#You can pry anatomy from my cold dead hands

[jailofhorns]

Glances

[erosology]

a taste of domesticity | simon "ghost" riley

❀ cw/tw: NSFT, fem reader (afab anatomy, fem pet names), established relationship, american author trying to make an english person's dialogue sound authentic, you'll have to pry blond-haired and brown-eyed simon from my cold dead hands, tooth-rotting fluff, undertones of obsession and codependency (because duh it's me), soft dom simon, thigh riding, body worship, praise, oral (f! receiving), unprotected sex

❀ wc: 7,248

❀ a/n: i will never, ever apologize for writing simon as a lovesick slightly pathetic man

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Simon “Ghost” Riley during your time together, it’s that he takes his job very seriously. So seriously, in fact, he’s often too tired to do much other than eat the dinner you’ve prepared him, take a shower, and go straight to bed. Despite his demanding and hectic career path, you both find ways to spend time together—him allowing you to sit in his lap as he does paperwork, you sneaking into the shower as he gets ready for the night, him coming home early and helping you with dinner—all small things to piece together a picture of domesticity and love Simon has craved his entire life.

But sometimes, he thinks, things in the bedroom are a little…lacking.

He only has himself to blame, really, considering he chose a job that demands every bit of strength he has. But there are times when he’s looking at you, your body wrapped in one of his t-shirts and your hair thrown up into a messy bun as you’re curled up on the couch reading, and he wonders if being a butcher is really that bad.

It’s no matter, though, because as insane and hectic as his job might be, he knows, deep down, he wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re a breath of fresh air for the man who is constantly drowning in his desire to be useful, a lighthouse for the man who is constantly swimming in his failures, a safe place for him to strip himself of the wet clothing trying to cling on to this body (much like how his stormy thoughts try to cling on to him) and bask in your warmth. He’s enamored by your compassion, utterly and completely in love with your honesty, and bewitched by your loyalty—a soulmate for someone who has only ever known chaos.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❀ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

“We should have lemon garlic shrimp tonight,” you suggest to your partner, leaning against his office door frame in hopes maybe he’d look up.

Simon’s eyes don’t even leave his computer as he asks, “What’s the special occasion, love?”

“You’re home in time for dinner for the first time in a month.”

It’s a small stab, he knows it, but it still hurts nonetheless, and you can see him flinch at the blunt edges of your words. He fists clench and unclench, as if debating if he can physically fight off the sense of guilt wrapping around his broad shoulders, before he saves his report progress and shuts his computer down. His movements are always so methodical, measured, but there’s nothing measured about the way he nearly chokes on his own spit when his eyes land on your outfit. Dressed in nothing but one of his t-shirts, thigh high stockings, and a pair of panties, you look nothing short of absolutely divine, and Simon nearly has to check his pulse to make sure he hasn’t died and gone to heaven.

You gaze at him through your eyelashes, eyelids half-closed in lust and the smallest of smirks on your lips. “S’matter, Si? Cat got your tongue?”

It never fails to astound him how easily you rev him up, how you make him feel like some horny teenager on prom night trying to score with his date–clumsy words spilling from his mouth as he tries his hardest to find the magic words to part your legs, palms sweaty as they try to hold your hand, body vibrating with anticipation to see what your tongue tastes like. He’s so unbelievably attracted to you, it makes his head fuzzy with hormones and irrationality, even after all of this time together.

He’s careful as he walks from his desk to you, strong arms wrapping around your waist and his lips brushing your hair. “Are you my starter?” he asks and pinches your thigh for good measure.

You giggle at the rare show of unabashed flirtation from your normally stoic partner and reply coyly, “I could be your dessert if you behave.” Feeling rather bold, you pull him into the kitchen by his belt, and he has to bite his lip to keep the groan clawing at his mouth at bay. You’re too precious for something as barbaric as fevered kisses and frantic hands eager to rip your clothes off. Valuable crystals deserve only the most tender of hands, the most careful of eyes, handled with the utmost precision and patience, and he’s always considered himself a good gemologist.

“C’mere for a second, love,” he says as you turn your back to get started on dinner. Before you can fully turn towards him, he gently cups your jaw and tilts your face up towards his, lips ghosting each other before he finally slots his against yours. You can feel how eager he is, how much he’s holding himself back so as to not break you, so you wrap your arms around his neck and deepen the kiss that much more. That’s all of the motivation he needs, evidently, and he’s quick to wrap your legs around his waist and place you on top of the kitchen counter. Whatever small grip he had on self-control has snapped—a hungry beast finally let free and allowed to feast however he pleases. He wants to completely devour you and keep you safe in his chest—strong bones to keep filthy, undeserving hands from touching you. One taste of you and he’s already drunk on love and all of its promises of companionship and domesticity. 

His hands tangle themselves in your hair, fingers massaging your scalp as his tongue gently prods at your mouth. That’s when you pull away, much to your disappointment, and he groans at the lewd line of spit connecting your lips. Mind hazy with lust, he tries to tilt your face towards his again, anxious to eat until all that’s left is a pile of bones and love, but you gently stop him by pressing your fingers to his mouth.

“Was I too rough?” he asks worriedly. “We can slow down, if you want. I just…miss you, is all, and you’re right about this being the first time we’ve had some time together in God knows how long. I…I know ‘s my fault, and I want to make it up to you—if you’re alright with that.”

And he looks so sincere—dark eyes scanning your face for any sign of discomfort, hands resting on your thighs and not daring to move, tongue nervously darting out to lick his lips, chest rising and falling with anticipation—you nearly allow him to devour you right there on the kitchen counter. But you’re determined to have a proper dinner with the man you love more than you could ever hope to comprehend. And what’s a good dinner without a nice show?

Your hands fiddle with the collar of his shirt, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek in hopes it’ll calm the hunger rolling around in your stomach. “You weren’t too rough, honey, I promise.” At that, you can see relief flood his features, and you gently tug on his collar so he brings his forehead down to meet yours. The pure adoration in his eyes nearly makes you choke, and you swallow down the lump of emotion that had begun to form in your throat. Simon has always been a gentle man despite his very impassive shell, never pushing you and always ready to communicate boundaries and comfort, so to see him so unraveled after a month of missing him is bringing out a masochistic side of you you’d never knew was buried underneath all of the domesticity. Still, you want to be able to enjoy him as much as possible before the moon hangs high and exhaustion begins to settle into heavy bones.

Simon mildly pulls your hand away from nervously toying with his shirt and kisses your fingers—an action that causes you to shudder with admiration. “Did I push you too much?”

“No, sweetheart. I just really, really want to have a nice dinner with you.”

Chuckling, he kisses your temple and helps you off of the counter, his hands lingering on your hips a little longer than necessary before swatting at your bottom and allowing you to begin cooking. “Then a nice dinner together we shall have.”

It’s intoxicating how much your thighs rub together as you cook dinner, how they jiggle and ripple, and Simon isn’t sure what he’s more hungry for. Your hips sway to and fo to the music—nothing inherently sexual about the movement, but his heart speeds up nonetheless. His dark eyes drink in every inch of you like a parched man in the desert, lapping up every single drop so much, he fears his stomach may burst. But it’d be worth it. It would be absolutely worth any form of torture to be able to touch you, hold you, hear you laugh, watch your lips form the syllables of his name. His greatest high, his greatest weakness, the person he’d try to find in every life after this one, the song he hums to himself when he thinks no one is around—all wrapped up in the prettiest package he has ever had the privilege of laying his eyes on.

Simon “Ghost” Riley, special forces operator trained to deal with things most people only see portrayed in overly-budgeted action movies, is absolutely hypnotized by how absolutely gorgeous you are.

“Didn’t know I was getting dinner and a show,” he nearly purrs at you as you pour him a glass of bourbon. Kentucky, of course.

“Hmm?” You innocently cock your head. “I’m just making you dinner, silly, a very normal thing.”

“Whatever you say, love.”

Lust and hormones roll off of your body in tidal waves, nearly drowning the man under the chaotic waters, but he wouldn’t mind, not really. He could spend hours, days, weeks floating around in all of your oceans, exploring every part of you until he has a clear map ingrained in his brain. He’s in love with your heart, in lust with your body, and enamored by your mind.

A warmth only alcohol can provide spreads across his body, and Simon Riley, known by even his closest friends as stern and forthright, dares to relax in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and his eyes half-closed as they watch you sway to the music. At times like this, Simon is reminded of what it’s like to be naïve again, excited, ready to face the world and all of its possibilities. He’s content, basking in the security you provide him with and the knowledge that he has you to call home. He’s safe, and that’s something he’ll never, ever take for granted.

“You look happy,” you giggle, taking note of the pink flush to his face.

He hums, and in the blink of an eye he’s got his arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your head. His lips brush against your hair, fingers fiddling with the t-shirt clinging to your body, and he swears he could stay like this forever if you allowed him to. He thinks this is what paradise must be like—his soulmate wrapped in his arms, the scent of delicious food hanging in the air, music softly playing over the sound of your giggles, his heart let free from its cage and soaring in the air.

“Must be because I am,” he utters into your hair. “I really, really am, sweetheart.”

And though he’s never been one for grandiose displays of affection, he finds himself spinning you around your shared kitchen, strong hands pressed into the small of your back and swaying your bodies to and fro, a makeshift ballroom squished in between the living room and his office.

Your hand fists his shirt, giggles bubbling out of your lips—the most beautiful sound he’ll ever hear. “Simon Riley! What has gotten into you?”

The smile he bears is a gentle one full of love and admiration, and you swear you feel your heart squeeze in your chest. “I’m very lucky to have you. In fact…” And then, his lips are ghosting over yours and his hands are clutching at your hips, desperate to feel you close but scared to admit how much he needs you. “I’d wager I’m the luckiest bastard on this shithole planet.”

“I think you’d lose,” you whisper back, a joyous light dancing in your eyes. “Because I’d wager I’m the luckiest person on this shithole planet to have you.”

He kisses you before he can stop himself, before he can second guess whether or not he’s worthy of your lips, before either of you can begin to decipher what love is and why it heals as much as it hurts. He kisses you and tries his hardest to commit dedication to memory. He kisses you and forgets what the definition of pain is and all he can feel is your fingers carding through his hair. He’s consumed by you—the smell of your shampoo stubbornly clinging to your hair, the feeling of your heart hammering against his, your eyelashes brushing against his cheek, the little squeal you let out when he picks you up, everything, everything everything. All he wants is this moment right here tattooed into his brain, burned into his eyelids so every time he closes his eyes all he can see is bliss and sunlight filtering through.

And though he’s the one with the infamous appetite, he swears he’d crack his ribcage open and allow you to feast as much as you need to. What is love if not all-consuming—cannibalistic desires flooding empty veins until the need to eat is unbearable? Hungry teeth clash against a bare tongue, and he groans loudly into your greedy mouth.

