

"It seems ghosts age differently. Or they are formed to take on the age they desire. I need to do research."

While the surrounding founding members whisper to each other, more heroes arrive at the makeshift party, some in their costumes and some in their civilian identities.

There are various reactions to Dan. A few consider him Phantom's father or brother, but both ghosts quickly make faces. Phantom reminds someone no less than five times that Dan is his future self.

Wonder Woman has to follow the pair whispering to confuse members about the cultural differences between ghosts and children. She doesn't have to explain that to the magic users or those who have worked with ghosts before.

There were a few who had vastly different reactions.

The members of Young Justice, including Secret, all backed up the claims that ghosts did not change their names and were treating Dan as a Phantom's son without blinking an eye.

John Constantine looked at Dan and cooed. "Aw, a baby core. How old is he?"

Phantom cracks a smile while Dan scoffs. "Three"

"Adorable." He raised his flask in salute, "He's powerful. You must be so proud."

Phantom's smile becomes strained. "Thank you."

Across the room, the founding members swear they will save Dan no matter what, as the larger ghost rolls his eyes and crosses his arms.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #misunderstandings #The cinnamon roll's son #Danny is the office (Justice Leauge) sweet heart #They think Dan is destined to destroy the world #So they will baby this full grown man to teach him right from wrong #Dan's core is only three years in that time 's earth #So he does register as a BABY GHOST #Part 1

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yasuyasudere · 6 days ago

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So, I made an Underfell sans jacket…

It basically took me a year to make even though I was actually only making alterations.

This is a motorcycle riding jacket. I added the red reflective stripes, yellow flannel lining, fur to the hood, changed the zipper to gold and the gold grommets, and used a custom zipper pull of Fell Papy’s face.

I had to do a lot of hand stitching because this bad boy broke my sewing machine. Turns out, even with a heavy duty needle, you can’t force a regular machine to stitch through steel wool, leather, and a zipper. Ha.

The design is based off @theskeletongames fell sans design, and this thing is heavy duty. The riding safety pads add that classic bulky figure of sans. Like, ever wonder how he goes from little skeleton to bulky and intimidating one? New head canon, it’s cause he wears a riding jacket. Which is also why it’s so toasty, cause this thing is now my winter coat.

I’m mega ultra excited to wear it around.

Might still go back and add a hidden black vinyl design to the back for extra reflective ability when riding, but I’ve spent waaaaaaaaay too much on this jacket already considering I still need to get the rest of my gear and upgrade from my cute (but speed limited) moped. ^^;

How’d I do?

#undertale #underfell #sans #undertale au #fell sans #jacket #riding gear #sewing project #cosplay #my wallet is crying

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ellemarianne555 · 2 months ago

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Mother Issues

Summary: Aegon’s new wife is a Hightower and he isn’t sure how he feels about this. Fluffy smut.

Author’s note: this is so fluffy and self-indulgent and my first time ever writing smut so if it’s cringey and too much plot I’m sorry! Please leave feedback, I know my grammar can be iffy sometimes xoxo

Content warning: mdni, slight mommy kink, implied breeding kink, severe praise kink, heavy mommy issues and mentions of alcoholism and childhood neglect. Aegon is a dick for half of this but don’t worry he comes right in the end (literally lol).

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

With your long wavy hair and big unblinking eyes, the court had been whispering about how much you resembled a young Alicent since you were a girl. Your father was a brother to Otto, and rumours had long been rife that Otto had laid with your mother and had her married hastily to his kin to cover the scandal. You knew this wasn’t true though, as your mother was devoted to your father and you possessed his wit and kindness as well as your grandmother’s looks that had seduced Viserys into making your cousin, Alicent, his wife.

The rumours and gossip became even more pronounced when you were betrothed to Aegon. The sulky young King with his disheveled blonde hair and the pouty lips stained permanently red from the wine he had been known to imbibe. Aegon had thrown a fit when he heard you were to be married as he petulantly resented anything to do with his distant mother and belittling grandfather. He barely talked to you on your wedding night, since he had gotten so drunk that when he stumbled into your bed early in the morning he was unable to perform his marital duties. Flushing red, sweating and swearing to all who would listen that it was his wife and her Hightower features that were to blame; you two become even more distant as you became married in name alone.

So you kept to your chambers, armed with your ladies in waiting and mountains of mind-numbing embroidery to hide from the shame of a husband who couldn’t stand you. You heard that Aegon was busy with his whores down in the Street of Silk and though your ladies pushed you to take a handsome young lover, you were committed to the Faith and your role as a dutiful wife.

Time passed and you seemed to see even less of your husband as he struggled with the roles and responsibilities of being in charge of the realm. You heard snippets of fights and arguments, the rare times you ventured outside of your apartments for more reading materials, between Aegon and his councillors as he fought to have his voice heard and opinions valued.

Doors banged and shouting echoed down the hallway to your bed chamber as you heard arguing through the cracks of the stone wall.

“But it isn’t my fault!”, one voice said as another voice became more clear.

“How can you expect anyone to take you as their King when you can’t even prove yourself as a man?” Angrily responded another voice, that you recognised as that of your mother-in-law.

Your husband and his mother were arguing. About you. In front of your bed chamber.

Suddenly the door flew open as Aegon burst in, scowling and seething with anger.

“Are you happy now? I’m in her damn chambers and I’ll fuck her until you have all the precious heirs you want!”.

You nearly stabbed stabbed your thumb with a needle as you jumped out of your perch of a wide cushion nestled into the window. Fortunately your ladies were not there to witness your mouth open and close in sheer shock as your husband entered.

For not the first time, you wondered how miserable your life could be that when the man you were married to entered your room, that it was as shocking as though if Vhagar had started wearing gowns and demanding weekly tea parties in their honour. Shaking the image out of your mind, you could see your husband grit his teeth in frustration.

The door clanged heavily behind you and you heard short angry footsteps disappear down the hallway until you were both alone. For the second time in your marriage since you had stood at the altar, you were alone with your husband. But for all his cruel words that had passed around the court and confined you to these chambers in humiliation, you weren’t scared of him. He looked slightly small in fact. With his lips trembling and eyes glistening he looked more like a furious king and more like a lost boy.

He scowled at you, with his lower lips jutting out in such a way that you felt more like wiping his cheeks then scolding him for the embarrassment and isolation he had put you through.

“I’ll have to stay here.” He said petulantly. “For at least a few hours until Mother thinks my duty has been performed.”

He looked over to where your abandoned embroidery lay and his upper lip curled in disdain.

“I see there’s nothing to entertain myself with, so I might as well sleep.” He looked pointedly at you upon saying the word “entertain”, but again it seemed to came off as less hurtful but sulky and strangely self-conscious.

“What do you do to pass the time in here? Seeing as you never bother to come to court.”

Your mouth gaped open again as you realised that your husband was actually talking to you for once, instead of at you.

“W-well, I embroider.”

His eyes rolled nearly to the ceiling.

“A-and I read.” Your voice choking in your throat as his red rimmed stare snapped to your trembling lips.

