#c: ghost writer the ghost

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

One of those "Danny needs a consort" fics where a bunch of people are invited to a mass speed dating event. The invitation uses prettier words but thats what this is. Now Batman wants to go get a look a this super powerful being and see if he's a threat or ally, and would you look at that, most of his children fall into the age bracket the invitation specifies 

(or maybe the batkids have just been touched by death enough they're viable candidates and got personalized invitations. Either way Bruce wants to go)

So Batman says a few of his kids will go and he's tagging along as a "chaperone". Maybe a few other JL members do the same with their proteges. The hard part for Bruce is actually getting his kids to agree to go. The biggest surprise is Jason finds out and demands to go.

Now Jason, a known lover of regency period romances, read a copy of the invitation the JL got and knew exactly what this was. There will be a ball. The word "courting" was used. This is a chance to live out his secret romance novel dreams and nothing is getting in the way of that. So he calls the batfam to say he's going

The batfam are like flabbergasted that Jason wants to go to a spooky speed dating event but it has the added bonus of getting the kids to start volunteering bc they have to know why Jason is so excited about this

[the5n00k]

Yknow I almost hope we never learn Scratch's human name. It'd be so weird having this character we knew as this thing for so long actually having been named this other thing the entire time. And would Molly have to call him by his true name? I'm so attached to Scratch and got so used to it that any change would be so jarring (especially to new viewers stumbling upon new episodes on Disney channel)

(I hate beating a dead horse but I think that's why I really really don't like wraith theory, or at least one of the several leading factors)

[totallynotreadingatwork]

Out of the Attic, by V.C. Andrews

...except it's actually ghost-written by Andrew Neiderman because the real Virginia Andrews has been dead since 1986 and this book came out in 2020. It is also just... not very good.

Spoilers ahead.

TW: rape, abusive relationship, controlling behaviour

Out of the Attic is a tie in to the popular Dollanganger series by Virginia Andrews, the first book of which was Flowers in the Attic, which was published in 1979. Andrews wrote 5 books for the series before she passed away, and then in 2014 the series was revived for another 6 books by ghost writers hired by the family. Out of the Attic is the 10th book written for the series, but chronologically takes place before Flowers in the Attic and focuses on Corrine Foxworth, Malcolm Foxworth's mother, as she marries into the family and has her son.

I think Neiderman was aiming to make Corrine a more likeable and relatable character by having her be married into the family against her will and feel isolated and alone as she is whisked away from the family and friends she's known all her life and taken to live in the grand and unwelcoming Foxworth hall. She is plied with alcohol and raped by Garland Foxworth, which results in a pregnancy that means she has to marry Garland or face ruin.

She obviously marries him, and things are going well at first but soon end up with her all alone in this huge house, sections of which she is too scared to go into, and with an infant son that she feels no maternal connection to. Corrine spends five years rattling around doing pretty much nothing but shopping, keeping up with the latest fashions, and making herself look beautiful every day whilst a nanny raises her son, whom she by now actively dislikes, until one day she meets a woman whilst out shopping who says she should join their ladies club.

Corrine then finds out Garland is cheating on her, goes to a Halloween party dressed as a nun, takes her son and the nanny to the beach, hires an artist she met at the Halloween party to paint her portrait, has an affair with said artist (his name is Beau and he seems very nice), gets raped by Garland again, then flees to France with Beau where she discovers that she's pregnant with Garland's child. The end, thank god.

Now, on reading that brief summary you may be thinking 'yeah, that doesn't sound like a very fun life, I feel like I could sympathise with this character', but the way that Corrine is written and portrayed really just makes you dislike her. You sympathise with her in some aspects, where in others you're just sort of left thinking she's actually a horrible person.

Take her relationship with her son, for instance; Corrine believes that Malcolm is evil and conniving and and manipulative. He misbehaves, he tries to wriggle his way out of punishments, and he asks questions and keeps pestering her for things.

Malcolm is also 4 years old.

Now, I'm not particularly fond of young children myself, so I understand her not wanting to be around him 24/7 or finding him a bit overwhelming at times. However, I don't think calling this behaviour 'evil' is quite correct. All 4-year-olds ask a ton of questions, all 4-year-olds will try to escape punishment for things they've done, all 4-year-olds will pester you to go places and do things, especially if you've promised them such things earlier in the week (Corrine is on several occasions annoyed by Malcolm asking to go to the seaside... after she herself suggested they go to the seaside but didn't tell him when that would happen).

I know that Malcolm Foxworth grows up to be the grandfather of the Dollanganger children who are then locked in the attic (and Neiderman even tries to foreshadow that by having him very briefly lock Corrine in the attic in this book) so Neiderman is obviously trying to plant the seeds of a very disturbed person, but it's like the man has never met a toddler before. We're supposed to be on Corrine's side, to look at Malcolm and say 'ah, so he's always been evil and bad', but Malcolm just isn't ; he's just a child who's a little bit spoilt. The most 'evil' things he does are destroy a wedding photograph album belonging to his mother (which certainly isn't good behaviour but children have definitely done worse), and lock her in the attic... when she's chasing him round the house threatening to beat him with a belt for destroying the album. This woman is not likeable.

Obviously it goes without saying that a book character doesn't have to be morally good in order to be a compelling and interesting point of view character, but the framing of the book so often seems like it's trying to portray her in a positive light that it just... I don't know. It doesn't feel very good to read. We don't linger on Corrine's trauma or her feelings of loneliness or isolation long enough to develop as much sympathy for her as I think the author would like. There's quite a bit of telling and not much showing.

Also, Neiderman is very 'men writing women' in places. There's a lot of hot flushes rushing to breasts of course, but also there's... this???

Image description: Quote from the book that reads as follows;

"What are they?"

"Open and see."

Children and women are so distracted, so mesmerised, by surprise presents that they'd ignore being in a burning building, I thought. I was disappointed at how excited I was and how quickly my pride and indignation had weakened, my fury and determination along with them. I had stepped in here ready to demand answers to questions I knew would stir his rage. I was more than willing to do that than ever I had bee, but right now all I could think was What's in those boxes?

Image description end.

So yeah, apparently women will disregard their own safety for shiny presents. This, by the way, is when she's going to confront him about cheating on her.

Overall, a thoroughly mediocre reading experience that I do not recommend to anyone. If you liked Flowers in the Attic then this will just annoy you and taint your memories of it, and if you've never read the Dollanganger books then there's no point in picking it up because nothing substantial happens in it!

[bee-a-garbage-shipper]

Honestly I'm more into the JayTim and Tim being jealous of how well GW and Jason get along but like.

I could absolutely see Jason and GW.

clockwork: *shows up with no warning*

cw: here's a list of tutors for his majesty

cw: *disappears after patting danny and elle on their heads*

jason: his fucking WHAT ??

Baby Danny: I beated up bad King now I prince.

Jason: WHAT?

Elle: *baby babbles*

Baby Danny: yesth!

Jason: *crisis* *Looks at paper* Okay, so TIM is on this. Alright, alright... how do I convince him to help?

Babs: *over coms* well, you accidentally left your coms on so all of us know.

Jason: ... oh.

[onedaughterofman]

How I go to sleep after finally updating my Antichrist! Copia fic

[mari-beau]

Privileged White CIS-Het Male Literature Writers: So-and-So said I should write a novel, so I rented a million-dollar cabin in a remote forest (with internet) for three months to isolate myself and try to find the story in me to tell.