“Simon,” you gasp, “the food—”

“Can wait,” he finishes for you, and you both find yourselves stumbling into a chair. Quickly, he sits down with you on his lap, careful as to not hurt his precious meal. He can feel your cunt throb against his thigh and, god, he needs to eat, eat, eat before he goes completely mad. His thumb draws circles against the growing wet spot on your panties, a groan reverberating in his chest and deep eyes rolling to the back of his head. He sees you’re wearing the pink lacy panties with a white bow that always drive him up the walls of your shared home, and he has to fight the animalistic urge to rip them clean off of your body. No, he won’t be rough no matter how hungry he is. He’s not a beast void of all humanity. He’s simply a man with an empty stomach and the prettiest meal sitting on his lap, and his teeth miss how your skin feels pinched between them.

He easily slides your panties off, an expert in disarming prey, and brings them up to his nose, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Simon,” you moan out at the sight. “Simon, please—”

His hand strikes at your bottom before you can finish your sentence. “Ride my thigh, love.” And he pockets your panties, promising himself he’ll give them back one day.

His big, calloused hands grip your hips as you drag your pussy across his thick thigh, your juices coating his pants but he doesn’t even care. How can he when you look so precious moaning and pleading on his thigh, shaky fingers grasping at his tie to gain some sense of balance? His brown eyes gaze down at you with a predatory light, his bottom lip pinched between his teeth as your grinding becomes more and more erratic.

His voice is strained when he speaks, husky, a caged animal frustrated at not being able to roam free. “That desperate for me, hm? So impatient…” But he can’t deny the erection swelling in his boxers, nor can he deny how hypnotizing it is watching how your brow furrows in concentration with every swivel of your hips. The squelching sound of your drooling cunt is downright filthy, but it’s so intoxicating to the man who gets drunk off of your submission. Adam’s apple bobbing, he tries his hardest to swallow down all of the primal urges flooding his body, to allow you to continue chasing your high, but he can’t stop himself from planting a kiss on your exposed shoulder, nor can he stop himself from resting his forehead upon that very same shoulder. His arms wrap around your torso, bringing your body closer to his so your chests are flushed together, and he groans when he feels your leg brush against his aching cock.

“Si…,” you gasp.

“Shh, just let me do this, darling,” he whispers, his breath tickling your neck. “I want to be close to you.”

Tears poke at the corner of your eyes and your throat constricts, a small gasp leaving your lips before he kisses them gently. A vulnerable Simon is a rare one, but you’re so parched for the smallest taste of intimacy you’re nearly afraid of draining him completely. Still, you wrap your arms around his neck and quicken your pace—anything to keep him close, to keep his face buried in the crook of your neck and his hands stroking at your spine. Shaky fingers bury themselves in short blond hair, pulling at the strands and his heart strings. Trembling thighs squeeze around his own muscular one, and he feels just how hard your heart is slamming itself against your ribcage. What should’ve been an act of climacteric horniness is truly an act of desperate love, depraved intimacy that has been simmering under the surface—two people trying to find themselves buried in each other’s chests.

“Si…” His name rolls off of your tongue so easily, a sound that floods his veins with a warmth his blood couldn’t possibly supply. “Si, please!” Fingernails dig into his back, and he knows just how dire it is for you to feel all of him, but, fuck, he needs to hear you beg a bit more. He needs to be reminded that yes, he is worthy of love, and yes, even with a heart as scarred as his, he is capable of loving back. He needs his ears to be flooded with the sound of unhinged adoration and unwavering dedication. He needs to run his hands all across your skin until he’s able to commit romance to memory and he can’t bear the thought of touching anything else.

Pulling his head back, his amber eyes search your face, fingers gently tracing your bottom lip, and the sheer intensity of his expression has your movements slowing. You’re surprised to see him hesitant, unsure, because in a world of war and uncertainty, Simon Riley is a man made of osmium. He can’t afford the luxury of insecurity in a market that feeds off of humanity. But here he is, one hand keeping your hips stilled as his other one languidly traces all of the bumps and curves of your body, his brow furrowed in concentration as if afraid of breaking you with the slightest of pressure, his eyes full of worry.

“Si—”

“You know I love you, right?” he uncharacteristically cuts you off, his tone steady despite the tremble in his hand.

You answer without missing a beat. “Of course I do. I love you, too, honey.”

He nods, moreso to himself than you, and finally meets your eyes. You’re surprised to see the fire burning in them, how his soft eyes look nearly deadly as he wraps his arms around your chest and brings your body flush against his once again. “Then we’re going to do this the right way.” And before you can ask what he means by that, he lifts your body up with ease, earning a surprised squeak from you. His lips attach themselves against your shoulder, and you wrap your legs around his waist to allow him to carry you easier. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he confesses softly between kisses. “You keep me grounded, sweetheart. You keep me sane.”

Longing strangles you and you can’t help but shutter at his raw declaration of love. Simon reminding you how much you mean to him isn’t rare in the least bit–he’s rather forthcoming about his feelings after many months of you teaching him how to loosen his tongue–but to hear it said so tenderly, as if your ears are made of paper and he spits razors with every word, is something worth crying over.

And you do.

Glistening crystals poke at the corner of your eyes as he tenderly lays your body on the bed, and it’s at this moment Simon Riley thinks you’re something worth dying over. His fingers swipe at your tears, rough palm resting against your cheek, and you nuzzle your face into the callouses, a soft smile on your lips and galaxies in your eyes. He’s hopelessly, painfully, undeniably in love with you, and he absolutely hates himself for neglecting you so much.

“Sweetheart,” he begins, voice strained with love and weakness. How can he look into your eyes and apologize for being a horrible partner? You—with your patience and kindness and strength and dedication and selflessness—you deserve better, better than being left alone to wonder if he’s safe and alive. Better than brisk pecks to your forehead after a thoughtfully prepared breakfast. Better than rushed showers and swift promises of love before a day of unguaranteed nights. Better than him. Better than anything someone like him could ever hope to offer you.

And of course—because you’re you, you, you—you place a kiss on his palm. It’s an innocent enough gesture. A quick press of your lips to the palm of his hand. It’s something that he normally wouldn’t think twice about, something he would smile about and then kiss your cheek for. Definitely not something worth gasping over. Not something worth losing his breath over. Not something worth the shudder that wracks his body. Not something worth splitting his soul in two over. But, as he hovers over you, he can feel his shell crumbling away until all that’s left is the part of his heart he’s been saving for someone like you. He can’t breathe, can’t think, not when you’re kissing the same hand that has killed, that has failed, that has been scarred and covered in blood. And then you’re kissing the pulse in his wrist and then his forearm and then his bicep and before he can even warn you to save your kisses for the worthy, you’re kissing his shoulder in the same tender manner he was kissing yours moments ago.

He feels your breath dance across his neck and refuses to move until you give him permission.

“Simon,” you whisper, and his ears ring at how much affection you place in the syllables of his name. “I love you more than I could ever hope to fathom. I don’t think you realize how much you keep me sane.”

“Sweet—”

You silence him with a kiss to his neck, humming at the steady beat in his jugular. “You’re my comfort. You’re my safe space to be myself with no worries about what’s going to happen tomorrow because you’re prepared for anything. You allow me to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress without judging me or trying to baby me. You understand that sometimes I need to be neurotic and moody and a ball of stress. You’re caring and thoughtful and straightforward and I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

You can’t be real. Even the holiest of heavens couldn’t craft something as angelic as you, and yet here you are, touching your forehead to his and filling his lungs with your stardust, divine hand caressing his cheek, sephric eyes holding so much unfiltered love he can’t stop himself from kissing you. His lips are tender at first, trying their best to memorize immortality and savoring how ethereal you taste, but when you place your hand on his neck, he feels himself giving into his mortal instincts. Using his body weight to his advantage, he lowers you back down to the mattress, never daring to break the kiss. His hands begin to tug at the shirt clinging to your torso, and you’ve never been quicker to dispose of clothes.

“So beautiful,” he mumbles against your lips, hands grazing across your thighs and squeezing them appreciatively. “You’re so beautiful, darling, do you know that?”

A sudden bashfulness warms your body, and you fight the urge to hide behind your hands. “You make me feel it,” you reply shyly and try to pull his face back down to yours, but he stops you by kissing the tips of your fingers. Pouting, you try to grab his face again, but again, he simply catches your hand and kisses your palm, his eyes resting on yours and full of unadulterated dedication. “C’mere, I wanna kiss.”

“You’ll get plenty of those, love, don’t worry.”

Forever and ever, he silently promises himself, I’m going to kiss you forever. And, keeping his promise like the dutiful man he is, he kisses his way up your arm, every touch of his lips measured and careful, until they gently brush against your cheek. You giggle at his breath tickling your neck, and he swears he feels his heart collapse in on itself like some pathetic parody of a supernova. This right here—you stripped down to your underwear and allowing him to love every inch of your supple skin, him stripped down to the bone and being forced to let go of control–is something he used to fantasize about, something he never ever thought himself worthy of, but when you look up at him with your eyes full of trust and dedication, he can’t stop himself from drinking in every second of it. His lips brush against your neck, right above the jugular so he can feel how your heart rate spikes, and then your collarbone, and then his tongue gently swipes across your nipple, earning a soft gasp from you.

“Simon,” you whine, “no teasing, please.”

His fingers brush against your cheek, lips still attached to your breast, while his other hand snakes down to your cunt. “‘m not teasing, darling, I promise. Just want to show every part of you some love.”

He’s an expert at unraveling you, at lightly grazing his fingers just above where you need him most, at dragging his tongue across your peddled nipple, at nipping and sucking at your breasts until you’re bucking against his hand. Even after all of these past weeks of quickies and fevered shower sex, Simon Riley is nothing short of a master at making you moan out his name. His penchant for precision is often deemed a tedious mindset, something to hold him back from admiring the big picture, but it’s a gift from the heavens above when it has you a writhing mess underneath him. Your juices are coating his hand and his ears are full of your vows of love and lust, but it still isn’t enough for him. He needs all of you, all of your tears, all of your gasps and whines, all of your shaking thighs wrapped around him, needs to feel skin brushing skin and the promise of loving and being loved forever.

Your shaking hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling and tugging at the strands and causing him to groan against your skin. “Simon, f-fuck, you’re so good.”

A moan stutters in his chest at the unexpected praise. He needs to feast on everything that is you until he’s full. Without so much as a warning, he kisses your forehead once more before throwing your legs over his shoulders in one swift movement. You open your mouth to protest that he deserves a little love too, but his lips are already attached to your throbbing clit and all you can do is cry out his name. You can feel another groan reverberate in his chest, his hands kneading at your plush thighs and pulling you closer, closer, closer, until his nose is buried in your pubic hair, and he looks nothing short of a man utterly in love with the person beneath him.

“Simon! Oh my fucking god, Simon!”

He slides a finger inside of your fluttering hole, and then another, curling them and scissoring just the way that has your thighs twitching around his head. Brown eyes roll to the back of his head, and he somehow manages to bury his face even further into your pussy. “Like that, baby? You like it just like that?”

“Yes, Simon, yes, please!”

“Fucking hell, darling, I could stay here forever.” Forever doesn’t seem like a long time as long as you’re by his side…

Simon isn’t sure what he’s more drunk on—the alcohol he indulged in earlier, or the juices dripping from your cunt. He’s intoxicated on submission and domination, lust and love, every saccharine memory with you in the past and every hopeful wish with you in the future, every broken piece of you and every picture he’s painted on your skin. He’s drunk on you. All of your moans and pants and pleas for more, more, more—eat until you’re full, Simon! Completely devour until all that’s left is an illustration of what love is!