“Really? I thought it wasn’t becoming of such a high-born lady to entertain herself with such foolish pursuits.”He said mockingly, and instead of rising to his disdain, you laughed.

“It seems I am not the only one in this marriage who amuses themselves with frivolity.”

His nostrils flared in anger as you realised that in your attempt to jest, you had instead struck a delicate nerve.

“I am not as foolish as you or this court believe you know. I have a great interest in my family’s history and that of the realm. Of course everyone just assumes that there is nothing else to me but the drinking and the whoring.”His mouth curled upwards in a way that showed you he had long been used to demeaning himself in front of others .

“I’m sorry.” You paused hesitantly, “I just don’t know how to talk to you. It seems like we are more strangers than when I had never met you.”

“Well, you don’t have to treat me as if I were an idiot. I get enough of that from my own kin.”

Again, you felt a pit form in your stomach as you thought how it must of been to grow up feeling lesser than. You had had not exactly an idyllic childhood in Old Town, but you knew your parents loved you. Even if they were misguided enough to agree to betroth you to a man who clearly hated you.

You tried again, “I’m sorry. I also find the stories of our history fascinating.”You held out a worn copy of folklore and fairytales from under one of the cushions from your childhood, one of the only things you had managed to take with you from home.

“You’re reading children’s stories?” Aegon scoffed.

“They’re not really stories at all. They introduce the stories of our past to children so they take an interest in the way things came to be. My favourite is how Visenya Targaryen and how she conquered the Vale.”

“Really?” Aegon said catching himself quickly before he sounded too interested.

“When I was younger I always dreamed of being like her, so strong and brave.”

“So did I.” He said almost begrudgingly.

“It must be hard. To grow up with a brother who often thinks less of you and diminishes your accomplishments.”

Aegon blinked, again surprised at how this woman who he had pushed away so harshly seemed to know him so well.

“I was just finishing this chapter. I could read it aloud? If that is alright with you, your grace.”

He nodded stiffly and sat at the edge of the window seat as though he were afraid to come any closer.

You patted the worn cushion next to him and smiled, “I don’t bite, my lord.” You teased. Again a smile seemed to escape from him as he slowly inched closer.

As the chapter progressed and the pages turned you noticed that your husband was falling asleep, first on your shoulder then burrowing down to your lap. You stiffened, unsure of whether to wake him but you decided that he seemed in need of a good rest and slowly wound his straggly blond hair through your fingers.

Before you had realised, you too had drifted to sleep. Only woken by a soft chiming of the bells from the Sept declaring that it was late at night, and a rather peculiar stiffness poking into your thigh.

Your eyelashes fluttered open, only to look down and see your husband, mouth slightly agape and sleeping peacefully. You realised what had happened, he had clearly brushed against you by accident and gotten aroused.

Trying to be respectful, you gently tried to move his head out of your lap. His eyes snapped open, blinking as he tried to place where he was.

“You look very beautiful when you sleep.” You blurted out softly as though scared he would bolt. His cheeks blushed a delicate shade of pink as he looked down and noticed his cock as though for the first time.

Scrambling out of your lap, he tried to cover himself with a pillow while cursing angrily with himself.

“I-it’s okay, you know.”

He froze, unsure of how to respond. So you decided not to let him.

“It happens to me too.” His eyebrows knit together in confusion as he was unsure if you were saying what he thought you were saying. That you also dreamed of him? And you felt the same attraction you denied yourself when awake?

“We don’t choose our thoughts when we dream. You must have been dreaming of a beautiful woman or an old lover perhaps.”

He frowned, if only you knew that it was you he wanted. Why had he pushed you away so much? Because he resented the lack of choice? Because he was so determined to despise anything related to his mother? The woman who had been so absent and cold towards him throughout his childhood, yet was unable to see why he drank and surrounded himself with whores to cope with the emptiness he felt.

You looked at him again, worried that you had somehow upset him. “You can go back to sleep, you know. I don’t mind.” You said, patting the cold space in your lap where he had been.

He smiled softly, and shyly lay back down.

How odd this man was, you thought. One moment he was fire and hatred but the next he seemed so lost and scared.

You started humming to yourself quietly as you again stroked his face. His eyes cracked open again.

“What is that song? It sounds familiar.”

“It’s just a song we sing to children in Old Town. My mother taught it to me so that maybe I could one day sing it to my own.”.

“It’s nice.” Aegon said gruffly and closed his eyes once more.

The rhythm and lyrics poured out of your mouth as you sang a nursery rhyme praising the child that grew in your belly, promising they would grow to be strong and that you were proud of him. It was an old song said to promote fertility and help form a bond through the womb.

Suddenly, you noticed something again poking into your lap as your husband blushed red with shame.

“M-mommy” he choked out in heaving gasps, his greasy hair wrapped around your fingers as you froze, tugging the roots sharply. The whimper of pain he released sounded almost like a moan and looking down you noticed the damp spot on his breeches.

Aegon jumped up as though he had been doused in icy water and backed up against the door. His chest falling and rising with small gasping hiccups.

You realised that this was probably the first time anyone had shown him the tenderness he so desperately craved, and that he had been seeking in the bottom of his cups and the bottoms of well, prostitutes. It was only natural that these feelings of shame had combined with arousal, and how he was attracted to the softness he had never known but always craved. You smiled kindly, reassuringly as if to let him know it was alright.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s alright,” you said speaking to him slowly with your hands reached out, as though you were tying to tame a horse rather than a king with serious mother issues. “You can call me whatever you need.”

His lips were still quivering as more tears leaked out of his eyes and caught on his round chin before trickling down below his shirt.

“I am so sorry.” He whispered, so faintly it took a few seconds to sink in.

“It’s alright.” you repeated.

“N-no, it’s not. The moment I saw you I thought you were the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. But then I became aware of the comments about your resemblance to my mother and I became so angry and confused at how someone I could desire so much could resemble someone who hates me so.”

You froze. Then before you knew it you were up against the door, pinning him to the cold iron that seemed to only increase the heat between your bodies.

He looked into your eyes, and you slowly traced the tears that had fallen down his soft chin and placed your finger in your mouth. As if to show him you wanted all of him. His sadness, his love, his unease.

Your husband seemed to snap at the image of your plump mouth slowly sucking the finger inside and gripped the back of your head, as he wound his shaking fingers around your long wavy hair. The kiss was searing, harsh and longing as you seemed to fall down and down into the feelings you had been denying for so long.

His length was aching and hard against your thigh as you suddenly pulled yourself from his embrace. Breathing heavily, you moved to untie his breeches. But he surprised you yet again. And got down on his knees.

This time it was you pressed against the door, as he lifted your skirts hurriedly only to look up questioningly as though asking your permission.

“I know I’ve been a cunt. But I hope that I can show you how sorry I am.” He grinned broadly as he waited for your approval.

“It’s fine, Aegon. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Well, my wife you clearly don’t know me very well if you think I would find tasting your sweetness unpleasant. Let me make amends…With my tongue.”

As soon as your head let out a shaky nod, not sure whether to believe what was happening. He was back under your skirts. Licking and tasting like this was the first meal he had all day, knowing him it was probably the first that wasn’t liquid.

