#creative writing tasks

[python333]

since i just woke up from one and came here to seek comfort and get it out of my head,i had the idea of "why not ask them if they'd like to write such a thing?" So here i am.

The main thing is reader having a really grotesque, explicit and horrific nightmare (that's how most of mine are) could be getting tortured,put in a meat grinder,you get it,work your magic and write as you wish haha.And after they wake up with a heavy and tight chest, horrified naturally,it being out of their control,could you have the 141 members comfort us? Perhaps one way of getting most of their reactions would be setting up a scenario where they had to camp and sleep in the same place, something of the sorts,so yeah.

Honestly still not over the nightmare yet that shit was horrific haha,but yeah,hope this'll be a nice writing for you,if you wish to do so.Take great care of yourself dear,and take as many breaks as you need<3

how the sausage gets made — python333

— — — —

synopsis you have a very graphic nightmare, the 141 comforts you!!!

relationships platonic! 141 & gn! reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 3.2k

warnings nightmare about getting put through a meat grinder (not too graphic, but the imagery is still there), usage of [c/n] (code name/call sign), 2nd person pov (you/yours/youself)

note hi!! this is actually right up my alley, i really enjoyed writing this!! :D hopefully this somewhat comforts you/helps you get over the nightmare, and hopefully this was horrific enough for you!! ALSO i have a discord server now!! enjoy :3

You’re in some sort of freezer, it seems. 

Your vision is a bit blurred at the edges, and your head feels awfully heavy, making it hard to keep upright on your neck. Your shoulders feel tight and tense, as though the muscles in them were physically bundled and tied into tight knots. Though, they aren’t tense in the way they typically are. Somewhere in the back of your mind—as your gaze wanders around the blue-tinted room you lay in—you can recall times after sparring sessions with a few of your teammates when your shoulders felt tight, and it was nothing like this. Those times, you could feel the knots as though they grew roots from your shoulders to your wrists. Unlike now, your shoulders feel lighter than those times. 

Those times. You aren’t sure what “those times” refers to. All you can see and think about is the light blue tiling of the ceiling above you. It’s strange; you’ve only seen tiling like that on dingy bathroom floors in the public gym you used to go to. It’s never been on the ceiling like that. Huh. 

You can’t really feel your hands, which is even stranger. You know where they are—they’re right at your sides, laying on the stingingly cold concrete floor of whatever room you’re in—and can hear the echoing taps they give whenever you lift and hit them lightly against the floor, but yet they feel numb. You move one of them, not nearly as off-put by the numbness as you should be, and lift it up and over your face. It looks normal. No, yeah, that’s my hand alright. Don’t know what I expected. 

You put the hand back on the ground and using both hands you push yourself up from the floor, letting out a small grunt as you do. It takes an uncanny amount of force to push yourself upwards, but you manage to do so anyway, and you finally have a look at the room around you. You look ahead of you. Blue tarp. It’s shiny and almost looks woven, and if you squint your eyes enough, it looks grainy. You look to your left. More blue tarp. It’s of the same quality, the same quantity, and is in all aspects the exact same as the other blue tarp. You make a quick prediction before looking to your right, and, lo and behold, another blue tarp. How shocking. 

It looks the same as the other two. Frowning, you look behind you, and surprisingly you are not met with yet another blue tarp. This time, there’s a large, shiny, stainless steel machine behind you. It’s a good ten feet away, about the same distance away as the tarps, and for some reason it beckons to you. Like Princess Aurora to her spinning wheel, you find the strength to push yourself up to your feet completely, and immediately you begin walking towards the metal machine without much resistance. 

It doesn’t really hit you that you have no idea what this machine is or what it does. You don’t think you’ve seen anything like it. As you get closer, you can see a few items strung from the ceiling past the machine; weird plastic-clear looking tubes that are linked together in the same way clowns at parties twist balloons, and there’s iron-cast skillets hung on the ceiling from invisible hooks. Huh. Weird. Despite the oddities of the items strung from the ceiling, you keep walking towards the machine. 

When you get even closer, the machine becomes less blurred and comes more into focus. It looks completely untouched. There’s a large funnel at the top, one that requires a ladder to get to—conveniently, there’s a ladder set up on and welded to the machine itself—and beneath that is a horizontal tube that tapers off into a smaller, funnel-like shape at the end with a much smaller opening. You tilt your head curiously at the machine. It’s so shiny. Though, the longer you stare at it, the grainier it gets. 

Suddenly, cutting through your thoughts, you feel a harsh push at your back that almost has you knocking into the machine. Before you can even turn around to see who felt that they had the audacity to push you so harshly, that same entity that pushed you quickly lifted you into the air. Whatever they’re using to hold you up feels like absolutely nothing—as if they were just gathering enough air molecules to swoop you up. 

“H—” You try to protest, but your throat doesn’t work. Before you can say anything, it just gives out, and leaves you wheezing for a moment before trying again only to discover that, to your horror, you cannot talk. 

Your throat seems to close up every time you try to say anything. All that comes out are breathy wheezes and coughs that leave a strangely bad pain in your chest. As you try to stop your coughing, whatever is picking you up quickly dumps you into the large funnel on top of the machine. It’s cold and bites at your skin unforgivingly, making you hiss in discomfort. You don’t even clock how the cold is irritating your skin, despite you being fully clothed and none of your bare skin being exposed to the metal of the machine. 

You try to move your hands to the sides of the funnel to push yourself up, but you move at a painfully slow speed, and can’t do anything but stand still. Like a mannequin, you’re forced into a standing position and can’t do anything but stand in the funnel. You look down, and you’re standing on what seems to be some sort of cylinder. The bottom of the funnel ends around your mid-calf. 

Oddly, this reminds you of those nightmares you used to have when you were younger, where you were running from something or someone but moved too slow to get away. 

Suddenly, the cylinder begins to move. 

It spirals in place, making you quickly lose your balance and soon you’ve fallen in a lying position on the cylinder as it turns. It starts at a slow pace but starts to speed up, in time with your panic. You try to scramble to your feet but your limbs don’t allow it, keeping you stuck in place, the cylinder starting to turn even faster. 

You’re uncomfortably folded and pushed through the small ending of the funnel as the cylinder keeps moving, and once you’re through, you start to hear a strange whirring. 

It’s loud and sounds like some sort of shitty metal fan. It clangs against the sides of whatever tube you’re in and occasionally makes a horrible screeching noise that, if you could, you would cover your ears to escape. You turn your head to the side ever-so-slightly and see the “metal fan” itself—four sharp blades that spin clockwise, with a weird hole-filled circle behind them. You furrow—or, well, try to at least—your eyebrows at the sight. 