Genre Fiction Writers: There's a thousand stories screaming to get out of my brain but I can only squeeze in half an hour a week to write between my full-time job, my part-time job, all my responsibilities and sleeping.

[guyawks]

There’s No Such Thing as Ghosts

Playgrounds are places of fun, happiness and comfort during the daytime.

At nighttime, they’re the opposite.

Walking back home through the neighborhood with my mom tonight, I can’t help but feel skittish about the darkened park beside us. Every eerie whistle of wind or flickering shadow makes me feel we’re not alone.

To my distress, Mom stops walking and lets go of my hand.

“I need to use the public restroom, just wait in the playground and I’ll be out in a minute.”

“But M-mom, I’m scared” I tremble. “What if the p-park is haunted?”

“Don’t be silly, Brayden” she sighs dismissively. “I���ve told you before that there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

With that, she leaves me sitting alone on the swingset. Under the white moonlight, I feel my imagination going wild as I fidget with my shirt. At midnight, my digital watch beeps.

And that’s when I see the first one.

Across the sandbox, I notice the short silhouette of a figure the same height as me. The shape is illuminated by a faint green glow, and shambles towards the jungle gym. Transfixed by the unbelievable sight, I attempt to reassure myself.

“Th-there’s no s-such things as gh-ghosts” I stammer to myself as the figure draws nearer. But there’s no denying it once I see the state of their body, various cuts and open wounds crisscrossing the sunken-faced child’s skin.

The playground really is haunted. This must be where lost children died.

In the corner of my eye, other ghostly figures approach, each more pale, emaciated and wounded than the last. Some let out rattling moans and while others cry as they circle the merry-go-round, bounce on the see-saw and descend the slide. All bearing that same otherworldly glow.

Panicked, I finally scream out.

“Mooooom!”

It only takes seconds for my mom to dart out of the restroom, concern etched on her face.

“Honey, what is it?!”

I point behind me at the playground, my hand quivering in fear.

“Look! Ghosts! I told you!”

Mom looks in the direction I’m pointing, observes the ghost children staring back ominously, and shakes her head. When she faces me, her expression is relieved.

“Oh, Brayden!” she laughs matter-of-factly. “Those aren’t ghosts: they’re workers from the nearby sweatshop.”

I squint in confusion.

“A sweatshop is a factory where kids work hard and earn money for their families. They craft important, affordable garments like the T-shirt you’re wearing.”

“R-really?”

“Sometimes, they might be accidentally injured by the machines, or get neon paint on themselves, or miss meals. But that’s just how life is over here. They’re not like us expats.”

Instantly switching tone, my mom turns to the children and shouts at them in Khmer. The Cambodian kids scatter from the equipment at once.

“See? You have nothing to be horrified about. There’s no such thing as ghosts.”

[ratsummer]

I'm honored to have been thought of for this 🥰🥰🥰 Honestly, I lost interest in fanspaces after college and even before then I've never really been an active tumblr/social media in general user. But then my FREAKING BEST FRIEND got me into Ghost, and for shits and giggles we decided to see if there was any fanfiction for them on AO3, because the band had a great cast of characters so it wouldn't be the kind of real-people fanfiction that makes us both uncomfy... and boy what a treasure!

I am so inspired and amazed by all the people who pour their love and creativity into the Ghost Fandom. There's so much fun and joy here, enough that I actually felt comfortable trying to get into Tumblr as a non-lurker for the first time ever. From those of you who write full, novel-length fics to sweet, silly little one-offs, to just a couple lines of a headcanon, thank you for sharing your thoughts!!! You are all beautiful artists, and I love to be around you all. I am thrilled to finally have stories coming back to my heart, because for a long time I didn't have the energy or inspiration to write anything at all. Keep doing what you're doing!! Though I can't make a comprehensive list to save my LIFE, some of the ghesties who have touched me with their work (silly, funny, serious, horny, tragic, I love it all!!) include (BUT ARE NOT LIMITED TO!):

@wrathofrats @cirrus-ghoulette @st-danger @coffeeghoulie @madangel19 @damagedghoulette @miasmaghoul @hypnoneghoul @tinymoon-beam @purlty23 @thelampisaflashlight @flower-among-the-stars @divine-misfortune @lilypadlys @dewdrops-whammy-bar @forlorn-crows @papaslittlesunshine @ghoul-slime

Thanks for being you!!! Much love, ghesties 🥰🥰🥰

nothing will ever amaze me the way fanfiction authors do. like, you wrote silly little stories about my favorite little guys? and i can read them?? for free??? that’s fucking wild.

you poured your heart and soul and very being into your writing and then put it out there for anyone to read? insane.

you spend a truly incredible amount of time writing novel-length, high quality stories, again, FOR FREE, that anyone can read, again, FOR FREE??

shoutout to every single fic author in existence, you guys are fucking incredible and i love all of you so much

[tomybubba]

at the darkest hour of the night

I read our conversations all the time, the good, the bad, the horny, and the sad;

and for a moment it’s like I’m there with you experiencing what it was like to be loved by you

oh how lucky I was to have gone through that, and how lucky I am to be able to say that I loved someone and they loved me back.

except, you don’t love me anymore, you love her, isn’t that why you chose her?

then my heart, that is swelled with the small joy that our past brought, turns blue again, my eyes well tears, and I’m painfully reminded that you’re no longer here

and here I am, dancing with the ghost of you

i miss you forever bubba,

forever and always

[chrisshields18]

Ghost Writer Ha.

[lunamugetsu]

Bruce gets an alert from the batcomputer saying that the alarms at Arkham are going off.

When he gets there he sees that none of the criminals have broken out, someone has broken in. When looking at the footage he finds Danny and Jazz sitting in the cemetery holding a ouija board in front of Amadeus Arkham's (the founder of Arkham Asylum) tombstone.

Batman: what are you two doing?

Jazz: I have a paper due and I wanted to ask some questions about the article Amadeus wrote. (she turns back to the tombstone) So I have some questions about page three paragraph 2. I don't know if it's slang for your time or just a terminology we don't use anymore. But you wrote about scribbling walls that talked. Any chance you could provide context on that.

Batman: (turns to Danny) And what are you doing here?

Danny: she needed help with the ouija board

Batman who was about to scold them for trespassing on Arkham Asylum grounds stays quiet as the planchette on the the ouija board starts moving spelling out the words.

I C A N E X P L A I N

M A K E S U R E Y O U R E T A K I N G N O T E S

This idea comes from that when you're writing research papers you're going to need to reference articles and some people say that they reference articles that are over a hundred years old. Combine that with that some people will contact the writers of the articles to ask them questions about what they were writing and you got this story!

Also in the Arkham Asylum game, there is a cemetery on the property, which I presume consists of inmates. Because you can find Amadeus Arkham's grave there. And Amadeus was the one who created Arkham Asylum who later had to be committed himself because he went insane.

This story can either go comical or heart wrenching. Just various scenarios of seeing Danny just bringing the ouija board with him everywhere so he could chat with the ghosts that are around Gotham. Who are surprisingly pretty tame when compared to the ghosts he sees at Amity. Maybe he has weekly lunches with Lady Gotham. Heart wrenching if you want to go down the path of Danny talking with Bruce's parents or any of the deceased parents from the batfamily.

