#anyway the American Dream sucks

[theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming]

.

[imsodishy]

I have such a scene in my head and nothing to do with it so...

Post Starcourt Billy is a mess, and one night when he’s drunk Max's is like, "He absolutely cannot come home like this. It will go very very badly." and she’s really done with letting bad things happen to Billy.

And the only person available for her to turn to for help at that particular moment is Nancy.

And Nancy doesn't really want a drunk Billy Hargrove in her house, but he did basically fucking die for them, and Max is not above banging that drum very loudly. So yes, fine, he can sleep it off on their couch.

But they're not that quiet sneaking him in and they wake her mom up. Karen is, of course, shitting a fucking brick. Because there's her dirty little secret standing (swaying) in the middle of her perfect suburban life, picking through their music collection.

Nancy tries to smooth it over (she is also not above leaning on the 'almost died' angle, though Karen of course thinks it was in the mall fire). Karen says, "I just don't think it's a good idea."

Billy snorts, asks, "Why, is your husband home?" and drops the needle on Does Your Mother Know by ABBA.

[atopvisenyashill]

how goes ADWD?

bad aldsjflkdsj

idk if i'm like, burned out on asoiaf (i can't be, i talk about it all the fucking time i still get excited lol) or if it's like "oh god i'm so close to the ending and then that's it and we're never getting twow" or if i really am anxious about some of the later plot points - because like, i wasn't as nervous to read theon's chapters where he lets his men rape the women on the shoreline, or rapes kya, and i think part of that is it's a lot more vague? because theon is trying really hard to not think about what it is he's doing. whereas that block i had with the red wedding, and now i think with the tyrion chapter where he rapes the sunset girl, tyrion is Very Aware of what's happening because he's purposefully and actively taking steps Down The Wrong Path because he's testing himself, trying to see if he has the stomach to be a villain, to really accept that he is ~the monster they think he is~ so he's very aware that what he is doing is rape, and it's right there in your face. but i'm unsure if this is the block, it just seems like the most likely culprit? - but anyways i've been reading stuff just not a dance with dragons.

i did read a few jon snow chapters so i'm moving along a little bit? but i devoured this non fiction book called "no beast so fierce" which was about man eating tigers, i've been getting pretty consistently through "iron, fire and blood" as well as "madhouse at the end of the earth" which is another non fiction book (about a journey through the northern passage that went bad, as most did, and as someone with a phobia of dying at sea/drowning, i have an equal fascination with stories about people dying at sea because idk i'm a masochist and i've read/watched a lot about sea voyages gone terribly wrong, but i hadn't read about this one! i'm excited!) (i'm not being overdramatic about the phobia either, i had a panic attack while watching life of pi and the terror but good god was it so worth it!! humans vs extreme elements stories are fascinating to me as someone who would die instantly because of my disabilities!!!) and i speed-reread the queen of the damned and the vampire armand and the daniel molloy bits of...i think it was prince lestat, is the one where he's still with marius and trying to get marius to let him go out and flirt with armand lol, so i am reading a bit more (not as much as before) I'm just not reading adwd!

sucks because everytime i pick it up, i'm having a great time!! i love jon's story at the wall as lord commander, i love the horror fantasy of bran's chapters, i fucking love the meereenese knot, and i'm excited to get to all the aegon vi stuff to more solidly solidify my opinion there on whether he's a blackfyre or not and how that theory would even work (because every time someone is like "well they got sold into slavery" i'm like please be serious alsdjf), and i know basically everyone i follow/am moots with hate barristan but i love that useless old man so much!!!! but everytime i try to read my brain goes bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZzzzzzz like a bug getting zapped by a light.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.

1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.

2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.

So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.

Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.

He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.

Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.

Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.

I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.

He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.

I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.

OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.

Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world

PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox

Original post

[wttcsms]

🏐 wttcsms written works, haikyuu ;

last updated feb 23, 2024

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles and i can't make you stay (in this broken place) — ( nsfw )  i sin too much to pray for you — no one can believe that one of the most powerful crime lords in the underground world of japan, atsumu miya, is wrapped around the finger of a naive girl like you, but love doesn’t really care about boundaries anyway. take care of you — ( nsfw ) atsumu just wants to give you everything he can offer: an easy job, a brand new car, a baby… wanting was enough (for me, it was enough) — ( sfw ) "He carries your confession home in the to-go box from the diner. It’s heavy, matching the American theme of burgers containing his weight in meat and fries slick with oil and grease. The two of you are walking together, and he wants to ask you, specifically, what did you mean when you told the team you liked me?" paper rings — ( sfw ) the tiffany blue ring box currently resides in the second drawer of his night stand, unceremoniously buried underneath several pairs of calvin klein briefs. when you know, you know — ( sfw ) atsumu considers marriage to be a trap, until he realizes that even a lifetime commitment to you isn’t long enough

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ex!atsumu seeing you're engaged to oikawa — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : how atsumu says i love you — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu and you having "non-dates" — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu's green flags — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dating atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dad!atsumu — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : mastermind inspired — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu randomly showing you his camera roll — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : in a world of boys, he's a gentleman — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : atsumu as a college interviewer tiktoker — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : husband atsumu using ur purse — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : you're the first person atsumu wants to tell anything to — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : the miya divide — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : girl dad atsumu — ( sfw )

multipart afterglow — ( nsfw ) finding out that his hot supermodel girlfriend is dumping him for some baseball player? that sucks. finding out via her red carpet debut with her new man as her plus one? sucks a bit more. having this happen to him the same day he just lost the last game of the season? yeah, it’s starting to feel like the universe has it out for him at this point, right? but atsumu miya is nothing if not petty, childish, and immature. he’ll get back at her. after all, there’s a secret dating app created by publicists and agents that pair up perfect matches for brightening up any celebrity’s public image. all atsumu has to do is pay a pretty sum of money to convince the media (and mainly his ex) that atsumu miya is still on top of the world and living his best life with the best (albeit, fake) girlfriend ever. unfortunately for him, his perfect match just so happens to be you — his first girlfriend, his highschool sweetheart turned sour, and the first girl who ever broke his heart. you know what they say: when it rains, it pours.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐎𝐈𝐊𝐀𝐖𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles customer satisfaction — ( nsfw ) you go above and beyond for your customers...

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : engaged to oikawa when atsumu's your ex (yikes) — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ex husband!oikawa still in love with you — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : ice skating au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : royal au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : learning about the tradition of giving the first slice of cake to who you love the most — ( sfw )

multipart forever golden — ( nsfw ) everything is going fine: you just graduated with your first degree, you get to work alongside your older brother for the 2021 olympics, and you think now might be the perfect time to finally jumpstart your dating life (atsumu miya certainly seems cute...). there's no time for you to think about torn acls, shattered dreams, and the fact that this was never your original goal in life. and there's certainly no time for you to worry about tooru oikawa, the boy who practically grew up in your house now turned into the man who poses as your team's fiercest competitor. you definitely don't have the free time to remember how he's the first boy who ever had (and subsequently broke) your heart. or that the two of you went from practically joined at the hip to total strangers for the past four years. you don't even bother wondering why he suddenly wants to repair the broken bond between you two, and you totally don't give in to him (except for the times that you do... which is almost all the time).  yeah. everything is going fine.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐊𝐈𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐌𝐈 𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles rapture — ( nsfw ) his tenacity and stamina prove to be a deadly combination indeed. you know you make my cold heart warm with a touch — ( nsfw ) how else can kiyoomi show you how close to his heart he keeps you than by fucking into you so deep, you’re pretty sure you can feel him reaching for yours?

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : how kiyoomi says i love you — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐘𝐀𝐌𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles as the world caves in — ( sfw ) they say your life flashes before your eyes when you die. if that’s the case, then that explains why kageyama only sees you.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   :  kags' act of service — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : tobio craves your attention — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : vampire hunter!reader x vampire!kags — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : he responds to all your texts individually — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐇𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐔𝐌𝐈  ✩ ✭

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with iwaizumi — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : shoujo concept with iwaizumi — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles it's the same damn thing that made my heart surrender — ( sfw ) you never do get over your first love. / you fell first, he fell harder.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : domesticity with suna — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐀  ✩ ✭

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : marriage of convenience with ushi — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : underground fighter ushi — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐎𝐎  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles in every universe, it's still you — ( sfw ) in all the universes, in all the different versions of you and kuroo, you’re certain of two things: that he’s always a good person, and that you love him.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : fake dating au — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : business school academic rivals to lovers — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : kuroo tweet — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : dad!kuroo is the best — ( sfw ) ✩✮   : single!mom reader x kuroo office romance — ( sfw )

multipart get him back! — ( nsfw ) so, in an attempt to get back at your ex - who posted a sex tape of himself cheating on you with your best friend - you decide that you’re going to upload your own film, and it’s going to be even hotter than theirs. you don’t anticipate your class’s teaching assistant being your co-star, especially considering that he’s the one who took your virginity, and after all was said and done, you ran out on him. but there’s no running from him now, especially whenever your tape does better than expected. now, you’re one of the hottest up and coming content creators on the platform, and the cash is too good to let this opportunity go to waste. what starts as a petty revenge scheme results in a lucrative business partnership with three simple rules: profits are split 50/50, all videos remain faceless, and this newfound partnership means absolutely nothing. just because you two fuck on a daily basis does not mean you’re friends, and you’re certainly not lovers. then again, things hardly ever are that simple.

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles paper rings — ( sfw ) shinsuke kita is a creature of habit.

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : influencer!reader x kita — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔 𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles xoxo — ( nsfw ) just thinking about recreating the infamous maison margiela kiss button-down shirt for your boyfriend osamu

headcanons & concepts ✩✮   : the miya divide — ( sfw )

( 🏐 )  ⸺ 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐈  ✩ ✭

one shots & drabbles everything's blurry but you — ( sfw ) barely in your baby twenties, and you think life is so over for you. then, while at rock bottom, you run into futakuchi, and realize that 1) he’s kinda pathetic, and 2) someone else’s pathetic-ness totally distracts you from your own. so, guess you two are in it together.

[yeyinde]

riptide | Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it." His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won His touch is featherlight. But his eyes– His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

(it's like holding a lit cigarette to your pulse.)

part ii of in undertow

tw: gratuitous smut; unfettered filth; gendered reader; f!reader; female anatomy; near death experiences, MAJOR spoilers for the game (seriously, if you haven’t played it are saving it for later, or you haven’t finished, maybe don’t read this yet); PINING; cigarettes after sex was listened to on repreat during the making of this; also, i had “THAT’LL DO!” and “AHUEVO” on a loop, y’all. blame that.

notes: whenever someone asks what “doing the most” means, feel free to point them to this. it’s 16K. fullstop. it was only supposed to be smut. this ended up more plot than porn. but i so wanted the pining; the ambiguity, the danger, the drama. (i mean, this has none of that, but i wanted it.)

i told my very Welsh dad i was in love with an English man, and he said how could you do this to me? and that is pretty much all you need to know about Welsh culture. 

Porthmadog hasn't changed much at all since you last washed up on the sandy shores, one hand gripping the strap of your off-duty duffle bag, and the other clenched around your passport. Wound tight. Ready to flee. A constant state of fight or flight. 

The air is heady with the scent of the sea. Algae. Seaweed. Salt. Your lungs burn with the thickness of it. The sulphur sits in your throat, sticking to your larynx. It clicks when you swallow, refusing to budge. It curls behind your teeth when you suck the air in through parted, salt-chapped lips; the taste lingers in that strange microcosm of being both achingly nostalgic, and woefully foreign in the same breath. 

The streets, too, live there: a realm of vague memories flashing by as your feet tap against the cobblestone. Boots heavy with exhaustion, and jet lag. 

You're not ready to face it. Not yet. 

Head bowed, you stare at the quasi-familiar cracks on the sandstone, and wonder how everyone else is fairing right now. An hour after takeoff. Soap would have been dropped off, wouldn't he? Safe and sound in Edinburgh. 

You're both luckier than your American counterparts—the ones who have a full nine hours left to go. 

Bouncing from the Middle East to Europe is a blink. 

Europe to America is a whole ocean. 

You and Soap played rock, paper, scissors for who got to depart first. In the end, you won. Wales was closer, anyway. 

You left them behind with a heaviness that settled in your pericardium, compunction dipping in the valley of your pinched brow. 

A strange feeling leaks from the fissures. 

Ghost didn't depart. 

They didn't stop in England at all. Right to Wales, right to Scotland. America. Mexico. 

You try not to think about your prickly Lieutenant, but he flashes behind your eyelids, anyway. A bonfire in the dead of night. Tendrils of smoke drifting into the midnight blue aether. You're too close to the crackling flame. The heat scorches your skin. 

He, too, sits heavy in your chest. A spooled cluster of questions bereft of answers. An unknown chasm gaping below. What it all means–

You woke up when the interior lights of the jet flickered on a few rows ahead, the jaundiced glow rousing you from your slumber. Your temple rested on something warm. Firm, sturdy. You blinked into existence, the ghost of a breath on your lips; a passing dream now left behind to rot. A world, forever unattainable, dissolving into nothing. Sand on your fingertips.

The world knits back into the cold clutch of reality: you're on a plane, and–

And you find yourself staring at tightly woven black thread. A balaclava. 

Your eyes dart up. 

The pad in his hands bathes him in iridescent light. It casts shadows on his face, in the pocks of his mask, and illuminates the white of the artificial bones. The paint used is tinged blue, brushed with cyan where it meets the black. 

His lidded eyes crest low as he stares at the screen—a profile open on a man named Zyani stares back. Your eyes don't linger too long, pulled, instead, to the man you're leaning against. The coal under his eyes is smudged, nearly eroded away in the inner corners. You wonder if he rubbed them earlier, eyes gritty and heavy, but refusing to close. He won't sleep on the plane. He never does. 

You don't usually, either. 

Why didn't he wake you? Why did he let you stay? 

There is no time for discussion—not on a jet that reeks of testosterone with ears everywhere. It will have to wait; shelved for another time when Gaz isn't snoring a few pews away, and Soap hasn't been glancing at you in intervals since you sat down. 

Bonnie… you can almost hear him say. What are you doin'? 

You can hear the steady breaths he takes, the sound swells through you. 

It's the first time you've seen him so relaxed since–

Where are you going? Loose-limbed, one hand still wrapped around his softening cock, the other settles on the bend where your thigh meets the crease of your hip, fingers ghosting over the knob of your bone. His eyes are half moons. I didn't say I was finished with you yet, pet.

You shudder, a quiet breath leaving your lips. It draws his attention. His shoulder tenses under you. His head tilts just enough for him to slide his gaze from the screen balanced on his thick thighs to your open stare. 

His eyes are liquid. Honeyed words over smouldering charcoal. "Alright?"

Your lungs quiver with your inhale. Outside of the acrid smell of ammunition, ozone, and gunfire, he carries something musky in his scent. Driftwood. Salt—sweat, blood, the sea. It's potent. You breathe him in again, lids lowering. You hold his scent there, nestled in the gummy webbing of your lungs, dripping down your throat. 

Your eyes feel gritty when they slip shut. Anchors pull them down. You nod your head, slow and languid, murmuring your assent in a barely coherent mumble. The drag of his rough fatigues under your cheek, the straps of his tactical vest grinding into your cheekbone. And then—awareness. It startles you back into reality. Your eyes pop open, meeting the black pools above. 

You wish you could chisel open his head, and read whatever it is that might be lingering in those unfathomable depths. His expression is shuddered, hidden by the thick of his mask. Eyes lidded and heavy and narrowed right on you. 

Intense focus. 

Sometimes, the others talk about Ghost like he's a berserker. A wild, untamed beast let loose in the shadows. Even the vilest people pale when they see him—his larger-than-life frame lingering in the background—and it's fear that dances in the cut of their brow, in their shaking glare.