He was never an indulgent man until you came into his life and discovered just how large his stomach truly is.

His tongue draws languid circles on your clit as his fingers pump in and out of your cunt, his half-lidded ambers watching the rise and fall of your chest. Once he finds a good rhythm, he brings his free hand up to pinch and roll your nipple between his nimble fingers, and you’re sure this is what heaven must feel like.

Simon Riley is almost certain you’re an angel in disguise, but you’re starting to suspect he’s a god who’s too humble to admit his omnipotence. How else would he know exactly how to curl his fingers just right to get your thighs to shake? How else would he know how much you love when he flattens his tongue and slowly drags it along your clit? How else would he know to kiss your inner thigh as he takes a minute to catch his breath and rest his jaw? He looks up at you with ambers filled to the brim with worship and adoration, but you swear you can see a flicker of greed lingering somewhere in there—obsession disguised as fascination, possession parading as love, anything to keep you by his side.

“Look at you, so wet for me,” he coos up at you, using his fingers to spread your pussy lips and admire the mess between your legs. “Do I make you feel that good, sweetheart? Can’t help but fucking drip for me, hm? So wet for me, baby, so good for me.”

“S-S-Simon!”

“Keep moaning my name, sweetheart,” he groans as he brings his mouth to your cunt again, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the tightness of his pants. “Fuck—scream it, I don’t care. Just wanna keep hearing you.”

“Simon fucking Riley, please, you feel s-so good!”

Taunt skin is pulled across knuckles as you grip the bed sheets underneath you. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull, thighs uncontrollably shaking around his head, chest heaving as if you just ran a marathon, sweat clinging to your skin, cunt throbbing rhythmically along with the pumping of your partner’s fingers, you can feel your orgasm swiftly approaching. Simon must be able to tell also, given the way his licks to your clit are becoming more and more frantic and he’s starting to goad you on.

Desperation is laced with fascination as he begs, “Go on, baby, it’s okay. Cum on my fingers. Cum for me, please, let me make you feel good. I know you can, love. Just cum for me.”

As if under his spell, you feel the control you had been trying to grip on to snap and unadulterated pleasure crash over your body, leaving you heaving and twitching underneath his touch. He easily helps you through your high, gentle as he kisses your thighs and slowly eases his fingers out of your throbbing cunt. Crystals poke at the corner of your eyes, causing them to look like stained glass on a sunny day, and Simon is sure to say his prayers as he kisses them away.

“So, so gorgeous,” he whispers between the brushes of his lips. “So pretty when you’re cumming for me. Fuck, love, you’re so beautiful.”

Relishing the praise he’s pouring on your skin, your shaking fingers begin to tug at the shirt clinging to his chest. He tries to stop your ministrations and tell you that predators typically don’t get help from their prey, but you shush him and tell him that not every prey is helpless just like not every predator is invincible. He watches your hands fumble with bemusement, and after a moment of struggling you decide to flip your bodies over so you’re now straddling him.

He’s surprised to say the least, eyes widening and body struggling to regain control, but after a kiss to his forehead and a nip at his ear, he begins to think that having control isn’t what it’s all cracked up to be. Besides, why would he deny himself the perfect view of your body—of your breasts heaving in front of him, your pulse thumping in the hollow of your throat, of your neck exposed and ready to be bitten? Why would he deny himself of the feast before him, coated in sweat and glowing with love?

“Off,” you mumble against his neck and tug at his pants. “Off, please, Simon, take them off.”

Desperation drips from every syllable that falls from your intoxicating mouth, and he’s quick to dispose of the pants that restrict him. Strong fingers cup your jaw and bring your face in front of his, hungry ambers drinking in the sight of adoration and lust. His lips slot against yours, hands grasping at your hips and dragging your cunt across his hard cock, and he swears this is the sweetest form of torture.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I want you to look at me while you put me inside of you. C’mon, baby, don’t be shy now.”

Your trembling hands find his dick, and you have to stop to admire the masterpiece laying underneath you—a pretty red head beaded with precum, a prominent vein running along the side of his shaft and wrapping until it meets with a tuft of blond pubic hair, stomach muscles contracting with every breath, pink-flushed cheeks on a stern face, a naked chest rising and falling with anticipation. He’s beautiful. He’s everything every artist has tried to capture on blank canvases and fell just short of. He’s ethereally gorgeous but also alarmingly human. He’s an angelic face with blood-stained hands. He’s Simon “Ghost” Riley, and you’ve never been more proud to be able to call him yours.

Bashful eyes meet greedy ones and you’re lowering yourself on his cock before you can begin to ask yourself who’s more vulnerable in this moment—the prey on the pedestal or the predator whose appetite can only be satiated by one person. The swollen tip of his cock rests easily inside of you, and right when you’re about to start rocking your hips, he sits up so your chests are flushed together, much like how you were in the kitchen.

His lips brush against your shoulder, and you’re reminded of how gentle he can be despite the calluses on his palms. “I want you close, baby, please. Need to feel all of you. Every inch, inside and out. Will you let me do that, sweetheart?”

A thick blanket of submission wraps itself around your shoulders, and your head is nodding before you even give it permission to. “Want all of you, Si! Need all of you! Jus’ wan’ you.”

He begins to rock his hip, bones digging into plush flesh, and swears he can see flashes of golden gates with each thrust. “That’s it, baby. Such a good girl—my good girl.”

“S-Simon!”

Watching your breasts bounce as he bucks into you is hypnotizing, and he has to dig his fingers into your thighs to keep himself from bucking into you wildly. No, he refuses to be the beast he keeps buried down. It’s taken years of self-discipline and self-discovery to keep it locked away. He can’t unleash it now during a moment of vulnerability. But there’s something so tantalizing about you, so tempting and delicious that causes his teeth to sharpen and his mouth to flood with drool…

“Roll your hips, darling,” Simon whispers into your neck. “Be my good girl and roll your hips.”

And like the obedient girl you are, you listen, clit brushing against his pelvis and sending delicious waves of pleasure over your body. He thinks he’s dragging you down to hell with him, but you’re certain this is what heaven feels like. The love of your life beneath you, a light blanket of sweat over his body, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries not to overindulge, his heart slamming against his ribcage in a frenzied attempt to reach you, his hands touching every inch of you they can reach, his lips kissing away the tears that stream down your face… No, this is better than heaven. With his hunger and your curiosity, you’ve both managed to find a place better than the promiseland, better than anything any god or mortal could even begin to hope to comprehend, a place where he’s free to feast on you as much as he wants and you can bury yourself in his ribcage.

Strong fingers slip under your chin and force you to look in a pair of shining ambers, and you swear Simon has never looked more beautiful than in this moment. “Kiss me, sweetheart,” he pleads, his hips stuttering.

Starving lips come crashing together, and it takes every ounce of self-control to not feed until his stomach ruptures.

And the worst part of it all is he knows you would allow him to.

You would absolutely allow him to eat, eat, eat, Simon, sharpen your teeth and bite as hard as you want! You’ll never go hungry as long as you’re with me! Just eat, goddammit, eat, eat, eat! Eat all of me until we aren’t sure where you end and I begin! Eat until I’m swimming in your veins! Just fucking eat!

Simon buries his face into the crook of your neck in hopes that maybe he can get through the night without any bloodshed, struggling to keep himself under control. But you have other plans. Lacing your fingers through his blond hair, you guide his face to one of your breasts in a silent plea for him to suck on it as you ride him. He obeys, of course. How could he not when you look so delicious covered in sweat and bouncing on his cock?

With teeth as sharp as diamonds, he tugs onto your nipple, and you cry out his name until it’s all you can dare to think about. “Fuck, baby,” he swears, one of his hands massaging your other breast, “you’re so beautiful. You know that right, darling? Have I ever told you how beautiful you are as you ride me?”

Your thighs begin to shake, and it’s then you both know you’re at the brink of unadulterated pleasure. Mustering as much strength as you can, you slam your hips down on his in frantic motions, feel the head of his cock prodding at your cervix, and tears poke at the corners of your eyes in anticipation of the feast about to come.

“So close, baby,” your partner moans, “so fucking close. Just a little more, love. Can you do that for me? Can my good girl ride me just a little bit more and make us both cum?”

“Y-Yes! Anything for you, Simon! Jus’ wanna be your good girl…”

Your whines and moans become more and more warbled the closer you get to your orgasm, and Simon is drinking every ounce of your submission. Unable to maintain self-control in the face of greed, sharp teeth pinch your nipple, the swell of your breasts, your shoulder, your neck, your jaw—anywhere he can feed and hear you squeal out in delight, just so long as he eats, eats, eats. Every time enamel pinches plush flesh, he can feel a piece of you slither down his throat and land in his ever-growing stomach—somewhere you’ve learned to consider home. Whispers of praise and love dance across your skin, his hands running up and down your spine as if coaxing you to give him just a little more of yourself, just a bit more so he can sedate the beast and continue to be the practical man you know and love.

“So fucking good for me,” he moans into the crook in your sweaty neck, his cock beginning to throb with the need to release. “That’s my girl, just a little more. I’m so close, love.”

Shaky hands bury themself into thick hair, and you pull until you can hear a hiss leave his lips. “Please, Simon, cum with me, please!”

“My baby wants me to cum with her, hmm?” he teases, albeit weakly. He’s losing control, you both know it. His abs flex with strain, his brow is shining with sweat, and his lips wobble with weakness, and yet he’s fighting to have you cum first just so he can taste how sweet you are on his tongue before he’s no longer human.

“Yes, please! I’m begging you, Simon, cum with me!”

“O-O-Oh, fuck...” Though he’s never been much for blind optimism, a part of him hoped maybe he finally could have control over his desires around you. A foolish thing to think, really, when you call to the beast buried in his ribcage so easily… “I’m gonna cum, darling, cum with me!”

And you do, almost embarrassingly quick. With your arms wrapped around each other, your face buried in his chest and his buried in your hair, your hips clumsily crashing together, you both cum together loudly, lewdly, your names burned into each other’s throats and echoing off of your bedroom walls. 

“You did so well for me, baby,” he mumbles against your shoulder, his lips fumbling to kiss everywhere his teeth sunk into. “I love you so much.”

You sigh and lean into his kisses as much as you can, arms still hanging loosely around his neck and your lungs trying to pull in oxygen. “I love you too, sweetheart, so, so much.”

“C’mon, I’ll go prepare a bath for us.” Gently, he untangles your limbs and lifts you in his strong arms. With one last kiss to your forehead, he begins to make his way to the bathroom, you curled up against his chest and listening to how hard his heart is hammering.

And somewhere between the sound of running water and satisfied giggles, Simon swears he hears a growl coming from his chest—low and threatening, a warning he only has so much time before he loses control and he can no longer contain how he feels about you.

And, for the first time since he discovered that wretched beast, he thinks he might be okay with that.

[yourdeepestfathoms]

TADC Playing D&D

(ALL PLATONIC/FAMILIAL.)