[ceilidho]

masterlist

hi! i'm ceilidh (she/her); late 20s; writer

some housekeeping:

follows and asks are not from this blog sorry!!!

i write nsfw and some dark fics; please read and heed the tags i add

18+ only please

i actually write for quite a few fandoms (cod, star wars, shadow & bone, the rings of power, etc), but this blog is going to be primarily cod

where you can find me:

✨✨ support me ✨✨

twitter

bluesky

ao3

carrd

links:

general writing tag

ghost prompts

ghost/soap/reader prompts

soap prompts

price prompts

gaz prompts

soap/gaz/reader prompts

141 headcanons

series & masterlists:

ghost prompts (ao3 series)

take me home, country road | masterlist

sirius c | masterlist

landscape with honey | masterlist

fear of god | masterlist

still wakes the deep au | masterlist

buttermilk | masterlist

my ao3 fics:

saltwater (17k, rated E, ghost/reader)

Petrichor (Emphasis on the Ichor) (2.6k, rated E, soap/reader)

come with me to a place I've been (3.5k, rated E, ghost/reader)

desire paths (6.9k, rated E, soap/reader)

birdsongs, or advice and symphonies for your children (5.1k, rated E, price/reader)

in the cauldron boil and bake (5.5k, rated E, ghost/reader)

the terrible nature of ghosts (25k, rated E, ghost/soap)

catch and release (4.5k, rated E, ghost/soap/reader)

landscape with honey (10.5k, rated E, price/reader)

superstore (12k, rated E, soap/reader)

dogteeth (2.4k, rated E, ghost/reader)

sundog (8.5k, rated E, ghost/reader)

sirius c (27k, rated E, ghost/soap/reader)

hound dog (6.7k, rated E, ghost/reader)

take me home, country road (75k, rated E, price/reader)

buttermilk (14k, rated E, price/reader)

fear of god (ongoing, rated E, gaz/reader)

[runa-falls]

reciprocation

part 1 | part 3

pairing: best friend!steven grant x reader

cw: smut (18+), fwb relationship, PWP, face sitting, mutual-pining but their idiots so..., 69, cumming untouched, cum eating.

w/c: 3.4k of SMUT AHHH

a/n: ignore how this is suddenly typed with capital letters :0. THIS ONE IS FOR MY FAVORITE STEVEN ANON WITH THE 69 REQUEST FROM A MONTH AGO -- i'm sorry it took so long 🫠

also special shout out for @whatthefishh for reading over it like half-a-month ago 😭🙏🏻 i was going through a major writers block :^)

masterlist

----

“Are you sure about this?” You watch him warily from a few feet away, shifting from side to side.

Steven is laid back on the bed patiently waiting for you, hair fluffy and soft under him. You can tell he’s been thinking about this for a while now, eager to start. 

His voice is soft as he appraises the timid energy surrounding you, “I’m sure. I want it–you. I promise.” For once, Steven seems to be the least nervous between the two of you. You're not used to him being in charge or even initiating anything remotely affectionate, let alone sexual. “Do…you?”

You can already see the prominent outline of his erection pressing sweetly against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. No matter how loose and comfortable he dresses, he can never manage to hide his need for you. 

“I do, but I just… don’t want to accidentally hurt you.” You wring your hands together, still unsure if you should approach him. 

Steven looks at you with trusting eyes, “You won’t hurt me, darling.” His comforting words help you relax a little, almost making you forget what you agreed to, what you’re so apprehensive to attempt. He offers you a hand and you take it, letting him pull you closer and guide you onto his lap.

His voice lowers as desire drips from his lips, “Though, even if you did,” His dark eyes look up to meet yours, pure need bleeding through the gaze. You eagerly drink it in, body buzzing on top of him with flustered energy. “I think I’d be okay with it…” Your breath hitches.

You know it’s true. Steven has never shied away from pain; he even invites it in the heat of the moment. He likes to be under your control, letting you use his body to drive him crazy, even if it means teasing and denying him until he’s sobbing under you.

He loves seeing the possessive marks you leave when he wakes up in the morning, fingers ghosting over them as the night before replays in his mind, or feeling the residual sting of scratches down his torso when he takes a shower, letting the warm water draw out the sensations until he’s hard and aching for you again, and he has to seek you out, hoping you'll notice him.

You regularly get carried away, so desperate to have all of him, that you don’t even realize how intensely you devour his eagerness to please you. But Steven is more than happy to indulge your hungry advances.

He especially loves it when you soothe him after, lightly kissing each bruise and mark as you whisper sweet words, apologizing for how rough you got.

He takes it with a shy smile, basking in your affections and your gentle touch, sighing as he’s surrounded by your energy, by your undivided attention. 

Sometimes he likes to pretend like you're his, like you're doing this because you love him, not because you think you're being a good friend.

It's not hard for him to imagine it when he closes his eyes, especially when you're moaning around his cock or grabbing his neck to pull him into a desperate kiss.

But when it's all over, when he's pulling his jeans back on -- still thrumming with heat -- the spell breaks and you go back to being just friends.

Now, he's going to pleasure you. Make you feel the euphoria of his mouth, so you'll want him just as much as he wants you. This is his form of reciprocation for all the favors you've given him. And he hopes it will convince you that he'd be a good lover for you. That you could be more than just friends with him.

He lets out a hushed, “Please,” as he leans into you, enticing you to follow him and capture his lips hungrily.

Steven knows exactly what he’s doing when he uses that tone, that soft shade of himself that can bring you to your knees even when he’s falling apart harder and faster than you are. 

You moan against his pouty lips, feeling the softness, his gentle press, you pull him closer, eager to deepen the kiss. He lets you have control over him, merely following you as you slide your tongue against his, delicately tasting you, tenderly holding you by your waist.

Steven is always gentle with you, no matter how clouded his mind gets during these heated moments, no matter how lost in pleasure he gets or how desperately he needs you, he always handles you with delicate care.

You nip at his bottom lip, drinking in his soft mewl as you start to roll your hips against him. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you more insistently against him, letting you feel how desperately he needs you.

His lips are pink and plump when you pull away, parted ever so slightly as he stares between your bodies, working your body over him. His eyes are glazed as he cants his hips to chase the exquisite feeling of your soft center against him.

You tease him, lifting yourself just enough that he can’t grind himself against you. He whines when he can’t feel you anymore, gripping your waist with frustration.

“Love, please!”

You break the kiss and climb off of him, appreciating how ruined he looks from a few kisses and light grinding. He huffs out a breath in frustration, hands fisting with the need to touch you. To have you close.

You stand next to the bed, hair in disarray, fiddling with the hem of your large shirt to garner his attention. His bronze gaze soaks over you, flashing dark when it meets the short hem of your pajama bottoms.

“Your shorts, p-please, take them off.” It’s not a demand, Steven doesn’t make demands, it’s a request, a plea, one that you’ve heard time and time again, and have seldom refused. 

Your fingers find the waistband of your shorts and drag them down until they’re pulled the rest of the way off with the help of gravity. A breathy sigh can be heard under you when you step away from the pooled clothing, leaving you in an oversized t-shirt that barely brushes at the top of your thighs. 

It’s like he’s seeing you for the first time – he’s always like this.

His eyes sparkle as you shuffle closer to the bed. “Come’ere, darling.” He pats his chest, “Right here.” You timidly crawl over him, delicately straddling his chest, legs parted just above his ribs. Your knees pull in towards each other, trying to hide what your shirt can’t cover, but you don’t get far before warm fingers pry you apart. 

“Show me.” It’s a bare whisper, as light as his touch gliding over the outer sides of your legs.