You heard stories, of course. 

Those always paled in comparison to seeing him on the field. 

You got it, then, why no one mocked him. Why even the worst of the worst never bothered with leading him around by the nose. 

He asked a question, and they answered. 

For a long while, you thought it was his heigh. His size. Immense power. Expert precision. 

But no. It's just him. Those eyes. His presence. 

He doesn't just receive attention, he commands it.  

You should move. You're awake, now. There is no reason for such intimacy with your Lieutenant, for a man more distant and unreachable than the sea. 

You should. 

But you don't. 

He's warm milk under your chin. Heat bleeds into your skin from the firm bracket of his body. Ghost smells good—sweat and timbre—and feels even better. You could sleep again like this. Lashes fan down, sleep digs into the back of your eyes. You force them open. 

Your fingers are tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed tight to his chest; there's a note of domesticity in the way he breathes with you, a palpable weight that falls on you like a thick quilt. His muscles jump. Body tense. 

Eyes on you. Always. 

But then they're gone. A flutter. They cut out to the pews, and you follow his gaze. Price wades closer. 

The bubble pops. You're clinging to your Lieutenant like it's a luxury you're allowed. 

Like it's something commonplace. 

There is distance in his eyes when they flicker to you. The molasses hardened into something once again unreachable. A wall now sits between you. 

(Maybe, that conversation will never come, after all.)

You should have known better than to let yourself want.

The air is crisp when you draw it in. The chill hurts your teeth. 

You slip your fingers out from the wedge of his arm and ribs, already mourning the loss of him under your flesh—ticking muscles coiled tight; velvet draped iron. Ghost says nothing when you move, but his gaze is heavy on you when you fold yourself back into your seat. Proper, now. Lieutenant and soldier. You press yourself as far away from him as you can until your arms dig into the plastic around the window, and sit straight—as if you weren't sleeping on his shoulder. 

As if he didn't let you. 

He looks away when Price takes the bench on the opposite side, offers a nod. 

Price echoes it. Flashes a tight smile your way. 

Then his eyes linger. Not on you. Not on Ghost. He rests his pensive gaze on the sliver of space between the two of you. Where Ghost's bulky arm takes several inches of space up on your own seat, flesh glued together, parting only at the elbows. He's too big to get away from. Takes up all the space—

(—in your lungs, in your head, in your—)

Price, mercifully, isn't the type of man to pry. His brows buoy on his head, a fleeting glance sent in Ghost's direction, and then he's all business. Astute leader. Battle-ready even on a sleepy jet.

He clears his throat. "Where are you headed?" 

It's for you. 

Gaz is going to America with the men you'd picked up for this mission. His offer for you to join was swiftly rejected. The invitations from the Mexican operatives, notably Alverez, to come and enjoy the coast were also rejected. 

"Is Soap going home?" You ask, hands fisting into balls on your lap. 

Price's smile is wan. "He is. Not joining Gaz on his American adventure."

"Misadventure, more like." Ghost's dry tone makes your toes curl. 

You can still hear the way he growled out pet.

You huff. "I'm…" 

There is nowhere for you to go. 

—Well. Nowhere else. 

(Your knees ache, chafed and raw. Pebbles dig into your skin.)

"Wales," you murmur. You hear the ruffle of fabric when Ghost dips his head to look at you. "Whatever is easier. I'll take a taxi."

"Right," Price nods. "Get some rest while you're home." 

It sounds like a dismissal. 

Baleen lines fill your periphery when you turn your head. Your gaze sticks to the crease where his chin meets his neck. You can't bring yourself to look up. 

"Better go fight it out with Soap." 

He doesn't stop you when you stand, when you squeeze past him, thighs brushing his knees. 

He says nothing at all when you depart. 

(Don't think about it. Don't get your hopes up—)

The town is silent save your heavy steps on the cobblestone. In the distance, the roar of the ocean crashes along the beige shore. 

Something inside of you begins to crumble. 

(Too late.)

    The woman by the apartment block greets you warmly, but the words are a strange amalgam of vowels and consonants that do not belong together. Her accent sounds English. The words make no sense to you. 

Your bewilderment must show on your face. Her smile dips, a touch of laughter paints her words when she says, in English: 

Sorry, dove. I thought you were Welsh.

It feels a little bit like a slap to the wrist. Naughty child… mind your manners, and speak your tongue. 

"I'm not…," you murmur, chastised despite having done nothing wrong. 

Wales isn't where you came from. Here is not the place of your birth. It's a paradoxical realm: a land where you were taken to as a child, and told welcome home; all memories erased of the other times they said the exact same thing. A taboo, now. Faux pas. A fresh start (for the nth time). Welcome home. 

It's the place you stayed the longest, though. Your developing years from a child to a teenager, to a spiteful preadolescent with too much to prove, and an ocean to live up to. 

(You wonder if the pavement is still stained red.) 

You know Welsh. Have spoken it for years. You came, fresh-faced and chubby-cheeked, and the ladies cooed while they taught you the words. 

But it's buried. They are covered in dust; a forgotten relic. You remember pieces of the greeting, but your lips are no longer used to forming them. Your tongue is too heavy, too foreign. 

You say nothing at all, trailing off into a stifling silence. 

"Right," her brows knot, rheumy eyes regard you warily. "Do you need a hotel—?"

"I live here." 

You bend down, peeling the pristine welcome mat back, and fish out the key you keep tucked away. Years of training echo in the background; a firm voice rings out, one that sounds suspiciously like Ghost's, barking out how that's trouble. You'll come home to a world of hurt if you keep doin' that, soldier.

(You already do.)

You pull your duffle bag up when it slips, and nod at the bemused woman. 

It's not much of a homecoming. 

It never is. 

The flat you own is barren. A bed that feels too comfortable at night for you to ever truly relax on is shoved into the bedroom, a wardrobe with civilian clothes, a shoe rack in the foyer. A kitchen that's always empty. 

You mostly sleep on the worn, old couch where the springs dig into your shoulder blades, and remind you of that night you spent in Sierra Leone, belly full of yabeh. Ghost a hair's length away from you. His gloved hand brushing yours. 

The duffle bag falls to the tiles with a heavy thud. Your passport will go in the safe along with all of your other belongings—clearance badge, certificates, your guns—until the call comes in for your next mission. 

You hope it's soon. That Shepherd and Laswell trudge up some calamity that will take you far away from this place. A long-haul mission. The kind where you go deep into the trenches, and when you surface, it feels like an aeon has passed. 

It's too quiet at night. 

Your home reeks of dust. Disuse. 

You settle on the couch, eyes fixed on the popcorn ceiling, and pretend you can't feel his shoulder under your head even now. 

A world away, and you still think of him. 

(Always, always.)

    Shepherd calls you weeks later. A secret mission with the Shadow Company, he tells you. When you ask about the others, his voice is tight. 

Just you, soldier. Just you. 

Breaking up the Task Force isn't unheard of. Ghost does so many secretive missions on his own that meeting people he worked with in the past on a group venture isn't at all a rarity anymore. Price is the same. Soap, sometimes, too. 

There isn't much else to do. 

(You held your phone in your hand each night for those weeks, finger hovering over the CALL button. Two letters— Lt— on the contact screen. His profile picture is a dune of sand.

It never rang. You never called.)

You give your affirmative, and go to the coordinates where his operatives will be waiting for you. 

"Show me what you got," he says, a challenge in his voice. 

Your grin is sharp. "Always, Actual." 

    Phillip Graves meets you with a wide grin on his face. The American flag on his fatigues sticks out against the green. So used to the British flag, you can't stop your eyes from sliding down to it, drawn like a beacon. 

(Maybe, in a bygone era, it, too, might have been home.)

"Welcome aboard, soldier." His eyes flash in the setting sun. Eager. Heavy. You echo it in your own smile. "Let's get these son'of'a'bitches."

    You're back at the bottom. 

The Shadow Operatives stare at you when they think you aren't looking. Low murmurs fill the jet— princess, chick, girl— and you gazed, pointedly, out the window. 

Your hands itch; the phantom scabs prickle. 

It makes you miss 141 more than you thought possible. Gaz, Price, Soap, Ghost. They flicker in your mind, and you wonder what they'd do in this situation. 

How would they prove themselves to everyone around them?

(Answer: they wouldn't.) 

The only one who isn't pushing you in a box is Graves. 

"Heard great things about you," his smile crests over his lips. Eyes hungry. Ready for battle. "Can't wait to see what you can do." 

He worked with Ghost a month ago. You find this out when he mentions it offhand. Secret mission with your Lieutenant. Is he always that much of an asshole—?

Actual is in your ear, stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

But it's Ghost you think of. 

(Always, always.)

"He's not an asshole," you say, shrugging. "Just a man who cares too much." 

Almost immediately, you want to swallow the words back down. Stupid. Stupid. You force yourself to remain still, nonchalant. 

(How presumptuous of you to think you know him.)

Military likes to gossip. It'll come back to him somehow. The little rookie who stuck up for him. Who said he cared.

Graves' eyes flicker. "That right?"

You blush. English is gone. The only language in your throat is Welsh. 

(Graves' guffaw echoes in the jet.)

    Graves purses his lips, rolling them from side to side, as you sift through the documents in front of you. He's been pacing the room for the last ten minutes while you meticulously translate each paper in your grasp. Agitation bleeds through the usual warmth in his countenance. 

It's tense. A slaughter. 

His compatriots flank all of the exits; sounds of gunfire resound through the compound. 

The infiltration was easy. 

This—

This is not. 

"So…," he drawls, the thick accent is warm, but his voice is constricted; pinched. "Heard you were the best at sniffing things out. What do you think?"

"It's not—," you pause, eyes skimming the page, squinting at it. 

"What?"

His tone is sharp. Icy. The usual warmth dissipates into a palpable tension; a tight unease. 

The shift is strange. Focus on the mission.

"It's not just Konni in this. They're being backed." 

"That so?" 

You suck in a deep breath. "We should leave. Tell Actual what's going on–"

"Yeah," he intones, crouching down in front of you. His eyes are placid. "We'll do just that."

    It all happens so fast. A clichè, really, but a fitting one. 

Head turned out the window of the cargo van, deadly missiles being dragged behind. Your mind is full, racing. Nothing makes sense. 

You wish Ghost was here. Price. Soap. They're the ones you use to bounce ideas off of: this is what is happening, this is the missing equation, and this is what I think. 

Good, bonnie. Now, tell us something we don't know. 

And what if the equation is wrong?

Crafty, soldier. How do we prove it? 

And then the world shatters. 

Konni Operates. A gun to your head. Graves yelling in the distance; spitting curses, threats. Actual in your ear— you'll die here, soldier. 

Chaos. Death presses cold metal to your forehead, snapped words in rapid-fire Russian, too fast for you to pick up. 

The only ones that leak through are oozing glee. I'm going to blow your head off.

A dead-end. You think of Gaz—the closest to you in age, passing jokes back and forth; playing Never Have I Ever when the missions lull, the others looking on with amusement. 

Kids these days, they scoff.

Have you seen this video? He asks, dropping into the vacant seat beside you. Ghost looks up. It's a club in London. 

Soap huffing when you ask if he wants to come. Too old for that, bonnie.

You kids have fun, Price says, lips twitching. A rare show of amusement from the man. But I'll have to pass.

What if we went to a pub instead, you geezer? You chuckle. 

Geezer? He nudges Ghost to his left, eyes dry. You've been rubbing off on the kids. 

You meet his stare over the plastic table. Smile turns shy. Wanna come with us, Lt?

He holds it. Halfmoon. Eclipse. Liquid black. Negative, soldier. 

You try not to let the sting of rejection show. It's stupid. Stupid—

Nice one, kid.

Y'did good, bonnie.

Let's show these old boys what us kids can do, yeah?

Their voices echo in your mind. One rings louder than the others. A sharp bark. Gravel shattering. Move, soldier!

You're a dutiful soldier. You never disobey a command from your superior officer. From him.

White-hot pain splits across your temple. The world turns static. You're falling down, down, down—

Waves lap at your body, tugging you out to sea. The briny water fills your throat. 

Stay alert, soldier. The General. Voices. 

"Well, shit." Graves. He sounds distant. Far away. 

You think of Sierra Leone. Your first mission. 

Hiding in a concrete house with no windows, no doors, no cover. Gunfire booming across the landscape, cloaked in the pitch black darkness of night. Flickers of yellow-red light pop in the distance. 

You don't breathe. Don't make a sound. Your hands tremble around your rifle. Eyes wavering. 

Warmth against your back. You startle. A gloved hand over your mouth. The brush of a balaclava against your neck. 

"Easy, soldier. They'll see you if you jump." 

They'll see you—

"They dead?" A boot knocks against your calf. 

You go limp. 

"Yeah," Graves. Companion. Comrade. Be careful who you trust, soldier. All you have right now is yourself. Trust your gut; you're on your own. 

Copper on your tongue. You let it pool between your teeth, keeping it held in the space between your lips. It tastes of pennies. You try not to choke.

Sir… you whisper the words against his tactical vest. Feel the shift of his body when he looks at you from over his shoulder. Let's get yabeh after this. 

We're not on holiday, soldier. 

Really? Feels like one. 

You need to get out more. 

Yeah… maybe…

C'mon, now. Stay with me, pet. 

Always… sir. Always…

    You drag him to someplace you'd heard of through your new friends–best yabeh in all of Salone; gotta try the Jollof, too, Sesay insists–and he fits in like a sore thumb. 

You both stand out, really. Foreigners in the middle of a place visited only by locals. Him in his denim trousers, and short-sleeved shirt, tactical vest fixed on his chest; his mask stays on. A ball cap low over his brow. He exudes danger. The rippling musculature of a tiger. The stealth of a panther. 

You—nondescript and tiny beside him. 

There is something to be said about seeing your new Lieutenant in denim. In the custom facemask instead of the full balaclava. 

With the baleen lines missing over his chin and neck, he almost feels too exposed to you. Too vulnerable. Too open. 

You can't stop fixing your gaze on the scant flesh, uncovered, above the collar of his shirt. His arms, bulky, and big, fold over his massive chest. 

He barely fits inside the small booth. 

Your eyes dance. Amusement. A roseate veil shudders over you—a novice, a rookie—and high off of the success of a mission. 

"Sesay says this is the best place in town."

"Sesay says a lot of things, don't he?" 

You blink, fingers tapping against the worn wood of the table. It's hot in Sierra Leone. A wet swelter that brands your skin with white-hot intensity. It's different from the dryness of the Sahara. 

Somehow, his tone is drier than the arid desert you crawled out of. Drier than the burning heat of the massive sun. 

"That he does…," you agree, floundering. 

Was this a mistake? Maybe you shouldn't have come here. What were you thinking? Dragging your superior out for dinner. You flush. It's barely discernable from the blistering sunburn over the bridge of your nose. Unfamiliar with the intense sun that scorches the land. 

You're drowning, now. Wallowing in this limbo of uncertainty. Maybe you should have just come later with Sesay and Abdul. They asked you when you pestered for directions, but you met Ghost's stare from over their shoulders, and hadn't heard a thing of what they were saying once you met him in the middle.

He's a whole head taller than everyone he meets. Massive. The locals' baulk at him: this huge, terrifying being with a skull on his face, cutting through the throng of people like a tank. 

There was so much going on once you started the mission. After the Intel was gathered, and the forces were ready, those long nights spent inside a tent that was barely big enough for yourself let alone the behemoth bulk of your Lieutenant came to an end. It was abrupt. Sudden.

It was just you and him. 

And then it was a sea of people. 

You'd spent the better part of a year pouring over documents in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by Scorpions and sand, and him. 

The tent was deadly during the day; balmy with a humidity fit for the Amazon. At night, any complaints you might have had about the heat turned into regrets. It was freezing. You could see white clouds of condensation when you breathed out. 