Caine is the DM obviously

Pomni plays a Firbolg Warlock (but her Firbolg’s design is the one that looks like a cow. y’all know the one. it’s the only valid design for a Firbolg)

Jax plays a Tiefling Rogue (obviously)

Ragatha plays an Aasimar Cleric (also obviously)

Zooble plays a Changeling Barbarian

Gangle plays a Gnome Druid

Kinger plays a Warforged Artificer

And then Caine reveals the plot twist: it’s gonna be irl dnd, and they ACTUALLY PLAY their characters

They’ve got costumes and their character traits and everything! Like, Ragatha gets angel wings, Jax has horns, Pomni gets a tail (because, again, cow-like Firbolgs are the only right way to design Firbolgs, and you can pry that from my cold, dead hands)

The terrain also changes into the same terrain as wherever they adventure to

Antics ensue!

Zooble is the tank

And they can instill the fear of god upon man

But you know who else can be scary as fuck?

Ragatha

Have you ever fought a Forge Cleric before? Did you know those bitches can wear Heavy Armor?

Combat is WILD when they’re actually acting it out

Though, it can barely be considered “acting” because Caine has somehow made magic possible????

Kinger asks to make the most wild shit because he thinks it’s fun

Gangle once got downed, got to two (2) failed Death Saves, was brought back up, and then was IMMEDIATELY downed again

Pomni gets anxiety over even the most mundane of rolls

She was asked to roll Perception, and she was sweating buckets, afraid to fail and screw everything up, and it was literally just to find a nice bakery in the city they were at

Jax asks to pickpocket orphans

Ragatha: Pomni, why is your Strength a seven???

Pomni: i don’t want to talk about it

Her Unarmed Strike literally does zero (0) damage

She never uses her weapon ever

Only Eldritch Blast

She also uses other spells ofc, but Eldritch Blast is her go-to

“Doll Face, i’m down” “Pomni’s having a panic attack” “okay, and? i’m downed”

Jax and Ragatha have beef the Whole Time

“why did you think you could hide in an empty arena??” “because i’m a Rogue, and they have Advantage on hiding!” “IT IS AN EMPTY ARENA WITH NOTHING BUT SAND.” “I AM A ROGUE WITH ADVANTAGE TO HIDING.” “THE ARENA IS EMPTY. THERE IS NOWHERE TO HIDE.”

Despite being a Firbolg, which is considered a race of Giant, Pomni is STILL considered as a Small creature (due to her own height)

Because of this, she can ride every single other person in the party, as the Ride rules in dnd state that a willing creature at least one size larger than you and has appropriate anatomy can serve as a mount

This has started a “technique” the group has named “War Horsing”

In which Pomni sits on someone’s shoulders and spams Eldritch Blast non-stop while the other person wrecks house

(She usually sits on Zooble’s shoulders and Cure Wounds them whenever they take too much damage)

She’s also called the “cannon” of the group because she’ll sit on Zooble’s shoulders and use Fireball

Speaking of Fireball!

The gang once found Beads of Fireball, and Jax, wanting to be a boss bitch and show how much better than everyone he is by single-handedly killing this super hard boss they were fighting, thought that because he’s a Tiefling and Tieflings have Resistance to Fire Damage, he could easily survive a blast.

Anyway, he ended up taking 80d6 Fire Damage after he threw all ten (10) beads at once.

Even when the damage was halved, he still died instantly.

Ragatha considered if it was worth it to Revivify him.

Pomni uses Speech of Beast and Leaf to speak with plants, and the plants just cuss her out.

Zooble: can i roll to pick up Pomni by the ankles and swing her around as an improvised weapon?

Pomni: ?!?!?!

(Caine said yes)

(Zooble ended up doing five whole damage with Pomni’s body)

Caine once rolled 200d8 Bludgeoning damage because Kinger fell off a mountain (he was Revivified by Ragatha after)

“COUNTERSPELL THIS, B[@&$%]” -Zooble, right before decking an NPC straight through a wall

When fights get too hairy, Jax will Disengage and leave the party to fend for themselves

There was once this HORRIFIC chase scene the party had to try to survive

Zooble: *polymorphed into a mountain goat by Pomni, sprinting as fast as they can*

Gangle: *Wild Shaped into a mouse, desperately hanging onto Zooble’s fur*

Ragatha: *flying away while holding Pomni*

Pomni: *clinging to Ragatha like how a baby sloth would cling to its mother, shooting Eldritch Blast at the monster every turn in a desperate attempt to slow it down, screaming*

Jax: *already 200ft in front of the others because he ran off way before them*

Kinger: *wondering if it’s a good time to tell the others he has Longstrider prepared*

Jax got maimed by a Mimic because he couldn’t help but not loot a chest he found

He then proceeded to get maimed by ANOTHER MIMIC in the VERY NEXT ROOM because he also tried to loot that, too

Zooble: does a 22 hit? 😏

Caine: no

the entire party: 😟

Pomni got bitten by a werewolf and failed the Constitution saving throw, so she ended up becoming a werewolf. During her first transformation, she lost control after failing the saving throw and immediately started mauling Jax.

Everyone just kinda stopped and watched in awe for a moment before they realized they should probably help him.

“He needed the humbling” -Zooble

Kinger crafts Pomni a gun and gives it to her

Caine: so you all see the werewolf pull out a Tommy gun

The party had to fight this giant frog, and they all thought it would be a walk in the park, but then it swallowed Pomni, and the simple encounter turned into a fight for Pomni’s fucking life because Pomni was actively suffocating inside of it, and Jax wanted to blow up the frog with a magic grenade he had, despite Pomni being in there (he was well aware that she would also take damage), and Ragatha was trying to see if she could heal Pomni from inside the frog, and Gangle ended up Wild Shaping into another frog and begging it to let Pomni go.

Pomni was traumatized.

Caine: who’s done a good job at roleplaying recently?

Kinger: well, Pomni did have a panic attack

[toovaeloe]

Is it just me or it’s soooooooo hard to find good Choso headcanons and character analysis thats actually lines up with his character.😖 do you have any recommendations. Please save meeeee 🥺

anon you’re sooooo right!!!!! 🤍

gonna talk about it a little now, sorry

these are all my opinions/ just straight up yap so beware

He is deeeefffinitely one of the characters very prone to mischaracterizations (but what character isn’t honestly😭)

I feel like a lot of the time Choso gets over infantilized? If that makes sense. am I all for socially awkward Choso? Yes. Emo or grunge? Cool, love that. Loser failboy Choso? Pry him from my cold dead hands. I love seeing the different ways he’s interpreted

but why do people headcanon him as like…not knowing what humans are? Or basic human anatomy?? like he is in a human body currently and has its memories (?) he’s been human 150 years ago I think

Not only that but I feel like a lot of the times he’s made out to be super shy👖 and a pushover which nothing wrong with that but I just can’t see 😭 like this guy? The guy making all these ugly grunty scowl faces and risking his life entirely for the sake of his brotherss?? fr?

he seems more reserved to me but not ashamed,, and definitely not gonna hesitate to make a bitch kiss the curb if they look at someone he cares about the wrong way

my opinion though Ü I’m also a hypocrite too because again I love every interpretation of him (unless, again, it’s creepy and treating him like a child) and am super guilty of making him ooc at times. I like to have fun

sorry for the yap

sadly off the top of my head I don’t know many good Choso hcs/analysis that I can grab for you just one 😭 sorry

I reeaaaallly really love @vallification’s portrayals of him and the way she writes him (and just writes in general) is 🤌

Her SMAU w/ him is sososo good and funny plus there’s several parts to it

and her analysis of choso’s sun moon and rising signs is really really accurate imo

i love🤍😋

but tbh if you just look under the Choso headcanons tag and go to recents you’re bound to run into so many talented writers and amazingly creative and good hcs left and right

🤍☁️🤍

[madlyn5ever]

Time for all of my current autistic headcanons because I’ve got more and I need to share:

(Not including characters like Brennan from Bones who are as canon as you can get without it being said flat out in the show/movie/whatever.)

Maddox- hsmtmts

Big Red- hsmtmts

Anya Jenkins- Buffy The Vampire Slayer (will discuss in length how she is so autistic)

Cristina Yang- Grey’s Anatomy (will also discuss this in length I have so many thoughts) (she’s also canonically dyslexic)

Arizona Robbins- Grey’s Anatomy

Sam- Ghosts (U.S. not UK I haven’t seen the uk version. This one is purely a vibe I can’t explain)

Wednesday Addams (specifically Wednesday from the Netflix series, on the fence on other Wednesday iterations, just because of who the character is and her family and and her life and interests.)

(I have a very strong opinion on this one and would discuss it in length bc Wednesday series Wednesday is one of the most autistic characters ever.)

Robin Buckley- Stranger things (although I also strongly see her as just having ADHD, but I love the autism headcanon for her so either works)

Nancy Wheeler- Stranger Things (you can pry this from my cold dead hands. Also OCD for her cause I saw this edit that went into detail on this and I absolutely agree. I think that one Nancy character analysis slide show talks about OCD too but idk.)

Some honorable mentions (I‘m deciding on my opinion and need thoughts from others):

Meredith Grey- Grey’s Anatomy

(I don’t know, bc there’s a lot to unpack there, but I sort of think so so if anyone has opinions or thoughts on this please let me know!)

Tara Maclay- Buffy The Vampire Slayer (I would’ve included this one in my head canons bc she so is but also she feels like maybe she just has an anxiety disorder and a messed up family and it’s less she’s got autism. But she could have all three honestly I’m not sure. But I love her sm.)

[abhorrenttheorizer]

Ok so uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Been a while since I made some TGSquid content

I'm trying to find some sort of a balance between quantity and quality but there's issues. I don't want to post something actually worthwhile once every 5 years, but I also don't want to post a bunch of shitty sketches and unfinished things that don't look good.

Hopefully the image below isn't too bright for people who use 100% brightness settings but just in case I am going to spoiler for photosensitivity reasons

This issue is made worse by the fact that I seem to only be good at rendering now. My cartooning or "flat sketch" quality is in the shitter, but bear with me on this one.

TL;DR: I have turned Rythulians into furries and also there's more of them:

Sooooooo rythulian history and development because why not. In order of most ancient to most recent from left to right.

Also heavy crossover material because you can pry the idea that Journey and Sky are connected and they're all the same species/in the same evolutionary tree out of my cold dead... brain?

And so begins a small sketch of what repeated divine punishment does to a motherfucker. Why? Idk but tbh I like the idea that Megabird is a corrupt, unforgiving, wrathful deity that regularly punishes her devoted children. That idea unironically won't stop pestering me but I'll talk about Megabird and my thoughts on her later.