The fuck is that? You don’t realize you’re getting closer to it. 

The cylinder is now turning at an exceptionally fast pace, and only when you’re a few feet from the blades do you realize just how close you are to them. 

“Wait—” You finally find your voice, though it sounds far away and is muddy in your ears, “Stop, stop—” 

You’re not sure what else to say. You can’t tell if you’re begging, commanding, demanding, or anything of the sort. All you know is that the cylinder is going faster and faster, at an almost punishing pace that leaves you wondering what you could’ve done to deserve whatever the hell is happening to you. The blades emit an ungodly screech each time they get caught on a bump on the insides of the tube, and as you get even closer you can spot bright orange rust on the blades. 

The texture is enough to make you gag. You’re getting closer, and closer, and soon you’re barely a foot away from it. The screeching and the whirring is so loud. You can’t hear anything else—or, wouldn’t be able to hear anything else, if there was anything else to be heard. 

You can barely continue your train of thought before you feel a sharp, cold rush through your ankle. 

You hadn’t been paying enough attention. You didn’t realize how close your feet had gotten to the blades. 

The sound it had made when it was cut off was sickening. A loud pop, the same kind of pop that sounds when you break open the tab of a can. You open your mouth to scream but nothing comes out, and suddenly the rest of your leg is getting shredded by those same blades, and dear God, it’s so cold. It feels like dry ice cutting right through your calves, making its way up to your knees, soon to your thighs, much faster than you can process. 

Your thoughts come in small fleets that go as soon as they come and you’re never able to continue or dwell on a single one, always getting interrupted by the white-cold pain that literally cuts through your upper thighs. You can’t feel anything from the waist down. You can’t feel your legs, your feet, and you’re losing feeling in your hips—

Your hands desperately grasp at the cylinder, and you’re not sure what you’re doing but you’re trying to do something, anything, as long as it delays the inevitable shredding of your torso and head. But it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t. Whatever you had intended to do doesn’t work, and soon there’s a sharp cold pain that cuts into your ribcage, and suddenly you can’t even feel your stomach. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you can recognize the small sobs that escape you. 

Your chest is the next to go, and soon it’s your shoulders, and even though they’re not gone yet your hands have already gone numb, and you’re bracing yourself for the sharp-cold pain to reach your neck when suddenly—

You wake up, body immediately getting into an upright sitting position and your chest heaving as sweat drips down your forehead. The sweat is cold and your breathing is loud in your ears, your ears which are filled with ringing, the sound of just anything enough to make your breath hitch and a sob crawl into your throat. With open-mouthed pants, you blink rapidly at the space in front of you, before quickly raising your hands to your face and letting out a loud, shaky sigh when you can actually feel the air moving through your fingers. 

They aren’t numb. You plant them on the ground and just feel around, the rough fabric of your tent gliding under your hands. You shake your head vigorously, letting out another relieved sigh when you find that it’s still attached to your neck and hasn’t been sliced through. You move your legs and they’re still attached to your body. Everything is still on you. You’re in the same clothes you went to sleep in. You have all of your body parts. You are in one piece. Nothing is missing. You’re fine. 

Despite repeating to yourself that everything’s okay—you’re physically together, you’re in a tent in the middle of the fucking woods and the worst thing that could happen to you is getting jumped by a bear in your sleep—nothing feels okay. There’s still the phantom feeling of getting put through a meat grinder that keeps a perpetual tremble in your bones, that keeps you unknowing of how to act like you’re in one piece. Not act. You are in one piece. But you aren’t. You swear, even though it was just some stupid dream, that it felt real enough to have actually happened. 

“[c/n]?” Soap’s tired voice snaps you out of your thoughts. Right. We’re sharing a tent. You quickly whip your head to look at him, chest still rising up and down rapidly as your unstable breathing continues. You don’t say anything, simply staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Are ye alright?” He frowns, quickly growing more awake the more concerned he gets, “Whit’s wrong?” 

Maybe you’re in some form of shock, but you find yourself staying silent out of the fear of something happening. You’re not sure what that ‘something’ is, but it’s there, and it’s holding you back from even attempting to speak. Your breath hitches and your throat stings. 

“Hey, uh,” Soap pushes himself up with a grunt and walks over a short few steps to you, kneeling down once he’s beside you, “Jist breathe, everything’s gonnae be alright.”

You know he’s not exactly the best at comforting people. He’s always been better with more technical things, and would much rather help you with math homework or something over trying to comfort you after something traumatic. It’s not that he doesn’t want to—of course he does, and he wishes he was much better than he is now at it—but he can never manage to find the right words. 

He puts a tentative hand on your shoulder and you stare at it as it reaches you, flinching back immediately when you can actually feel his hand over your shirt. He pulls his hand back instantly, expression growing even more concerned. 

“Do ye wannae tell me whit happened?” Soap whisper-asks. When you quickly shake your head ‘no’, Soap thinks for a moment before offering, “Do ye want me tae get onyone else?” 

You think about his words for a moment before nodding. He sighs. 

“Who?” 

Your gaze flickers from the exit of the tent before going back to Soap.

“… Cap’n Price,” You quietly decide. Soap nods and reluctantly gets up, making his way out of the tent. 

A few minutes later, you hear Soap walk back into the tent as well as another set of feet that trail right behind him. You look up and over at the entrance of the tent and see your Captain. His eyes are immediately on you, and as soon as he sees the mystified look in your eyes, he’s quick to make his way to you and kneel down beside you. 

He doesn’t know what to say for a moment, you can tell. He instinctively brings a hand up to put on your shoulder like he typically would in situations like these, but something causes him to bring his hand back down and away from you. Maybe Soap told him how you reacted earlier? You brush off the thought for now, more focused on whatever Price is trying to do. 

The reason you wanted him here instead of the others was mainly because you felt the least embarrassed around him. Which was weird, considering that he’s of the highest rank compared to you and the others, but still—you can’t imagine him judging you, not even for the most outrageous things. Maybe he’d have a small fit over you saying “soccer” instead of “football”, but otherwise, you can’t think of a world where he judges you for something like having a nightmare. 

And sure, the others have them too and probably wouldn’t judge you either, but still. Price will probably always be your first option for situations like these. 

“Soap hadn’t told me what happened, yet,” Price says softly, “D’you mind filling me in?” 