You reluctantly let yourself relax on him, hands gripping his soft shirt, wrinkling the fabric. Heat prickles under your skin as he cranes his neck to look at you, lashes nearly brushing the tops of his cheeks with how lustfully heavy his eyelids are. He takes that moment to breathe you in, devouring every inch of what you’re offering. 

His touch disappears from your thighs, and you hear quiet ruffling behind you, then a broken groan under you. You look over your shoulder and spot his hand pressing desperately against his covered hardness. 

“S-Steven…” He doesn’t stop his actions when he meets your eyes, utterly shameless with his need for you. 

“Beautiful.” 

His breaths become heavy, and his chest moves deliciously under you, right against your hot center. You attempt to squeeze your legs together, hoping to abate the intensifying sensations, but you can’t, his chest keeps you spread, open, and quivering just for his eyes. 

Steven is barely touching you, but even the slightest hint of pleasure has you craving him.

You can’t help but close your eyes as you subtly shift over him, drinking in his soft grunts as he continues to touch himself under you. It makes you throb with heat. 

Steven watches you suck your lip into your mouth to hold in wanton moans as you experimentally slide against his firm chest, hands pressing into him to support your movements.

Your initial timidness crumbles as you roll your hips over him again and your head tilts back as you begin to lose yourself in the way your clit presses so perfectly against him.

Steven’s gentle voice cuts through the carnal fog infesting your brain and pulls you back to reality. “Sit up higher for me.” His hands are back on you, urging you to scoot up. “Let me taste you – L-let me fuck you with my tongue.” You press your dripping center to his shirt-covered torso with a soft moan, feeling the small spot right in between his ribs where you’ve soaked through. “Please, baby?”

You nod wordlessly, letting him guide your body until you’re hovering over his face. Your body shivers as you feel his warm breath brush against your center. 

It’s a bit daunting looking at Steven from here. His face is nestled right in between your thighs – which is not an unusual sight – but this time you are on top. You can barely see his eyes since your shirt is so big it practically drapes over half of his face. What if you suffocate him or break his neck?

“Maybe… we should rethi-” A gasp falls from your lips as strong arms pull you down to his face. “Steven!-” Without hesitation, wet heat laps at the seam of your cunt, greedily dragging over any slick that threatens to drip down your inner thigh. 

Your words are effectively stuck in your throat as Steven begins to eagerly nip and suck at your softness, drawing out deep whines instead of coherent sentences. You can only hold on to the headboard to support yourself, holding back your urge to grind against his supple lips. 

You moan as Steven tentatively nudges against your entrance, laving his tongue over the sensitive opening just to tease you. When he finally pushes into you, you have to hold yourself back from grinding against him like you’re riding his cock. He licks and thrusts his tongue into you, humming at your taste as you drip over his lips, down his chin. 

Your hips uncontrollably buck against him as his tongue flicks at your clit. A hand drops into his hair, tugging frantically at the ends before pushing him further against you, begging – no, demanding for more. He gets the memo and focuses on your most sensitive bud, delicately suckling it until your thighs are trembling by his ears. 

A ball of heat quickly blooms in your lower stomach and flushes under your skin. Familiar sparks of energy thrum up your spine, enticing you to clench around nothingness with promises of unspoken bliss and ecstasy. 

Calloused fingers lift you away from the molten heat of his mouth just as you were reaching your climax. You’re gasping for a breath as Steven holds you back from toppling off the edge. 

You can feel it, his breath, barely ghosting a sigh over your center, and somehow, even that slightest brush of air has you pulsing helplessly over him. He’s breathing as hard as you are, mouth glossy and plump as he stares back up at you, face flushed, and eyes glazed. 

Utterly pussy-drunk. 

Your grip on the headboard tightens intensely and your eyes roll shut. You can’t stop it. 

A stilted cry rips from your throat as your orgasm suddenly rushes over you in full force, crashing over you like a wave. Steven can only watch, lips parted in awe, as you shatter completely untouched right above him.

His fingers grip harsh bruises into the skin of your thighs as he feels himself throb dangerously close to his own euphoric end. You moan harder at the tender marks he paints on your trembling legs. The sharp feeling travels up your legs and straight to your center.

His hands rub your thighs comfortingly, apologetically, before he starts to drag his tongue over your messy center with a hum, doting on you with kitten licks that make you shiver. 

He cleans you up slowly and methodically, making sure to avoid your most sensitive area. Your body still thrums from your unexpected and intense orgasm, and his soft licks quickly become too much, even with how light and sweet he is being. 

You lift yourself away from his tongue, “S-steven…no more. It’s too much!” 

“You can do it again, darling…” He coos, trying to pull you back down onto his mouth. “Just one more. For me, please?” 

You're head is fuzzy as you steady yourself on top of him, gripping the headboard tightly to ground yourself from the lingering sparks of mind-numbing pleasure.

Steven groans as he watches you struggle to get a grip.

“C-can’t. It’s too much…” You get off of his face and sit next to him on the bed, squeezing your legs together to suppress the bout of overstimulation that almost overtook your senses.

You look down at him when one of his hands wraps around your thigh and squeezes, a simple act indulgence that drives you crazy. Your lips part as you take in the view. 

Puffy lips and glassy eyes, blown out with lust, meet your stare, begging you to climb back on, but you're still shaking where you sit. He's drenched in your slick from his chin to his neck and the collar of his shirt is soaked through, sticking sweetly to his chest.

Your eyes drift down to his sweatpants, to the prominent bulge that throbs under your gaze. He palms himself, whining lightly at the feeling of his neediness and desperation. He's so hard, begging for your touch without even saying a word.

“Okay, now it's your turn.”

His shakes his head, “No, I want more.”

“Steven…”

“Please, I want to taste more of you."

"But--" Your eyes dip down to his covered erection that you've been neglecting all night.

"Just...come back, we can do it at the same time if you want.” 

Your face heats at the implication. You don’t know why you’re so coy, you just came right above his fact. You've just never seen Steven like this: so insistent and hungry.

“S-sure, ok.”

You whimper when he eagerly tugs you closer, urging you to straddle his face again. Careful to not knock your knee into his cheek, you swing your leg back over his body, but this time you situate yourself so you can take care of him at the same time.

He immediately dives back in, tongue thrusting into your sensitive channel before you're even settled on top of him. You falter and almost collapse over him, hand grasping at the bottom of his shirt for support.

"Steven! Gentle, please!" You groan out, eyes already threatening to roll back as he continues to drink you in. He hums in response, but doesn't actually let up, if anything, he becomes more insatiable, suckling every stimulus point until you're shaking above him.

You struggle against your pleasure to pull his sweats down, freeing his cock from the restraining fabric. Your mouth waters as his tip weeps for you, spilling silky precum with every breath he takes.

You've always loved Steven's cock. How responsive it is when your breath ghosts over it and how it desperately throbs for you as you swallow around him. How perfectly it fits in your mouth and how deep it can fuck your throat when he allows himself to let go.

Sucking his cock was the furthest you allowed yourself to go. You convinced yourself that these one-sided interactions would keep you from revealing your feelings, that you could deal with the friends-with-benefits bit if you didn't have an actual 'relationship'.

So you deemed actual sex as too intimate and barred letting him touch you (you just weren't sure you could handle it).

But then one thing led to another...

You failed to reject his soft kisses and couldn't resist marking him up like he's yours. And now here you are barely able to handle it as he fucks you with his tongue, hands gripping marks into your thighs as his nose nudges against your wet center.

You don't know if you could go back to just being friends when he's given you unfathomable pleasure. When he talked to you like this. Looked at you like this.