You'd lie next to each other. Grains of sand is the only thing keeping you apart. He was warm—bonfire hot. 

You'll be frustrated, mad. That's normal when you spend so much time with a stranger. You might argue, bicker. But just focus on the mission. This is a test of camaraderie as much as it is endurance. 

It wasn't like that at all. It was—

Seamless. 

His ebb and flow were easy to adjust to. Maybe, it was the fact that you were a neophyte that made it so. Too afraid to let the bundle of frustration rear when this was your first mission. Your first test. 

But—

It wasn't quite like that. You found that you enjoyed his company. His barbed insults spoken in a flat, serious tone often flew over the heads of the men you had to work with, but you grew accustomed to them. Enjoyed them, even. He was—

An enigma. A year later, and you know nothing about Simon Riley, and as much as he'll allow about Ghost. There is distance still, but; 

It wanes. It cracks. Fills with the sharpness of his sarcasm, the stoic dedication to his mission; the grains of sand that stick to his sweat-slicked forehead. The deep hue of red from the mask he refuses to take off. 

You'll suffocate, you quip, eyes glued to the paper in front of you. 

Don't worry about me.

That's a silly thing to say… 

It ain't. You shouldn't. 

Mindless, stupid: well, I do. 

Silence. Brutal and stifling. Then: focus on the mission, Rookie. Not on me. 

You'd hummed noncommittally. It slipped into the back of your head, eyes fixed on the numbers in front of you. 

But it wells, now. When Sesay asks if you want to go with him for dinner, when he tells you how to get there, and what to order. 

Not on me.

Your eyes haven't left his. He holds your stare. 

The chossy wobbles, cracks. Your hand on his arm. C'mon, boss, let's eat. It stays there while you lead him through winding valleys. The heat of his arm—bare, veins ticking under your palm, too burly for you to wrap your whole hand around the thick of him—bleeds into you. You, cold-blooded, leach the warmth from his flesh.

And now—

He doesn't eat when dinner is brought out. Doesn't take his mask off. 

You watch him through the steam that wafts off the Jollof rice, his eyes roaming around the room like clockwork, looking for something that might strike. Hyper-vigilant. Wary. Cold. Distant. 

A puzzle not meant to be put together, but your fingers itch with the urge to try. 

Why did he come, you wonder. Why didn't he say no? 

As if hearing your thoughts, his eyes are on yours. Tendrils of translucent white fog the air between you. His brow pinches. Lids crest. 

It punches the air from your lungs. There is a phantom heat in your palm. Your hands shake around the fufu in your grasp, tightening around the tacky food until it bulges between your fingers. 

The syphoned heat begins to simmer in your belly. 

It bubbles over, blustering through your insides when his head pulls close, chin over the table, and says:

You did good, rookie. Might make a soldier of you, yet. 

You bow your head. "Cachu hwch."

"English, soldier." 

You shake your head. "N-nothing, sir… burnt my tongue."

    You wake up in an empty hospital room. It was early August when you left for Al Mazrah. The calendar on your wall says it's now late September. 

The space in between is a blur. Left in the mud. Graves was taken. Was he okay–

You don't remember anything after the point of passing out in the mud, and waking up—sick from infection, burning from a fever—and finding yourself strapped down on a jet. Medics surround you. 

You'll be okay, you'll be fine–

You'd passed out again. The world slipping away until you felt the heat on your shoulder blades. The scent of yabeh thick in your nose. 

You move, sluggish and heavy, on the rough hospital bed, fingers gripping the sheets below. 

You still feel the grit of sand against your arm. 

Heat in your belly. 

(Cachu hwch, indeed.)

    Shepherd calls you a day later on the phone in your private room. Your prison. The men outside say you're not allowed to leave. It's dangerous. 

"Did good out there, rookie."

"Thanks, Actual," you murmur, hands clenched around the receiver. "Couldn't have done it without your help. Without you." 

You want to ask about Graves. About your team. 

You remember the rapid Russian spat in your ear. And this one? You bite your tongue, body pickling with unease. 

"Rest up, now. My boys will be keeping an eye on you. They'll keep you safe."

      You are discharged at the end of October. 

Hands pressed against the still-healing scar on your temple. They peeled the bandage off yesterday. 

The infection made it worse. It wasn't healing with the sickness you had. You're lucky some local boys found you in the mud when they did. You would have died. 

Laswell finds you outside. Hand against her throat, eyes wide.

She looks like she's seen a ghost. 

You certainly feel like one. 

    The ride to your safehouse is punctuated by a game of catch-up. She tells you about the mission they went on, the one you were exempt from. 

The phone calls from Soap, Gaz make sense now. Straight to voicemail. 

Hey, you skimpin' out on us, yeah? Skippin' duty? Not like you at all. Kinda worried, y'know? Text me somethin'. You know I don't like callin'. Anyway… we're keepin' it together, yeah? But kinda freakin' out. Uhh… anyway—

Not like you to miss one, bonnie. Call me when you can, aye? Want to make sure you're okay. 

Price calls nine times. Leaves no voicemail. 

A single text from Ghost. Wheels up at 16:00. Expect to see you there. 

You didn't get your phone back until today. These were sent at the end of October. 

The clock on your screen reads 2nd November.

"No one knew…," you murmur, hands clenched around the metal. "Why didn't Shepherd—"

"Shepherd said you were sent on recon. Said something happened. He didn't tell the others—just me and Price. Didn't want to distract them from the job." 

"When did you find out?"

"That you were alive?" Her lips thinned, skin paling. "Yesterday." 

"Where are they now?"

"That's confidential." 

A scoff. "Sure. Now, off the record…"

"Mexico." 

Something doesn't feel right at all. It sits like an anvil in your stomach. 

"Laswell…" 

"Get some rest," she says, even. Her eyes are glossy when she stares at you. "We'll keep you updated. I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know you're alive."

    Your phone rings two days later. 

The screen flashes. Lt.

Your hands tremble when you answer it. 

    "It was Shepherd," he admits. 

Your head swims with the admission. Shepherd. Did good out there, rookie. Now, stay good. Stay alert. Keep your eyes out, always. Never know what you might miss.

"Is he–?"

"No," he grouses, the word a sliver short of being a growl. "He's alive. Graves is dead."

It hits you in the sternum—a punch unlike any other you'd received. Air knocked from your lungs, chest throbbing in agony, you sink down into your bed, fingers gripping the sheets until your knuckles bleach white. 

This shouldn't have happened. 

This is what you do. It's your purpose. It's your job. Your role. You were selected by Shepherd, by Laswell, Price for that, for your ability to gather information, to weed out the moles, the rats. To sniff them out, and puncture holes in their ship until they sank to the bottom, secrets leaking out. 

The words roll out of your mouth before you stop them. 

"I should have been there." 

The tremulous quiver makes you wince. Weakness. You're not weak. You're not—

Ghost won't see it as such, you know this; he doesn't really react to the harsh emotions of others. He carries an unwavering focus, rapt attention to the overarching mission, the end goal; pragmatic, astute on the battlefield, he doesn't flinch. 

It's a toss-up if he'll ever respond. If he does, it's usually with a dry, biting dismissal. Sarcasm with him often rides the line of being too sincere, and too flat. It's not just murky, but opaque. He'll say something—equal parts scathing and wise: it's already done, no sense dwelling on what you can't change. Do better next time. 

The bite in his words hurt; it was enough to make even the most impassive man irritated by the blunt, almost cruel tinge to his tone. 

But it's later when the message will unravel itself. When you're lying alone in your cot, picking over the things he said, and why he said them, and then—

Oh.

Do better next time. 

Right. 

A soft sound. The rush of air being inhaled through clenched teeth.

Then: "I'm glad you weren't." 

Silence. Your heart thunders. I'm glad you weren't.

It could mean a lot of things. A lot of bad things, but:

He thought you were either dead, or missing, or just—gone. You get it:

The last job didn't kill you—the evidence stacks in your head; one conclusion drawn: 

It should have. It was meant to. 

Your brush with death was a footnote. Nothing at all in the grand scheme of things. 

They wanted you dead. They failed. 

Soap called you last night, voice tight. You good, bonnie?

Getting there, you joked. Actual had my back. Graves, too. I'm alive because of them.

You choke. 

"You alright?"

It's on the tip of your tongue to say yeah. The usual response. Practised. Easy. Distant. But you think of his words, and your ears ring with the deep husk of his voice. He was honest with you. Open. And that's—

Your words are a rush, dipped in vulnerability. "I don't want to be alone right now." 

Too much. Too honest. 

Too open. 

You flinch. Heart thudding in your throat. 

Ghost makes you feel like an exposed wire. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Raw. 

He says your name—a low, brassy rasp that tickles the back of your neck. It's rare for him to call you by your given name. It's much too intimate. Too—

Well. It's just too much. You want to lean into it, to drape yourself in the rich utterance. Have it whispered into your ear late at night, while he fucks into you the same way he bucked into his hand. 

And in the morning when he first wakes. When he rolls over, body folding over your own. Lips against the shell of your ear. A husky rasp; the word dragged over gravel. 

You want it, want him, in ways that are unattainable. 

Domestic. 

You gasp. "I–um. Thanks," you fumble over your words, head roaring with the realisation that there is more than just attraction in the way your heart flutters in your chest; the downy soft wings of a small bird ruffling its fresh plumage. "I'll… talk later." 

Your name is barked through the phone when you pull it away. It's cut off before he can finish. 

    They video call you from some pub. 

The sight of them together—Gaz, Soap, Price, Laswell, Ghost—makes you smile. 

"Christ, bonnie." Soap's eyes are fixed on the line near your temple. Scabbed. Plum colour. Healing, but not yet there. An inch over, and you'd have been—

You flinch, shrugging. "Could be worse–"

"What happened?" It's a command. You try not to tremble at the bark in Ghost's tone. Perhaps Laswell didn't tell them everything. 

His eyes are wide, the whites cresting over the puddles of black. You can't match his stare. You drop, darting to the clock in the corner. 

It's Laswell who tells them about the mission with the Shadow Company. Graves. Shepherd. 

"...Fuckin', aye." Gaz murmurs. He echoes Ghost's question. "What happened? No one told us anything. We thought— and then Shepherd said you were out for the mission. Not that—that you'd been— " 

It falls silent. They don't know about the mission's end aside from Shepherd's lies. Laswell knows. She was the first face you saw in the hospital. 

Let's talk… 

"We were ambushed," you start, shrugging again. Blasé. Nonchalant. You pretend you can't feel the intensity of Ghost's stare through the screen. "I… they were going to shoot me. I got away. Got a scratch—," a scoff from Soap, a murmur of more than a scratch, aye; you ignore it. "They thought I was dead, so they left me there…"

There is more to it. Graves. The whispers in your head. Them, in your final moments. Agents outside your hospital door. Two inches from death. A day away from rotting. 

You swallow it down. It doesn't matter. It happened and now it's over. 

"Bonnie…," there is something raw in Soap's voice. It pricks your pericardium. 

Left for dead. Abandoned by everyone around you. The ones you trusted the most. Your own team didn't even look. Had no time to mourn, no time to worry. 

You know what they must see; the lines they must be drawing. How they, themselves, currently feel, and what they would do if it were them instead of you. It—

It hurts. 

"I'd have joined you at the pub," you murmur, voice a shaky worble, before he can say anything else. "But–," you lift your head, eyes downcast. A facsimile of a smile flickers. You wonder if it hits the mark. "Maybe next time." 

Price nods in your periphery. "Listen—"

"I'll be ready for Makarov," you interrupt. "I'm… I gotta go, though. Am I — can I be dismissed?" 

"...Yeah, yeah you can."

You hang up without another word. 

In the silence of your flat—in a land more foreign to you than the Sahara—you break. 

    Your night dissolves into a series of firsts in quick succession:

A knock on your door. No one knows that you live here. No one but Laswell when she dropped you off. The rheumy-eyed lady with knobby knuckles who mutters at you in warm Welsh. Words you pretend you can't understand. 

Shepherd, too, because he needed a location to put down on paper. A place to find you if they couldn't get a hold of you.

You think it might be him—back for vengeance—and you hold your pistol in your hands, back pressed flat against the wall. One hand drops the brass doorknob. 

"Who is it?" 

A beat. 

"It's me." A thick baritone—enough, you think, pulse racing, to rattle the door with his voice alone. "It's Simon." 

Simon. Not Ghost—

Right. Off-duty, now. Until you get a lead on Makarov. 

Your Lieutenant knocking on your door at—gritty eyes flicker to the stovetop in the kitchen—quarter to five in the evening is another first. Almost paradoxical, really. 

Gun shoved into the holster, you turn to face the wood. Through the little window above, covered by a paper-thin curtain, you can see the dark shape of him, unmoving, as he stands on your porch. 

There are a number of reasons why he'd be here, but only one makes you yearn. 

You pull the door open, and the sight of him makes you dizzy. Hypoxia. Seasickness. Homesick. 

He's dressed as casually as Simon is capable of. Black hoodie, wet on the hood from the snow that falls in clumps outside. A black beanie on his head. Skull mask flat against the bridge of his nose. Denim. Black boots. 

The coal around his eyes is smudged. A nebula of pale skin through a black oasis. 

"What—?"

"Shepherd." Right. He could have called. Got the Intel from Laswell. His words leave no room for argument when he lets out an amalgam of a snarl, a growl; it's ground to dust when he says: "we need to talk."

"Not—," you don't want him to see the emptiness inside. The vacancy. Militaristically barren. Lonely. "Not here…" 

Shepherd was here, too. Not him, specifically—maybe. You don't know for certain. But his agents, definitely. Polluting the inside.

It's a flimsy excuse. You hear the threadbare conviction in your tone. 

"Shepherd was here," you say, and then wince. "Not now, I mean—"

The words die on your tongue. Ghost— Simon —is smart. Of course he wouldn't think Shepherd was here now. He'd fled. Went into hiding. You shift on your feet. 

He can read you like no one else. 

(You wonder if anyone at all can read him.)

You flounder. "I don't want…not here…"

"Where do you want to go?"

Somewhere stiflingly hot. "Anywhere." 

Simon doesn't press. He never does. His head rolls, tips toward the street. "C'mon, then. Get your stuff."

He reads it on your face, in the things you don't say. It reminds you of Sierra Leone— eat, rookie, you haven't all day; get some sleep, you're dead on your feet; I'll take the first watch— and the memory clots behind your ribs. 

"Okay," you murmur. 

You feel his gaze on your back when you turn around. The door is left open. He doesn't follow. 

    There is a chill in the air when you step outside, bundled up in a knit sweater that does little to stem the frigid sea breeze from cutting through the cracks in the threaded cable. 

It's a cold night in Porthmadog. 

Snow falls in clumps from the indigo-smeared sky, sticking to the cobblestone under your feet. 

Simon says nothing as you walk out of the apartment block. He stays close to you, so close you could inch your elbow out and touch him. The heat from his body is a beacon. You're at war with yourself, struggling not to get pulled into his current, and swept out to sea. 

Despite the closeness, there is a distance in the way he paces. Eyes roaming under the hood, taking in the lights strewn overhead, lingering on the alcoves where someone might hide. 

Having him here feels a little surreal. Porthmadog is off-limits to everyone—it's a place where you come to rot. 

His presence shatters the sense that it doesn't really exist outside of those long nights when you stare up at the ceiling, and want. A metaphysical realm that laps at the cracks inside of you, eroding the thick veneer you cobbled together over the years until it withers away, and you have to patch it up when you get called in for another assignment. 

Intact soldier. Whole. Nile. 

It's a place, now. Real. Tangible. 