If this were anyone else, you’d be fighting the urge to jump off a cliff, but because it’s not, you simply answer, “Nightmare.” 

Your voice is a little clearer now, much to your relief, but it still carries that rasp from earlier. It doesn’t pain you to talk, but it does shock you that you even can, considering that you could barely form a whisper in your nightmare. And yes, that’s a silly thought, knowing that all of that was a nightmare, but you couldn’t care less about that right now.

“A nightmare, alright,” Price hums, before suggesting, “My tent’s bigger than yours, y’know. You wanna bring your sleeping bag over there, so we’re all together? Power in numbers, yeah?”

 You nod mindlessly, agreeing with anything Price says. He smiles at you and hesitantly puts a hand on your shoulder, doing it slowly enough that you have plenty of time to let him know if it’s not okay, but you allow it. Price shoots a look at Soap and the latter nods, confirming whatever Price’s silent look asked him. 

“Alright,” Price gives your shoulder one last squeeze before standing up, waiting for you to stand up as well. Once you do, he starts to walk out of the tent, expecting you to walk after him. Surprisingly, Soap gets up as well, sleeping bag and pillow in hand. Huh. Maybe that’s what he was confirming. You quickly pick up your sleeping bag and pillow, movements a little more stilted than usual as you didn’t expect to actually be able to move as quickly as you can now, and follow Price out of your tent. 

You shiver as you walk out into the cold outside of the woods, and are quick to walk to the much bigger tent across from yours. 

When you enter the tent, Gaz remains asleep while Ghost almost immediately wakes up. It’s uncanny, the speed at which his eyes open and dart to your figure—as if he was never asleep in the first place. You push those thoughts aside and wait for Price to walk in. 

“Wh’t’s goin’ on?” Ghost asks sleepily, his British accent making his slurred words nearly impossible to decipher. 

“They’re stayin’ in here for the rest of the night,” Price answers for you, nodding over to you as he refers to you. 

Ghost looks over at you and you can sense his raised eyebrow despite not being able to see it. You look to Price to explain your situation for you again, and once he sees you look at him, he explains, “Nightmare.” 

Ghost blinks before nodding understandably. Almost immediately, he conks out and goes right back to sleeping like the dead, making Price snort. Price turns to you, and gestures towards the empty spot next to Gaz, the spot conveniently empty and just perfectly sized for your sleeping bag. You walk over there as quietly as you can, shuffling around Ghost’s and Price’s sleeping bags, and gently lay your sleeping bag down next to Gaz’s. 

You set down your pillow inside of the sleeping bag and kneel down as quietly as you can, a soft rustling sounding from your sleeping bag as you settle in. You turn on your side and let out a quiet sigh, eyelids already drooping with exhaustion. You’ve turned towards Gaz, and he’s turned towards you, and you look over his sleeping face for a moment before deciding to catch up on your own rest. 

Just as you’re about to close your eyes, you watch his open. 

“...” He stares at you for a moment, before he sleepily whispers, “Hey.” 

“Hi.” 

“… Y’good?” He asks, looking at your still-glassy eyes and very-clearly-worn-out expression. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” You answer, trying to offer a tiny bit of reassurance. 

“Alright,” Gaz hums, accepting your answer easily, and closing his eyes once again. 

A small smile graces your lips. You’re all used to going to sleep easily, of course, on missions like these—you kind of need to be, given that you’re all military. It took you a bit, but you eventually got used to it, and gained that skill just a few months after joining the task force. 

Speaking of which, you find yourself drifting off to sleep not long after Gaz closes his eyes again, and soon enough, you’ve already fallen asleep—this time, without nightmares or dreams.

[v1x3n]

࿔*: - DREAMS INTO REALITY

john price ⸝⸝ navigation ୨୧ tags : fluff

୨୧ 𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴 : your friends set you up on a blind date.... the blind date being your captain!

It would be fun they said. He's a good guy they said. Your friends had stated they had set you up on a blind date. Some guy your friend knows, apparently he's been liking this girl but he doesn't like him back bla bla bla. Some shite your friends talk. It all mushes together sometimes - the things spewing out of their mouths.

So here you are sitting patiently at your table. Table 11 is where your friends have told you to wait. Swooning your eyes around, flirting with the idea of just getting up and leaving, so fucking worried about who was going to walk through those doors and sit by you. You bet your friends had set you up with some absolute freaks. Your foot slammed against the floor as you looked through the menu for the restaurant. Your eyes swiping through the options - trying your hardest to distract yourself from who was gunna be your date.

Your foot taps against the hard floor as you hear the door fling open. Questions grow around your mind - pushing your thoughts and ideas together into a tight squish. A kind yet familiar voice, deep and loving almost, sounds from the entrance of the restaurant. You can slightly hear his words through his loud accent. '11' was a word he blurted out. Fuck he was your date. Eyes swatting to one side of the room to his almost blurred face to look back at your hands.

Soon, the sound of the same mystery man could be heard just across your table. "Hey, I guess you're my..." he trails off. You take a glance up to see it's your fucking captain. Captain Price was standing across your table - supposedly being your blind date. "Y/N? Are you uh the right person?”

You nod slightly in confirmation, feeling a bit confused and overwhelmed as Price sits opposite you. Your eyes rake over his shirt, large biseps poking out and a chised pecs beaming through his shirt. He slowly shuffles around in his chair, settling into a comfortable position as you retort, "I'm guessing."

While he takes the menu to scroll his eyes through it to pick out a meal, you take a chance to check him out - out of the uniform which is the only sight you have seen him in. You could tell he had tried to look nice - and ofc he did look nice. The man was wearing a crisp white linen shirt with two unbuttoned buttons at the top, and also had on a brown blazer that was draped over his broad shoulders. He paired the look with crisp black trousers that fit him perfectly, showing off his muscular legs.

The waiter scoots over as Price looks up at you and smiles sweetly, a genuine silly smile. The one he makes quite often that always makes you feel mushy and giggly inside. "I'll have the hm.. steak please." he kindly says to the waiter then looks over to you for your answer. After ordering your meal you and Price start to chit chat.

"so price-"

"john."

"john?"

"Yeh, call me John. Not price."

Awe how cute, well not really but it was odd calling your captain, who is on a date with you, his real name. John Price - it kinda like rings off your tongue. It fits him. Ofc it felt weird calling your date his last name but he was your boss so what were you meant to do? This was a confusing time. He didn't seem to mind, and you felt weird calling him anything else.