Rythulian evolution is all kinds of fucked up because of the heavy divine hand (wing?) at play in their development, with new traits suddenly and randomly being added instantly when they should take millions of years to develop. In the beginning, Rythulians were once tall, lumbering, bony creatures that lived in lowland forests and plains areas. This species was extant from several thousand years before the start of their civilization, to a few hundred years before the start of Journey (2012). At this point in time they were more closely related to "dark creatures" in their surrounding areas than "light creatures", hence the lack of glowiness. While not true vertebrates, ancestral Rythulians had an internal shell in the chest region with segments similar to those of ribcages, and a heavy keel at the center to protect the wax gland. They also had long segmented attachments to the internal shell that acted like a spine, fused in the lumbar region which made them relatively inflexible. They also only had one fur and one eye color, dark blue with bluish green eyes, with little to no variation in fur pattern or color. Because they lacked the internal magic that would grant them the ability to stand on itty bitty Barbie feet, the feet of ancestral Rythulians were thick and camel-esque, made to hold their great size and weight against soft forest soil. At this point in time, Rythulians did not need to perform yearly death rituals, only ascending the mountain for rebirth for the sake of cleansing the body and spirit.

Cue massive war over resources forcing their evolution into the 2nd figure in the image.

Nicknamed the "Atonement species" by their far descendants, the next iteration of Rythulians were small(er), soft, jelly things with bright white beads where green eyes once were. Smooth, sloping torso that used to be their arms now void and featureless, like the duney wastelands they were commanded to die in. Despite having very slug-like anatomy, they do not leave a moist trail when they move. However, what separates this slug from the slugs of some other reprimands of a higher power, is that the Atonement Rythulians do have mouths, and boy did they love screaming. Atonement Rythulians existed from a few years before the start of Journey (2012) to several hundred years before the development of the first settlements on the other size of the Mountain of Eden. Unlike their previous ancestors, this species had no bones at all besides the skull and internal shell, a trait that will continue on in the rest of their descendants. Their feet are significantly smaller as well, and all digits posess retractable hooves. On the lower belly is a pouch of loose, stretchy skin that will continue in all future descendants, something that protects them from the impacts of guardians and enabling them to stretch up to 6x their height, As well as the relative bonelessness, they were created in the image of Light, and thus had Light's magic, rather than their naturally evolved Dark ancestors. They lacked arms because of divine punishment, it was arms that aided the ancient Rythulians in their pillage and plundering and war, and it was arms that were taken away, forcing generation after generation of slugbirb to maneuver their environments with only their legs and their song for dexterity. Also unlike the ancestral Rythulian, this species came in a wide variety of facial disc colors, another trait passed down to their descendants.

Cue the start of divine corruption, a goddess rendering thousand of years of armless infrastructural development obsolete for supposed shits and giggles.

The "Sanctioned" or "Spirit" Rythulians differed not much from their previous ancestors, other than for their Good Deeds, they were finally granted their arm privileges back, in the form of massive hulking bear paws. This species originated several thousands of years after the events of Journey (2012), and was extant up until the Eden disaster before the events of Sky: Children of the Light. Under their new powerlifter arms, they have a small flap of skin from the upper arm to the waist, used to aid them in flight, giving them added endurance against their predecessors. Along with the retractable hooves in the feet, the hands have retractable claws as well.

Cue even more war over technology, followed by even more divine punishment, followed by even more divine corruption.

Finally, the latest iteration of Rythulians, with many traits that are far more adapted to flight than the previous forms. Some of these traits are to bring them closer to other flying light creatures, such as their long, tentacle-esque tails used for steering much like the tails of mantas, and others are simply to make flight easier, suck as their longer membranes that start from the elbow and reach down to the hip, which help with endurance flying. Modern Rythulians have been extant since the first of their kind, the descension of Prince Alef/King Resh, to the present day. This iteration practices complete metamorphosis, with a waxy, almost carapaced "larval" stage (the skykid, or moth), and the softbodied, "feathery" secondary form (secondary instead of adult, since they metamorphosize into the softbodied form well before they are mature, around the age of 10). This species also must sacrifice themselves every "birthday" that individuals may have simply to age properly, whereas such rituals weren't necessary for their predecessors.

Thanks for reading! Hopefully my posting will be a little more regular as I balance school, work, and shitposting on this.... site xd

[facetsofthecloset]

Moist von Lipwig: -stars in only 3 books in a series of 41-

Also Moist: -lives in my brain rent free 24/7 next to Otto Chriek-

[lunatic-pudge]

I saw your 2-D headcanons and I’m wondering if you have any others about the Noodle or Russel, (just because there’s already so much out there about Murdoc already) you don’t have to do both or either if you don’t want to

How about this, I give you headcanons for BOTH Noodle and Russel? I know how hard it can be to find stuff for them so allow me to offer something. Also, if anyone want to ask stuff, please do! I need ideas and I wanna give the people what they want! It can be for Gorillaz and/or the Gangreen Gang, I've been thirsting over Snake recently and I need some Snake content plz. :D

TW for Russel, I bring up SH with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Russel

• I've always pictured Russel to be Asexual. I just feel like he wouldn't have a sexual attraction towards people. He def prefers the romantic aspects of a relationship. This was probably something that he struggled to understand at first, but then once he found out about Asexuality it all clicked and he was finally able to find peace with that part of him.

• His biggest struggle of all has always been his mental health. He tries to get help for it but nothing seems to work and it hurts to know. He's actively advocates for mental health awareness and suicide prevention. He also suffers from self harm, not as much as he used to but the urges are strong and hard to fight. He tries his hardest to seem strong and able to handle anything but sometimes he has days where he doesn't even want to get out of bed cause of how miserable he feels.

• Out of him, 2D, and Murdoc, he's def the most Father-like towards Noodle. He sees her as his daughter and was the one who had a set schedule for her when she was a child. He was the one she would go to at night when she'd have nightmares. He would always make sure that when it came to food, she had the best and only the best. I can see him helping her with embracing her Japanese heritage and even learned the language so he could speak to her and help her! Has probably even taught her about his out heritage as well and they def bonded over it all. This man is a 12/10 Father for her.

• Def knows MMA, and other types of fighting styles. Growing up how he did, he had to learn these skills in order to survive. But I see him being more of a pacsifist cause of it so he will only fight in self-defense, but would do boxing charities cause he good boy. Has taught Noodle how to defend herself.

• Is the best out of all of them when it comes to cooking. Is always trying new recipies. Has all sorts of cook books from different cultures. He and Noddle are the ones deligated to cooking, Murdoc and 2D are banned from the kitchen. He knows how to even make the most difficult dishes and would even have some of the most hard to get spices, he's the reason why Noodle is also a good cook.

• Taxidermy is his passion. If you wanna be his S/O, you better also be into taxidermy as well. Imagine working on a project with him, yeah it'll be gross and tedious, but it's Russel so it makes it all the better. He has countless anatomy and zoology books he constantly reads so when he works on an animal, it looks as alive as he can make it. You'll never see a bad taxidermy project from him.

• Also loves to paint. Will go to national parks and paint the scenery. Tries different types of paint but I see him like oil paints the best. Will go to art museums to study the works in there. This man is always looking to improve his craft.

Noodle

• I will forever say that Noodle is a lesbian. You'll have to pry this from my cold, dead hands. She will never give men the time of day. She just can't see her self being with a guy. Though it's hard having a relationship when they keep getting scared away by the rest of the band (mainly Murdoc). You can find her at LGBT+ clubs hitting on all the cute women who talk to her.

• Def an alt girl. She's the hot goth girl that appears on your For You page on Tik Tok. She'd be blasting J-Rock day and night, going to concerts for bands such as Dir En Grey. She'd wear Demonia's just so she can be tall for once. You know damn well she has a Demonia collection and has mastered the art of walking (and even dancing!) in them. She's gotta impress the ladies somehow!

• Has a MASSIVE video game collection. From retro to new, she's always playing something. Is def an avid Animal Crossing player. Has a super beautiful town and some top tier villagers. She'd be the type to trap unwanted villagers with pitfalls or making holes around them so the can't move. I can also see her doing some competitive gaming as well. She'd be owning them smelly neckbeards and when they throw a fit about losing to a female, she'd laugh in their faces like the bad bitch she is.

• She'd be the type of person at conventions to give foul smelling people deoderant and protect those who are getting harassed. She would hand make her outfits and is open to pictures, just no touching though. Is always buying stuff at cons and leaving with handfuls of stuff. She loves supporting small creators and will have the stuff she bought hung up in her room, she rotates stuff so everything has a chance to be up on her walls.

• I see her owning some exotic or less conventional animals. She'd either own a snake, rats, a hedgehog, a fox, or other animals. I feel she would be a rat mom most of all. And she'd give them such an amazing life! They would have such a huge cage and all the things they could ever want and need. She would let them free roam in her room and has over a dozen photoalbums of her precious babies.

• I can see her having children and being child-free. She would be a good Mother if she ever has kids but I know kids aren't everyone's forte. But if she chose to be child-free, I doubt she'd bring it up often. She'd most likely keep it to herself and when it comes to relationships, she'd bring it up first so they knew where her stance on having kids is at. She doesn't want to hurt her S/O's feelings.

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

Amelia and Arizona??? Single at the same time????? 🙄🙄😉😉

[vampiiu]

Eyeless Jack Headcannons??

i'm actually glad you asked! i love E.J because he's so complex <33

- Like most people, he has times when he distances himself from everyone; however he does this more often than average. he needs time to cool off and he won't contact anyone at all. he probably has a cabin in the woods outside of the mansion for this purpose. these moments usually happen almost two weeks each month.

- EJ is a very emotional demon. his eyes don't always leak black tar. actually, it only happens when he cries..... but he cries A LOT and makes it everyone's problem. most of the creeps have learned to ignore it, but a few still get angry at him for it *cough cough* toby and tim *cough cough*.

- Everyone would always scold jack for getting his "eye tar" everywhere, so now he wears bandages over his eye sockets.

- Another thing about the eye bandages, the tar isn't the only reason he wears them. he's also insecure about how he looks. he only lets someone see his eye sockets if he absolutely trusts them.

- He listens to Type O Negative. there is no denying it.

- That being said, he also listens to Mitski.

- He’s a bi king

- He still enjoys studying and learning medical things! the creeps often give him medical books or anatomy graphs for christmas, along with some tools.

- He isn't good at comforting people, so he usually just wraps them in a blanket when they're sad. you can pry this headcanon away from my cold, dead hands.

- He has an EXTREMELY edgy room. black comforter, black canopy, vintage mirrors, and jars filled with human organs everywhere.

- and he's nocturnal

- so basically he lives like a vampire.

[kanene-yaaay]

Hero! I don’t get on here often but I enjoy your blog so much! I love your reblogs and comments lol ❤️ I also love my hero so much. Do you have any tickle fic recs for characters like Midoriya, Bakugou, īda, Uraraka?

Heyio!! Thank youu! I am really glad I am not the only enjoying all the rambling here sdfghghjdfghj yaay! And yeep, I do believe I know some good fics with them. I am not sure if you wanted them being lee/ler/switch, so I think I am going to mix all the options a litol bit. Enjooooy!!

(Please don't forget to check @ticklishscumbag , @rosileeduckie , @intheticklecloset , @kiyachi-tickles , @otomiya-tickles , @volleeball-bo 's blogs and works! They're absolutely awesome!!)