Seeing Simon—Ghost, Lt—walk beside you down Lombard Street, footfalls echoing through the winding road, makes something churn in your guts. It sits inside, and feels a little like finality. 

How could you possibly come back to a place you pretend doesn't exist? A place that is just en-route to wherever else you have to go? 

A place you come to because you have nowhere else. 

You can't come back here now that the streets are tainted with the nitroglycerin scent of Simon. A bonfire on the beach. The burning logs doused in kerosene. The miasma will suffocate you. 

It clots inside of your lungs, sticking to the gummy lining when you breathe him in. 

He smells of bourbon. Cigarettes. Carries the scent of everyone else with him—Gaz's cologne: thick vetiver; the sickly sweet tang of Price's cigars; thick metallic: ozone and gasoline that Soap wears after a mission—and you greedily take it in. 

You let it sit, red-hot barbed wire, against your chest. 

Your eyes slip. Illegal. Wrong. They find him, always. Bathed in the streetlight above; flushed yellow. It casts shadows on him, and makes his eyes look lighter. 

A peaking shoal in the middle of the midnight blue ocean. 

He's dangerous. Makes your fingers prickle with want; with the urge to touch.

Makes you greedy. 

Stupid. 

Despite not knowing the area, Simon cuts through the supine street like he's familiar with it already. Maybe, he is. He must have looked at the map on his phone before he got here, eyes locked on the space, the landscape. Mentally cataloguing each hiding spot. 

You follow him—a stranger in your own home—and cross your arms over your chest when the thick chatter carries from inside the shops along the street. Heavy Welsh. Warm milk and honey. 

Salt in your wounds. 

You don't belong here.

The familiar green of the carpet and flooring shop nearly makes you trip, but you steady yourself. Ball your hands into fists by your side, and drop your gaze to the cracked ground below. 

You can feel the moment his gaze shifts, sliding over to you. It bores into your temple; abrasive, and grating. 

Goosebumps erupt over your flesh. You blame it all on the cold—the stutter in your chest, the ache in your lungs, the shiver dancing down your spine. The frigid weather. The icy breeze. 

Another shiver rolls through you, different this time, when you catch sight of the park. 

Your chin hits the pavement. Palms sliding through jagged gravel. Knees splitting. 

Your blood puddles on the grey rocks. 

They crack you open. Nothing spills from the gaping hole. 

"You with me?" 

You blink. The reverie shakes, shudders. The little girl with her chin on the ground warbles. 

Simon stands there, his back to the streetlights. His presence makes the image distort, and bend to fit him inside. It doesn't belong. 

"What's a'matter with you?" 

You flinch at his voice, and peer up at him from under clumpy, wet lashes, heavy with melting snow. 

The words are harsh, but his tone is—

He steps forward, a few paces ahead. You didn't realise you stopped. 

He doesn't come to a halt until there is barely an arm's length of space between you, and seeing him this close to you, his face concealed, blank and empty, has that strange feeling pooling in the pit of your stomach again. 

His lashes are blond. It surprises you. You'd always imagined he had black hair. Black hair, black eyes. 

It's blonde. 

You don't know why it matters, why you can't stop staring at the soft wisps around his lids. They flutter shut, fanning across the smudged ink skin under his eyes. The tips are blond. The bottoms are ash. They're nice, you note, a flavour of that same something blistering through you. 

His lids slide open, the corner tightening as his gaze sharpens, focusing on you. "Y'alright?" He asks again, waiting for an answer. 

You swallow, and it tastes of sand. Gritty, and painful when it slips down your throat. Your voice is a rasp, a shiver above a whisper, when you say, "yeah. "

His eyes tighten again, deeper this time. Something flashes in those polychrome depths. Under the hat, his brow pulls taut together. 

The indent makes your fingers itch, the urge to reach out, to soothe it, is nearly overwhelming. 

"You lyin' to me?" He grumbles, an edge to his voice you can't place. 

"No," you mutter, the words dragged out of you by force. "Just a —a headache." 

He has a look in his eyes that makes you think he knows, somehow. That he can chisel inside your head, and rummage through all the secrets you try to keep. 

Your neck aches from having to tip your chin back so much to even look at him, the 90-degree angle making you feel dizzy. The opposite of vertigo where you sometimes look up at the unending sky yawning overhead and feel that tendril of fear curling around you, admixing the awe, until you feel the urge to dig your fingers into the ground, and hold on. You can't fall up, but in those moments, it almost feels like you might. 

Ghost gives you that same feeling. 

His chin dips low, eyes lidded and heavy. You could almost mistake it for bland disinterest had his jaws not been working, gnashing together in a wordless tick. He says nothing. You watch the bones move. The fabric teeth snap. 

All his focus is centred on the blood-red gash near your temple. The black sutures keeping the split skin together. 

Ghost makes a sound, and you almost mistake it for a growl. Inhumane. Animal. It's pulled from his throat, but bitten off by his teeth before it can take shape. 

You blink up at him, wide and owlish, when he reaches for you. 

His hand is warm even through the glove. The rough fabric grazes your skin when he brushes your hair away with his knuckle. His eyes are fixed on your forehead, hardened, all militaristic concentration as he looks you over. 

"It's—it's fine…" 

"It ain't." 

Gritty sandpaper. Harsh, abrading. 

It's hushed, though. 

Speaking above a whisper feels taboo. This whole thing does, honestly. Illicit, wrong. Ghost shouldn't be lasering his glare on your forehead, searching for a reason to do something about the anger that now brims in those dark depths. His knuckles on your skin feel sacrilegious. Touching you is exempt. Illegal. Off-limits. 

But he does it, anyway. Strips the barriers pitched in front of you both like tissue paper, and holds his four knuckles to your temple, his thumb brushing a hair beneath the irritated skin. Gentle. Soft. 

You didn't think these hands knew how to do something so delicate. That they were made, instead, to break. To crush. To ruin. 

He might, yet: the pad of his finger feels like a brand when it ghosts over the soft curve of your forehead, soothing the phantom hurt, and you think you might just shatter if he doesn't stop touching you like this. Gingerly. Calming. A balm over your aching flesh. 

You'd gotten so used to the pain, the constant throb in your head, that this respite from it feels like bliss. Nirvana wrapped in leather. 

His touch is magnetic. It pulls a sound from deep within your chest, something desperate and wanting, and you can't snap your jaws shut quick enough before it's loose in the atmosphere, and cresting over him. 

Ghost's gentle prods go still. With his thumb pressed into a place that makes liquid heat spume in your vein, you can feel it tremble when your tongue snakes out, gliding over your lower lip. 

Your head swims. Phosphenes dance across the back of your lids, and you struggle to remember when you shut your eyes in the first place. 

They flutter open. 

His stare is fixed on your lips in a total eclipse, honed in on the slow roll of your blood-red tongue as it peeks out from the warm cavern of your mouth. The wet trail left behind is swallowed by his gaze. It flickers up, catching the bloom of heat under your cheeks. The darkened flush makes him rumble; the soft rattle of an engine purring. A frisson passes over his expression, lashes fluttering. 

He's close. Closer than he was before. You can feel the molten heat bleeding into your skin with his proximity. Taste the gunpowder, the ash, and the ichor that clings to him; he smells of war when you breathe him in. Gasoline. Copper. A livewire scent that makes your lungs itch. 

Dangerous. Powerful. Deadly. 

Every synapse in your head misfires, sending off warning signs and sirens to run from the man that reeks of gun oil, and fire; napalm-scented demise with blood-soaked hands meant to ruin. But it only makes you lean in closer until the acrid burn of him corrodes your throat. 

His body is warm, and the heat is stifling. 

You're drunk off the fumes he exudes; reckless and wanting, and in the slurried molasses of your mind, you wonder if this is what it feels like for a gazelle to stand so close to a lion. 

Something cold pools at the base of your spine, making you shiver. A warning—distant, ancient—but the calls of your ancestors are dimmed under the bulk of his shadow. The heavy iron in his gaze rests over you, and you imagine that his body pressed into yours would carry the same heft. 

He's somehow bigger up close, you think. Wide shoulders, thick arms, a broad chest and waist; muscular thighs, firm calves. 

He's not Adonis, but you imagine he feels just like marble all the same. 

"Thought we lost you." His voice is a crackle; sap popping as it burns in the fire. The log charring in the kindling. "Thought we— fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

We. He says we, now. It's new. You shudder in his hold. 

"I'm here," you whisper the words, afraid of breaking this strange spell between you. It feels like everything else around you has melted away until only you and he exists on this lonely street that makes you ache. 

"You are…" he rasps; a low hush. Maybe he, too, is afraid of shattering it. "You did good, soldier."

His knuckles graze the mark in your temple, gentle around the tight, irritated flesh—it's proof that you lived, that despite the tragedy of the betrayal from the man you counted on the most, you survived. You made it. You won. 

His touch is featherlight. But his eyes–

His eyes are heavy with the promise of nothing but ruin.

A million thoughts run through your head, ones that taste like kerosene, and cauterise inside you like a cigarette to your skin. The heat blooms again, but it's not enough—all you can think of is how you wished you had more of him. 

(You wonder if you run your tongue along his skin, kiss that acrid mouth, if he'd taste of napalm.)

Chiselled open, exposed to the air. Ghost takes a deep breath, holding the fumes of your burning need in his lungs. When he exhales, you can taste the smoke in the air. 

His hand drops, fingers sliding down the curve of your face until he meets the plush softness where your chin and cheek meet. The hand he keeps on you is firm. 

His eyes bore into yours. He wants your attention. Demands it. Then, he holds it steady until your mouth drops in a series of short, gasping breaths. 

Your voice is featherlight when you say his name. His real one. Simon. It simmers in the air between you, and the scent of it almost makes his eyes snap shut, shoulders coiling. Tensed. Wanting. His muscles flex, bunching together in tight knots. Clench. Release. Clench. 

It's only when you hear his haggard breath through the nylon, do you realise he's holding himself back from you.

Your belly flutters at the rumble roiling out of his throat. 

Another command falls, deeper, darker, and your spine nearly snaps with how quickly you straighten up when he utters two words. 

"Later, pet." 

It's a promise. A demand. An out. 

His mind made up, decisive and sure, he's now shoving the choice in your hands. Leaving the decision with you for safekeeping.  

Like before, there is only ever one choice. As if you had any other answer for him. 

When you nod, firm and eager, his chest shudders. "Fuckin' Christ–" it's a snarl, full of tension. Excitement.

His hand slides away from your face, and presses into the base of your spine, settling heavily over the curve of your ass. There is pressure, an urgency. 

"C'mon," he rasps, jerking his chin to the end of the park. "Parked over here."

He keeps his hand on you, heavy and hot. A possessive branding as he leads you away from this place. 

When you pass, your eyes drop to the pavement. 

The gravel is clean. Your blood is nowhere to be found. 

Your muscles go lax. You get pulled into his current, shoulder brushing over his chest. 

Simon tightens his hold, and pulls you closer. 

(Dragging you out to open water until you can't see the shoreline anymore.)

    He leads you to a black jeep with tinted windows, and grounds out that it's rental when you press the heel of your palm into your mouth, futilely trying to hide a smile. 

"It's nice," you quip, light and airy. "Very you."

"Just get your ass inside already," he says, pulling the door open for you. "Got a drive ahead of us." 

His hand settles on your waist when you step up on the first rung, heavy. Firm. You want to lean into him. Have him pressed up against you like this for an eternity. 

"Where are we going?" You breathe, shivering from the molten look in his eye. The heat in his chest. 

He tugs you back into him, chin grazing the space between your neck and shoulder. His voice is white-hot in your ear. "My safe house." 

Your eyes flutter. Heat blooms. "Simon—" his name is a whimper on your lips. 

His fingers dig into your hips. "Fuckin' hell, pretty thing. You keep saying my name like that, and we won't make it to Southport." 

There is no lie in the words that are forced out of his throat; inhumane, a growl. You don't want him here —in this town where you moulder. 

Your fingers trail over his wrist. The coarse hair on his arms tickles your skin. 

"Get me out of here."

His eyes sharpen. "Gladly." 

    Two hours and a half hours from Porthmadog to Southport. 

A lot of time for him to reconsider. For that coldness he wears like a shield, that unbreakable distance, to pitch itself in front of him once more, locking you out. Perhaps, it'll be for good. Maybe—

Your hands ball into fists. Knuckles dig into the plush seat. 

You know what you want. Know what you've wanted since before you stupidly opened your mouth— keeping my seat warm— and he saw it through. 

But what about him? There was no time on the jet for a grand discussion, not when everyone was on top of each other already; not when Soap kept glancing at you, brow drawn tight, as if to ask really, bonnie?  

Memories of Sierra Leone have you in a chokehold. Your purgatory, your limbo, your afterlife; when you were dying, it was all of him. Of the desert. Of the town that felt so warm, so inviting. The people baulked at his size but still ushered you over, offering snacks, and treats. 

So tiny beside him, a woman laughs. You need to eat more. Your man should make you fat and happy. 

You blushed. He's not—

Yes, yes… A wink. A coy grin. He watches from the dirt path as she presses bundled cassava into your hands. He says nothing at all. Your man. You like the sound of it more than you should. 

You know what you want. What you've wanted. 

It puddles inside of you. Droplets leaking through the fissures that have been splintering for years, now. 

A man stands in front of you. Promise me, you'll get him. 

You: young, naïve, nodded. I promise. 

Ghost pulled you aside. He yells—quite often, in fact—but he's ice cold when he says, we don't make promises, rookie. Deadly. Your heart is in your throat when you apologise.

And then the scent of fire. A mission in Mesaieed left you and Gaz trapped. Helpless. Smoke clogging your lungs. Gaz wheezing under the intense blase; the noxious fumes billowing from the smoulder. 

His voice in your ear. We'll get you out of there, rookie. Hang tight. 

That a promise? You gasp, gagging from the black cloud drenching your lungs. Close to death, and cracking jokes. Confident. Assured. Nile crocodile lurking below the surface. 

He isn't there to see your hands shake. You're thankful for it. Stupid, stupid—you want nothing more to impress your Lieutenant. Match him wit-for-wit. Vile joke for vile joke.

It surprises you when his voice filters through the line, one word slurred into your ear: yes. 

Are you a man who keeps his promises? 

Always. That's why I never make them. Close to a fiery death, and his voice crackles again. Why wasn't Jesus born in Liverpool? 

Gaz coughed. Fuck's sake… Lemme die in peace. 

Why, Lt? 

There are no wise men or virgins. 

Funny. I like that one. 

Knew you would. Cover your heads. 

The window above shattered. They saved you—just like they said they would. 

(You realised then that Ghost cared for you, for all his subordinates, more than he let on.)

And now—

There is no turning back. Later, he said. He promised. A man who keeps his promises. 

You think, then, of the look on his face under the streetlamp. Snowfall trickles between you. There was a battle in his head; artillery fire in the gaps of his eyes when he said:

"Thought we—fuck, pet. Thought you were gone, and we couldn't do a damn thing about it."

The words get lodged in his throat. They're ripped out with a harshness that bludgeons through you. 

You turn to him, taking in his profile as he leans back in the seat, looking out the windshield. 

As if he feels your stare, his eyes cut from the window, and find yours. He holds it until you taste smoke in your throat, until your lip trembles. Then it sinks low to your lap. One hand peels off of the steering wheel.

It feels like an anvil when it rests on your thigh. 

"Almost there," it's a strangled rasp. A promise. 

You nod. Your smile feels flushed when it pulls on your lips. Sunkissed. Warm. Expectant.

Your hand unfurls, fingers aching from the strain of your grip, and you curl them over his wrist. His pulse thuds under your thumb. You stroke it, and wonder what he would say if he knew yours beat the same. 

    The safehouse in Southport is not at all what you were expecting. 