"so john," you slightly giggle at the voice you had just said his name in - as if john wasn't his real name. John chuckles at how daft you were and just happily glazes at you with his stupid grin plastered along his face, "was told you like some lass? " John blushes and looks away, trying to mask his embarrassment. You smile and chuckle again, knowing he's hiding something. "Maddy told you?" nodding and giggleing at his embarrassment he scoffs slightly. As if mocking you - you can clearly see him fiddling with his hands above the table, obviously nervous and keeping something from you.

"well, I do, Maddy told me she would set me up to get over it." now you are wondering.. who is this lucky girl? Who is the girl who made price like them that much? It wouldn't be a very good first date if you chatted about who his secret little crush was the whole time so you decided to leave it.

"how's your steak?” you question as he tucks into his food while you do the same. The food was delicious but not as tasty as the sight in front of you - your captain in civilian clothes which highlights his juicy muscles as he chomps on his food. God he was kinda hot - you never really noticed him being this attractive. You had always seen him more as a serious father-boss figure, never as attractive, fit or anything around that!

Price starts telling you things he wouldn't really share, like his hobbies, family and past life as you do the same. This date was comforting. It was just plain sweet. It seems like Price really took an interest in you, well he did at work but it was almost like he was in love with you right now and right here.

After a while the date goes nice, the chemistry goes good and he invites you over to his place. Tasting his lips as he carefully pushes you to the sofa, getting on top of you and towering above your tiny body while he groans into your lips. It was like he was dreaming of this moment with the planned out moves and the small relief groans he murmured into your mouth as he gets rougher with his kisses. The kiss seemed scheduled as if he had thought about this multiple times before so you just had to ask.

In between the smoches you could finally breathe out ,” how..” you get cut off with another breathless kiss, smothering your words with his kisses. “how long have you been dreaming of this..” whispering and pushing John slightly off of you to be able to catch your breath.

"Too fucking long doll.”

[angelinasnotebooks]

Hate that my form of hyperfixation is consuming and not creating.

I think I've been falling in love with ideas my whole life. I see colors and concepts and characters, and I want every part of the illusion to play around my body and immerse my mind and soul. I thought growing up I would be an artist. When that mentally shattered, I moved on to thinking I would become an author. Now, however, I don't know what or who I'll be. All I know is that my brain never stops coming up with ideas. 

Yet, with all these ideas comes the possibility of creation. It's what I want, isn't it? I want to create these pictures and stories and share them with the world. So, why am I motionless in my pursuit to bring my mind to life? I have a library in my head. There's a girl in there. Her favorite color is blue. She doesn't know if life is worth living. I have an art museum there too. There's a portrait of a dying renegade, and a demon alter ego desiring joy. Then there's the realm of fandoms. The endless multiverse of continuations and alternatives.  

There's a lot going on inside my brain and imagination. Chemicals I do not understand and signals I cannot control. An abundance of beauty only an individual can conjure with their subjectivity. With no outlet for these thoughts and images, I find it all to be too much at times. Wings heavy on my back and flightless under the pressure. The ability to soar is there, but the weight within is burdensome.  

Every day I come up with something new. Some ideas are fresh while others are another line on the loom, but that is all they are. Thoughts. Ideas. Invisible whisps, webs, and wishes. It's as if the only part of my frontal lobe that works is that of imagination and complex thinking. I attempt short stories, painting, studying, chores, school projects, craft projects and I never get them done. Planning, time management, logical reasoning, and decision-making have all taken a backseat. I can't get any of them done, so I turn to what has already been done. 

I rewatch a favorite show. I read another fanfic. I click on a YouTube video and another. I scroll Tumblr. I read character analysis. I try on the clothes in my closet. I add shit to my wish list. I post photos from two months ago on my Instagram. I relate to autistic ADHD tiktokers. I pretend Pinterest will help me get my life together. I think about the MCU. I watch another comfort, crime, haunted, mythical series. I visit my AO3 bookmarks. I doom scroll whatever app I can get my eyes on. I turn thirteen again and either spiral into a depressive state or become infatuated with the Hunger Games--again.

The point is, I can't force my brain to work on the original ideas. Sitting at a desk with supplies doesn't get my hands moving. I fall numb waiting for my body and mind to comply with my intentions. So, I end up here again. Hitting a heart button to let other people know that their commentary and hard work have reached me, and I liked it.  

I don’t want all my ideas and universes to end where they are. I don’t want to minimize or invalidate my existence, or the experiences of others like me, by remaining artistically stagnant. I want my mind to be a visual tangible galaxy free to be roamed and explored. I want to have my heart in my hands, and I want to give it to every single person that I can. I want these thoughts, these precious ideas out of my head and into yours, dear reader. I don't want to consume; I want to create. If I'm going to go down the rabbit hole, I want to be the rabbit. The entrance maker. Not the lost girl I am right now. 

[rorschach-retrograding-rotary]

Alright last one

cross my heart, next time I won't make the voting process this arduous.

Okay so last time but with the ones who one the last poll.

C.o.D monster A.U fic. Who do y'all want to be written as romancing?

Edit: If Simon wins, there'll be temperature play, choking, maybe some dirty talk. If Soap wins, it'll probably be like, size difference/biting/knotting (maybe on the knotting) and perhaps a minor breeding thing. Cuddling probably as his attempt at aftercare.

[ultra-violetra]

one of the things I would love to make is a writer's bootcamp / critique circle where people get grouped together based on things like genre, age category, writing stage (i.e. outlining, 1st draft, editing) where you submit something weekly to show your progress and get critique or even just positivity from your group. and there would be deadlines to encourage accountability and getting. stuff. done.

is there interest in this? would anyone want to help me make something like it? i don't think I could do it on my own

edit: if you'd like to join, click here

[complexcrow]

Words like Sisyphean make me wish we had more words named directly after mythological figures in our common parlance.

A Enkidian Task - A seemingly impossible task given to you the moment you enter the room without a lick of context, but for which you are supernaturally well prepared, as if it was fate that you walked into the room at the right time.

A Grendellian Task - An ugly, hideous task that nobody else has been willing or able to complete despite countless attempting it.

An Icharian Task - A seemingly simple task for which all necessary tools are provided. So simple that it's easy to approach the task and think 'there is probably a faster way to do this' before you fail miserably.

There's just so many cool options from folklore and mythology across the lore that we're just letting sit by the wayside, unspoken in our daily conversations. How can I get my morning coffee without comparing it to a Parisian Task where a simple choice has drastically disproportionate consequences? (The milk upsets my tummy.)