[Midoriya]

* Patterned Socks by ticklishscumbag: A very cute and lovely fanfic I just found in this morning! A very adorable scenario with romantic Shinsou x Midoriya and Lee!Izuku/Ler!Shinsou

* Midnight Fright by Kiyachi-tickles: Let’s just say Midoriya need a bit of a help to admit something is wrong. A litol bit of hurt/comfort in the end! Lee!Midoriya, Ler!Shinsou.

* It’s Just a Tail (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: Reassuring tickles AND rambling Deku together with Ojiro Appreciating Hours! Amaazing! Lee!Ojiro and Ler!Midoriya.

* Let’s go back to the top by rosileeduckie: I am just soft with how much caring and teasy Todoroki is on this. Also tickling someone while studying anatomy? Noice! Lee!Izuku and Ler!Todoroki

* Quaranteasy by rosileeduckie: This is so cute it should be ILLEGAL!! My heart! <3 Some good teases (no tickles) with Lee!Todoroki, Ler!Midoriya.

* Wake Up Call by rosileeduckie: Wake. up. tickles. With adorable Izuku and adorably teasy Todoroki. Do I need to say more? xP. Lee!Midoriya, Ler!Todoroki.

* For Reference (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: You can pry my sparky boi and the green bean having fun together from my dead, cold hands. Lee!Aoyama and Ler!Izuku

* An Easy Way to Smile (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: I can’t even put in words how much lovely, adorable and sweet this is! It just melts my heart everytime I read. Switch!Midoriya, Switch!Eri, Swicth!Mirio.

* Bunny Bros by rosileeduckie: Bruh, I am on the floor, just hugging my phone with how much great this fic is. Look at them being brothers! Switch!Midoriya, Switch!Kota.

* To Tire One’s Roommate  by rosileeduckie: Rambling Midoriya yeeeeah!! I never thought about those two interacting, but gosh! A delightful scenario, indeed. Lee!Midoriya, Ler!Shindou.

* Bedridden by chockfullofsecrets: Dadmight and Izukuson for the soul!! This is way too much cute and fun. They’re adorable sdfghjdfgh. Switch!Midoriya, Switch!All Might.

* Modern Day Michelangelo by MonkeyGirl77: The AU, the idea, the family fluff, the tickling... everything on this is just awesome!!! <33 Lee!Midoriya and Ler!Hawks. [AO3]

[Bakugou]

* Smile Training by rosileeduckie: Okay, I think this is such a GOOD scenario! Very fun and precious! A good, well written fanfic with Lee!Bakugou, Lee!Tokoyami, Lee!Todoroki and Ler!All Might.

* Settling Things in a Different Way by volleeball-bo: So, I am very weak for cheer up tickles and !!!! This!!! Has!!! It!!!! <333. Romantic BakuDekuTodo with Switch!Midoriya, Lee!Todoroki, Ler!Bakugou.

* What Did you Get Me? by  rosileeduckie: They are all PRECIOUS beans!!! Gosh. Absolutely precious. Enjoy this incredible fic with Lee!Kirishima, Ler!Bakugou.

* Get Back Here, Deku! (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: If you wanna see Bakugo wrecking someone, this is the right fic. Very noice! Ler!Bakugo, Lee!Midoriya.

* Don’t poke the Bear-kugou by volleeball-bo: Another very good idea with BakuDekuTodo!! They are v preciou together. Ler!Bakugou, Lee!Izuku, Ler!Todoroki.

* Challenge Accepted [Mirio, Bakugou] by rareficsnstuff: This. This has such a good characterization!!! And the whole scenario is awesome! <33 Lee!Bakugou, Ler!Mirio.

* We’ll Make You Happy Again (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: CHEEEER UP TICKLES!!! And also a caring, grumpy Bakugou with a Sunshine Kirishima! Adorable! Lee!Midoriya, Ler!Kirishima, Ler!Baakugou.

* What is ‘tickling’? by reapshield: Fantasy AU!!! Incredibly fun and sdfghjksdfg the playfulness is so cute!! Lee!Kirishima and Ler!Bakugou [AO3]

[Iida]

* Stop Breaking the Rules! by  Kiyachi-tickles: Fun!! This is a very fun fanfic to read! Bakugou and Iida being playful is something the world need more. Lee!Iida, Ler!Bakugou. 

* Just Ask Me A Question by  rosileeduckie: SOFT, CUTE, SWEET, ADORABLE! I really like this fic <333. Lee!Shinsou, Ler!Iida.

* Super Smash [TodoIiDeku] by otomiya-tickles: My day is blessed everytime I think about this fic, not to mention: CHEER UP TICKLES!!! Lee!Iida, Ler!Midoriya and Ler!Todoroki. Romantic Pairing

[Uraraka]

* Fighting Back (My Hero Academia) by intheticklecloset: Dekusquad just having some well deserved fun with lots of laughter and tickles! Switch!Uraraka, Switch!Izuku and Ler!Iida.

[Headcanons because why not am I right]

Shinsou x Iida

Ler bnha headcanons

Lee Iida Quick headcanon

[rissynicole]

Gimme a number 12.

This was a really popular one! @depressed-zimothy and @lynayru also sent an ask for #12!

12. What headcanon will you keep implementing in your fics, even if canon ends up contradicting it?

There are actually a lot of headcanons I’ve included in my writing that have been contradicted in canon, contradicted through Word of God, or rejected by the fandom. 

Here’s a short list of Irken-specific headcanons that come to mind:

I write Irken blood as dark green, not light pink.

In my eyes, a squeedlyspooch is a combined stomach and intestines and acts solely as a digestive organ. Nothing more. I see so many fics where Zim feels his squeedlyspooch “beat” like a heart, and that concept just doesn’t vibe with me. 

Another anatomy one: my Irkens have lungs, or some equivalent of lungs, in the same spot as humans do. We can see Zim’s chest rising and falling several times in the show after exerting energy, but it’s still called into question because canon just isn’t consistent. Dark Harvest’s events and the concept of Zim not knowing what lungs are used for in “Zitboy” don’t exactly help my case.

My Irkens have both the ability and the need to sleep (and you can pry that headcanon out of my cold, dead hands. There are so many contradicting things regarding that in canon. People who die on the hill of “Irkens don’t sleep” will not like my fics. Zim literally sleeps through at least 1/3 of Parade.)

My Irkens have the need to eat just as much, if not more, than humans.

My Irkens can safely consume a limited selection of foods on Earth. Mainly sugars and simple carbohydrates. 

A few of these go hand-in-hand and just boil down to me refusing to accept that the PAK totally eliminates Irkens’ basic needs. I feel like it’s a very restricting headcanon to implement in writing.

I characterize and connect to my Irken characters by writing them in a variety of situations. Domestic, fluffy situations are my favorites. A character that never eats nor sleeps doesn’t really give me a lot to work with...

Give me Zim sitting down to breakfast with GIR or baking cookies in his downtime! Give me some sleepy Irkens! Give me heart-to-hearts at the dining room table and hurt/comfort scenarios with one character helping the other character to bed! All of these are eliminated if I make the PAK some sort of omnipotent miracle of engineering.

But, hey, these are my headcanons, and I know I’m in the minority with a few of them (especially the blood thing.) There’s no right or wrong way to write these characters, and I respect writers who totally deviate from my personal headcanons. But for me, personally? I write what I like. 

[macneiceisms]

Through Tangled Glass! Sounds very intriguing! Please tell us more =)

I answered a bit about it here! I had so many time travel ideas after reading your fic that I had to jot something down, but being me it has to be unnecessarily angsty. 

Here are a few more excerpts from Through Tangled Glass:

Excerpt 3:

Garak prods the translator twice. The pain sears in a blinding jolt down his neck and shoulders. The UT clicks in his head while blood pours into his uniform. Educational mode on. Click. All translation off.

“There,” Garak says in Kardasi. “Let’s see how you fare.”

“This is a waste of time,” Julian insists. He can control a lot of his physiology, he trusts Garak to find a way to circumvent it. He can’t outplay Garak at his own game, he knows it. But maybe he can play long enough to stay alive.

“You don’t have to make a big show, Dr. Faraj,” says Garak. “It bores me.”

“Look, if you want to question me, turn the translator back on and question me. I won’t give you any useful information.”

Garak smiles again. He cuts off the cuff of Julian’s sleeve. The fabric rends and rips and Julian can feel Garak’s perverse pleasure at destroying the offending garment. Ta’kak indeed. He dips the rag into the glass of clear liquid. He presses it to the cut under his ear. Julian gasps, biting down a cry through clamped teeth. The alcohol burns. Garak presses hard. Hard enough to staunch the blood in about thirty seconds. Hard enough to send sharp stabs of pain through his neck. The alcohol stings sharper than any knife.  

“Ten more seconds,” Julian gasps, struggling for air through the searing pain. He screws his eyes shut, white phosphenes lighting up behind his eyelids. “After you stop the bleeding it needs ten more seconds to disinfect. Bloody...fucking...shit, you know how to cause pain.”

To Julian’s surprise, Garak does as recommended. Frowning, he pulls the blood-soaked cloth away from the wound. He dips it into the alcohol again, and pats the soaked cloth gently around his neck, a cool and gentle whisper amongst the pain. Clear liquid runs red. Agonizing cruelty and agonizing gentleness all in the same man.

“Really a shame. A neck is a terrible thing to ruin. I hope your gadgets smooth it over.”

“I know it’s just for show, but it’s nice to pretend like you aren’t going to just kill me at the end of this,” Julian mumbles.

“Of course I don’t want to kill you. Such a lovely, exotic creature,” says Garak, by all appearances politely bored. Absolute bastard. He cleans the blood from Julian’s neck. His fingers ghost over Julian’s collarbone. The earthy, spiced scent of him fills his lungs.  “Are all your males like this? Narrow-waisted with such lovely necks? Such elegant limbs?”

And then he realizes where this is going. All those scandalous touches, all that brazen flirtation. Garak isn’t going to pry the answer out of him with a knife, he’s going to drive Julian into the most embarrassing confession of his life. Julian schools his heart rate and blood pressure lower, focusing on the firing of his sinoatrial node, the dilation and constriction of blood vessels. Resisting the constriction. If he has to think about urological anatomy to play this game, god, so be it.

Slowly, carefully, Garak cleans the bloody knife. He squares the spare chair in front of Julian, and with his clean glass of liquor in hand, sits.

“You really are lovely, aren’t you? You even smell lovely. Like salt. Do you taste like it too?” Garak says, and takes another sip of alcohol.

Julian watches Garak’s lips press to the glass, his mouth part, his tongue dart after to savor the liquid left on his lips. Something clenches low in his abdomen. In fifteen years Garak wouldn’t dare to be so forward, but then again, his Garak lives on a cold space station, in exile, at the mercy of a Federation captain. Here, in this dark little room, this Garak controls everything.

He’s going to kill Sloan for sending him in this compromised. What’s Julian supposed to do? Say, ‘hey, I know you’re torturing me but I know you fifteen years into the future and you give me chocolates and I bore witness to your father’s death and I faced him to save your life from that implant that’s in your post-central gyrus and we argue about Shelley and Riaz and Shakespeare and Preloc and I think about you stopping me in the middle of a rant about Meditations of a Crimson Shadow to rip my trousers off and shag me senseless.’