The winding road he drives on leads to a small, modest cabin on the outskirts of the town. Perched away from the rest of civilisation, it sits on its own island. Cut-off from the mainland. 

The distance is something that makes a smile pull on your lips. So fittingly him —your lone wolf leader who only just learned the word we —but the sight of the house makes something gnarl inside of your chest. It's quaint. 

Somehow, you'd expected a flat in the heart of the city. London, perhaps. Somewhere close to the airport, to the UK base used when you needed the closest weapons cache or jet. 

The little abode in the middle of a farm doesn't mesh with the image you'd drawn of your prickly Lieutenant. It's too—

Wholesome. 

"It's temporary," he grouses when he catches your teeth sink into your palm, a wide grin splitting across your face. "I haven't been back here in a long time."

"Is it yours?" You ask, turning to him. The jeep hums, idling. Neither of you makes any move to get out. 

His fingers drum on the wheel. "Grew up here."

"I thought you were from East London."

"No. Moved there, then back here." He offers. 

You nod. You get it. 

"It's nice." You say instead, and it really is. A sprawling farmland with rolling hills in the distance where you know the sun hits in the morning. Where it'll bathe the boscage in ochre. "Peaceful."

"I'd have taken you to London," he grinds the words out from between his molars. "But it's too far." 

Too far. Roughly four hours. 

You've been sitting for nearly three. You shudder, eyes lidded when you turn to him. 

A slow roll of your tongue has his arms flexing, hands gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles are stained white. Bleached. 

"Maybe next time." 

A promise. A question. 

The vein in his forearm throbs. "C'mon, let's go." 

    You barely have enough time to pace a few feet into the foyer before it starts. You turn to look at him from over your shoulder—taking in the chimney, the chaise, the distinct lack of anything personal outside of a safe, a lighter on top of the fireplace—and he's suddenly there. Boots off. Hands curled into fists by his side. Head dipped down, and eyes more dangerous than you'd ever seen them. 

That thrill pools—a warning. Run, run.  

He stalks toward you, eyes burning coal. "Are you hungry?"

"No," you shake your head, swallowing thickly. 

A step back. A step forward. They spark when you run. 

"Thirsty?"

"N—no…"

Two steps bring him closer to you. Your back presses flush to the wall next to the fireplace, and he moulds over you like a liquid shadow. Dark, imposing. He's massive. You can't see anything but him. 

Simon rests his forearm against the wall over your head, bending it at the elbow to bring him closer to you. The rough graze of his mask over your cheek has you panting. 

His hand is a brand on your thigh. It slips down, fingers crooking in the fold of your knee, wrenching it up his hip. You gasp, hands grasping the bulk of his biceps when he drags your centre flush over the growing bulge in his pants. 

Your head swims when he growls in your ear. "Is there anything you need to do before I drag you to my bed?" You shake your head slightly, pulse humming in your chest. "Because once I'm inside this pretty cunt, nothing at all will get me out. Understood?" 

Your brain short circuits. A complete whiteout. 

"A—affirmative." You choke, somehow coherent despite the absolute mess in your head. "Sir."

He rumbles. His chest pushes into yours; the sound reverberating through your bones. "Good girl."

    He turned his back to you after he let you inside a modest bedroom, pulling the black sweater over his head. His back exposed—rippling muscles, etches of black from the tattoos—all pale skin wrapped in thick sinew. The sound you make has his shoulders coiling tight. 

"Fuck, pet… I haven't even touched you, yet." 

He turns, the mask slightly lopsided, and his beanie missing. His hair without the full balaclava sends a shock to your system. The newness of discovering something; elation bleeds in. His hair is ashen brown. Lighter than chocolate, darker than caramel. 

You want to sink your fingers into the thick of it. 

Thighs pressed tight together, your greedy eyes take him in. The way his hair—moussed from the hat—falls over his forehead; not cropped to the grain like Soap, and barely centimetres longer than Price. 

He gazes at you. Waiting, maybe. 

Your hands fall to your pants, eager to rid yourself of every barrier between your skin and his. You want him on you— in you. It itches like a sickness. Burns like a fever. 

Your trousers fall. Fingers looped into the hem of your panties. He stops you, then, with his words. 

"I took the mask off for the team."

You falter, bent down to push the panties the rest of the way off, and blink up at him. 

The first thought, of course, is that Gaz saw his face before you. Gaz. The rookie rivalry (playful, carrying the flavour of siblings vying for their approval) makes you burn. 

You swallow the jealousy on your tongue. "Oh…" 

He waits, still. 

"You don't have to…" you want to see him. He's a mosaic; an incomplete piece. You have two halves but the middle is murky. You try to fit them in your head, but the image doesn't line up. 

"Lay back," he ordered, hands dropping to his belt buckle. 

The image of him tugging the leather, veins rippling under the black ink of his burly forearms, feels unholy. It douses you with a want so palpable, your belly quivers with need. 

You don't need foreplay, you think. Not when the sight of him pulling off a belt already has you melting. Has your pussy throbbing, your thighs slick.  

"Damn, Lieutenant…" you mewl, dropping down on the bed, knees pressed taut together to stem the ache. "How are you so—" 

"Simon," he rasps. The belt hangs in his hands. You wonder if he'd tie you up one day with it. Leave you quivering below him, completely at his mercy. 

Or, would he let you use it on him? Let you bind this behemoth to the bed for your pleasure. 

Your toes curl. The thoughts alone are enough to get you off, you think. 

But it's the sight of him, then, standing over you, trousers hanging low on his hips, kept in place only by the thick thigh he slots between your knees, that really makes you shudder. 

"Lay back," he orders again, hand dropping—white-hot, rough—to your shaking knee. His chin lowers, eyes staring at your pussy. "I want to taste you again, pet." 

Fuck. Fuck —

He lowers to his knees, still somehow taller than you, and gazes at you between your bent legs. Dark eyes flashing. Goosebumps prickle along your flesh as he trails his gaze down the length of your body, settling, once again, on your cunt. 

He looks as if he's going to devour you. Eyes wide, whites full, when he pries your legs apart, spreading your cunt for him once more. He hadn't seen you bare like this—beneath him for his own pleasure—and you feel the ghost of his breath on your sex when he leans in close, breathing in deeply. 

"Bloody- fuckin' -hell, pet—" it sounds like a curse when he says it. A choked snarl. "So wet for me, and I haven't even touched you."

His hands are on the outside of your thighs, rough skin grazing the sensitive flesh as he trails them down to the soft flesh beneath your knee. With his thumbs hooked in the bend, pressing sharply into the cartilage, he wrenches them apart, opening you wider for him until your pussy is bared to him completely. 

The groan he makes edges on the equinox of being absolutely filthy and wrecked when he drinks you in. 

"Missed this pretty little cunt." His masked cheek rests on your knee, head cocked as he stares down at you. When he tips his chin, gazing at you, his eyes are blacker than midnight. A pool of ink. Desire brims. 

He hooks your thighs over his broad shoulders, finger looping in the gap between his mask and the skin beside his nose. 

You don't have a chance to see it. Fucking tease —

He dips his head before he tugs it down, and you feel the molten heat of his tongue slipping between your folds. 

Your head falls back on the pillow, toes curling as that greedy mouth devours you once more. The stubble around his chin prickles the skin of your thighs. His grip is so tight, you already see blooms of blue pooling beneath the tips of his fingers. 

The first time wasn't a flute. Simon presses his mouth to your cunt like he can't get enough; lips sealing over your throbbing clit, tongue lapping at you in even, thick strokes that make you see white behind your eyelids. It's good, so good —

He's going to ruin you. 

"Simon—"

You remember those filthy groans rumbling against your slit, and your hand lifts, reaching down to tangle in his locks. A tug—sharp, pointed—makes him pant into your pussy, makes his fingers tighten until you can feel capillaries bursting under his firm hold. Until his short nails make indents in your flesh. 

"Yeah, pet," his voice is molten rock; you throb, aching, from the sound alone. "Just like that…" 

His mouth is on you again, devouring you whole. 

You lift your head, staring down at the black eyes that bore into you, the thick locks of hair spilling out between your fingers, and you break. 

You fall back with a groan, arching your cunt into his eager mouth, desperate for more. More of that liquid bliss that spools in your core, that has you leaking a puddle under his chin. 

His hands shift, sliding down the meat of your thighs until they wriggle under your ass. Your flesh spills between his fingers when he grips you tight, lifting your hips, your cunt, to him. 

Simon helps you buck against him, lets you cant your hips into his face, nearly smothering him with the sopping heat of your centre. When you're mewling, panting, with your head tossed back, and rapture in a quiver of his name spilling from your lips, he shifts. 

His hold changes, and one hand falls back. His lips seal around your aching clit as a finger—long, thick—presses against your entrance. His tongue laves over you when he slowly presses it inside, crooking it to stroke against your fluttering walls. 

The choked sob that leaves your throat is a mangled wreck of pleasure, of want. 

"More," you mewl, but the plea barely has a chance to pass your lips before he's dragging his finger out until only the tip keeps you open. "Please, sir—"

He thrusts it into the last knuckle, groaning against you at the slick, wet sound that it makes. "Fuck, pet. Always so wet for me, aren't you?" 

"Always," you gasp, fingers gripping his hair tight. "Simon, I need more—"

He pulls his finger out; another joins it when you whimper. The stretch feels good. Heat blooms in your belly. You won't last long. Your thighs quiver with each roll of his fingers pushing in as deep as they will go; with each stroke of his tongue over your clit. 

You're going to cum— 

"Simon—"

The coil snaps, pussy clenching on the thick fingers wedged inside of you, hips canting into his eager mouth as he rides you through the spasming pleasuring that ripples through your abdomen. 

"That's it… that's a good girl," he slurs against you. 

It's almost too much when he forces another finger into your throbbing cunt. You keen at the stretch, at the too-full feeling of him splitting your walls. 

"Simon, I can't—"

"Yes, you can. You're taking me so well already." 

His voice is liquid sex; the wrecked sound of him makes your toes curl, and your spine arch. You want him inside of you. You want to know if he'd make those same grunts of pleasure with your pussy wrapped around him. 

High of the sudden burst of endorphins, you look down at him—sloppy with your wetness, his face hidden by your cunt—and you tug his hair until he meets your blown-out gaze. 

"Fuck me," you try to demand, but the word comes out as a shaky plea.

"Too tight, pet," he rumbles. "Gotta get you ready for me."

Three fingers buried to the last knuckle, and he says it still isn't enough. 

You'd think him cocky had you not the pleasure of seeing him hard and aching already. Big, fat cock leaking between the seal of his palm. You shiver, head dropping to the pillow. 

It's all you can do but take whatever he gives you—long, thick fingers stretching you out, brushing the gummy walls inside that flutter when his mouth seals over your clit. It feels like an eternity since he pulled you inside the room. 

A tug of your hand makes him groan. You meet his stare, pleading. Breathless. It's too much—

And not enough. 

"I don't care," you slur, drunk and stupid on the way his hot mouth glues to your cunt. "I wanna feel you inside of me for days, sir—"

"Fuck!" 

It's a harsh snarl that makes you whimper. The sound ripped from his chest, and rubbed raw as it was scraped out. His forehead is pressed to your mound, breathing you in once more. 

His head lifts. 

It's dark in the room. You can't really make out the entirety of his features—the familiar long nose, the cut of his jaw. His lips. It's bathed in black, in shadows, but through the glimmer of the washed-out moon that spills inside, you can see the distinct wetness gleaming on his mouth, his chin. 

You whimper, eyes burning with tears of desperation. When he speaks, it's shredded rocks. Gravel. Low and dark.

"You're gonna feel me for weeks, pet." 

It's a dangerous precipice. His voice alone shatters your resolve, and seeing those full, pink lips form the words that will ruin you, it's overwhelming. Your cunt throbs, walls shuddering in pleasure ripped through your being. 

He feels it against his fingers; it makes his eyes flutter. His tongue sweeps out. Eye hooded, half-mast as they take you in. 

He sits back, hands slipping to the crease of your knees. His chin dips. 

"Hold 'em open for me, pet." 

You gasp, belly knotting tight from the command that drips from his drenched, wicked, mouth. Your hand reluctantly falls from the soft locks to do as you're told. The warmth of his skin brushes over your fingers when you take his place, keeping your legs bent, spread, for him. You're on display. Open, wanting. 

His hand, now free, reaches for the bundle of fabric pooled at the base of his neck. The mask is fixed into place again—a needless action, you think, pouting. Gaz saw his face in better lighting. 

(You hope he had the wherewithal to take a picture for you.)

But there is something to be said about how illicit he looks, mouth now concealed from your view until just his eyes are visible. The coal is rubbed off, shadows along the crease, the corner of his nose, under his eyes, but it feels dangerous like this. 

With the mask on, he's Ghost. Deadly. Dangerous. Fearsome. Men cower from him. His name alone scorches the earth, and makes the underbelly tremble. 

And he's going to be inside of you. Claiming you, taking you. It's a cigarette thrown on a sea of gasoline. Your skin, fervid, begins to blister. 

When you look up, it's ink-blot eyes in a sea of white. Red tendrils in the corners; rivers of ichor.

If he keeps looking at you like that, like you're a feast for him, you might go a little crazy, a little delirious. 

Simon stares for a moment longer, hand dipping below the bed to grasp himself in his hand. A grunt at the touch, a flutter of his lashes, and then he moves. Coiled muscle; rippling flesh. He looms above you like a Cimmerian god—drenched in tenebrose, mask soaked from your slick—his haunting eyes gazing at you like you're an offering meant to be savoured. 

His thighs—thicker than the tree trunks in the distance—slot beneath yours, and the sheer width of them makes you dizzy. The bulk is bigger than your head. Simon must notice the way you're drooling over them, knuckles white as you stare, open and hungry, wanting, as he takes a small amount of mercy on you. He shifts until the bulk of it is pressed taut to your core. 

Your back arches, legs trembling. Fuck—

You want to ride his thighs. Want him to perch you on his massive lap, and have those molten eyes fixed on you as you use him to get yourself off. 

You could do it, you think, mind blanking out; that soporific pleasure slurring all logic from taking root until a gossamer spools inside, filled with want. With greed. 

"Wanna ride you…" you slur, wrecked on the notion alone. "Your thighs. They're so big, Simon, fuck— you're so big—"

"I like that idea, pet," he rasps, thigh notching closer to your throbbing cunt, smearing slick all over the coarse hair that covers his flesh. "Wanna see you desperate for it." 

"I am…" you whine, breathless. "I want you so bad, I can't stand it…"

His hands fall, bracketing his burly arms beside your head until the absurd heft of him fills your vision. The muscles in his core pull taut; veins in his arms pulse. 

He told you to keep your legs spread, but your fingers itch with the need to touch him. To feel him against your palm. 

His cock hangs, daunting and thick, between his legs, head brushing your belly. Prespend smears over your skin; warm, tacky. You want a taste—

When you tell him as much, chin tipped backwards to whisper the words into his neck, he shudders above you. His cock twitches, spits more prespend on you. You want him to cum on your face, you gasp, words liquid, slurred. You're not entirely sure they're in English. You don't think you have the capacity to think beyond want, want, want—

"Yeah?" He rasps, elbow bending as he drops to his forearm. It brings his chest flush to yours. The dark smattering of hair rubs against your nipples. His face is a constellation: white jowls, black eyes. The look alone makes you smoulder. "Don't worry about me, pet." 

You're shaking your head, but the protests die on your tongue when his hips slip between your thighs, prying you further apart. Completely spread beneath the bulk of his body, you crumble.

He knocks your hands away, a low murmur of his approval slipping past those sinful lips for listening to him, as if there was ever a choice, and he notches your knees against his hips, pressing himself closer to your core. 