[inamindfarfaraway]

As an autistic person who has no internal sense of time and pretty often forgets to eat, talk to people and do any other task while absorbed in a special interest, it’s extremely funny to me that the tragedy of Hadestown hinges on Orpheus being too busy composing to notice:

Him and his wife running out of food and firewood.

His wife and father figure repeatedly asking him to pay attention to them.

His wife leaving to find more supplies in the harsh winter full of desperate people, alone, without him even offering to help.

A huge storm with “the wrath of the gods” in it blowing in the same direction his wife went.

Hades emerging from the afterlife to manipulate his wife into killing herself.

His wife killing herself.

And then after all of this, he gets up and is like “Where’s my wife, my sun, my heaven and Earth, the food and drink of my soul, who I would do absolutely anything for and could never live without?” And he means it! It was never that he didn’t care! He was just in the Zone!

[ephyreart]

Cigars & Wine ─ Captain Price x OC

[A/N] First time posting writing here! Hope it does well and is liked, it is also on my ao3!

Content ─ Angst, Fluff

Word Count ─ 1090

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A celestial pearl in the darkened sky, a silver imperfect sphere surrounded by an ethereal glow, a stellar body of enchanting beauty as its light shimmered upon us, his ocean-like optics illuminated as he gazed within the warmth of my honey-painted orbs.

Calloused hands soon found themselves upon my waist, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of my oversized shirt before he gradually began tracing delicate circles over my porcelain-like skin. Our bodies now woven, like threads interlaced jointly— his larger frame engulfing mine, the intoxicating fragrance of his musky aroma, a symphony of whiskey, cigars and cedar filling the room, hung heavy in the air, filling in my senses as I savoured his scent. The firewood crackled peacefully, a luminous glow radiating warmth, accompanied by a sweet melody as our bodies began to sway to the slow rhythm of the music, waltzing gracefully across the floor.

''Cheeky girl, putting that record on.'' He let out a low chuckle before he lifted my arm over my head, spinning my body around and immediately drawing me back into his embrace, his nose scrunching a little, a smile forming upon his lips as his gaze locked within my own. ''Still fixated on it, am I right, love?'' John leaned forward, his voice throaty and low as he whispered, the warmth of his breath tickling my skin, his lips soon pressing a gentle kiss upon my earlobe.

''I can't help it, John.'' I pouted a little as a shiver ran down my spine, melting into his touch, surrendering to the magnetic pull between us. His strong hands guided me effortlessly, our bodies moving in perfect harmony, flowing seamlessly, each step an echo of the other, like a pair of celestial bodies forever bound to orbit around each other, our paths intertwined in a cosmic waltz. ''I know, just teasing you, love, no need to get all pouty on me.'' He let out a throaty laugh, smirking before leaning forward— our lips meeting in a tender embrace, a burst of sweetness with a hint of liquor lingering upon as his facial hair tickled my cheeks. A rush of emotions surged through me; our kiss was like a summer breeze, soft and warm, caressing my skin gently as if time had stood still.

[ I wish it had. ]

''Keep talking like that, and maybe you'll wake up with no beard tomorrow.'' My cherry-tinted lips curved upwards, lifting my gaze to meet his own, letting out a muffled chuckle. My hands wrapped around his forearms, fingertips tracing patterns upon the fabric of his clothing before trailing up to his shoulders, soon cupping his face gently. ''Ah, threatening me now, aren't you, darling?'' John teased, his hands finding my hips and pulling me closer to him as my thumbs drafted circles against his cheeks, his beard poking my delicate skin.

My eyes twinkled with mischief as my lips curved into a smirk. I gracefully rose upon the tips of my feet, closing the gap between us with a gentle lean, our lips meeting in a tender, fleeting kiss. With a soft hum, I pulled away, our hands soon intertwining and with a playful grin, I guided John towards the couch— our steps slow and deliberate as we sat upon the velvety cushions. 

''I hope you don't mind me stealing one of your cigars.'' I smiled, and with a swift motion, my hand darted towards the coffee table, fingers deftly clasping the pack nestled amidst scattered magazines, pulling one out before positioning it between my lips, igniting the tip with a lighter. ''And here I thought you hated my cigars.'' John tilted his gaze— crystalline blue eyes twinkling with amusement, watching me take a slow drag, a slender stream of smoke curling from the end of the cigar held delicately between my fingers. ''Still haven't cut off your habit, eh?'' He murmured, a hint of worry lacing his voice.

''You're the one to talk, John.'' My eyes rolled as I swiftly rose from the couch, my body swaying as I spun around, walking with measured steps towards the kitchen bar counter. My fingers embraced the wine bottle with a gentle yet confident grip as I remained to ponder. Perhaps he was right; my habit of smoking had become too uncontrollable. With every puff, a silent betrayal unfolded, the toxic smoke infiltrating my once vibrant lungs, slowly eroding their vitality, choking the very breath of life from within, consuming me whole, drowning my sorrows— seeking to forget as I slowly continued destroying my very own body and mind with unhealthy habits.

 ''You need to let me go, Charlotte.''

My ears perked up, the bottle slipping from my grip, crashing upon the ground, glass shards scattered as my body froze. An eerie silence settled upon the room as if even the air held its breath. The absence of sound was deafening, creating an unsettling void that amplified every creak and rustle.

''What are you talking about?'' 

A faint whisper escaped my lips, choking on my words as I held a tight grip on the edges of the counter. Reality beckoned like an insistent call, drawing me back from the depths of my imagination. The images that had danced before my eyes dissolved like smoke, my world crumbling apart all over again. Eyes once full of life— bright and sweet like honey, the sparkle that once kindled my gaze had dulled, replaced by a haunting sadness.

Like crystalline dewdrops forming on a delicate flower petal, tears welled up within the depths of my eyes, transforming the honey-brown irises into a liquid haze, blurring my vision. My emotions overflowed— consuming my mind whole as the glistening droplets clung to my eyelashes, my body trembling in fear as I desperately gasped for air.

''John?''

I had now burnt out like a fading star— the gentle yet once fierce flame within me had now dimmed to a mere ember, as my once radiant light now flickered weakly, like a celestial body finally nearing the end of its life cycle, leaving behind a hollow emptiness, now replaced by a dim, distant twinkle. The moon shone upon my figure as I dropped to my knees, tears overflowing, dribbling down my cheeks, as the firewood persisted in crackling gently, our record on repeat.