You had never felt such an intense pleasure before, never in your nights of touching yourself under your sheets, your shaking fist shoved in your mouth as you thought of the stories your ladies had told you of all the ways a man could please a woman. As you thought of how beautiful your husband had looked in his armour the day he was crowned, so unsure and so vulnerable. You really seemed to have a weakness for sad men. But mainly just him, just your husband who was licking and sucking at you as he deadly slipped his tongue between your folds.

You cried out as he slowly breached your entrance with his finger.

“Is this alright?” He said worriedly as he looked up for your approval.

“Of course, sweet boy.” And in response your husband groaned, deep and full. His efforts redoubled as he sought to press his fingers inside at you at the point your inner walls started to crumble and be torn down by his efforts. Crying out in ecstasy, you collapse to the floor. His head still in your hands as he looked up at you adoringly, chin glistening with your release as he proudly smirked and wiped it off with the back of his hand.

You sat there together. On the floor for a moment. As you thought of how misunderstood the man who rested his head in the crook of your neck was. At how he loved you, every part of you. Even the parts that resembled his mother. Because maybe with at was what he needed. To see a version of himself, reflected in yourself as kindness. And maybe he wasn’t afraid anymore. Of loving you so entirely.

You smiled at him softly as he panted into your shoulder and you noticed how the hardness in his breeches had only grown fiercer and more pulsing.

“May I?”, you spoke, gazing into his eyes and now he was the one who was shy as he nodded gently.

Reaching into his trousers, you took his cock in your hands. “Pretty.” You could not help yourself say. You worriedly glanced at your husband only to find his face bright red yet again. He pulsed in your hands and you realised what he needed. What he had been denied for so long.

“Such a good boy.” You murmured into his neck. The reaction was instant, his head burrowed further into your chest as he moaned low and unashamed.

“You’re doing so well. Being such a perfect boy for me. So so pretty.”

He latched on to your breast, yanking them out of your gown fiercely as he began to suck harshly on your nipples. You moaned, as you increased your efforts on his aching red cock.

“You’re a good man, Aegon.” You choked out between sighs, “You’d be such a good father to our children, I’d be honoured to be their mother.”At these words, your husband pulsed furiously and exploded into your palm.

Shaking from pleasure, he again rested his head in your lap. Looking up at you as though you were still strangers and he was still shy, despite his tongue having been inside your cunt moments before.

“D-did you mean that?”

“Mean what?”

“That I’d be a good father. That you’d want to have children with me.”

“Of course. I couldn’t think of anything I’d want more. Stop denying yourself the love you want to give and receive, from me, from any children we may have.”

He smiled at this, like the sun was breaking across a clouded sky. Like he was seeing what his lifecould be for the first time.

“Well.” Your husband grinned; “I think we should start trying to make children more productively.”As he again pushed you to the floor, both of you laughing and smiling as he kissed you again and again.

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd smut #fluff and smut #aegon ii x reader #aegon x you

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needleman1 · 1 year ago

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135x17, DPx17, SY3355 Sewing Machine Needles Singer Brother Juki Walking Foot Industrial Round Point 130/21

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ohmygraves · 9 months ago

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the first time you and ghost became roommates, he didn't have a lot of things.

he had his essentials, packed in a duffel bag and like, two moving boxes and that's it. he didn't even have his own furniture or pots and pans, so the two of you didn't cook for the first few weeks living together. he seems perfectly content with just living with the furniture that came with the apartment, an old beat up sofa and dirty stained dining table, together with a few chairs and old mattresses in each bedroom. you made it a goal to get rid of the smelly bed as soon as possible, working your arse off to afford new beds for the sake of your back.

ghost, or well, simon, don't feel the need to own too many things. he thinks it's a nuisance, since well it'll be tiring to pack so many things when he needs to move again for some reason or another. even when he stayed in the barracks, his room was always the most bare out of everyone.

you were the opposite, of course. you liked having lots of personal items and memorabilia, or just trinkets that you like in general. your shared flat is full of your items, posters hung up on the wall, framed pictures, potted plants, consoles and books, whatever you have. it felt like the place was only occupied by you, and with how often simon was away on deployments and missions, it might as well be.

you both split duties when he's around. you cook, he does dishes. you take out the trash, he cleans the bathroom. you tidy things up and he'd mop/vacuum it. he insisted that you cook since he's not much of a cook himself (which, explains why he doesn't have a single kitchen utensils in his stuff) and that you're better at cooking than him. he'd gladly deal with all the dirty jobs for you, wouldn't be the worst thing he did anyway.

you and simon get groceries separately (his "groceries" consisting of some type of booze and maybe toiletries, perhaps some snacks if he's feeling fancy), but very rarely you go together with him to tesco or something. you always have to remind him to note whatever things needed to be replaced at your shared flat, so that you don't have to go multiple times just to get a bottle of dish soap or toilet paper.

you two bicker like an old married couple sometimes, because he's a smart ass and would tease you, and you'd get mad at him for eating your things or using your soap/shampoo.

sometimes you wondered if rooming with simon was a bad idea, but he had always made sure to keep your job easy for you except for a few minor inconveniences he did on purpose just so you'd scold him. he helped move furniture and do the heavy jobs for you, and not to mention he leaves you alone, never nosy or get too friendly with you. although at the same time, he expected you to do the same for him.

if he tells you when he's coming back after missions, you'd get him a treat when he gets home, some beer already chilling in the refrigerator and his favorite snacks on the counter, together with his favorite takeout dinner (of course, you'd ask for the money back. you're not made of money if you're rooming with someone). some snarky note like "shower first before you sleep, stinky" or "it's 30 pounds for everything, you're welcome".

simon didn't think much of it, but he definitely took you for granted. you're a nice roommate, you two get along, and you're a great cook. you made sure to feed him whenever possible (because you're convinced he'd actually forget to eat when he's alone, considering his groceries as mentioned before), and not to mention you made his masks and balaclava smell nice and clean when you do laundry.

you'd patiently help him sew, teach him how to mend his clothes when he has the time (which is still a funny sight seeing how small the needles looked between his thick massive fingers). he always gets frustrated, telling you that you did a much better job than his lousy stitches that wouldn't even hold up after one wear. you'd sew all tears and holes on his masks and clothes, patch the holes up when you could.

in return, he'd bring some of your favorite snacks home. he always said something along the lines that it was on sale, or that it's buy one get one free, but you noted that he always brought home your favorite things after you mended his clothes, or helped him in some way. you didn't mind, you liked the snacks and it's nice that he shows his gratitude in this way.

you try to ignore the thumping of your heart every time he hands you things while saying "reckon you'd like this."

#he's so simple #its so cute #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty headcanon #simon ghost riley #cod headcanon #simon ghost riley x reader #cod ghost x reader #roommate au

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armory-rasa · 9 months ago

Text

COUCH POUCH!! Free Pattern & Tutorial

...called thus because they use upholstery-weight leather for the bag body, that in my case was in fact skinned off a couch. 🤣 Turns out they are relatively quick and easy to make, so I tidied up the pattern for printing and took pictures to document the process when I made another five of them.