Finally free, your hands spring down to grab him, gripping his bicep in a vice just to feel the way it jumps under your fingers, and the other flat against his heated chest. His pulse thunders against your palm. 

"Gonna give it to you, now." 

You wanted it— ached for it—but as he feeds his thick cock into your pussy, you wonder if maybe you'd been a little overconfident before. That, perhaps, he was right. 

It's swallowed down, smothered with a whimper. His stupidly fat cock will not break you. 

"That's it, pet," he slurs, mask pressed tight to your ear. "Take it… C'mon, now." 

He pulls back, widening your thighs, and then pushing them up until you're nearly folding in half beneath him. The movement jostles his cock, and it nudges something inside of you that makes you spasm around him. 

"Fuckin' hell…" he groans, sinking in deeper. His eyes are fixed on the spot where he stretches you taut. Skin raw; cunt pushed to the mettle. "Almost there… look'it your pretty cunt take my cock…"

The air is punched from your lungs when he pushes in deeper, when the blunt head batters up behind your belly button. He knocks against your cervix, and the deep ache has tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. 

"Go on, pretty thing," he husks in your ear, words drenched in pleasure. Your fingers dig into the bulk of his body, crescent moons embedded into his skin.

He bludgeons into something inside of you that has you see stars—galaxies burst behind your eyelids, and heat, supernova hot, burns low in your belly. It burns at the place where his cocks ruts into you so deeply that you can feel him in your sternum, almost taste him in your throat. It liquefies your body. You melt into a conduit under him; a receptacle that leaches pleasure from the stretch of his cock inside you. 

Your body slackens. There is a give; something breaks. And he's suddenly deeper than you knew existed, than you ever thought possible. You feel him almost knocking against the cap of your womb. Each persistent jerk has your pussy clenching around him, milking him, trying to get him deeper. 

As if that was possible. As if there was any room left inside of you for him to claim. 

You're stuffed to the brim; overflowing with him. You can't take anymore. 

You sob brokenly when his hips pull back until only the mushroom head of his cock splits your aching, raw cunt open. The seam of you flutters around him, as if begging to be filled again. 

He grunts, a hoarse, low noise dredged from the depths of his chest when he shifts, his cock spearing back into you.

It nearly makes you scream. Your nails rake over his flesh, desperate to find purchase amid a crumbly chossy that threatens to send you plummeting down a precipice, hurtling you toward an unknown abyss. 

"Easy, now," he commands, the bark of his voice bitten between clenched teeth. "You're gonna make me cum before I've gotten my fill of this cunt, pet."

"Want it," you slur, babbling on the liquid bliss roaring through your veins. "Want you to fill me up, Simon."

A snarl of your name is the only warning you get before his cock is battering against your gummy walls, blunt head jarring into that little place inside of you that has phosphenes filling your vision, has your lungs aching with hypoxia. Head dizzy, chest shuddering with each breath. You can't get enough of it. Of the heady scent of him, the sun-drenched heat. 

Simon is normally so controlled, constrained, and you find yourself fracturing into pieces as his ironclad resolve seems to shatter with each squeeze of your cunt. It's a dizzying feeling to reduce your cold-hearted Lieutenant into a rutting beast, spoiling himself with each tight clench of your soft insides against his thick, hard cock. 

Your eyes open, wet lashes flutter and stick to the crease of your eyelid, and you find the way his brow is pinched tight together as he burrows himself deep within you, until the taste of salt is heavy on your tongue, absolutely breathtaking. It's enough to get you hooked. Enough to make such an utter mess of you, that you don't know how you'll recover from this. 

It's an intense feeling having him seated so deeply within you. Edging deliriously along that equinox of unfathomable bliss, and the sharp, distinct too much—too full quiver of pain. It's a pinch within your guts, a deep throb that follows the unending plume of pleasure so blistering as it batters into you, that you almost find yourself getting swept away by the sheer thrill of it all. Mindless, driven stupid by the way he takes, the way he ruins. 

(You don't ever want him to stop.)

It's one thing to have his mouth on you, but another thing entirely to see how he breaks when he's inside of you. It's addicting. A powerful high that renders everything else static. 

Pleasure, red-hot and dizzily intense, lacerates through your core, spooling at the base of your spine. It fills your limbs with molten bliss until nothing remains except the way he pounds inside of you, filling you over and over again with every inch he has to offer. You think you might just go insane if you don't have him. If you don't get to feel the delicious drag of his cockhead rubbing against your pulsating walls. 

Your hands slide over his skin. The muscles clenching under the pads of your fingers as you drag them up, over his arm, his biceps, his broad shoulders. 

The bulk of his back makes your fingers itch. You sink them into the corded muscles, clinging to him as Simon drags you to that hazy place where euphoria clots inside of your veins, and the heat you syphoned from him bubbles, frothing over. 

It's pulled taut—an elastic band that stretches well past the breaking point, and makes your fingers sting when it snaps. You convulse beneath him, sobbing out barely coherent words that sound like a quivering war cry of his name, of how good he feels, and how you're mad with the taste of him nestled so deeply within you. 

Your nails digging into his skin, his name on your lips like a gospel, the molten clench of you around—it all congeals together until he's snarling in your ear, a raspy grunt that makes your toes curl, that has you seeing nirvana once more. It's your name—somewhere in the mess of his growl, his groan—that is pulled out from him, and pierces you deep, makes your core tremble at the ragged sound of it, broken and hoarse. 

He throbs like a heartbeat, cock pulsing as he sputters out a thick pool of cum. It's almost too much; your pussy is overstuffed, forced to take both the heaviness of his cock, and molten spume that fills you to the brim. It leaks out from around the plug of him, pushed to the base until not even an inch remains, and you feel it gathering under you. 

You want a taste of it. It swells inside, fills you deep, and you wonder if he'd let you lick it off of him. 

You murmur it into his drenched chest, more slurred words that only vaguely sound English. Maybe it's the tone of your voice—ruined and raw, and drunk of the taste of him—that punctures through, but it hits the mark. Simon buries his head into your neck with another gravelled rasp of your name that sticks to his throat, breaking over the vowels. His softening cock twitches within you. 

Words, or sentiment, whispered into the crackling atmosphere that smells of sex and kerosene, and goes straight to his groin. 

"Cheeky little—," he starts, a husking grumble, but you squeeze your sore, aching sex around him, fluttering like a soft heartbeat, and it dies with a groan. 

The victory doesn't last long. Your raw, abused cunt aches from overstimulation, a throbbing sting from your tender flesh making you wince. You're too keyed up. A ragdoll against the shoreline, caught in the current that batters your body until you feel like one massive contusion. 

Fucking Simon feels like surviving a war. It feels like clawing your way out of the trenches, tasting the heavy, gunmetal tang of acrid artillery fire in the air, and standing victorious. Brutalised, dazed, and numb from the beating, but full of the banquet of victory. 

He keeps you under him, still buried to the hilt, and pants into your neck. Flushed with exertion, his chest red and drenched in sweat, you slip your hands through the mess of him, and find purchase where the knob of his spine protrudes from his flesh. 

Simon's head rises. His eyes—quivering, glossy ink—lidded and sleepy with pleasure, and that tangible post-sex haze that permeates the air, find yours. 

Sweat drips down his forehead, over his brow, his temple. It's swallowed by the fabric of his mask, lopsided on his cheeks. Red peaks over the black horizon. A deep flush the same bloodied hue as his chest.

(You wonder if it tastes like ichor.)

His eyes shudder, body trembling from the ripple of it. 

"Fuck me, pet…" 

You tip your heavy, mushy head back, and grin. Big, and wide. The smile of elation. Of success. "I already did."

He huffs, heavy and full, through his nose. "Bloody hell—" in response to your tease, he grinds his cock against your aching walls. 

Your breath is sucked in through clenched teeth; a breathy, high-pitched whimper. 

"Mae hi wedi cachi arna i…"

"English, pet."

Your ankles try to link at the base of his spine, body drawn like a bow. "Your cock ruined me." 

His eyes are rapacious, tainted with the fervour of conquest. 

"It was meant to." The smoke in his timbre makes your toes curl. Your lungs smoulder with the heat of it. 

    Simon has you seeing nirvana again, and again before the light outside crests through the thin curtains.

He rolls you under him, ankles hooked on his shoulders, and makes you watch as his cock spears deep inside of your well-fucked cunt. 

Eyes on us, soldier. Don't you dare look away. 

On your knees, head nearly smothered by the pillow, he covers you with the entirety of his bulk until everything around you is pitch black with the shadow he casts. He looms over you, chest pressed against your back, and fucks you slow, and deep. The position almost has you blacking out from the depths he reaches like this, and the burn of the stretch as your pussy pulls taut against his cock. 

You can take it. This pretty cunt was made for my cock, pet. 

Your favourite is being lowered onto him. Chests pressed together. You bury your hand in his damp hair, your face in his neck, and sink your teeth into the column of his throat until the salt of his skin nearly drowns you. 

Fuckin' hell…

(In response, his hand brands the cheeks of your ass with the perfect impression of his massive palms.)

He lays back with you barely lucid, aching, sprawled on top of him, and runs his hands down your spine, husking in your ear about how good you've been for him, how pretty you look blissed out from his cock. 

His words are mercury in your head. 

"...wanna be good for you, Simon," you murmur into his collarbones. 

He shudders under you. 

    His chest is slick with sweat when you rest your head on it, pulse thudding under your palm. His arm around your waist is an anchor, locking you tight to his side. 

You'd woken up to the sun bleeding through the window, the room thick with the balmy swelter of sex. Ashes in your throat, salt on your tongue. Simon's heat burrows into your marrow. 

There is a lot to be said, you think. Words that you were too cowardly to admit when in the soft, dazed atmosphere of the plane. 

Only one thing buoys to the forefront. The only things you'd been clutching at this whole time. Life on the line, and all you could think of was the dunes outside of your tent. The searing heat on your back. 

(Not on me.)

(Always, always.)

"...Since Sierra Leone," you confess into his flesh, mouth pressed against the side of his pectoral. His ashen chest hair tickles your nose. 

Simon tenses under you. The soft strokes of his fingers–bare, warm–on your hip still. 

You wonder if you misread things. If you made a mistake. Your mouth parts on his flesh. The briny taste of his skin is sharp on your tongue. 

You won't apologise. The words are there, the confession lingering in the air like opaque tendrils of smoke. It's in his hands now. This little thing that flutters within your chest, tucked away for safekeeping since he turned to you, eyes dark and narrow, and said you did good, rookie. 

His fingers coil over you, tightening against your flesh. 

"Everything…" he rasps. Everything. It's pulled out of him; rolled over barbed wire. 

Confused, you raise your head, brows knitting together. Everything—

A total eclipse. The ocean in the dead of night. Endless, unfathomable pools of black. The current threatens to drag you under to those depths that shudder in front of you. 

The words die on your tongue, ashes in the back of your throat. 

What good is a man if he has nothing to lose? So, what do you have to lose, soldier? 

A smile splits across your face; a sun dawning over the beige spalls that seem to never end. 

It tastes of the sea when you press your lips to his. You feel sand under your fingers, his pulse on your palm. 

—Price calls it, has known since Mesaieed. He'd bet on Gaz, maybe even Soap. It never crosses his mind to think of Simon. 

—But thinking about it now, it was obvious from the start. 

("Sierra Leone. Wanna take Gaz with you–"

"No. I'll take the rookie.")

[johnnycrass]

okay well, i'm gonna move to the pnw or germany lol. i can't afford LA or probably any other california city and i honestly do not care for the rest of america. im gonna visit chicago JUST IN CASE bc i'm interested, but i really dont give a shit about the American Lifestyle in general so maybe thats pointless. i want to live in a cyclist city and never own a car or visit a gas station ever again.... car camping across america has confirmed to me that i hate big box stores, driving to literally everywhere, golf courses, brushcuts, the massive constant military dick sucking, elvis, and so on and so forth. i've thought about nyc but i don't think it will be for me, i guess i'll visit just in case... my dream location involves mountains, pine forests, a car free lifestyle, possibly a beach and legal weed. so the PNW probably. i have a friend in washington who moved from houston and he loves it .... i could be employed easy in the pnw but germany would be more difficult tbh. anyways

[pigeocore]

Are we fucking with Dethklok mom headcannons? Idk I have some very specific thoughts about Murderface and Toki's moms. More very long but fun info under the cut

Tammy was born and grew up in the same trailer park that her son would ultimatly inhabit. She was a louzy student, didn't care about grades, loved skipping school and there wasn't a single class she didn't spend chatting with the other girls. No suprise that she ultimatly dropped out of high school. For a while she worked odd jobs to justify Stella not kicking her out of the trailer up until she was a young adult. That's when she found her new purpouse: to become a star. She moved to the big city with big hopes and dreams, sighned up to every audition possible for pretty much everything, ready to take the hearts of Americans by storm. Anyway she quit that two months in because it was too much work and got hired as a waitress instead.

Murderface's dad, who I don't feel like giving a name to, was a regular at a diner that Tammy woked at. He was a middle class guy, a few years older than her with a relativly good job and a wife. He saw something in her and soon enough, Tammy became the other woman in his relationship. Although their affair wasn't strictly limited to intercourse, anything other than that was rather messy and the two were constaly on again and off again. That is until Tammy got pregnant and in a suprising decision, Murderface's dad decided to step up. He divorced his previous wife and married her instead, turning her from a poor waitress to a full-on picket fence housewife, something that he'd come to quickly regret. Their relationship started falling apart pretty much immidietly. When they weren't having screaming maches or mediocre sex, they didn't talk at all. He'd spend the whole day working or sitting in front of the TV drinking and she'd tend to the house. This tension was what would ultimatly lead him to commit the infamous murder-suicide.

Now, Tammy was not good at her job. In fact, she kinda sucked. Her cooking was terrible, she'd constantly half-ass any task she was given and would not take any criticism. Still, it was at least good enough to not make the house explode. Her not being nor striving to be the picture-perfect housewife was what ended up alienating her from a lot of other women around her. Still, she didn't care about fitting in with those girls, she saw the as "pompous bitches" and continued doing her thing

A lot of that attitude also carried over to her parenting. She was very irresponsible, although most of her behaviour stemed from lack of knowlage rather than anything purpouseful. Tammy was totally the kind of mom to leave her baby alone in the car while she went shopping or let it crawl around the house unsupervised. Once again, she would not take ANY criticism about her parenting techniques. Still, she did geniuanly love Willy a lot for what it was worth. Her son ment the world to her and god forbid anyone call him ugly. Whenever her husband, who unlike her had a lot of distaste for their baby, tried to say anything on the matter she'd fight him until the neighbours were calling the cops due to noise complains

She also had a bit of a morbid side to her. She loved violent movies and would sneak into grindhouse theaters on occassions, especially when she was younger. Truly a shame she died before Texas Chainsaw Massacre came out. She would've been ecstatic to hear her son joined a death metal band, although I don't think she would've supported all of his shenanigans.

Also she looks like Murderface because I think it would be really funny if he just looked like every woman in his family lol

Anna, nicknamed Andzia by her family was born in the polish region of lubelszczyzna in a fictional village of Jagiellonki Książęce Kościelne trzecie A-Kolonia. It was the kind of village where there was nothing except a church, roadside shrine and a few homes. Her family were farmers, she spend a good chunk of her childhood picking fruits and tending to farm animals.