You're a mess and you're struggling to hold on to your original plan.

You try to block these thoughts from your mind as your hand wraps around his cock, squeezing it gently just to get a reaction out of him. He groans against your cunt, movements stuttered as your touch distracts him away from his task.

You unconsciously sit up on your knees and lift your hips off of his mouth to get closer to his cock. Steven barely notices, too focused on holding his orgasm off as you diligently taste him, one lick at a time.

You drag your tongue up his shaft, licking the precum that slowly cascades over his silken skin. You feel his body quake as you lave and kitten lick against his tip, gently coaxing shortened breaths and whimpers with every touch.

You dip down to engulf him into your hot mouth, enjoying the slick feeling of his cock gliding easily against your tongue and the top of your mouth.

His hands frantically latch onto your upper thighs, unintentionally pulling you back onto his mouth as he squeezes at the softness, desperately attempting to control himself.

He has to actively keep his hips from snapping against your face, you just feel so sublime, so soft and hot.

Steven cries against your cunt when he reaches the back of your throat. He can't help it when he feels you struggle to swallow around him, so tight, wet, and hot. He's just so sensitive -- especially when it comes to you.

You keep laving your tongue against the underside of his cock as you suck him in, ignoring the your jaw begins to ache as you open wide for him.

"Uhh!" His stomach tenses under you and he twitches against your tongue.

He can't be cumming already...right?

Fingers grip into your hair and you're suddenly pushed down, forced to take him down your throat. You choke slightly, eyes watering, before letting yourself relax against him.

He's lost in pleasure, grinding and thrusting his cock into your mouth like it's your cunt, shoving it deeper than you're usually comfortable with and you let him.

Steven spurts warmth at the back of your throat. You try your best to swallow it down before it dribbles from your mouth and makes a mess. He whimpers as he fully lets go, thighs tense and trembling under your touch.

He's still cumming when he tugs you back onto his mouth, feverishly lapping through your center before taking your clit between his lips. You orgasm explosively as he avidly sucks you in, already half-way there from the mere feeling of him spilling in your mouth.

Even after he has emptied himself, he continues to gently fuck your face, not yet ready to leave your warmth. His hips stutter and his breaths become uneven but he ignores the overstimulation, too attached to this closeness, to this illusion of mutual affection.

He also continues to lick you clean, despite your whines of discomfort. He lovingly places gentle kisses against your inner thigh, wishing he could stay in this position forever.

He huffs out disappointedly when you climb off of him, even tries to lock his arms around your legs to keep you there, but you were adamant to get away from his insatiable mouth.

"One more?"

You gape at him, "Steven, we already did 'one more'." You shiver, suddenly cold without his body against yours. "What has gotten into you? I've never seen you so...horny before."

He looks at you sheepishly, "I dunno. I guess, once I got a taste I wanted more." He sits up, hand wiping your slick off his face. "How 'bout later?"

"You're already thinking about later?"

He nods, "I'm always thinking about you."

Your heart thumps painfully in your chest as blood heats your face. You try to ignore it. Try not to look directly at him. Try to pretend like he didn't just say that because he probably doesn't even understand the impact that his words have on you.

He's always thinking about your favors. That's it.

"Later, then."

[megamagimugi]

He's-a Gone

Luigi time! To suffer, that is.

(CW: character death)

This is obviously a sort of comlementary piece to I Was-a Too Late. But it's more than just that as it also illustrates a certain fun, dark what-if idea I had. Please keep reading if you're intrigued!

Lore:

Luigi's Mansion, the first game. Everything goes the same as in canon until the final boss fight, when Luigi defeats King Boo in his Bowser costume. After King Boo comes out and Luigi intends to suck him in, the villain laughs and reveals the truth: Mario's painting was an illusion, so was everything Madame Clairvoya saw. All just to mess with Luigi. Meanwhile the real Mario wasn't just captured by the Boos, he was immediately killed by them on their King's orders. The only physical thing that's left of him in this realm is the five items Luigi found - hidden by the Boos for Luigi to find, another part of King Boo's sick game.

Luigi is able to finish the fight despite his shock and grief, fueled by the anger King Boo never expected from him. After getting out of the painting the plumber discovers that it is indeed empty, no Mario or anyone else in the portrait.

Heartbroken and guit-ridden, Luigi goes back to Professor E. Gadd's lab and gives him back the Poltergust 3000. He doesn't even want to stay long enough to see what is going to happen to the ghosts. Of course the Professor tries to offer some semblance of comfort, but we all know it's not his forte.

So Luigi leaves, only taking Mario's five items with him. He notices that the mansion has disapeared without a trace. The reality of it all finally hits him, and he practically collapses onto a nearby tree's large root protruding from the ground, putting down the precious items around himself, only leaving the matching red hat and the letter in his hands. He should have known something was off. After all, the Mario he saw in the painting was wearing his hat and both gloves.

Looking at all these items, to his growing horror he can't help but imagine what exactly might have happened to his brother and what his last moments might have been like. He hugs the hat to his chest and rereads Mario's note several times, knowing that the brief warning was his brother's last words to him.

Luigi can do nothing but cry for the beloved brother he couldn't save, desperately wishing it was his warm, living and breathing body pressed to his chest rather than just a couple of his belongings.

But Mario is truly gone, apparently having met such a horrific fate that not even a single part of his body is left in the physical world.

[Good night]

…I'll leave the rest up to your imagination ;) Sorry if I got carried away with my description. Occasionally even I enjoy being a little dramatic, though I'm no writer whatsoever.

Yeah, I'm not apologizing for making this one - I was nicer to Luigi than to his bro, at least here the Mushroom Kingdom and everyone in it (except for Mario lol) is still okay!

But alas,

You can no longer play as Mario

Rest in spaghetti, funny wahoo man.

@federthenotsogreat I'm tagging you because you said you wanted more Mario art like I Was-a Too Late, thought you might like this one too!

@drones-of-innocence Also tagging you because you were interested in my idea.

Edit: Tagging a few more mutuals who might want to see this based on their reaction to my previous angsty work just in case, feel free to ignore. Or ask me to remove the tag if you want, no problem.

@silenzahra (remember, no rush) @c-lavanda @jell-o101 @stripetkattelalala54-gf

@luigixfanxayjay @itsavee4117

And you @giddlygoat just because you have a Luigi's Mansion AU and I thought you might appreciate this... Also because I'm a fan 👉👈

[itsthestutterforme]

Glad You Called 2/2

Summary: Reacher kept something hidden from you for those two years. And it was right under your nose the entire time.

Notes: GIF is not mine, all mistakes are my own, here’s the part 2 you guys asked for :) @cookiemonsterboss

Any tips for writers block anyone??

Part One

**

Blowing a long, satisfied breath, you descend down the stairs pressing your locs dry with your towel. You were about to watch an episode of Supernatural when someone sitting on the couch caught your attention.

“What are you still doing up, Reacher?” You said with an annoyed sigh.

“I was going to ask you the same question,” he said, looking up from the computer he borrowed from Neagley.

“I’m going to watch my show,” you sat down and the couch across from him and took the remote into your hands.

Signing onto Netflix, you scroll down and click on Supernatural, making sure to lower the volume.

You secured your locs tightly in your bonnet you had brought with you when you catch Reacher staring.

He pretends to scroll on the laptop as if you didn’t catch him staring at you seconds before.

It took you all of five minutes of him looking at you through your peripheral for you to speak up.