First off, print your pattern, 100% scale:

The bag shape was a modified version of the pattern I used for the Morpheus sandbag, but sized to fit in the roughly 11" squares that my couch skin came in. It makes a bag that sits very well on a tabletop, thanks to the flat base.

Though it turned out to not be the most efficient use of material, because that plus-shaped pattern tessellates well, if you're cutting them out of a full hide, but makes a lot of waste when you're cutting them out of squares of material. A more efficient design would have a half-rounded front and back, and a gusset between them, like so:

Ah well. It's not like I have any shortage of couch skin, though for the next round I'm going to experiment with a more efficient pattern.

First step, trace and cut out the bag body from your chrome-tan leather:

Like I said, this was upholstery leather, but anything that's flexible and ~1.5 mm thick will do.

The flap and front need to be a stiffer leather though -- I used 7 oz latigo, but veg-tan would work equally well. (And then you could ✨tool it!✨)

Cut them out, and then use the pattern to mark where your holes are going to be. Mark the holes on your bag body too:

The latigo pieces get hand-stitched to the bag body, so I used a stitching groover to carve out little channels for the thread -- it's not strictly necessary, but it makes your stitches lay a lot more neatly:

Punch the holes shown below:

I used a ~5 mm hole punch for those, and a 1.5" slot punch for the belt loops. Some of the holes on the front piece you're not punching yet, because they need to go through both layers.

I put a dab of contact cement on the pieces (circled in white) to help hold them in place when I go to punch the stitching holes:

(Make sure you're not putting glue between the belt loops)

Wait fifteen minutes for the contact cement to dry until tacky, and then line up the holes and the edges and press the pieces together:

Punch stitching holes:

Saddle-stitch both pieces in place (takes 28" of thread per):

Now you can punch these holes:

(I used a slightly smaller hole punch than for the others, but it doesn't really matter.)

Now press the right sides of the leather together and sew up the seams from the inside:

A regular sewing machine should be able to handle this, though you will need thicker thread, a heavy-duty leather-sewing needle, and a walking foot attachment. (If you don't have a walking foot attachment, it is SO WORTH getting one, even if you don't expect to sew much leather. Seriously, I use it for everything -- once you go walking foot, you don't go back. 💀) Because you can't pin leather without leaving permanent holes in it, tiny binder clips can be helpful for keeping your material lined up.

What they look like when you're finished sewing:

Cut 19" of lacing for the drawstring, and 11" of lacing for the toggle:

I use the 1/8" EcoSoft lace from Tandy, I think it's stronger than real leather would be at that thickness. The only important factor here is that you need something with a bit of texture and friction -- a silk cord isn't going to stay closed, it's going to slip open.

MANY BAGS.

For these I used a wooden toggle -- cut another 8" of lacing, looped it through the toggle twice, and then made a tight square knot on the back:

But another option is putting a concho or a large button on the flap. The bag I copied this design from, in fact, uses a concho toggle:

Thread some beads on the laces to keep the ends from getting lost, and you are DONE! 😁

Happy Bagging!

#instructional #tutorial #couch pouches #liveblogging projects #leatherworking

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moonstruckme · 8 months ago

Note

hey if you don’t mind, I’ve been struggling with a lot of anxiety and it makes my chest hurt a bunch so maybe you could rwrite something like that with anyone you’d like, ofc if you’d rather not that’s totally.

have a wonderful day dearie

Thanks for requesting baby, I'm really sorry you're dealing with that! I hope maybe you're feeling a bit better by now.

cw: anxiety, chest pain

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Remus knows you mainly watch this show because he likes it, and yet he’s dozing off. After a long shift at the hospital, the clashing of swords sounds about as lulling as a thunderstorm outside the bedroom window to his tired ears, and his head slowly slumps backwards against the couch cushion. When snuggle closer to his side, head needling its way almost into his armpit, he thinks you’re trying to get him to wake up.

“Sorry.” His voice comes out raspy, drowsiness clinging to his vocal chords like a paste.

You pull away, looking up at him. “Oh no,” you murmur, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

The guilt in your voice has him responding instinctively, “It’s okay.” Remus drapes an arm across your shoulders, encouraging you back to where you were. “I was only resting my eyes.” It’s a flimsy excuse and you both know it, so he moves on quickly. “What’s up, hm?”

“I was wondering if I could have a hug,” you say quietly, tentatively, your eyes not quite on his, “if that’s okay.”

Remus checks himself before he can look too surprised. “Of course it’s okay,” he says, tightening his grip on you.

Granted permission, you go all out. You turn your body into his, both arms wrapping tight around his midsection and face burrowing in the soft material of his sweater. Remus adjusts his hold to get a better grip on you. He brings his other hand to your head, cupping the back firmly.

Asking for affection like this, so explicitly, is unexpected from you. It makes Remus feel like he’s just had a cup of tea, spreading warmth through his insides and leaving a pleasant aftertaste on his tongue. You hate to need him, but he loves to let you. He’ll take any chance to take care of you. He likes to think a secretive little part of you likes to be cared for, too.

The exhaustion in his bones melts into something heavy and fond as he pets the back of your head. “Everything alright, sweetheart?”

You hum into his armpit. “Just felt like I needed this, for some reason.”

“Any reason’s good enough for me,” Remus half-jokes, dropping a kiss onto the crown of your head. “Did you have a long day, too?”

“Not really.” Your voice dips into a lower register, disgruntled and bemused. You turn your face up so you can see him but don’t pull away, scooting closer to tighten your hold. “Nothing’s happened, I just feel a bit off, I guess. My chest hasn’t stopped hurting all afternoon.”

He can see the regret in your expression when his eyebrows go up, and Remus laughs.

“Oi, what’s that look about?”

“I’m not trying to put you on the clock.”

“No,” he says, smiling as he kisses your hairline, “You’re not, honey.” But he does reach for the remote, pausing the TV and silencing your background noise.

Your eyes narrow. “You’ve got that serious look, though.”

“That’s just my face, I can’t really help it.” Admittedly, chest pain worries him. Remus is prone to worrying about anything that ails you; it's where his job and his boyfriend duties collide. Still, he doubts you’ve been having a heart attack for the entire afternoon, so he’s not going to frighten you by telling you about the vast number of things chest pain can point to. “Where does it hurt? Can you show me?”

You sigh and lean back, putting space between your chest and Remus’ side. “Sort of here,” you say, flattening your palm over your sternum.

“Is it a concentrated pain,” he asks, “or more of an ache?”

“More like an ache,” you admit. “It’s sort of, like, burning? But that sounds more dramatic than it really is.”

He ignores the last part of your statement, setting his hand on your chest and pushing down gently. “Does that make it worse?”

You shake your head, and Remus hums. You haven’t been coughing; he would have noticed. He works two fingers under your jaw.

“What else feels weird, sweetheart?”

“I’m not sure,” you tell him, starting to sound a bit raw. “I just feel…not right, you know? Is that bad?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he says, letting his fingers drop from your pulse point. ”I think you’re mostly okay.” He uses both hands to pull you into his lap. “C’mere, baby dove.”