And in that solitary moment, my heart shattered as I finally grasped that the dance I had cherished so dearly was a tender embrace with his ghost, forever lost to the depths of my own imagination.

[moregraceful]

EVERYBODY SHUT UP!!!!!! PAT SIELOFF IS PREGNANT!!!!!

1. Birthday cake from Sierra and Kelly; 2. Gritty soft serve ice cream cup; 3. Sign for Erik Johnson's 1k celebration; 4. Jersey Devil Christmas tree ornament.

[janasrdhr]

Salvation - Simon “Ghost” Riley

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Warning(s): Slight NSFW, Explicit Language

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The rain hammered against the roof of the safe house like an incessant drum, a reminder of the storm both outside and within its walls. The room was stark, illuminated only by the intermittent flicker of an old lamp, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. You sat opposite Simon Riley, the man who was as much your nemesis as he was your ally in this precarious mission. The Ghost.

You had been on opposite sides more often than not, each encounter a chess game where moves were calculated and every gesture could be a feint; two operatives with a common goal but divergent methods.

Maps and documents were strewn across the table, but they were momentarily forgotten as the tension between you and Ghost reached a boiling point.

“For fuck's sake, Ghost, can you not see you're compromising the whole operation with your damn recklessness?” you hissed, your voice low and fierce.

He slammed his hand down on the table, leaning closer, his expression hard. “I get the job done, dove. I always do. Maybe if ya' weren't so bloody rigid, you’d see that.”

The space between you was electric, the air thick with every harsh word and challenging stare you had ever exchanged. It was as if all the years of rivalry and grudging respect had built up to this singular, explosive moment.

“You're being reckless, Ghost!” you snapped, your voice sharp as a whip. “This isn't some solo mission where you can play the hero. We have protocols for a reason.”

Ghost's jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. “And ya' think playin' it safe is goin' to get us out'a this? We're not in some bloody trainin' exercise, dove. This is real, and it's dirty, and sometimes ya' have to adapt!”

“Adapt? Is that what you call compromising the entire operation?” Your voice rose, each word laced with accusation. “You think you're the only one who wants to get the job done? I'm not here to clean up your messes, Ghost.”

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping back violently. “Maybe if ya' stepped out from behind yer' manuals and protocols, you'd see that. Ya' think you're always right, but you're blind, dove. Blind to the fact that this world doesn't play by yer' rules.”

The room seemed to shrink, the air charged with your mutual frustration and anger. You stood as well, meeting him eye to eye, neither willing to back down. “And you're blind to the consequences of your actions! It's not just about us, Ghost. There are lives at stake—”

“Lives are always at stake!” he cut you off, his voice booming over the sound of the rain. “'nd I do what I have to, to protect them. Ya' think I don't know the cost? Ya' think I don't carry it w'me, every damn day?”

His words hung heavy, laden with an emotion you hadn't expected to see. It was a glimpse into the burden he bore, a side of him he rarely showed. But the moment of vulnerability was fleeting, quickly masked by his frustration.

“You're not the only one with scars, Ghost,” you said quietly, your anger giving way to a pained understanding. “We all have them. But that doesn't give you the right to be a martyr. Not at the expense of the mission, not at the expense of our team.”

Ghost's expression hardened, the brief flicker of vulnerability vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He stepped closer, his posture rigid, the intensity in his eyes almost palpable. “Martyr?” he scoffed, his voice laced with disdain. “Ya' think this is about martyrdom? You're so wrapped up in yer' rules and yer' protocols that you've lost sight of what's at stake here.”

He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his words punctuated by the fierceness of his conviction. “I make the hard calls, dove, the ones you're too scared to make. Ya' hide behind yer' guidelines, thinkin' they'll save ya', but out here, in the real world, it's adapt or die. And I'm not ready to die, 'specially not for yer' idealism.”

You felt a surge of anger at his accusation, your hands balling into fists at your sides. “Idealism? Is that what you call valuing human lives? Because I call it humanity, Ghost. Something you might have forgotten in your 'my way or die' philosophy.”

Ghost's smirk was cold, unyielding. “Humanity? In our line'a work? You're delusional if ya' think that's what keeps us alive. It's about making the tough decisions, doin' the dirty work so others don't have to. If that makes me reckless in yer' eyes, so be it.”

The tension between you was explosive, a live wire sparking in the damp air of the safe house. Neither of you moved, the space between you charged with a volatile mix of anger and unresolved tension.

Finally, Ghost straightened, his expression set into a mask of determination. “We're wastin' time here, dove. Ya' can either get on board or get out of my way. But I'm finishin' this mission, with or without yer' approval.”

Your frustration boiled over as you watched Ghost dismissively turn his attention back to the maps. His words echoed in your mind, each one a spark igniting your temper further. He was so certain, so infuriatingly resolute in his methods, and his dismissal felt like a direct challenge to your convictions.

Stepping forward, you snatched a map from the table, crumpling it slightly in your grip. “Just because you're ready to die for this mission doesn't mean you have to drag the rest of us down with your god complex,” you spat out, your voice sharp and biting.

Ghost paused, his back still turned to you. The muscles in his shoulders tensed, and for a moment, you thought he might continue ignoring you, but then he slowly turned around. His eyes were a storm themselves, dark and intense.

“Ya' think y'know better? You think yer' way is the only way?” His voice was low, a dangerous calm that contrasted with the fury in his eyes. He stepped towards you, closing the space with a few determined strides.

“Yes, because my way doesn’t get people killed!” you retorted, your voice rising to match the intensity of the storm outside.

Ghost stopped just inches away, his gaze fixed on you. “You're so damn stubborn,” he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration and something else you couldn't quite place.

“And you're so damn reckless,” you shot back, unwilling to back down, your breaths mingling in the charged air between you.

Suddenly, Ghost's demeanor shifted, the anger in his eyes giving way to a different kind of fire. Before you could react, he closed the gap, his hands gripping your arms as he pulled you into him.

Ghost's grip on your arms wasn't just firm; it was electrifying, sending a jolt of unexpected energy through your body. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours for a moment that stretched endlessly. Then, without a word, he pulled you harshly against him, erasing the space and the lingering traces of your argument with one swift motion.

His lips met yours with a force that spoke volumes, silencing your protests and melting your resolve. The kiss was not gentle; it was a clash, fierce and demanding, as if he was determined to prove a point. Ghost's mouth moved against yours with a desperate urgency, his frustration and pent-up energy translating into a passion that caught you off guard.