That would probably get him proper murdered. But oh, what a way to go.

Excerpt 4: 

“You ought to have killed me quickly,” Julian says, chest heaving. “Because I intend to endure until you’re ashamed of what you’ve done.”

Something flashes in those terrible blue eyes.

“Confess,” says Garak.

It’s not a request, it’s not a question. It’s an answer, offered to Julian like a soft and precious gift. So simple. The solution to all his problems. Garak, his deliverer. Garak, promising freedom. And the truth shall set you free. Pain swims and shudders through him. The too-tight handcuff, the cracked cheekbone, the deep, dull ache of the sedative, the summation of a million wrong choices slamming into him at once.

“To what, my dear tailor?” Julian says, his voice cracking. “I can confess to any number of things. I confess I prefer Le Carré to Fleming. I confess I lied when I said Shoggoth was dull and convoluted, I actually deeply enjoy enigma tales. I confess flubbing the last question on my final exam. I confess I let Palis touch me even after I knew how she felt about monsters…abominations...like me, just to save my skin. I confess I could have carried that generator. I confess...I confess that no matter how much I say I hate my father I would still do just about anything for a scrap, a crumb, a subatomic particle of affection, of approval, of love. I’d give anything for him to just be proud of his son and not the...the,” he sobs. He’s losing his tenuous control, a weight dragging out of him, blackened and reeking of something old and dead and festered. “And not the thing he architected.”

[ihavejarlsberg]

Blue Christmas

Author’s Note: I had a really sad idea for a short fic, so I wrote it so you all could be sad with me.  You can pry the headcanon that one of Malcolm’s top love languages is giving gifts from my cold, dead hands. Have some Christmas angst, everyone! (Read more is added for those on mobile… head to AO3 if it’s cut off for you. :D )

Word Count: 2,300-ish.

Summary: Three days after Malcolm has been taken, the team discovers he had bought them all Christmas presents. It doesn’t help them miss him any less. Link: AO3.

They each found them on their desks, tucked in with the rest of their respective pieces of mail. It was obvious Malcolm hadn’t wrapped them, himself; he had clearly paid someone to do a better (and much more festive) job than he ever would have. But that didn’t matter. Not really.

Edrisa found hers first. It was, naturally, an incredibly thoughtful gift, based on a little seed of information about her she had thrown out once that Bright had picked up and tucked away into his pocket for later like a small boy collecting shiny stones.

It was a puzzle. A 1000-piece beauty that was clearly hand drawn by an artist. The pictures on it looked like they were taken straight from an anatomy book, then set ablaze with tremendous color by a talented artist. She loved it with her whole heart, and she burst into tears as soon as she got through the wrapping paper and saw what it was.

Who knows how long it would have taken the rest of the team to find theirs, had Edrisa not mentioned it. As soon as she did, they immediately went to their respective desks to check their own mail. It had been three days since Bright’s disappearance on December 25th; whatever postage they had been missing out on in that time frame was literally the last thing on their minds. Until now.

JT’s was the smallest, as far as size went; a maroon envelope sealed shut with gold-colored wax. It stood out like a sore thumb in his mail box amidst the standard white envelopes that had been accumulating. “Damn,” he’d said to himself, running the pad of his thumb over the dried wax of the seal, “Even this dude’s envelopes are rich.” He had quieted, though, once he’d opened up the card and started reading what Malcolm had written inside with his neat, all-capitalized handwriting.

 JT, Sorry for crashing your date. The next one’s on me.

 Merry Christmas!

 MB

 P.S. Justin? Jerico? Jeremiah?

JT had to laugh, despite everything. Attached to the card was a $100 gift card to Amsterdam Billiards. He stared at it, unblinking, for several seconds before his eyes started to water from being open too long (mostly).

“Damn it, Bright,” he muttered to himself as he closed the card. “Where you at, bro?”

x

There was a small black postage box waiting for Gil on his desk, hiding under a manila envelope. It was not the sort of small black box one would buy a woman; Gil knew was it was the moment he pulled it out from his mail pile and saw the company name stamped on the side in raised silver lettering. He stared at it for a moment, until it blurred together in his vision beneath a sheen of tears.

His fingers traced over the letters on the front of the box, and for a moment he allowed himself to just feel how smooth the cardboard was on the delivery box the gift had come in. He had to clench his jaw against the lump steadily climbing up his throat. Before he even made a move to open the box, he pulled back his right cuff, exposing the watch he wore on his wrist. Despite how worn and well loved it was, the watch was in excellent condition for being nearly fifteen years old. Especially considering that Gil literally wore it every day, to the point that he felt naked without it. It had held up marvelously over the years, which wasn’t surprising, as it had likely been expensive. Just as expensive as the new one he was holding in his other hand.

Without warning, the memory came back, unbidden. He could recall it like it had taken place last week. Malcolm, no older than twelve, handing him a dark blue velvet box with a hand that shook so fiercely, Gil immediately moved to take it from the poor kid before he dropped it.

It hadn’t been Father’s Day, then. The Whitlys didn’t celebrate Father’s Day anymore. But it had been damn close to it, and Malcolm had thought to buy a gift for Gil. As a man with no biological children of his own, Gil had cherished this more than he ever could have put into words. He still wore the same watch to this day.

And Malcolm noticed. Obviously. Because Malcolm Bright noticed everything.

“You still have that watch I gave you,” he had said, exactly 1.5 days into the investigation of the “copycat” Surgeon case, as he stared at Gil’s wrist.

“Of course I do,” Gil retorted. He was standing close enough to Bright at the time to reach out and give his shoulder a slight squeeze. “I wear it every day.”

Malcolm had all but beamed at that. “Looks a little worn, though,” he added, as his gaze drifted back down to the silver time piece on Gil’s wrist.

Gil had shrugged. “It’s well-loved,” he said simply. Malcolm had frowned just slightly at that, clearly deep in thought.

And now he knew what Bright had been thinking about: a wardrobe update for Gil Arroyo.

Gil sucked in a breath, holding the air in his chest for a few seconds to help expel some of the fear that had taken up residence there. He wasn’t afraid a new watch, obviously; unfortunately, he knew exactly what he was afraid of, and it was too terrible for words.

He was afraid he was holding the last piece of Malcolm Bright he was ever going to see.

(They all were afraid of that, deep down.)

The atrocity of that thought propelled him into action, and he started ripping open the little box’s packaging tape. Inside was a hard, velvet case, just like the one a much younger Malcolm had first presented to Gil all those years ago. The watch inside was magnificent. It was all black, even its face, and incredibly sleek. Clearly this time, Malcolm was going for an updated, modern look for him. Gil loved it. There was a small, folded card inside, and Gil pried it open with hands that had gone numb. He recognized Malcolm’s handwriting instantly. It was simple, sweet, and to the point.

 Merry Christmas, Gil!    Thank you–for everything.

 Love,

 Bright

Seeing the words in Malcolm’s handwriting was what finally put him over the edge. It had been three long days of fruitless searching for their profiler; they were all exhausted, and none more so than Gil. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to keep the tears at bay anymore.

“Thanks, bud,” he whispered to an empty room when he could finally find his voice again. “I love it.”

x

By the time Dani found out Bright had all gotten them Christmas gifts and had them sent to the station, she was exhausted. Just at the end of her rope mentally, physically, and emotionally. When Edrisa came up to her in tears, shaking a box in her face, Dani nearly lost it on her. Until he heard what she was saying.

“He got us gifts,” Edrisa squeaked out.

Dani felt the blood rush out of her face. She had a good idea who the ‘he’ in question was, but still had to ask, “Who…?”

“Bright!” Edrisa said. “Bright got us all Christmas presents. Incredibly thoughtful, probably expensive presents.” Her lower lip wobbled, and she looked like she was going to start crying again. “I didn’t get him anything. I thought about it! But then we just got so busy with the case load and… and…” She trailed off.

“And then Bright went missing on Christmas,” Dani finished for her, deadpanning. Edrisa nodded, sniffing once. Dani looked down at the box in Edrisa’s hands, studying it. “He got you a puzzle?”

Edrisa nodded vigorously again and offered up the box to Dani, who took it gingerly, like it was something to be cherished.

“It’s gorgeous,” Dani said genuinely.

“I know,” Edrisa agreed, “I’m scared to even open it. Like I’m going to ruin it somehow just by touching it. But I thought I could get started on it tonight… Maybe have it done by the time you find him, you know?”

Dani’s heart surged at the words by the time you find him, and she ground her teeth together at the familiar tightness in her jaw that meant she was definitely close to crying. Edrisa didn’t seem to notice; she was staring at her puzzle box. Dani placed it back in her arms gently, and Edrisa hugged it to her chest. The pieces inside all fell to the bottom of the box with a soft swish.

“We’ll find him,” Dani said simply. We have to.

Edrisa gave her a watery smile and nodded. “Hopefully before I even have the chance to finish this beast.”

Dani returned her smile. “So,” she started, eager to turn the subject away from the fact that Bright was still missing. “You said he mailed it?”

“Oh, right. Yes,” Edrisa said, “Apparently he mailed them all to the station. Which is kind of silly, but he must have just paid to have everything wrapped, and then he probably didn’t know our addresses, so… They were just here, waiting for us. Since Christmas.”

Dani swallowed. Part of her almost wished Bright had forgotten about hers, that he had sent something to everyone else but her. But the thought was a wasted one; Bright would never forget about her.

Dani’s gift was a fairly large box, about the size of two shoeboxes lined up side by side. There was no way she could have avoided seeing it, once she got back to her desk. (Had it really been that long since she’d been back at her desk, away from the search for him?)

She stared at it for a few moments, willing herself to keep calm, before she took out her pocket knife to cut through the box’s tape. Dani didn’t really do Christmas presents; with her immediate family, sure, but she couldn’t remember the last time she had either given or received a gift from a friend. Even the team–Gil, JT, and Edrisa–usually only went out for a drink, rotating who would pay the tab, for holidays or birthdays. Gifts were not her forte. This was foreign territory, and it left her on edge.

She could almost feel Bright watching her, those brilliant eyes of his staring at her hopefully, like he so wanted her to love whatever it was he had picked out for her.

Inside the package, after she removed a fair amount of bubble wrap and colored tissue paper, was a large wooden box. The moment she read the scripted letters burned into the top of the it, she knew exactly what she’d find inside, and she huffed out a shaky breath. As soon as she opened it, she knew she was right; the smell wafted up from the contents of the box, despite the fact that they were vacuum sealed, and it hit her like a punch in the gut.

 I love Earl Grey.

She could hear his soft laugh, his words back to her. “I know. It’s the aroma, isn’t it?”

She was staring down at a beautiful box of British-imported loose leaf Earl Grey tea. Included was a small metal tea strainer, and little wrapped bags of spices and citrus peels, all individually wrapped and sectioned off into their own little spots in the box lined with velvet. In the center was a burgundy tin, and Dani smiled as soon as she read what it housed.

For someone whose tea-drinking habits involved microwaving water and using whatever brand of bagged tea was cheapest, the custom-built box before her was intimidating.  And somehow, Bright knew it would be. (Because of course he did.) Inside the tin in the middle were fifty already-assembled tea bags of Earl Grey from the same gourmet ingredients, ready to be slipped into hot water without hassle and enjoyed immediately.