“Oh my God, just say what you want to say, Reacher.” You finally say, breaking the silence.

“I.. don’t have anything to say,”

“Your eyes are telling me something different.”

“I missed looking at you,” he confessed after a moment of silence.

“Should have thought about that before you ghosted me,” you state, not even bothering to look away from the TV screen.

“It was my choice and I have to live with the consequences. But I never meant to hurt you, Y/N.”

“Bullshit,”

“It’s not bullshit. I thought I was doing you a favor by leaving-“

“No, you took the easy way out. I’ve been in enough of these situations to know. But what really burns me to the core?” You finally look away from the TV to glare at Reacher.

“Is that I told you everything about my fear of people leaving. I told you how deep rooted the pain was, and you left anyway.”

“There’s nothing I can do to fix what I broke. I know that.”

“I’m done convincing people that I’m loveable. I’m at point in my life where I prefer to be alone than to have bad company.”

“I know,”

“Then why did you come back?”

“You know why,” he says.

“I know you won’t say it,” you say, standing from your place on the couch.

You crossed over to where Reacher was, barely towering over him even when he’s sitting down.

“I hate you,” you seethe. Hurt flashed across his face and for a moment, you felt guilt nipping at you.

“I could never hate you, Y/N.” He confesses softly, his hazel green eyes searching your Y/E/C ones.

Your face grew hot the longer he stared at you and you finally realize your proximity.

Damn it, why was your heart racing? Why was your body betraying you like this?

“When this is over, I never want to see you again.”

“I respect it,”

You didn’t know how to feel about this. A part of you wanted him to fight back like he did before.

Because at least you wouldn’t feel bad for treating him this way.

Especially since he more than deserved it. The air grew thick with tension and you held his gaze when he slowly stands from the couch, standing in front of you at full height.

You catch him bringing a hand up to caress the side of your face with his thumb.

“You don’t get to come over here talking all soft and think you’re somehow forgiven,” you whisper, your heart skipping a beat when he leans in closer.

“Would you forgive me if I gave you an apology?” He leans in an inch away from your face.

“No,” you body tenses under his touch and your eyes fluttered closed.

“If you tell me to stop, I will.” His breath fans against your lips. You could feel a heart racing pattering in your chest.

Everything stood still for a moment. The show playing in background was long forgotten.

Just as your lips were about to connect, you said, “I can’t do this.”

He lets you pull away from him, watching as your legs rushed you up the stairs and into your room.

The door creaks closed and you linked your hands above your head, consequently pacing in your bedroom.

What the hell was he thinking? What the hell were you thinking?

Deciding to give Reacher a piece of your mind, you pulled the door open to find him standing before you, raising a hand to knock on your door.

Turning your walk back inside your room, Reacher took that as an invitation to come in. He closes the door behind him and starts, “I want to confess something.”

Your ears perk at his words, that was a phrase you’ve never heard him say before.

“Okay,” “I’m tired. Tired of being the leader. Tired of needing to fix things all the time. Tired of being strong for everyone else. I haven’t met anyone who really understood that besides you.”

He comes around the bed to where you were, dragging a chair over and spun it around to sit down.

“Aren’t you tired, Y/N?”

“You want to know what I’m tired of?” “I’m tired of the influence you still have on me after all these years. I hate it. But at least it taught me one thing. Never let a man get too close.” You added before he had a chance to answer.

“You think you don’t have an influence over me?” He challenges. “Obviously not, Jack. You left me. That’s as crystal clear of an answer you can get.” You state, noticing the visible wince when you call him by his given name.

He presses his lips together as he contemplates something. You lift a brow, daring him to challenge what you had just said.

He stands up from the chair and took his pocket knife from his boot. Flicking the knife open, he knelt down to and popped out a piece from the wooden leg of your vanity.

He slid his hand into the opening, your heart sank when he took out a navy blue, velvet box.He drops the box into your hand and you brushed off the dust that had collected on the top.

You spared him a glance and he merely crossed his arms, waiting for you to open it. Opening the box, a periodt pear cut diamond ring winked at you under the dim lighting.

“Reacher, don’t tell me this is-“ “I planned an entire getaway trip to New York City where I would have asked you to marry me with that ring.” He interrupts and suddenly your mouth felt dry.

This was your dream ring. This was your dream man. So where did it all go wrong?

“What made you change your mind?” You asked after a brief silence.

“I watched my father deteriorate when my Mom died. I knew that.. one day that would be a possibility. Reacher men have terrible luck,”

“So.. let me get this straight. You left me because you’re worried I might die?” “Yes. And I know how it sounds, but-“

“That’s your first mistake right there, Reacher. You were too caught up in the what ifs that you missed what was right in front of you the whole time: a home- our home.”

“I know,” his your gaze fell back down to the ring in your hands. “You should try it on,” he suggests and you find yourself taking the ring out of the box, hesitantly sliding the band on your ring finger. It even fits perfectly.

“How did you know I wouldn’t throw the vanity away?”

Without a second thought, he closed the gap between you and captured your lips in a warm kiss. His massive hands covered your face as he continued to kiss you.

Your eyes fluttered closed as you get lost in the way his lips felt against yours. He pulls away just enough for the two of you to get air, resting your forehead against his.

“Because I know you,” he says, caressing the apple of your cheek with his thumb.

[python333]

hi! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests atm but if you aren’t feel free to ignore this!

anyways, i was thinking what would it be like if you were back on base and did something nice for everyone and made their fave coffee/tea while you’re all relaxing after a long mission? like how would the 141 react and what would you make for them?

that’s all but i hope you have a great day and i absolutely love your writings!! they seriously are so detailed and amazing, you do a beautiful job w each one💌

unwind — python333

— — — —

synopsis the 141 + you are back from a super long mission and u make them their fave coffee/tea!!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & gn!reader.

word count 3.6k

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], gaz being a little shit.

note thank you so much for the req!! i am taking them right now, but apologies if i post them 2+ days after i get them, my writers block is slowly creeping back into my mind and im fighting it off the best i can! also, thank you for the compliments :3 ilysm youre too nice!! i saw ur reblog of bedbound too and i was so sjdfksdfks!! hope u have a good day too and hope you enjoy this fic, it's all fluff and way too in depth descriptions of making tea/coffee!!

As soon as the electric kettle clicks, signaling to you that the water inside of it has been boiled, you unplug it and pour the water into a mug you’d pulled from the cabinets. It still surprised you that there were any mugs left, with how many people kept stealing to put on their desk to hold pencils—by people, you mean Soap, and only Soap—but you weren’t complaining. 

You set the kettle back down once the mug is filled up just an inch below the brim and grab the tea bag you’d grabbed earlier, wrapping the string around the handle of the mug a few times before putting the bag itself into the water. Almost immediately, you see small tendrils of dark brown flow out from the drowned tea bag into the originally clear water. 

As that happens, you walk the small few steps over to the small fridge from the kettle and open it, grabbing the small carton of cream and closing the fridge shut. You walk back over to the mug and unscrew the cap of the carton, pouring some cream into the mug, adding a half inch of height to the liquid already in the mug before screwing the cap back on and setting the carton down.

You don’t bother to grab a spoon and mix anything yet, instead reaching over to the small terracotta container beside the coffee machine that contained sugar, and taking off the lid. 

You think for a moment if you should grab a spoon for this, but ultimately decide against it, instead just tipping the container over the mug and letting what you hope is two teaspoons of sugar spill over into the mug.