You seem far from unhappy at being moved, pushing your face into Remus’ neck and letting him rest his chin atop your head. “What?” you ask.

“Did you have coffee this afternoon?”

“Yeah.” You sound cautious. “Why?”

“And did you eat before?”

“Remus.” Your warning tone is undercut by unease.

He kisses your head in apology. “I think your chest hurts because you’re anxious, honey,” he says. “The caffeine probably made it worse.”

You go quiet for a minute. Remus rubs your back, sorry for the invisibility of your hurt but relieved that its cause isn’t something more sinister. When you pull away, you’re frowning.

“I don’t think it’s that,” you say. “It’s never felt like this before.”

Remus feels his mouth slant in sympathy. “I think coffee without eating is already a bad idea, but then if you got anxious and we started watching a stressful show,” he tries to convey some apology in his expression, “it might have made your nerves feel worse than you’re used to.”

“I think I’m only nervous because my chest hurts.” You blow out a breath. “It’s kind of a chicken and egg thing, yeah?”

Remus hums, running his hand up the length of your spine. He can feel your heart beating beneath his palm. “Humor me for a minute?”

You sigh again. It looks strenuous. “Sure.”

“Breathe with me,” he instructs, folding you back towards his front. You go willingly, though you seem tenser now than before, your hands nearly rigid on his back. “In for eight.”

He listens to be sure you’re doing it with him, feeling your chest expand against his own. He lets his palm lie still beneath your shoulder blades, sneaking a gauge of your heart rate.

“Hold for eight.”

Remus feels your nose press into his collar. He turns his lips into your forehead, holding his lungs at their full capacity and knowing that if it’s difficult for him, it has to be considerably worse for you.

By the time you’re finished breathing out it's a relief for you both, and you turn your face up to his with a bit less skepticism.

“That was hard,” you admit.

Remus bites back an I-told-you-so, but he knows his smile must say enough of it when you roll your eyes good-naturedly.

“Why don’t I change it to something a bit lighter,” he says, nodding towards the TV. “We can do more breathing during the commercial breaks, yeah?”

You appear to consider this. “And we can keep cuddling?”

Remus’ chuckle lures a smile out of you. He’s exceedingly gratified to see it. “That was never up for debate.”

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lunarw0rks · 1 year ago

Text

Too Old For You // Part Two

Summary: You've been crushing on him for a while now, even going as far as taking a stab for him. But it isn't enough for him to notice you; you're too young, too nice for someone like him.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, age gap [reader is early twenties, ghost is mid/late thirties], mild injury/blood, sexual harassment, hurt/comfort, smut, oral sex, face sitting, p in v sex, unsafe sex, oral fixation, medic!reader, fem!reader

Word Count: 5.5k ˖⁺‧₊˚ A/N: This took FOREVER, but I think it's worth it. Not Proofread! ₊‧⁺˖

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ˗ˏˋ ASK BOX | AO3 VER | PART ONE .ˎˊ˗

To be honest, you were making your best effort to forget about yesterday. Sure, it was a loss of your dignity to be rejected — but you hadn’t done anything truly wrong. What could he do to publicly embarrass you? Tell everyone he walked out on the person who took a knife wound for him? What a prick he would be, then.

Plus, Simon was never the type to air out his dramas. Especially involving you, who deserved to move on and find someone better. If only it were that simple.

There was little time to dwell — a trauma was coming in.

The second you were focused on a patient; any other life problem was pushed to the back burner. After the other day, that was a blessing. Sure enough, seconds after you got the comm, the infirmary doors swung open. It was a typical sight; the wounded soldier fighting the aid of the medics, on the verge of being sedated to ensure his care was given without mistake. You sterilized your hands briefly, finding the nearest box of disposable gloves and slipping them on. Whatever happened to the man, it sounded agonizing.

However, the grunting and complaining sounded familiar, too familiar. It was Simon.

That sentiment about forgetting about your problems when tending to a patient? It vanished at the speed of light when you peeled back the curtain, seeing that it indeed was him bleeding out on the table. He didn’t want the help, but he needed it.

Maybe he really didn’t want to see you — to the level of finding hemorrhaging more preferable than letting you tend to him, let alone speak to him. Though, it seemed more likely he could not show weakness, even when he had a bullet in him.

You peeled back the privacy curtain, greeted with a well-acquainted scowl of distaste. He didn’t want you here, to see him like this. Unlike him, you could separate personal feelings from your work. Simon should know how to do that by now, but it’s clear he doesn’t.

“You need to relax and let me help you.” He rejected you — doesn’t mean you’re going to take pleasure in watching him writhe. It was your sworn duty to treat everyone, unfortunately.

Simon wanted to argue. It was obvious with the way the fabric of his mask moved, failing to conceal the clench of his jaw. You sat across from him, wheeling one of the trauma case carts beside you, “I need you to relax.” His heavy breaths weren’t from pain, he was cursing himself for catching a bullet and ending up here. He was more enraged at himself for forcing you into tending to him. He was the last person you wanted to see right now… right?

Oh, how he despised being vulnerable, even when there was no other way. With a sigh, he removed the hand putting pressure on his shoulder. He was extremely fortunate — it had missed his arteries, and from what you could see, had an exit wound.

By the time you had your eyes on the hole, you had inserted a local anesthetic to keep the area numb. Strangely enough, Ghost flinched more when you leaned in to inject the needle than when you touched the tender area. He recoiled but wasn’t going to decline medicated relief.

“Can you feel that?” You asked, pressing the pad of your gloved fingers to the outer edge of the wound. It seemed that even if he did, you wouldn’t have gotten an answer. With a shake of your head, you merely began the routine of disinfecting the wound to start. Though you were careful, you wanted this ordeal to be over.

Once you moved on from dabbing at it with swabs, you met his gaze again, finally reciprocating the stare that hadn’t broken. “You’ll be fine.” You said, moving with haste as you got a suture kit ready. Any other day, the stare would send chills up your spine. Not today.

“Not why I was looking,” Simon grumbled, now instead watching the needle thread through his flesh. You didn’t even try to hide your eye roll at the sudden mood change. It wasn’t endearing anymore; it was irksome. Your sutures were about halfway done on the entrance wound, and you couldn’t have been more thankful for that.

The med bay went silent again, except for the occasional hiss from his clothed lips, or the creaking on the stool you were sitting on. The area around the wound was pinkish and inflamed, but not a tear, luckily. If he took his antibiotics, you wouldn’t have to see him much after this. You eventually found yourself behind him to examine the exit wound, a rinse and repeat of disinfecting and then stitching.

Only, this time, the infirmary wasn’t silent for long.

His words came after the last stitch when you placed a bandage over the now-healing wound, “look, ‘m sorry for yesterday, alright?”

Simon watched your scowl intently. It wasn’t one of distaste, not even irritation — it was loathing for yourself. You didn’t deserve to feel that way, especially at his expense. But no apologizing would make the initial sting of rejection go away. You weren’t a child, nor were you a fool; you wouldn’t have pursued him if you weren’t sure of what you wanted.