In school, she was considered an excellent student, both due to her behaviour and preformance. She was very quiet and well behaved, always stuck in her own little world and never getting in any trouble. She also had really good grades. Andzia especially excelled at language learning, something that'd come to be very useful for her in the future. She wasn't very interested in persuing an academic career though and cared more about other stuff, including helping her parents around the farm

Another thing she cared about very deeply was her religion. She went to mass every sunday, pray every day before going to bed, took part in every possible church activity and even sung in the church choir. She was proud of being a christian, always looking for ways to become even more devoted. However, she wasn't always the nicest about her belifs and tended to secretly judge other christians who did less than her

Andzia met her future husband through complete coincidence. They both happend to be on seprate pilgrimages to the same holy site, it was tradition in Aslaug's cult that before taking the role of the reverend the man must go on a spiritual journey for one last time. The two just kinda bumped into eachoter and ended up clicking. Andzia saw Aslung's belifs as a way for her to become an even better christian and Aslaug saw her as a good fit for a wife. She stayed with him after her group departed from the site and within a month, the two were engaged and organizing a way for her to leave Poland. Andzia came to Norway and officially joined the cult through marrige a few months later, something that would've probably happend sooner if leaving Poland through less legal means at the time was a bit easier. She took the name Anja Wartooth in order to assimilate better into her new Norwegian family. Toki was born a year later

I know a lot of people like to headcannon Anja as a victim of abuse in the same way that Toki was, but I personally see her as someone who was very much complicit in her son's treatment. Although I don't think Aslaug was the best husband to her, she still treated Toki just as badly as he did and though she now thinks she may have sometimes went bit too far, she doesn't really see herself as in the wrong

Overall her and Toki's relationship is not good. TLDR: She always saw him as a dissapointment and if she could, she would've had other kids to replace him with (Unfortunatly she and her husband didn't have any luck conceving again, which they blamed on Toki too for some reason). He on the other hand really wants to love her but can't help but rightfully feel resentful and hate her for all she did to him

Despite that, Anja cared enough for her son to teach him a bit of polish and some facts about their culture. Toki then continued learning from the polish books she brought with her from back home (He didn't have much to do inbetween work, praying and punishments) and actually ended up being almost fluent in it at some point. Currently he has gone rusty but still knows enough to read some signs and order some beer at the bar, which was enough to impress the band at their first international tour

One last fun fact: As you can guess, Aslaug's cult dennounced the pope which was really hard on Anja because like every polish person at the time she fucking loved John Paul II. He was her secret true love/celebrity crush, despite everything she secretly kept a picture of him in her room. When she discovered he died somewhere during the events of Dethfam she was DEVISTATED. Toki on the other hand is a rzułta morda meme connosiour.

[504py]

ahh requests open !!! can i request yan!america headcanons or a short drabble ? your choice 🌼 thank you~

thank you for requesting anon!!! and so sorry for this being late omg this was supposed to come out earlier but i got sidetracked cuz i got sucked into stardew valley LMFAO 😭😭😭. but anyways, here it is!

Yandere America Relationship Headcanons

Gender neutral, manipulation, breaking and entering, stalking, long post ahead!

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

How the relationship started...

A total cliché, but Alfred would go for a damsel in distress. He met you on the stairs passing each other, you tripped, and he caught you in his arms in the nick of time. You quickly apologize and thank him with an embarrassed smile, and you continue on your way. Alfred tries to, but he can't seem to stop thinking about that flustered expression on your face, the sound of your voice, and the way you felt under your clothes...

He tries to shake the feeling off, but he just had to bump into you again.

Alfred's second encounter with you was when you two were at the counter at the convenience store, and you were a dollar short. Him, being the hero he is, leans over from behind you and puts a dollar down on the counter.

You look at him, recognizing him as the dude who prevented you from eating shit at that staircase. You blush at the embarrassing memory.

"Don't worry about it." Alfred smiles boyishly, noticing that same flustered expression. He relishes in the feeling of your warmth against his chest when he leans forward, and immediately misses it when he pulls away.

"Th.. Thanks."

You take your things and go, and Alfred is up next to pay for his things. His eyes linger on you as you exit.

Alfred can't wait for the next time you two have a chance encounter, so he catches up to you.

"Hey, dude!" He calls out, approaching you from behind. His heart races a little.

"Oh-" You are a little startled, he feels kinda bad. "What's up?"

"Cause of that dollar I gave you, I had to give up my potato chips!" Alfred cries.

He's lying. He's hoping to god they don't make a crinkle sound under his jacket.

"Oh, shoot, I'm sorry. Can.. Uh, can I pay you back some other day? I don't have any cash on me at the moment."

Alfred smiles. "I can give you my number, and we'll make out the details then?"

"Y-Yeah, of course."

His smile grows wider.

Expectations...

Because Alfred is just oh-so sociable and has such a friendly, extroverted disposition, it isn't very hard for him at all to quickly become one of your closest friends, and, one day, when you two were stuck in the rain after a late night fast-food dash gone wrong, he confesses his feelings for you. You accept, and he kisses you so hard your lips bled a bit from the impact. Of course, he apologized like crazy. You two look back at it now and laugh.

Alfred does his best to appear like a normal boyfriend. He is one who cares a lot about keeping up appearances, so he'd hate it if his weird tendencies slipped through and made itself apparent to you.

Yet another cliché, Alfred is one who yearns for the perfect American dream sort of image. Alfred really likes clichés, they're easy to predict and he can control them. He likes kissing in the rain, he likes calling you cheesy nicknames, and he wants to get married and have a kid and a pet dog with you. And he expects you to completely adhere to that fantasy of his.

Luckily for you, he won't get too violent if you're not the best at keeping up that appearance, since he has other methods of keeping you in line.

Punishments...

Since Alfred highly values appearing like a run-of-the-mill happy couple, he finds it essential that you don't suspect him at all or see him in any negative light.

So he takes to some really dirty manipulation tactics. He'd start with scolding you lightly and emphasizing every time you slip up or make a clumsy mistake.

"Oh-! Woah, babe, you almost tripped again. Thank God I caught you.. You really can't go anywhere without me."

"Did you mix up the laundry again? Damn, that's the third time this month."

He mixed up your laundry on purpose.

"Shoot! The food's burning... Ah, don't worry! I'll just order some takeout, it's alright, honey."

He totally left the burner on high while you went to the bathroom for a second.

Alfred just wants to plant a seed in your head that you're rather helpless, and need his assistance for many, if not all things. And assuming this works, you'll start clinging to him much more than you usually do.

He wants more, though. He wants you to fear the outside world so much that you have no choice but to stay in his house forever and see him as the one thing that could protect you.

He would very likely stage a break-in to get you to that point. During a moment where you're staying in your own home instead of his, he'll don a ski mask and clothing that would make him unrecognizable to you, and late at night, when you're getting comfortable, he breaks in.

Alfred doesn't mind destruction, and that's including towards other people. Like Matthew, violence would be a last resort to him, however, Alfred is much more unforgiving.

..He won't be pretty about breaking into your home. Glass will be everywhere, he'll set off alarms, and he won't be shy about getting caught on your home cameras.

Although destruction isn't his main intent, he just wants you to know someone was here. He'll move your furniture around, knock frames off of the walls, and take a few valuables, like jewelry. Nothing you should miss too much.

Then he sees you.

He never really intended for you to see him, but, now he was facing you, and to your eyes, you were face to face with a stranger who just broke into your home.

Alfred sees the panic and fear boil over in your eyes, and right before you run or scream or are able to do anything— He rushes forward and grabs you. His heart is racing

Instead of saying anything, in fear you recognize his voice, he raises a gloved finger to his lips, telling you to stay quiet.

You nod, and you're crying.

(Alfred hates to admit a part of him finds this exhilarating, but the way you're crying because of him makes him feel so horrible).

He nods his masked face at you, and goes to your bedroom to collect a few more valuables (your underwear).

As he's leaving your home, he turns his head to see you on your phone, and he panics, thinking you've dialed 911. He hurries up and runs off to a secluded area so he could take off the outer layer of clothes he was wearing.

As he takes off his jacket, the phone in his pocket rings.

And it's you.

He's frozen for a second, wondering why you were calling him. Did you know it was him? What did he do that set you off?

He picks up.

"Babe?" He cringes at how his voice shakes. "What's up?"

Then you're crying his name like it was a prayer, telling him what just happened and begging for him to come over and pick you up.

And his heart swells. You came to him first for protection? You trusted him the most with your safety?

He grins, and he can't help the way his smile could be heard in his voice when he tells you he'll be there as quickly as he can. He's so happy he's trembling. Luckily, you're still too shaken up to notice his strangely cheery tone of voice.

Then now you're clinging to him, much more than ever before, trusting him with your life, and the only thing you fear is being without him. Just like he wanted.

Rewards...

Alfred REALLY likes physical affection. He does show his love in many ways, but he's so physical that it may come off as creepy. He likes licking your face, biting lightly on your shoulder, and sniffing whatever he can, even if it's some embarrassing area... He's like a dog, really. He also likes taking you out on cheesy dates, like going to Disneyland or going to a haunted house, and taking lots of pictures to flaunt the two of you's oh-so-perfect relationship.

He has this habit of resting his hand around your neck and sorta rubbing it. I'm not sure if he'd be into asphyxiation, but he finds the action rather intimate. The throat is a vulnerable spot, and him having it in his hand so casually makes him feel good. He also has this other habit where he likes to sorta tickle your palm with his fingertips. When he hears your laugh when he does this, he gets an uncharacteristically demure expression on his face, and looks at you with hearts in his eyes.

Silence is his love language, I think.

He spends a lot of time being loud and untamed, and maybe it's a defense mechanism, who knows? So these little moments where he allows himself to be quiet, to be quiet around you, are his favorite ones.

He wakes up really early, at least earlier than you do. Maybe contrary to popular belief, I feel like Alfred is somewhat of a workaholic, so he naturally tries to get a head-start on the day.

He used to hate waking up so early, but with you, it's now his favorite part of the day. The only thing he hates is getting up to leave you for work. But he thinks it's all worth it, because it's all for you.

It's so quiet. And you're here. And no one else is around. It's just the two of you.

It feels like he's not real, during these early mornings. He knows you are, though. You're everything that's real to him. He reminds himself that this isn't a dream by touching and admiring your face while you slept. He can feel your soft breathing on his skin.

Alfred rests his forehead against yours, and he doesn't say this out loud, since he doesn't wanna wake you up, but it's also because.. He feels like you just get him. He believes you two are soulmates, and that you'll just feel whatever he's thinking, even while asleep.

"I love you." He says, in silence.

┊͙✧˖*°࿐

whew!! so sorry this got out so late, but here's the final request i'm doing for the 200 followers celebration! funnily, as i'm posting this, i've just hit 300 followers, so triple all my thank yous!! you guys are great! unfortunately, the requests got me feeling a bit burned out, so i'll probably do something different for this milestone.. i'm thinking i'll either do a "meet the artist", or do a whiteboardfox with you guys? i also have a whole bunch of ocs which were initially meant to be the main focus of my account, but not sure if that y'all would find that very interesting. please lmk what you think! thank you all again!!

[octuscle]

I went to the Nations of the World party and I drew the UAE. Could you help me get into that culture and be big and sexy for the party?

Everything Arabic is currently incredibly in demand… I don't have much choice anymore… But I think I have just the thing here. Just activate. Activation takes three days, transformation will end automatically on 03 November at 08:00. You should still be able to have some fun after the party.

Monday night… A bit early to activate the costume… The party is more than two weeks away… But you can't wait. Every nine hours now, one of your ancestors from your great-grandparents' generation will become of Arab descent. At first you don't feel anything… You spend the evening as usual in front of the television. Everything is normal… You go to bed earlier than usual. At 22:00 sharp. And at 05:00 the alarm clock rings. Your new routine. Breakfast, jogging to the gym, an hour at the weights, jogging home and then second breakfast, shower and off to the office. You're at your desk even earlier than usual. And fit as seldom. You get plenty of compliments. Colleagues ask you if you were on vacation. Fuck, the costume seems to pay off. At lunchtime you go out for falafel. Your mother grew up bilingual. What the fellows behind the counter speak is everything, but not customer-friendly. You've already learned that much Arabic from your mother… You say goodbye with "'ayuha al'iikhwatu, lays hunak nasihat lihadha alealaji." The two fellows stare at you with open eyes. That was better than tipping them.

In the evening you cook your dinner, prepare your breakfast, eat, read a little bit and go to bed at 22:00. You dream wildly and wake up at 5:00 a.m. drenched in sweat. Hair grows on your chest. On a well-built chest. When you finish your training, you are the son of a Syrian mother and an American father. You grew up bilingual. Fluent in Arabic. And still a Christian. Your father prevailed. Sure, your mother told you a lot about the Koran, but religion doesn't interest you much anyway. Your church is the gym, your communion is the protein shake. In the office, all your colleagues ask you about the situation in the Middle East. How you see it. You were once on vacation in Tunisia. These are your experiences with the Middle East. What do you know about that?

At the end of work at 5:00 p.m. your genetics change. You have more Arabic than European roots. You can see it in your body hair. In your eyes. You notice it because you want to smoke a shisha at the end of the day. Everyone knows you in the café. You all speak Arabic to each other. You are still the infidel Christian. But all those who have not yet sucked your uncut dick don't know that. Ahmad, whom you just fucked in the toilet, for example, knows.

Wednesday morning. Prayer times are always good in the winter. You're done with your workout before you go to sunrise prayer. Training and prayer set the rhythm of your day. It is good that you are your own boss. Importing and exporting various things. Exporting cars to the Middle East. Importing… Well, whatever comes along… All kinds of things… By noon prayer, you've lost your American passport. You are a proud citizen of the UAE. There was once a Swedish great-grandmother. But it doesn't show on your face. And you don't notice it yourself.

After the sunset prayer, the transformation is complete. Purebred Arabian. A true Arabian hot-blooded stallion. You have been in the States for five years now. A good and permissive life here. Your mother should not know about this. But this is sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. You're looking forward to the Halloween party in two weeks. Costume? You don't need a costume. You just show up…

Inspiration found @fitbearcatcher

[demuredociledoll]

kitty's bimbo bucket list

Use these to break me

soooooo i'm a tgirly who's been on hrt a long time now, i have great tits and great ass and my brain is Way fuzzier but like. i want more. i wanna be like the cool girls i see on who are just completley ultrafeminine. i wanna be the perfect boys girl. im like. might to be a bimbo tradwife. i wanna be that so bad. ive also like. been doing the bambi 20 day challenge and its like. making me realise i neeed to make these changes lol

so i thought id like. make a list of things i need to do to be the girl of my dreams i see girls with lots of fun lists where they like say "at 10 reblogs i'll do this and i kinda like. wanna arrange this like one of those eventually (if you see a bimbofication step-by-step around PLease send it to me!! i love doing what rules say). reeeeeeeally reeally reeally open to feedback and other things to include on this list.

Bimbofying my looks

so this bits like. ways i want to look prettier :)

Nails always varnished: i think this might be the most easy for me to do as i spend a lot of time painting my nails anyway, but i wanna make like a pledge to make sure my nails are Never left unpainted. i think this would be a good place to start on this

Makeup every day - i used to wear makeup every day before covid and i reeeeeeeeeally wanna get back into the swing of it. i only do it like, maybe like once every few months which just Sucks. especially when i look so pretty doing it. so i wanna like get back into a position where i do my go to routine (foundation+eye shadow+eye liner+lipstick+lip liner) at least once a month, then at least once a week, then at least every day i'm not working, then at least every day i dont have like, a work video call, then every day.