Afterwards, you put the lid back on the container holding the sugar and set it back next to the coffee machine, and grab the cream to put back into the fridge. 

Once the cream’s been put back, you open the drawers in the counter and grab a small spoon, one that’s just tall enough that it won’t be fully submerged in the tea, and put it into the mug.

You close the drawer and give the tea a few stirs before picking up the mug, being careful of the scalding heat and holding it solely by its handle. You carefully walk out of the snack bar extension of the kitchen and head towards Price’s office. 

After a year or two of working with him, you’ve learned a lot about his tea preferences—he likes Yorkshire tea, the original one, not the gold. He only likes cream and sugar in his coffee, just to make it smoother and make it a bit sweeter, but doesn’t like it too sweet.

You vaguely remember him telling you he’d never had honey or any other sweeteners besides a bit of sugar in his tea, and remember more vividly you thinking, God, that’s such an old person thing to say, but not saying it out loud. 

Once you’ve reached his office, you knock a few times and Price’s tired voice calls out, “Come in!” 

You open the door, careful to keep the mug from spilling in your hands, and walk in, closing the door behind you. Price looks up from his computer, presumably writing a report on the mission you’d all just come back from an hour or two ago, and offers a small smile when he sees you. He’s about to say something before he catches sight of the mug in your hands. 

“Did you…” He doesn’t finish his question, but you know what he was about to ask, and you nod in response. 

“If it’s too sugary let me know,” You tell him, setting the mug down a safe distance away from his computer, “I can remake it.” 

“I won’t make you remake it,” Price looks at you, almost offended, “You didn’t have to make me anything in the first place, but thank you, I really appreciate it.” 

“No problem,” You hum, walking away, saying over your shoulder, “Hope you like it.” 

You open the door without another word and walk out, closing it behind you, heading right back to the snack bar. Now for Soap. 

Soap typically preferred coffee to tea, despite tea’s popularity in Scotland. He’d told you that he really couldn’t taste the difference between different coffee blends, but upon hearing that there was a Scottish blend, he declared he’d only drink that one, because of course he did. 

He pretended he could tell if the coffee he was drinking was of that Scottish blend, but you knew he couldn’t. How did you know? You’d only ever given him Scottish roast once. Every other time since then, it’s been French roast. 

He’s never really used a coffee machine for himself, going to cafes or coffee shops most of the time for coffee, keeping his usual coffee order written in his notes app because he couldn’t remember it for the life of him.

He’d sometimes modify his order if certain coffee shops didn’t do certain things that he usually got, but his order stays mostly the same every time he gets coffee. Medium (or grande, if he’s at Starbucks) latte with a double shot of espresso. 

Typically, he’d get some shortbread too, but you didn’t really have any in the base, so he’d have to do without it today. 

Once you enter the snack bar, you grab another mug from the cabinets above the counter and place it under the coffee machine. You open the cabinets right by the ones that contained the mugs and grab a bag of ground French roast, pulling it out and putting it on the counter. 

You open it up and find that there’s conveniently already a small cup in there to scoop the coffee grounds up, and use your free hand to grab a new coffee filter from the same cabinets you got the coffee grounds from, swiftly putting it into the machine. 

You use your other hand to scoop up some coffee grounds and put them into the filter, closing the top of the coffee machine afterwards and turning on the machine. You’re grateful there’s more options listed on the small digital screen that lights up on the machine than just plain black coffee, not really in the mood to try and steam milk right now.

You tap on the ‘latte’ option and watch as the screen changes and hear the coffee machine start to whir. 

As it does that, you put away the coffee grounds and open up the cabinets that contained mugs once again, pulling out a small espresso glass and setting it onto the counter.

You wait patiently for the coffee to brew, and once you hear the small beep sound from the machine that signals that it’s done, you pull away the steaming hot coffee and set it down right next to the coffee machine. 

You quickly put the espresso glass under the machine and start it up again, this time tapping the ‘espresso shot’ option—surprised that’s even an option, honestly—and hearing the familiar whirring noise start up again. It doesn’t take nearly as long as brewing the latte did, the small beep coming much sooner than it did just a minute or two earlier, and you pull away the small espresso glass from the machine almost immediately after you hear it. 

You pause for a moment, looking at how much the latte part had filled up the mug, and look around for a moment before opening up the same drawer that contains the eating utensils and grabbing a straw, putting the straw in the still hot latte—is that a good idea? No. Did you do it anyway because you physically can’t think before you act? Absolutely—and taking a long sip of it.

You pull the straw out once the liquid in the mug is at a good inch below the brim and then pour in the espresso shot, setting the glass down after you do so.

You look around for a second for a trash bin and find one just a few steps away from you, quickly throwing out the straw you’d used and then walking back over to the empty espresso glass, picking it up and setting it down by the sink. God forbid we get a dishwasher in here or something, You think absentmindedly as you pick up the mug and carefully walk out of the snack bar with it, Would it hurt to at least get some dish soap in here or something? 

You make it out of the snack bar without burning your fingers and start the much longer walk to Soap’s sleeping quarters. You’d caught him walking out of his office in that direction earlier, so you can only assume that he’d gone there. 

Once you make it there, you knock on the door a few times and wait for Soap to call out to you and allow you to come in before twisting the door knob and opening the door. He’s laying on his back on his bed, thumb paused on his phone screen as he looks over at you as you enter. He notices the coffee and sits up a bit, grunting as he does. 

He wasn’t really as talkative after long missions like the one you’d all been on earlier—usually it took him a day or two to be more social and back to himself, so you didn’t take much offense to him not greeting you as loudly as he usually did. 

He nods at the coffee, “Is that for me?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, handing him the mug, “Be careful, it’s hot.” 

“Got it,” Soap carefully takes the mug into his hands, and softly blows on it before looking at you again and grinning at you, “Weel, thank ye for this. Ye really didnae hae tae.” 

“Price actually said the same thing,” You muse, almost to yourself, before speaking a little louder, “No problem.”

“Oh did he?” Soap asks, raising an eyebrow, before his expression shifts and he feigns confusion, “Wait, how come he got a drink afore me?”

“Because his office was closer to the snack bar,” You explain, crossing your arms. 

“… Nae, it’s definitely ‘cause ye hate me,” Soap disagrees, shaking his head in mock disappointment, “And tae think I thought we were friends.” 

“It is no— you know what?” You begin to argue, before sighing and rolling your eyes, “I do hate you, and we were never friends, you ungrateful piece of shit.” 

Soap laughs, quieter than he usually does but it’s still a genuine laugh. He looks down at the coffee again and back at you, before saying, “Thank ye. Again.” 

“No problem,” You replied, walking back towards the door and opening it, walking out of Soap’s sleeping quarters and closing the door behind you. Now for Ghost. 

Ghost typically liked tea more than coffee, but you think that’s just the British in him talking. Realistically, you could give him either or, and he’d say a polite ‘thank you’ and move on.

From years of being apart of the 141, any preferences or additives he liked to put in his tea or coffee slowly dissipated and instead he just drank either one plain. Which should make the tasks you’ve forced yourself to do today easier, but knowing you, you just couldn’t take the easy route with this. 

You remember a conversation with him that happened several months ago where you had been talking about your own tea and coffee preferences. Ghost had commented that he didn’t often put any additives in his own hot drinks anymore, but back before he’d joined the military, he liked to drink keemun tea occasionally with nutmeg in it. 