With a small ‘hm’ in response, you finished the last of his dressings, ripping the disposable gloves off your hands and tossing them into the trash. Your feet darted across the tile floors as you disposed of the contaminated linen and instruments, merely moving around the Lieutenant like he was an object. An inconvenience, for making you want him so badly. You voicelessly went over to the counter in the infirmary, resuming the charting you were occupied with before he was rushed into your care. Still, with your back turned to him, his eyes were boring holes into you. He didn’t need to be there; he was free to go. But he didn’t, and it was aggravating.

One minute you were beaming for the exit, the next his hand clamped around your arm, preventing you from making your exit. “Just… stop. For a minute.” He says, releasing the hand when you look down at how tightly he was gripping you.

“Hold this against me all you want, alright? Hate me, I don’t care.” Simon sighed, rolling his injured shoulder slightly from the strain of getting up too quickly. His feet dragged slightly as he made his way toward the door, standing by the exit of the med bay.

“One day you’ll wise up and realize I’m not what you need, Kid. Think about it, at least.” The door to the infirmary came to a slow close behind him, a disheartening contrast to the slam he left you with yesterday.

『♡』•『♡』•『♡』•『♡』

Weeks passed and the initial sting of the Simon situation had begun to dilute itself.

You spent most evenings passing up a night out; instead, you were working on the piles of charts that needed filling out, or something as mundane as taking inventory for the infirmary. Tasks that are mind-numbing enough to keep your mind on work, and only work. If your goal was to forget your feelings, you failed. If it was to spend enough time alone to truly know what you wanted, you won that one.

For the first time in a while, you were caught up on the workload. The bliss of free time wouldn’t last long, so perhaps that’s why you decided to go out for drinks. Maybe you just wanted to wallow in self-pity; the root explanation didn’t matter.

It was the least they could do — considering how often you’d kept an artery from spurting blood or the number of times you’d had to fight their squirming while attempting delicate sutures. Sergeant MacTavish especially, if you were being honest. He was the worst of your patients, except for the obvious masked brooding one.

Now, you found yourself perched on a bar stool, where you’d remained stoic for about two hours now. So deep in focus, you didn’t even recognize the drink in your hands. One of the guys had asked if you wanted one, you nodded, and now here you were. On your third one. The third time you merely took what was slid across the bar top and sipped on it, no matter how much the bitter taste made your taste buds cringe.

“Can I top you off?” The bartender made his rounds again, using a rag to wipe off the surrounding countertops. Your eyes looked off to the side, observing different levels of intoxication from both the 141 and the other rowdy patrons.

The night was coming to a close, another drink wouldn’t be wise. You weren’t here to get hammered; you were here to be somewhere other than a sterile room. “No, thank you,” you slid your empty glass in his direction, then a healthy tip for the good service. He didn’t once ask why you weren’t interacting with the party you came with, or why your eyes barely looked up from the varnish on the bar. To explain to him why would be downright mortifying, and you were never good at coming up with believable excuses. Therefore, he’d earned the cash tip and then some.

Price and Gaz were the first to leave, after neatly stacking all the empty glasses that covered their booth, of course. Next, the very drunk Sergeant stumbled out of there, making the short walk to his flat to sleep off the intoxication. Surely, he’s going to require a banana bag at the base tomorrow. Around them, the servers had begun stacking the chairs and collecting the tickets to finalize the rest of the unpaid tabs. The perfect time to slip away — right when the mob of drunks huddled around the front door. No questions, no awkward conversations about carpooling; no chance of being in a cab with him again.

The universe must’ve been on your side because there was no sign of Simon currently. Not that you two would have interacted, but it was much easier to walk by an empty seat rather than one occupied by him. The warm lighting dimmed slightly as the lights in the pub were shut off one by one, prompting you to scoot off your stool and get going finally.

Behind you, the door to the men’s room closed with a small squeak, and there he was. His frame cast a large shadow over the dim light the dated sconces produced, as the two of you made brief eye contact. It wasn’t a returned gaze of unnerve or upset, just… nothing. That’s what prompted your final exit from the bar, pushing open the glass door and starting down the pavement. You didn’t mind the walk, either, not after nearly an hour and a half of sitting motionless on an uncomfortable stool.

The streetlights were faulty and had a constant dim flicker. Your only guide was the lights of the few businesses still open and the cool-hued moonlight casting feeble rays on the damp streets.

Your coat was wrapped around you tightly, yet it did little against the chill in the air. So bitter, it felt like it was seeping into your bones. Paired with the unsavory anticipation of walking these streets at night, no amount of warmth could reduce the unease.

From the depths of the darkness, came an unwelcome sound — the crude whistle of a passing car. Your heart skipped a beat, the pace of your steps quickening involuntarily. The eyes on you were that of a malevolent force, one that quite literally came from the shadowy roads around you. As the car crept with wheels at a crawl to remain alongside you, you dared a glance.

A trio of jeering faces with smirks plastered across their lips like badges of dominance. One in the backseat with his upper body hanging out, the man in the passenger seat the worst of them all. Every remark, every innuendo reduces your already fragile sense of security. Your arms folded across your chest as you kept your head down, watching your legs carry you in any direction to get you out of this, no matter what road you ended up on by the end of it.

The harsh glare of the car’s headlights felt like a spotlight, illuminating your vulnerability. In a matter of seconds, you had been reduced to an object. Merely an unwilling participant in their twisted game.

Click—click.

The distinct sound of someone racking the slide of a pistol immediately behind you. “Piss off.”

His familiar voice rang stern and commanding. Your head turned to face Simon, seeing his gun indeed unholstered and held at his side, paired with his puffed chest and furrowed brows. The car's windows rolled up immediately, followed by the whiz of it speeding down the street. Simon watched until the headlights were no longer visible, yet you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

One minute, the echo of words and phrases you never wanted to be repeated. And now, nothing but the woosh of the wind and his heavy labored breathing against his balaclava. For just a moment, nothing that happened between the two of you mattered.

It was just you, astounded and allayed, and him — the savior who wouldn’t have hesitated to crack skulls against the pavement.

“You alright?” He asks, though his eyes remain glued to the sketchy streets around him, searching for any sign of threats. You merely nod, following the motion of his fingers as he flicks the safety back on, placing the piece back into his jacket holster. Nothing sobers you up like the sight of a loaded gun, that was obvious.

It wasn’t exactly your first ordeal with predatory men, but this instance was particularly bleak. Perhaps it was your buzz, perhaps it was the sight of Simon with his pistol at the ready, perhaps it was your adrenaline.

That was just a series of questions better left unanswered.

Silence was the best conversation for someone like Simon, especially given the circumstances. Neither of you was going to complain, nor were you going to force the clichés of fussing over the other. His hand found the small of your back, steering you in the direction of his hotel. He didn't have a flat in town, his only homes were the base or moderately priced suites.

Tonight, it was the latter — the room he booked in anticipation of a night of heavy drinking, even a hookup if the events of this evening were less grim. Though, he hadn’t drunk much of anything, which was rare for him.