Dyeing my hair: i reeeeeeeeally wanna dye my hair but im so scared of losing my natural colour. so im thinking of like, starting Blonde frosted tips as a start, before working up to being a totally bleach blonde

Get rid of trousers and only wear skirts: girls literally shouldnt wear trousers. it literally should be illegal. i wanna like. slowly get to a point where i only wear skirts. skirts make it easy for boys to access my holes :) but actually having said that. boys really like tight clothes. so i should keep wearing ultra tight. i also need to really increase my lingerie and sexy clothes collecshon :)

Lip fillers!! I reeeeeeeeeally wanna get lip fillers but i know its gonna be a big step to get there. i wanna do everythign i can to make my lips bigger naturally in the meantime. i think i wanna get lip fillers first before i think about. bigger tits. i reeeeeeeally want srs so bad but like., thats the goverments problem

getting bgiger: im like sooooo thin at the moment, and i neeeeeeed to get bigger tits and a bigger belly to make me more grabbable and wobbly. its a little diffcult because ive got like. lots of tummy issues. but i wanna slowly scale up my food intake. ive been eating lots of ice cream but i wanna like. follow a proper plan for biggerising myself feedee style

brain feminisation and IQ reduction

sooooo this sections like. ways to girlify my brain and make sure i just think girl thoughts

im alreayd doing good on hypnos with the bambi challenge (which is going soooooo well!! im learning sosososooso much :) ). but like. i wanna keep listening to hypnos moer

staying in my place; i'm already Really good at this. doing the cooking, cleaning, housekeeping, serving men in every way i can i am already 100% that. i stepped back from a job recently so ill have even more time to do that and i can't Wait.

knowing my place: despite this i clearly like, have a tonne of feminist baggage from my old self i really need to get rid of. i need to like. have my opinions broken and like, have like the gender politics of a conservative American housewife drilled into me. i wanna genuinely believe that women should stay in the kitchen and women shouldnt work and shoudl just serve men (smart boys please please please fix me!!!). i want pro-patriarhcy to be like. my mission in life. im thinking of like. writing lots of good girl essays on tumblr to try and fix my brain lol

dumming down my writing and speaking: likeee i think im already making good practice on this, ive been workiing on a lot lately. im trying to like. not use words longer than two soundy things, like short words, with the only ones allowed being like. sexy words. and mispeling them when i cant use any other words that are small. and using the wrong words and to like get rid of capital letters apostroches. i think im getting there on this. i also need to dumb down my speaking but honestly like im already there with that, i always say words wrong and everyone makes so much fun of me for it, it turns me a lot when people make fun of me for saying words wrong lol :)

girlify my music tastes: i reeeeeeally need to get into some girlier music. i really want to. currently i dont really have much of a music taste, i mostly just listen to synthy tunes and stuff which are easy to listen to while doing worky things. however, like ive tried listening to more popular stuff like taylor swift and the brat album and its like, okay, but its like not my thing lol. I used to be suuuuuuper into paramore but im like, aware thats a more like punchy girl band and im like not that lol. update im gonna work these into my daily music playlists!!

girlify my media intake and hobbies: currently i listen to a lot of boy stuff inherited from my old self, like ww2 books and podcasts which are...boring lol. i dont want learn things like that anymore. i wannna watch more stuff thats for girls, but im not really too sure where to begin? ive tried like, reading girleir magazines like Good Housekeeping and the like but it doesnt like. completely engage me lol

taking cock and being a good sexdoll

this section is like. ways i wanna be a better fuckdoll :)

m already like. so good at blowjobs. i absoltuely adore blowjobs. i dont think theres anything i need to improve here. i already deep throat, swallow every time. id like to take more facials though :)

but i neeeeeed to get better with my other hole. again i used to ride my dildo all the time prepandemic but ive fallen out the habit, its like my makeup i only really play on veyr special ocassions

increase my toy collecshun: my toys are not in as good condition as they used to be and i want like. good ones. i need to like. make a good purchase of some good quality toys for assfucking. i already have some good buttplugs :)

get good at getting my ass fucked: im thinking of like. mirroring what i did with my makeup here. like go from wearing my buttplug for a long period at least once a month, once a week, when im not working...etc. and likewise wiht my dildo. aggain its hard because i have a lot of tummy and bottom issues.

Only cum with permisson: this is so important. girls literally should not control their cumming. it should literally be against the law. im thinking of listening to cals curse some more to like. make that a hard and fast rule lol

so like!! this is what i kind think of right now. but i really wanna like. learn more from others and think. thank you!!!!!!!!

[srirachacatarchieves]

Seventeen Virgins and Not Virgins : MY TAKE

Seungcheol:

People might flame me for this but I think this man is definitely a virgin. He’s had his dick sucked, most definitely. But I don’t think he’s stuck it in yet. Not that he couldn’t lose it if he wanted to, he just doesn’t care for it, and he doesn’t have the time.

Jeonghan:

Not a virgin. I mean that is just so obvious. His demeanor, everything. He’s incredibly mature, even more mature than you’d expect a 27 year old to be. Plus, he just has that effortless sex appeal. He definitely gets some pussy and/or some ass in the DL. Often too, cuz he always chill. He probably fucked Hyungwon too.

Joshua:

Not a virgin. I don’t even have to elaborate, do I?

Jun:

Not a virgin. Even though he’s a good actor, I think him and Yi Zhang fucked, definitely. The chemistry was too real and you could just feel it between them. Also with his hip flexibility, I know he be hitting it weekly at least.

Hoshi:

Not a virgin. He’s definitely had sex before, yeah definitely. He probably gets some at least a couple times a month, and I’m around 99% convinced it’s with either a red velvet member or a fellow dancer. Call it a gut feeling, that’s definitely right.

Wonwoo:

Not a virgin, but I don’t think he gets it often. His last hookup was probably like a year or so ago, and he’s not really big on sex anyways.

Woozi:

If you had asked me three months ago, I would have said virgin. But these days, have yall seen this man? He is glowing, I mean literally glowing like never before. I don’t know what to call it but a sex afterglow, lol. Check on Seventeen’s TT, every dance challenge he does he is so just cheery, and I’ve never seen him like that before. In conclusion, he’s getting pussy and/or ass really often these days. Or dick idk.

DK:

This man is not a fuckin virgin. Those muscles, that voice, that face? THOSE thighs? He has sex, and he’s good at it. He acts silly on the outside, and goofy and shit, but he’s serious in the bedroom. He’s probably sweet but also mean, and I stand by this.

Mingyu:

A dick virgin by choice. Not to say that he hasn’t had MULTIPLE opportunities, but I think he’s too shy. That being said, I think he’s been fucked before. He’s just a submissive person in general, lololol.

The8:

NOT a virgin. This man, gets bitches. Chinese, Korean, American, all of em. He probably got girls lined up in his phone, listed by numbers. I’m half joking, but either way, he’s a total dom in the bedroom, and he probably fucks often.

Seungkwan:

Not a virgin. He’s really popular with korean media especially, and in variety shows, etc. Especially in the new netflix show that came out, he probably had some people come to his room. My point being, he has an unspoken rizz. Watch any of his were lives and you’ll see that. I’m not talking about entertainment king Boo Seungkwan, I’m talking about actual Seungkwan. I say this again, watch one of his live videos, and watch him be effortlessly cool, sexy, and rizzzzzyyy.

Vernon:

Not a virgin, he chill and he get some on the down low as well.

DINO:

Not a MOTHERFUCKIN virgin! He fucks bitches, a lot. I just know it. He can get anyone, anytime. He packing too…. His body is literally..perfect, he has broad shoulders, thick thighs. He’s every girl and guys dream.

THATS IT

[barbiegirldream]

Yeah I think that from the angle of she was young and her experience sexually was incredibly low comparably, so what is tame for him would be extreme for her is the only real way I can take the power imbalance seriously. Like I'm sorry I do not think being a Minecraft Youtuber as some sort of huge imbalance, especially since she wasn't even a stan (or even a fan really?).

Like I'm uncomfortable with the amount of people turning it into her being evil but like it feels like it was her first time regretting an experience and conflating that into assault after the fact. Which I'm sorry for her, that sucks, but being uncomfortable after the fact, and never communicating that you were uncomfortable to begin with doesn't make it assault

it's the only type of power imbalance I'll accept too. Like this was not a situation where they ended up in the same place as Dream and George. These women texted Dream asking him to hang out. They don't know him that well. They asked to see him because he's famous no other way around it. Dream was by and large the most famous person at vidcon. They know who George is too they knew they were walking into a situation as less popular streamers both times.

Anyways I have seen a lot of crazy takes from people who've never been to parties. So let me give you some advice ladies. Do not go with friends who would watch something happen to you and keep their mouth shut for any reason. Do not get drunk in unfamiliar places without an exit strategy. Do not ever worry about someone else's ego. If you even think your time at a party is dependent on the friend of the hosts ego you're already in a wrong place you're going to ruin your night go home. Watch out for your friends even if you're not sure they'd watch out for you if you've walked into that situation you should be doing it. And if you're not close friends with the hosts of the party when your friends are leaving time's up you're going too. And if you are an American under 21 don't make a bunch of adults trying to have a good time responsible for you legally. Keep it neat and tidy. If your friends are dumb enough to supply you with drinks well that's on them but remember when you walk into someone else's house what you're up to

[olath124]

OC Interview

For this sucker fascinating person.

Name?

Don’t you already know me? Elroy Vincennes. I’m quite notorious, you know?

Nickname?

I’d rather keep it as Mr. Vincennes, usually. My close friends call me Elroy. My CLOSEST friends call me Roy. If you have to ask, stick with Mr. Vincennes, please.

Gender?

Male, cis.

Star sign?

I’m a Scorpio. 

Height?

1.78 cm/5'10". Usually not the tallest person in the room. But I'm taller than a certain someone and that's enough.

Orientation?

Do people still care about this kind of stuff? I’m pansexual. I don’t really care about what people have in their pants, I’m more interested in what happens in their heads.

Nationality/Ethnicity

I consider myself American. But my family has French origins, as you can probably tell from my surname. But yeah, I was born here. Went back to France often, though, as a kid.

Favorite fruit?

Peaches. Had the luck to taste a few right from the tree.

Favorite season?

My favorite is summer. I like the summer in Provence, that’s where I go whenever possible.

Favorite flower?

Jasmine. They look innocent and sweet but have an alluring scent. Like someone who’s keeping a secret.

Favorite scent?

As before, probably jasmine.

Coffee or tea?

Coffee, always. Black preferably and preferably not the shit they sell in NC.

Average hours of sleep?

Very little. Around 3 hours, I usually go to bet from 6 to 9. I’ve never needed too much sleep, and the night hours are when I work best.

Dog or cat person?

Stupid dogs surround me, but I’d say I’m more of a cat person. It’s more interesting when it feels like there’s something to conquer.

Dream trip?

Well, it’s not a dream trip because I go there whenever I can. But I like France. My family is from there and I still have an estate in Provence. I like going there, now that they are out of the picture.

Favorite fictional character?

I don't care about fictional characters. I like historical ones. My favorite is Vincent van Gogh. You know… the blend of art and madness. He’s someone I feel close to.

Number of blankets you sleep with?

One. Silk preferably. And with a decent threads count. Yes, I’ve developed some fancy tastes in my life.

Random shit?

I've left my family for a long period. Since I was fourteen until I was twenty-two. Joined a gang, pretended I was like any other hopeless street-kid there. It was fun. I ended going back to my family because, you know, money don't suck.

But it gave me perspective. And the edge to succed in what I make. My family money helped me, too, of course. But that period was an important part of who I am now, anyway. I've also made my closest friends in that time.

[lalac3nty]

𝐁𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐞<𝟑

____________________________________________

(My bestie in my new life, better cr, dr, dream life whatever u wanna call it🩷 + If I use any cringy emojis it is as a joke pls don’t take me seriously)

And also this post is messy but it’s mostly for myself bc I don’t like scripting on notion anymore

Also English is NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE (and being fr)

This is her?!! ⇩⇩⇩ (she’s so 😍😋🤭)

It’s the only face claim I have for her😔

Name: Milla ——————

Age: same as me + goes in my class

Birthday: idk but her astro signs are 🤝 with mine

She’s half Asian and half Swedish since I’m Swedish and we live in Sweden and I can’t figure why tf a person would want to move her if they aren’t Scandinavian bc it fucking sucks here…😀

Anyway, her dad met her mom on vacation and then 💥 sooo they moved here??

• Her mom makes delicious food 😋😋😋

• We can be big backs together

She has a little brother that is 1 year younger than us and his name is Alvin?🐿️

This is her house⇩ it’s a little like a farm house bc I already like in the middle of nowhere and I’m gonna make her suffer to so, but we are like 10 minutes away from each other

The pool is a little American style?

Okey so she and I are like this🤞🤞🤞

I’m gonna cry when I met her bc i had like had friends in this reality but I’ve never felt a “deep” “trusting” friendship with anyone

She and I can tell each other anything, she knows about loa, shifting, blabla. We have the same humor and “mindset” idk how to explain it but she and I are perfect for each other and

She also shifted/manifested her way there

Her dog ⇩

My dog here is a grand danios too but I changed my pet for this place so- her names freya

I did make a voting post for her hair bc idk if I would script her to have this her or just leave her hair alone…But it does match the dog tho so it’s cute

I don’t know what to write anymore bc I have nothing figured out??

I’ll make an update maybe..

[niuniente]

Regarding fandoms and comments, I've recently had negative comments that tell me I'm not good and should just quit writing. Well, it worked. I no longer am able to write without it affecting my mental state. People who do the bullying do it to get rid of authors they don't like that doesn't fit their mindset. When does it end? I didn't want it to hurt my mental health and get me to quit, but it did.

People treating each other badly whenever they can never ceases to make me sad.

I try to think the quote "hurt people hurt people" when dealing with negative people. Happy, balanced people, who view others as their equals, have no need to leave negative comments, send hate messages etc. to others just because they can.

Take a little break but don't let anyone stop you from doing what you love! I try to keep this mentality and I always think about how Billy Idol (80's famous singer) just kept pushing forward whenever someone or something said no to him:

When he was a child, he wanted to play a guitar. Parents said "No, you can only play a violin" -> Billy secretly got himself a guitar with 5£ at the age of 9 and learned to play it by himself.

His teenage girlfriend dyed his hair white. Everyone said it looked horrible on him -> Billy kept the white hair and made it his trademark.

He discovered punk and FINALLY managed to put a band together in his late teens. Too bad that London, where he lived, had closed all bars and pubs from punk bands. They weren't legally allowed to play anywhere. -> Billy and a few other guys established their own place for all punk bands, where all where welcome to play.

He went to university to study music. He was bullied and ostracized by other students as he was too weird, too freaky looking and listened to punk instead of jazz -> He was lonely but staid in the school and kept his looks and music taste.

He started to dislike being a band member and wanted to have a solo career. Everyone said you can't make it, you suck, you can't make compose a shit -> Billy decided to start a solo career as Billy Idol anyway.

When he started to get a little footing in the Europe, he decided that he wants to go to USA. It would give him better markets and more chances to succeed. Too bad that Europe's most famous punk band, Sex Pistols, has just epically failed in their attempts to make it in the USA. America hated punk and Billy Idol was nobody compared to Sex Pistols. Everyone called him delusional for having such stupid dreams. -> Billy went to USA anyway

In America, all record labels he went to said the same thing; you will never make it here. You sing punk and we hate it. You sing with British English and we hate it. You look so fucking ugly that no one will come to see you. If you want to succeed here, you need to change your music style for radio friendly stuff, change your accent and change your looks. -> Billy thought that if singing with American accents helps, he does it. Otherwise, fuck you. This is the music he wants to do and this is his style and how he wants to look. -> This decision led him to become super famous. Everyone loved his music and the fucking ugly guy became one of the 80's sex symbols, and his music videos were literally directed to sell with sex to the female audience.

Also, it was told him with dead certainty by many people that your music will never play in radios. EVER. Well, what do you know, his music still plays in the radios, 40 years later :3

So, keep going! Keep writing! There's audience for every single style out there and just because some asshat wasn't impressed, it doesn't mean others wouldn't like your stuff.

I mean, how much emphasis do we want to put into asshats words anyway? Which matters more; some random asshat's feelings or our own joy and inspiration when we do something creative?