 With friends.

It was one of the very best gifts she had ever been given in her life. And she felt a renewed hatred for Paul Lazar that Malcolm wasn’t there to share it with her. She reached down and pulled the tin out from the box. It popped open easily, and she was overtaken by that delightful smell again. She breathed it in for a few moments, until her nose grew used to it and the smell wasn’t nearly as potent to her.

Eventually, she removed the entire wooden box from its packaging, and that’s when she found the card. It was a simple folded card, red on the outside, blank on the inside, save for Malcolm’s writing. It was simple enough–just wishing her a merry Christmas and a happy new year, but the way he had signed it made the breath halt in her chest.

 Your friend,

 Malcolm Bright

“God, Bright,” she murmured, grinding her teeth again as she willed herself not to cry. But it was a fight she soon gave in to. What was the use? They had been searching for him for days, pouring everything they had into finding some kind of lead on where he had been taken, all to have nothing turn up. And then he’d gone and gotten her a damn thoughtful gift for a holiday he had been kidnapped on. It was all too much.

So Dani let herself cry for a few minutes. When it was over, she felt better and worse at the same time. She closed the lid of the wooden tea box and tucked it into the biggest drawer of her desk. The little card from Bright she taped, open, on the side of her computer monitor; she would see it each and every time she sat down at her desk.

And she vowed she wasn’t going to be drinking any tea at all until she found him, until he could sit and have a cup with her, himself.

[morgana-pendragon]

have u watched hamilton and if so, what are ur favorite songs on the soundtrack & ur otp?

😬

i have not seen hamilton, because i’m not american, and disney+ isn’t available where i live :(

with my very little knowledge of the play, i’d have to say “who lives, who dies, who tells your story” is my favourite song, but only because it was the title of an episode of grey’s anatomy lol

not sure if you mean my otp for hamilton or just in general? i don’t have one otp in general, i have way too many to list right now, as i’ve just woken up, but as far as canon goes:

grey’s anatomy

meredith grey and derek shepherd

alex karev and (brooke?) jo wilson

callie torres and arizona robbins

lexie grey and mark sloan

jackson avery and april kepner

the good place

eleanor shellstrop and chidi anagonye

the x-files

fox mulder and dana scully (were they canon? @ chris carter i need answers)

ncis

leroy jethro gibbs and jenny shepard

tony dinozzo and ziva david

and then non-canon:

rizzoli & isles

jane rizzoli and maura isles (tnt can pry them from my cold dead hands)

criminal minds

jennifer jareau and emily prentiss (i knew they’d call you, blackbird, phoenix, i can see it, you, kids, need i go on?)

supergirl

kara danvers and lena luthor (i’ve never even seen this show and i ship them with my full heart so that’s saying something)

thanks so much for the ask, it was fun!💜

[ivendarea]

The Nathras

Making the Most out of Life

Banner art based on and supported by my Patrons ♥

The Nathras are at home by Ivendarea’s north-western shores and islands and one of the more reclusive population groups. Sticking to themselves and feeling a little detached from the events in the south and east of the nation, they are fairly independent, but a warm, creative, and community-oriented people nonetheless. In ancient times the Nathras used to be mostly nomads, but they also had small semi-permanent settlements along the northern shores, one of them developing into the city Westpoint.

Table of Contents:

Culture and History

Cultural Heritage

Language and Dialect

Shared Values

Common Etiquette

Major Organizations

Fashion

Art and Architecture

Ideals

Beauty Ideals

Courtship Ideals

Relationship Ideals

Continue reading below or on World Anvil

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Culture and History Isolated in Ivendareas northwest, yet still at the frontier and open to the world, the Nathras make up one of the more unique Ivendarean population groups. Not really fitting in with their own people, still proud of their Nyr heritage, they make the best of any situation and oppurtunity.

Cultural Heritage In ancient times the Nathras were predominantly fishermen. They were also the first to build ships and attempt to set sail to foreign shores (with mixed results). With the spread of Aman’s Teachings and more and more people becoming part of this new religion, the Nathras felt increasingly threatened in their way of life. While embracing any new knowledge, some of the rules proposed by Aman, such as not eating fish and meats, or hunting and fishing for food and leather, the Nathras struggled to adapt without any new means to sustain themselves in the cold north with infertile earth. Groups such as the Wylaai, who also had to deal with a too harsh environment for farming, received and embraced the support of southern communities to artificially create fertile land. The Nathras though were more hesitant to give up on their established way of life.

Until today there are many Nathras who call themselves devout followers of Aman’s Teachings while still continuing their traditional trade of fishing.

Despite their isolation, the Nathras were accidental ambassadors for their whole nation on two occasions. Both the Aapha of Darthonis and the Kitu from far away Drua Shye landed first on their shores. So while they are a little bit detached from the main portion of their continent, they are rather connected to dealings with the outside world and developed into versed traders.

Trade is actually spoken more commonly in Westpoint, the capital of the region, than any other language including Nyrval. Currently Westpoint also calls Ivendarea’s largest trade harbour its own, and to the outside world the Nathras enjoy a reputation of being the most laid-back and open-minded of the Nyr. Language and Dialect The accent of the Nathras is considered “flat” and a little monotonous combined with speaking rather fast. Since most Nathras speak Trade more commonly than Nyrval, elements of both languages are mixed into the other, creating a rather unique colour, sound, and vocabulary.

Shared Values Living conditions in the north are comparatively harsh, with unpredictable cold and storms, therefore it is important to the Nathras communities to be adaptable and keep a watchful eye. Courage is one of the most-taught virtues, and unselfish devotion is the most important service one could offer for the community.

The Nathras have a very relaxed view on life and death. Death is not the end of all things, and sometimes a noble sacrifice is necessary to prevent greater evils from happening. Life on the other hand is meant for joy. While not scared of hard work, a rather laid-back attitude is common in the northern villages.

The Nathras work to live, not the other way around. Also, not many would openly call themselves religious, but subconsciously many of their social conventions are actually tightly connected to the beliefs of the Aman’a Valeethi, and most do believe in the gods. They just don’t make a big deal out of it and don’t tend to pry into other people’s business. Accepting differences in regards to politics and religion is essential to the Nathras, particularly because as a people of traders they often have to deal with travellers and outsiders.

Similar to the Wylaai the Nathras are also known to be rather hospitable, and they enjoy fun and entertainment. Westpoint, the settlement with the highest percentage of Nathras among its population, is home to an arena where people can measure their strength in public battles for the entertainment ofma crowd and some coin. All on a voluntary basis of course.

Common Etiquette As much as the Nathras enjoy being part of a devoted community, they expect everyone within the community to contribute something, even if it is just a symbolic gesture. If everyone helps together to get unpleasant things done, the faster it is possible to devote oneself to the beautiful things in life again. While they have a rather relaxed relationship with death, it is not well-liked to talk ill of the dead. In fact, remembering them in a positive light is very important and if not in the local temple, at least in the deceased’s home a small space or shrine is dedicated to their memory.

Entertainment and hospitality are so important that it is rude to refuse an invitation or gifts. Furthermore, no food or drink should be wasted, it should be shared, re-purposed, or donated, never thrown away. The same goes for basically everything else, too: before throwing it out, consider if it could be of use for someone else or for a different purpose. And should someone unexpectedly gain riches, it is expected of them to invest into the community, not hoard their money.

Major Organizations Less an organization but still one of the major institutions in Westpoint, the Arena is the city’s centre of entertainment. No matter if as a spectator betting on contestants, or by entering the ring oneself, it is also a popular place to earn extra coin without big commitments.

Fashion The Nathras will wear their clothes until they’re literally falling apart - and then they’ll fix them as best as they can, use parts of different articles of clothing to make a new one, or find a new purpose for them. Nathras fashion is rugged and wayward, unconventional at best and questionable sometimes too. Influences from a variety of cultures and eras can be found in everyday clothing, the motto is: do what you like.

While most prefer practical clothing that doesn’t get in the way and is comfortable, there is not much the Nathras would frown upon in terms of colour and material combinations. Compared to most other groups of Nyr across the nation, the Nathras in particular prefer more fitted clothing and trousers over the flowing robes, wide sleeves, and huge scarves seen more often in central, southern, and western Ivendarea. Remarkably they are also the only group that very commonly wears clothing made of animal materials such as leather or bone. They don’t tend to make these clothes from scratch, but if a rich Assadin merchant throws out a still decent leather coat, it is going to be re-purposed and worn rather than wasted.

A Nathras worker dressed in a colourful mix of clothes from various cultures and second-hand items is wearing body paint and striking piercings. The woollen scarf has seen better days but was decorated with colourful pearls and pebbles found near Westpoint’s shores. The typically Assadin-style riding boots are commonly worn by soldiers and might have been won in the arena. The trousers are a patchwork of different materials, and the warm Aapha coat’s buttons don’t match, but the fur-lining certainly helps against the cold winter winds. 

Art & Architecture The Nathras’ architecture is exactly as patchwork as one might think when looking at their clothing. Building materials are rare, everything is reused several times. Stones of crumbling ruins are turned into the foundation of a new family home, the wooden beams of sunken ships are salvaged, cleaned, and thoroughly dried, then used for building furniture. Driftwood is integrated into the buildings as are rocks dug up in fields. Some houses are built directly into the sides of cliffs where possible. There’s no limit to creativity in terms of housing. In Westpoint in particular nautical elements such as rope and even used fishing nets find their way into people’s homes and gardens. An old steering wheel makes an interesting dinner table.

The Nathras are inventive and creative, and they are known to have an eye for design and beauty. Creating jewellery and all sorts of petty wares and haberdashery from whatever they lie their hands on, their markets are a true paradise for everyone looking to spruce up their wardrobe or buy a unique piece of artwork. Known to have patience and a calm hand Nathras also have a reputation of creating particularly intricate and huge mosaics, incorporating them into their buildings and artwork. They find and create beauty in everything.

Ideals

Beauty Ideals Individuality is beauty, as is creativity and devotion to a cause... and all is subjective. Colourful body paint and makeup emphasizing the body’s anatomy - curves, muscles, tendons, and bone structure - are popular. Hair is adorned with little trinkets, natural or glass pearls, worn in braids, decorated or held together with colourful pieces of fabric, or flowing freely. A positive outlook on life, no matter the difficulties, is considered attractive.

Courtship Ideals Courtship is playful and passionate. Fun and experimenting are important, experiencing small adventures together and getting to know each other during those times. Directness is appreciated, as well as creativity in the way one is wooed, bold and brave is better than following strict traditions and social conventions.

Relationship Ideals It is rather unusual for the Nathras to begin living in a committed relationship in young years. Exploration and adventure are important before settling down, otherwise unrest might cause tension in the relationship later on. On-off-relationships are quite common, where couples cross paths several times before finally deciding to settle down together - if at all. Many actually never settle down, have children with several partners if they want them, and continue to live life relatively independently. It is very common among the Nathras that children are raised by several adults, related to them or not, rather than specific parents. The community is one big family that looks after each other, and its needs stand above individual relationships.

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