The light buzz was the only component you two seemed to have in common, at least from what you could take note of.

His shadow was a looming one; large and overtaking yours as he took meaningful strides down each street, still a guiding hand either hovering or clamping down when you crossed the street. You could protest and insist that you stick to your original plan of walking back to the base. But it was a futile argument to have with Simon, not after the sickening degradation you made it through.

Those men were nothing but large shadows emitted from small men. They would’ve driven away, most likely. However… something happening to you while you’re in his sights? That’s not a gamble the Lieutenant had to consider for long. The only reason he hadn’t stepped in sooner was because you had made it so far down the street in an attempt to avoid him. But when he heard the engine slow to a hum, observing how it matched your speed, those were his brief moments of thought.

Seconds following, the echo of their voices dripping with violent, impure implications — he had unholstered his pistol and power-walked down the street before his mind could catch up. There wasn’t a moment of it he’d do differently.

Not even now, as he’s approaching the door to his room. Not as he’s ushering you inside, espying as you shiver from both the cold and the unease of it all. There wasn’t a chance in hell you were walking that distance.

“The bed’s yours,” Simon mutters, slipping his jacket off his broad shoulders. Though, you’ve made no effort to respond. You’re too lost in focus, palming the icy zipper of your coat and slowly splitting it open, until the weight of it is off you. It’s tossed onto the floor, a defeated crumble — as if even your wardrobe is mocking your numbness.

Your head finally perks up at the sound of Simon sliding the keycard along the oak entry table, followed by the sudden realization that he had said something to you. “I’m sorry, what did you say before?” You sigh, eyes squinted in forced attention.

His head nods in the direction of the bed; plush white sheets that were still fresh and untouched. “I can take the pull-out.” It wasn’t a suggestion, either. Though his tone is as blunt as ever, his gaze is uncharacteristically amicable.

“It’s your room, Ghost. I’m not taking the bed.” You let out a scoff, pulling off your shoes next. The pity wasn’t necessary, nor was it going to be accepted with eagerness.

He let out a lengthy sigh, cringing when you used his callsign. Mainly at himself for being so sharp with you weeks prior and insisting you refrain from using his name. “Don’t argue with me. Take the bed.” He shuffled over to the nightstand, collecting the few belongings that were resting there, then placing them on the entry table.

Well, you had your orders, and you knew by now it was easier to follow them.

Your eyes scanned the suite in front of you; beige walls throughout, a small kitchenette in the corner, one bed and couch, a dated box TV posed in front of the space, and of course, a bathroom. It was clean, which was good enough for both of you. Especially you, right now. “I’m gonna wash up first,” you set down your bag and trudged to the washroom, letting out a defeated exhale when you were finally faced with the reflection in the mirror.

Eyes glossy and foggy with melancholy, hair askew from the unforgiving breeze outside, fingers still shaking as they grip the faux-marble counter.

After wetting a cloth and running some cold tap water along your skin, it was the spark your senses needed to realign. With a deep inhale and exhale, you exited the bathroom, wearing the hotel robe as your nightwear.

“How’s the shoulder?” The question came suddenly, but there were very few topics to discuss with Simon. You stood in between the bed and the pullout couch, the one he had yet to make with the spare sheets. And he, who was in the kitchenette pouring himself a glass of whatever from the fridge's pitcher.

Within the time you were washing up, he had changed into his version of nightwear — sweatpants and a charcoal athletic tee. “Healed just fine. You did well.” Simon makes a show of it, rolling and stretching the shoulder that was once tender and inflamed.

His praises fell short when masked with his scowl. No matter his bluntness, you still felt like an intruder in his evening. He was never one for company, especially in his private space, but here the two of you were. It was a toss-up; should you mention the obvious? Could things get much worse between you and him, by this point?

You leaned against the closest wall. “I’m not a child, you know that right?” Though it sounded confrontational, it was merely a nonchalant utterance. All frustrations spilled out nearly as a defeated mutter.

Simon scoffed heavily; eyes hooded as he blinked a few times to ensure he would articulate himself properly. He lifts his mask and takes a sip of his water, shaking his head as you continue to stare him down. You were persistent, that was apparent.

“You’re right,” he set down his glass, taking a few steps closer. “But you’re a good person. A good doctor.” His hands cupped your cheeks tightly to shake some sense into you. His last-ditch effort to convince you to move on from your feelings. You felt a rush of emotions pumping through you at once, watching intently as he spoke with such vigor. A potent mix of tenderness and firmness — all embodied into one man.

“You can find so much better than me, than this place.” Your lips slumped into a frown as his words persisted as if letting them bounce right off of you. There were so many parts of you that he saw in himself, so violently he couldn’t stay frustrated. “Quit getting in your own way, and you might see it.” His thumbs gave a small caress, and then his eyes glanced you up and down with softness. The irony of it was striking, considering Simon was his own worst enemy, especially right now.

His calloused fingers were like your own personal rush, palpable enough to make your hair stand up. “There’s nobody else I want, Simon.” You replied with a match of firmness, yet your expression was anything but frustrated.

The close proximity was saccharine and keenly awaited by both of you, though only one party was making an effort to show it.

Simon shuddered slightly, his hands running from your cheeks to the base of your neck, then back up once more. “That want is going to be the death of both of us, love.” He said softly as if he was finally accepting the reality of his feelings.

The wise decision to break it off wasn’t weighing on him anymore, not even a little bit.

You stared at him through your lashes, a hint of a smile on your lips, “I’m used to death, Lieutenant, aren’t you?”

This generated a small snicker from him, this time one you could actually see. There had been plenty concealed by his mask over the months. Every bit of you was screaming to lean in, but the longer this banter went on, the better for him. There was no sense in rushing an act that didn’t need to be rushed, especially if it was doomed to happen at some point.

“I wouldn’t even know how to… You— you haven’t done half the things—” His fingers tightened around the base of your neck slightly, head tilted as he made his best attempt at retorting. For someone with such conviction every other time, he was noticeably beating around the bush. It was amusing, to say the least.

He mutters something under his breath, something of an expression of defeat, then leans in until his parted lips are an inch from yours.

“Then teach me.” You breathed, finally allowing your hands to hold onto his wrists as he cupped your face. Simon’s eyes blazed as they met yours — smoky with the intense burn of lust.

Within seconds, his lips found yours with brazen desire. It was everything you pictured it to be and more; every last bit of ego-driven pettiness fizzled out at once. The scent of his last cigarette, his aftershave from that morning, the faint stench of bourbon on his breath — all surrounding you like an enslaving cloud. His fingers roamed again, this time from your shoulders down to your waist until he could fumble with the tie of the robe.

Simon’s feet gave yours a nudge in the direction of the bed behind you, a silent guide until the backs of your knees finally found the edge of it. An arm snaked downward until he could lift one of your legs around his waist, settling his weight on the bed so you were on top of him. Every action was mended with a prolonged, calculated kiss on his end.