Keemun tea—which was fucking expensive by the way, costing around sixteen pounds for twenty tea bags in every store you could find them in—wasn’t too hard to find, so the next time you went on leave after that conversation, you’d bought a box of bags of keemun tea leaves and some ground nutmeg. 

You didn’t let Ghost know about it, and kind of forgot about it just a week after you bought it, but now the memory of you buying it and storing it in the snack bar behind a few other boxes of tea bags has resurfaced and it’s the only thing you think is appropriate to give Ghost at a time like this. 

You get back to the snack bar and almost robotically you pull a mug out from the cabinets above the counter and set it down on said counter, deciding to grab another one just so that you wouldn’t have to do it later, and setting that one down right next to the other. You open the cabinet beside that and move some of the boxes out of the way to find the keemun tea box in the very back, right where you last left it. 

You snatch it out of the cabinet and open it, pulling out a small packet and opening it up to pull out the tea bag inside. You go ahead and put the tea bag inside of the mug and put the tea box back in the cabinet, closing the small cabinet door afterwards.

You then grab the electric kettle that’s right by the sink and pop open the lid, putting it under the faucet and turning said faucet on, waiting until the water fills a quarter of the kettle. Once it does, you turn off the faucet and put the kettle down right by the outlet on the wall. 

You put the lid down and wait for it to click into place before you plug the kettle into the outlet and press the small button below the handle to turn it on, and listen as it starts to make a small whirring noise. You don’t waste too much time just standing there, waiting for the water to finish boiling, instead putting the other mug you’d pulled out from the cabinets under the coffee machine and turning it on. 

You tap on the ‘decaf flat white’ option and watch the digital screen change and another whirring sound starts up, now coming from the coffee machine.

You were starting to make Gaz’s while making Ghost’s drink because Gaz often made the mistake of drinking his coffee before it was cool enough to not burn his tongue, so if you made it earlier, it’d have more time to cool, and Gaz wouldn’t have to wait as long before drinking it, therefore solving the whole ‘burning-his-tongue-because-he’s-impatient’ problem he has. 

Gaz liked simple flat whites, and sure, he liked tea too, but nothing could top a good flat white for him. He’d get them anywhere and everywhere he can, and you honestly admire his dedication to getting a flat white everywhere he goes. 

The coffee machine finished up quickly, a small beep sounding from the machine as it stopped its whirring and a few more drops of coffee made it into the mug before it completely stopped. You pull the mug out from under the machine and set it aside for now, just waiting for the water to finish boiling in the kettle. 

Once the kettle clicks and the whirring from that machine stops, you unplug it and pour some water into the empty mug you’d picked out for Ghost, waiting until it’s filled up about a half inch below the brim of the mug before taking the kettle away from the mug and pouring the rest of the unused water into the sink. 

You set the kettle down beside the coffee machine where it belongs and check the drawer below the one that held the eating utensils, looking through some of the spices and drink additives in it before finally finding the ground nutmeg you needed. 

You unscrew the cap and tilt the small spice jar over the mug, letting some of the powder spill into the mug before tilting it back and screwing the cap back on. You put it back in its spot and close that drawer, now opening the drawer above it and grabbing a small spoon, closing that one after you’ve grabbed the spoon and putting the spoon into the mug to mix the spices in it around a bit. 

You leave Gaz’s mug on the counter, hoping that nobody steals it while you’re away, and instead pick up the mug meant for Ghost, carefully walking out of the snack bar with it. 

Ghost’s office is fairly far away, but you still manage to get there without burning your fingers or anything on the mug. You knock on the door a few times and wait for Ghost to call out permission for you to come in before you open the door and walk in. 

Ghost immediately looks over at you and spots the mug in your hand, but ignores it for now, instead opting to ask, “Did you need something, [c/n]?” 

“Not really,” You shrugged the best you could while holding scalding hot tea, “Just needed to give you this.” 

You set the mug down on Ghost’s desk before he can say another word, and watch as he eyes the mug with curiosity and confusion. 

“What’s this?” He asks, carefully picking up the mug, holding the top up to his nose to smell it. Before you can answer his question, you see his eyes widen and he questions a little louder, “Is this… keemun? With nutmeg?” 

“You can tell just from the smell?” You ask, mildly impressed, watching as Ghost’s gaze turns into one more in awe of the mug. 

“Yes, I can,” He mumbles, smelling the brim of the mug again, before looking over at you, “How did you know I liked keemun with nutmeg in it?” 

“You told me about it, like, a few months ago. Six months ago, maybe? I dunno.” 

“How do you remember a conversation from six months ago?”

“It was an important conversation, I guess?” You shrug, crossing your arms. 

You watch in silence as Ghost eyes the tea and you take that as your sign to leave, walking towards the door, stopping right in front of it to twist the knob to open it before you’re interrupted by Ghost. 

“Wait—” You turn your head and look at him over your shoulder, and immediately upon seeing his face, you think, oh my God is he tearing up? “Thank you, [c/n]. I really appreciate it.” 

You offer a small smile and reply, “Yeah, no problem. Enjoy your tea.” 

You open the door without another word and close it behind you, taking a deep breath before continuing down the hall back to the snack bar. 

You’re relieved when you get there and see the mug, still steaming a bit, still on the counter. You quickly walk over to it and pick it up, walking right back out the door with it and heading straight for Gaz’s sleeping quarters. You remember him being so tired from the mission—you don’t know whether to hope he’s asleep and getting some rest, or to hope that he’s awake so you can properly hand him his coffee. 

Once you make it to his sleeping quarters, you knock on the door, and there’s no response for a few moments, making you think he might actually be asleep, but then you hear Gaz’s drowsy voice call out, “You can come in!” 

You open the door and see him rubbing the sleep from his eyes and sitting up on his bed, looking over at you. His lips twitch up into a small smile once he sees you and he lets his hand drop into his lap. 

“Hey, [c/n].” He looks over at the mug you’ve brought with you, before raising an eyebrow, “You brought something for me?” 

“Very bold of you to assume it’s for you,” You close the door behind you and walk closer to him, “But yes, it is.” 

Gaz perks up a bit at that and happily takes the mug off of your hands once you hand it to him, and his smile grows significantly bigger once he sees you’ve brought him a flat white. 

“It’s decaf, don’t worry,” You say, as if reading his mind, “I figured you’d still want some sleep after drinking it.” 

“Always so considerate,” Gaz sighs teasingly, raising the mug to his lips like you’d thought he would. Thankfully, his tongue doesn’t burn this time after he sips the coffee, and you let out a small sigh of relief at the fact. 

“You know me,” You respond dryly, crossing your arms as you watch Gaz take a few more sips of the coffee. 

“Thank you for this, by the way,” Gaz thanks you, taking another sip of the coffee before stating, “I hope you know you’re my favorite now.” 

“Your favorite what?” 

“Just my favorite, in general,” Gaz hums, “This is the best flat white I’ve ever drunk. Ten out of ten.” 

“Thanks,” You thank him flatly, “It was made with love and a coffee machine I learned how to use yesterday.” 

“I can just taste the love in it.” 

“Not the coffee machine?”

“Well, it’s a bit concerning if someone can taste the coffee machine in their coffee, innit?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at you before taking another sip of his coffee. 

“Not if it’s the one I used.” 

“Whatever you say,” Gaz mutters, taking yet another sip of his coffee, making you huff out a small laugh. 

“You enjoy your coffee,” You say before walking back over to the door, closing the door behind you as you walk out and letting out a tired breath, starting to head back to your own sleeping quarters.