You gasped into the kiss, and he took advantage, his tongue sliding against yours, exploring and asserting dominance. The world around you—the maps, the storm, the mission—faded into a blur of sensations. All that mattered was the overwhelming feel of his lips on yours, the stubble of his jaw scratching at your skin, heightening the raw intensity of the moment.

Your hands, initially caught in the moment of surprise, now roved over his body, tracing the hard lines of his back through his shirt, pulling him even closer. Ghost responded with equal fervor, his hands moving from your back to your waist, gripping you tightly, his fingers pressing into your skin as if he couldn't get close enough.

The intensity escalated as his hands roamed further, exploring the contours of your body with a boldness that fueled the heat between you. One hand slid up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss, while the other traced down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. Every touch was electric, sparking a fire that threatened to consume you both.

You responded to his urgency, your own hands exploring his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense under your touch. Your fingers dug into his hair, pulling slightly, eliciting a low groan from him that vibrated through your lips. The sound only added to the intensity, driving you to explore further, your hands slipping under his shirt to feel the warmth of his skin against your palms.

When the need for air finally forced you apart, you were both panting, foreheads pressed together, the storm outside echoing the tumultuous rush of your heartbeats. Ghost's eyes were still closed, his breaths heavy and uneven against your face. His hands still rested on your waist, not ready to let go, as if breaking the contact would shatter the connection you had just forged.

The room thick with the heat of your encounter, the earlier chill replaced by an undeniable warmth.

“We really shouldn’t keep doin' this,” he whispered, his voice rough with desire, but his grip on you contradicted his words.

“No, we shouldn’t,” you agreed, your voice breathy, but like him, you made no move to step back, to break the spell that the intense, touch-filled encounter had cast.

The silence that hung between you and Ghost was thick, charged with the aftermath of the intense connection you'd just shared. The storm outside had dwindled to a soft drizzle, mirroring the quieting of the tumultuous energy inside the safe house.

Suddenly, Ghost broke the silence with a muttered, “Fuckin' hell,” his voice a blend of wonder and frustration as he ran a hand through his hair, looking at you with a complex expression.

You simply nodded, understanding the multitude of emotions behind his words. The air was still heavy with the unsaid, the future uncertain.

Ghost looked at you, his eyes searching. “The hell we do now?” he asked, the raw honesty in his voice stripping away any remnants of his usual composure.

“We'll figure it out,” you responded, your voice calm and sure despite the chaos that seemed to always be at the edge of your lives. “Whatever this is, we'll figure it out together.”

Ghost stepped closer, his presence enveloping you in a sense of security that contrasted sharply with the uncertainty of his words. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a comforting embrace that felt like a safe harbor in the midst of the storm. Leaning down, he placed a gentle kiss on the top of your head, a tender gesture that felt like a promise. With a heavy sigh, he murmured,

“We always do.”

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masterlist - cod masterlist

© All content on this writing blog is subject to copyright protection; unauthorized reproduction or distribution of any material without permission is prohibited.

[moody-alcoholic]

The Proposal

I've been sat on this piece for a few weeks now, while I was tidying up my work I came across it and cleaned it up.

I cried while editing this...

It definitely had something to do with this song conveniently playing in the background.

MASTERLIST

Enjoy <3

Summary: Simon x OC Established relationship (duh), proposal, 1.9k words. First draft dribbles, radio communication inaccuracies. I think I was on my period when I wrote this...

“I got you something.” I turned hearing Ghost walk up behind me. His hands were behind his back. I looked at him smiling. He bought one hand out and handed me a pager. I take it out his hands.

“A pager, wow whats the occasion?” I ask trying to hide my confused disappointment. I hear him chuckle.

“It goes with this.” He brings his other hand round showing a radio with red tape around it. I recognised it, it’s the emergency radio from the medical wing.

“Did you steal this?” I asked taking out his hands. He laughs.

“No I got permission, it’s a gift you’re the medic on call for the next 48 hours.” I look confused trying to hide my excitement. He leans down to whisper in my ear.

“Happy birthday.” I freeze how did he know? I look around hoping no one else heard. I look at him wide eyed. He shrugs.

“This is a good gift.” I say clipping the pager on my belt. Being on the base is so boring sometimes. Price and Ghost are always in meetings Gaz helps with training. I see them for lunch sometime but then that’s it. At least now I can feel like I’m doing something other then following Gaz around. I’ve always wanted to do this. Did he know? Did I tell him at some point? I bring the radio up to my mouth smiling as I press the button.

“Mike-charlie-one on-duty and receiving over.” I wait a second then there is a response.

“Roger that mike-charlie one, we have you scheduled for 48 hours of duty. Sergeant Williams confirm over.” I hug Ghost giddy with excitement I don’t care if people are watching, I break away I know he is smiling under his mask.

“Affirmative this is Williams taking call sign mike-charlie-one for the next 48 hours.”

“Roger that mike-charlie, have a good shift.” I want to say thank you but I’m too giddy bouncing on my feet as I follow Ghost back to the main building hooking the radio on the other side of my belt.

“How did you know by the way?” I ask.

“Know what?” He asks playfully. I smile. I don’t know why I’m following him but I let him lead me through to the mess hall. I had no idea it was lunch already. I was almost too excited to eat. I grabbed a cup of tea and a sandwich and followed Ghost over to Gaz and Price sat at a table. They stopped talking and look at me as I sat down.

“What?” I say. Price hands me an envelope. I look at him as I open it.

“Price this is a get well soon card.” I say Gaz laughs.

“It was all they had in the shop.” He says defensively. I open it, the message inside is a happy birthday one and Price’s signature, like he’s signing a letter or something. I show Ghost.

“You signed it?” He says looking at Price. I show Gaz and he laughs.

“That’s not how you sign a card Price.” Gaz says between laughs.

“I appreciate it, thank you Price.” I say closing the card. I look at Ghost. I didn’t want anyone to know really but as long as it’s just Price and Gaz I don’t mind. I sip my tea listening to Gaz and Price continue the conversation they were having before I sat down. Ghost’s hand found my thigh under the table. It took everything in my body not to move closer to him and lean on his shoulder. Price and Gaz finished eating then left for more training Ghost following after them a little while later. He seemed distracted by something but I wasn’t sure what. I would have to catch him later and ask him what was wrong. I spent the rest of the day going to typical calls, suspected sprain, insulin check, birth control queries. I didn't care how tedious it seemed, I finally felt like I was doing something useful, something I enjoyed. I took each call with a smile on my face giving in to the rush of doing anything medical related. By late evening after a wound dressing class I was tired. I threw myself into bed early.