The robe had opened entirely, revealing you in nothing but your panties underneath. With more movement, it drooped down your arms until it was eventually thrown off in haste, the same quickness when you slid your undergarments down. But Simon was in no rush, at least not while he was savoring the foreplay. “Scoot up for me,” he mutters, nodding his head upwards subtly. His request is met with a look of confusion, but you do as he says, shifting upwards until you’re straddling his upper torso.

“No. Up.” Simon clamps a hand around your hip, maintaining eye contact as he readjusts you further until your bare cunt is hovering over his face. Now, the realization of his idea strikes you like a bolt of lightning.

There was nothing to be embarrassed about, but that didn’t make the request less daunting. “No one’s ever…” You whisper it as if attempting to admit it without him actually hearing you. But he did, and it made your face head up. Especially now, seeing the mouth to match his eyes — even the tip of his nose, squished slightly from the fold of the fabric.

“Ever what, sweetheart?” He bites down on his bottom lip lightly, rubbing circles on your thighs. Though his eyes are darting from yours to your heat, back and forth as you feel a desperate shiver consume you.

You gave up on answering him, which was only met with a playful scoff. “Relax, and sit.” Once again, instead of letting you move, he’s taken matters into his own hands. There would be no debate about his airflow or whether he could handle your weight on his head. Simon pushed you down until you had successfully straddled his face, slick pooling against his tongue.

Your breathing hitches as he so suddenly thrusts you upon him, wasting no time to lap at your sex. He begins by circling your clit slowly, eyes fluttering shut in focus so he can maintain a pattern. Second by second, you’ve produced more than enough slick for an audible squelch with every plunge of his skilled mouth. It’s a new feeling to get used to — plagued by pleasure and reliant on every flick, yet you’re in the position of power. Bucking your hips against his tongue, using the headboard to brace yourself the longer this goes on.

By the time your breaths have gotten heavier and the moans have escaped you, Simon began delving his tongue inside you for a few turns, before devouring your nub once more. It was methodical, every switch of his pace, every roaming digit heightening your pleasure. He cupped your breast, thumbing your hardened nipple with every grind. The other hand maintained its tight grip on your thigh, merely to keep your trembles under control — which were only increasing as your climax approached.

Your nails scraped against the wooden headboard, until your tensed fingers finally found his ashy blond locks, gripping his scalp for dear life. When he hummed against you, there was an involuntary spasm of your hips, unleashing the minutes of swirling in your abdomen.

His tongue bullied you through your climax, and then some. His slobbers turned into minute licks, merely playing with the wetness coating his chin and reddened lips. When you recuperated enough for the grinds of your hips to slow, you ascended your weight off his mouth — ogling a string of spit and arousal still connecting the two organs, until it eventually snapped and soaked into his shirt.

Simon pants for a moment as his lungs take in the air again, and then his fingers start circling your hips. “What did we learn, love?” He asks with a hint of bluster, both in his oral skills and his callback to you saying ‘teach me’ while eye-fucking him. Just like before, he wasted little time answering his own questions, only this time your excuse for lull was bouncing back from the orgasm of a lifetime.

“Next time I tell you to sit,” he flips the position so you’re flat on your stomach, “you’re going to sit, right?” Simon whispers into your ear wantonly, all while his fingers find the waistband of his sweats and briefs at once, rolling them down to his mid-thigh.

You turn your head to the side against the mattress, letting out a slight chuckle. “I’ll never make the same mistake twice.”

He chuckles dryly, taking note of your coy attempt at humor. “So you’re sayin’... we’ll be doing this again?” He’s leaned closer now, warm breath tickling your earlobe. In your blind spot, he’s lined up with your entrance and palming himself. The prospect of getting together again wasn’t one he was going to refuse, perhaps even after he was done thinking with his dick. It was apparent even this early on that it wouldn’t be a series of dispassionate hookups, not with you.

“Maybe,” you retorted, nibbling on your lip, “think I should be the judge of that?”

“You’re right,” Simon replies, slowly inching his way inside of you with little verbal warning. But, judging by your mouth agape in rapture, he has done something right so far. He lets out a guttural moan, bending one of your legs slightly to get better access. His whole weight is practically pressing on you, containing your urge to twitch as his thrusts become mindful and calculated.

His hands haven’t left you once; whether they’re gripping your hips, your shoulders, or the nape of your neck. “Oh, fuck.” He quakes, slowly rolling his head to the side as your walls tense around him with each deep grind. By now, he’s bottomed out inside you — a sinful, tight compress of your pussy that almost restricts him.

He’s not rushing now, either, but every rock of his hips does gain some intensity. They’re well-spaced enough to keep you on your toes, yet quick enough to make your eyes roll. By now, the sensitivity of the first orgasm is spilling over onto your second like a violent riptide jostling your senses around. Every urge to savor this moment, to let your body take its time, is utterly abandoned.

Simon leans forward and begins nipping and licking along your shoulder blades, making a pattern of it. Jawline, to nape, to the blades — coated with a line of his saliva and teeth marks. It’s the only humane way he can keep himself contained.

Your walls are clenching around him rapidly now, once he’s teased that gratifying spot deep within you, “gonna cum for me again, sweetheart? Keep takin’ me so well?” His words are nearly more addicting than his cock; the British rasp that gets thicker the closer he is to finishing.

The nod you supply is pathetic, at best. It earns you a few fingers in your mouth; hollowing your cheeks and slobbering as you sob around them from your fast-approaching climax. The pace is agonizing, but enough when he uses his other hand to thrust your body onto his length, angling your cunt in a way that finally hits a bullseye on that spot.

Your throat clenches, as does the rest of your muscles when you dissolve into pleasure. What was once a tight coil of tension in your abdomen, was now waves of ecstasy coursing through you — prolonged by his now sloppy thrusts. You go limp against the mattress as he rides out the rest of his, your ears feasting on the curses Simon’s muttering.

With a halt, the fingers in your mouth are withdrawn. Both of his hands reside on your hips, holding you in place as he drains every last drop of his orgasm within you. For a few seconds, all you hear are his quivers and the shuffle of the skin-to-skin.

Then, every ounce of his restraint shatters once the climax passes. About half his weight lands on you as he slumps forward, pulling his length from you and wilting against the creased sheets. “Was that a yes?” He asks, snaking an arm around your shoulders until you roll over to face him.

“To what?” You huff a few times whilst running your fingertips along his arm scars. To say you were in shock, was an understatement. He was everything you were expecting—and more—in the sack. All the pandering, all the ‘getting in your own way’ on both sides erupted into a climax. Or multiple, for that matter.

“Doin’ this again?” Simon replies, pushing your head against his peck.

“Hm, I think I might need a few more test drives before I come to a final decision.” You say, raising your brows to match your playful tone. It was a stark contrast to the weeks prior, even if the events leading up to sharing a hotel room with him were less than pleasant.

And to him; he lost all sense of control when you took a stab for him. He just had a way of hiding it—the keyword being; had.

At the thought of it, his thumb finds the now healed scar where the knife penetrated, reflecting in his mind about all the events that led up to this. Two different bodies, two different ages, two different persons, yet both are thinking about history.

“I think that can be arranged, Doc.”

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