I wake to the beep of the pager. I look over grabbing it and pressing it off. I pick up my normal radio and press the channel in.

“Mike-charlie-one how copy?” I close my eyes again waiting for a response hoping it’s just the night shift nurse asking for a medication change.

“Eh I was told to contact you about any incoming trauma.” I pick up the emergency radio. It’s still working.

“What incoming trauma?” I ask. I start getting out of bed pulling my pants and jacket on.

“One of the Majors called it in.” I shook my head, fucking Majors thinking they don’t have to follow protocol. I rushed out the room hoping I didn’t wake anyone. I did feel a rush through my body something I haven’t felt in years, the thrill of the chase. The adrenaline pumping through my veins knowing I was about to save lives.

I walk into the med bay pushing my hair back behind my ears. I see a nurse come out and gesture me through to the resus room. I shake my head for a second confused but follow her through pushing on the doors.

“I didn’t hear about any trauma…” I stop in my tracks seeing Ghost standing in the middle of the room. He turns around looking at me I do a double take he's not wearing a mask.

“Simon?” I say confused. I walk up to him, he smiled putting his hands on my shoulders.

“Hey.” He says, he’s relaxed, smiling.

“Hey.” I reply smiling as he pulls me closer. “What’s going on?” He kisses my forehead.

“I wanted to do something special but I realised I can’t wait.” My heart was thumping in my chest as I look at him.

“What do you mean?” I say looking around the nurse was gone. I looked back at him. He leans down and kisses me. I kiss him back wrapping my arms round his body, his hands find the small of my back. He pulls away using one of his hands to brush a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You know the first thing I noticed about you was how much you remind me of Johnny.” I chuckle.

“your eyes,” I say touching his cheek. "Johnny said they were kind he was right.” He smiles kissing my forehead.

“Remember our first mission?” He says, I nod.

“I didn’t think you would stick around, I thought we would scare you off. Then I watched you order those recruits around. Running that triage by yourself. I knew you were right for this team.” I smiled remembering that. We weren't even supposed to be helping, it was the first time I shouted at Price. I thought he would kick me off the team after that.

“When I came to Scotland, and we spent that amazing week together that was when I knew this was right.” I smiled.

“That was my thought too.” I kissed him again. Where was this going, I started getting nervous he must of picked up on it as he pulls away looking at me, our faces centimeters away from each other.

“You’re so perfect, you’re the light in my life you’re the reason…” He stops. I smile giving him a quick kiss.

“It’s okay,” I say stroking his cheek with my thumb. He brings his hand between us and opens it. There is a ring inside. My stomach drops and I gasp when I see it. Simon who doesn’t really do big romantic gestures but he is proposing in the most perfect way. I reach out and touch the ring. He pulls away so he can see my reaction better.

“It’s beautiful.” I say. It’s not traditional, it’s a blue stone. There are smaller clear stones running down the side, on a silver band.

“It’s a sapphire, your birthstone.” I smile taking it in my hand.

“You know you’re supposed to be down on one knee.” I say, my voice catches in my throat. I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. Happy tears so many happy tears.

“With my knees?” He chuckles. I look up at him getting a good look at his expression I can’t help myself I throw my arms around him burying my face in his neck standing on my tiptoes.

“Is that a yes?” He says into my hair. I squeeze him tight then let go.

“Yes.” I say. I reach down my shirt pulling out my dogtags, I move them looking round for the clasp. I open it taking the ring out Simon’s hand and threading it through. I watch it fall next to my tags. I pick it up looking at it next to Johnny’s tag. I know he’ll look after it while I can’t wear it. Simon touches my cheek and I smile at him. He’s smiling back, bigger then I have ever seen. I take a big breath in not being able to move my fingers from the ring.

“So are we going to tell Price and Gaz?” I ask. He looks past me nodding his head. I turn to see them looking through the windows of the door. I look at them confused.

“I made them watch the doors so we could be alone.” I chuckle turning back to him. I all of a sudden feel sad, my fingers running over Johnny’s tag. I miss him. I wish he was here. We made a deal to walk each other down the aisle if we ever got married. Now I have to plan a wedding, something I never really thought I would have to do. Simon seems to pick up on the change in my body language grabbing the hand I have clasped round Johnny’s tag.

“Hey,” he squeezes it and I look up at him. He eyes are soft, so kind, soft I have always found comfort in his eyes. “I miss him too, I know he would be so happy for us..” I stop him with a kiss.

“Does this mean I’ll be Mrs. Riley now?” I almost don’t hear the alarm coming from the emergency radio. I see his eyes flick down to my waist and I roll my eyes, picking the radio up to my mouth.

“Mike-charlie-one receiving.” I say trying not to let my voice falter. Simon chuckles kissing my forehead.

"Copy mike-charlie we have incoming 1 c1, 1 c2, 4 c3, 2 deceased, ETA 15 minuets how copy?”

“Wait there actually is an incoming trauma?" I say confused.

"Coincidence?" He shrugs, that does not answer my question.

"Copy incoming trauma, 15 minutes, 1 c1, 1 c2, 4 c3, 2 deceased. Over.” I touched Simon's cheek I had to work now but my stomach was buzzing with excitement. I know If I was just to go back to bed I would not be able to sleep. Now I could pool my energy into something productive.

“You can be who ever you want to be.” He says breaking away from the embrace. I put the emergency radio back on my belt. I need to call the doctor on call, I need to focus on the job. I can’t do that when he is standing in front of me with that look in his eyes. I stand up on my toes kissing his mouth quick.

“I’ll see you later.” I promise. He nods and heads through the doors. I let the ring fall against my chest as I watch him leave. I love him, I always will. This was the perfect proposal.

[whatarewedoingdude]

Quick someone write something about Alex hallucinating about Nigel after his death

[netscapenavigator-official]

Honestly, maybe it’s just the hobbyist author in me, be I just love alt text so much. Like, it’s great that it’s an accessibility feature, but I also have fun writing them. They’re such a good exercise for describing imagery in an efficient, yet meaningfully thorough way.

[bitchfitch]

The fanfiction is letting the covid molecules into you?

no the fanfiction is fighting the COVID with boxing gloves

[millionsknives]

any advice on how to get things done when u only have a small window of time. like i would love to get some writing done in the spare half hour i have between tutoring and babysitting today but i can't focus enough to get anything done when i know i have to leave in thirty minutes so i just stare at the wall