#egg stamp egg stamp ink

[eggstamp]

GERÇEK YUMURTA DAMGASI

SADECE BİZDEN ALINIR

PİGMENT İZMİR 0553 444 8888

[pearlymel]

A baby ?!

Summery: his departure always bugs you, and surprise, it was just your lil hormones messing with you.

Wc: 3.4k

Warnings: Fem!reader, sfw because we decided to be sweet, pregnancy, reader is pregnant, there are some suggestive comments but that's all. Happy ending because i love yall.

Part one and two if you missed it my loves.

Notes: welcome to part 3 which i believe is the last part. I am kindly asking not to ask for a part 4 because i have run out of ideas. If i ever decided to write for capitano again, it wouldn't be part of this series, it would be like headcanons instead, you could imagine the reader being the same, apologies for spelling errors and thank you. :)

Credits: the art of the left panel is by @/reaperpie

Fall was slowly approaching in Snezhnaya, and you had already expected it to be colder than the normal autumn. Which to your bad luck, it was not a suitable place for your picnic’s.

Your husband has continuesly rejected your date ideas, but you expected that anyway, you knew he couldn’t. He had duties to attend to, responsibilities to the Fatui, to the Tsaritsa, to the world. He couldn’t stay, as much as you—he wanted to.

It's not fair, You think while pouting as you stare outside the window with your chin resting on the palm of your hand, looking like a princess in need to be rescued from the tower. Your thumb toying with the diamond ring resting around your ring finger.

“Ugh, it's unfair baby.” You slump back on the bed, while your little fur baby only meowed at you in return, the orange cat jumping on the bed to make itself warm on your lap. “meow back if he doesn't love me.”

You're met with silence, only happy purrs reach your ears, and you grin, “obviously he loves me, obsessed even.” Your hand reaches to slowly pat the kitty.

“I miss him.” You sigh dreamily, deciding to stand up while carrying kitty with you so it doesn't feel left out. You make your way towards the desk in the corner, pulling the seat to take your place before pushing yourself closer to the desk.

You rest the kitten on your lap again—who quickly adjusts like nothing happened, looking as sleepy as ever.

You open the drawers to take an envelope, some wax, a stamp, a paper, and a quill.

Yeah, you're going to write him a letter, he said he didn't mind recieving even hundreds of letters from you.

How romantic.

“Dear, husband.” You start, dipping the quill in ink to brush it along the neat surface of the paper.

“i miss you.” you narrow your eyes at the empty page, saying that you miss him felt too boring.

“i utterly miss being next to you.” Hm, it lacks excitement.

“Please come back soon or i will run away.” Huh, you could already imagine the army's he would send to search for you.

“i want you inside—” okay, now you're being desperate.

You rest your arms on the desk, leaning your head on them while sighing.

—

“Do you know when will he return?” You politely ask one of the guards in front of the estate’s gate. Your hands together behind your back.

A leaf flew by in front of the guards with still no answer from them, and you narrow your eyes, wondering if they even heard you in the first place.

Finally, one of them shook their head and you only sigh in resignation, “thank you.” You mumble before heading your way back inside the estate.

It has been more than two weeks since he left, and he would sometimes send you neat letters to inform you about his well being, but the last letter you received was about a week ago, it was worrying you.

“My lady, are you okay?” Your personal maid, Marina, asked out of concern, watching you put an apron with a frown plastered on your face.

“Just hungry.” You take the glassy bowl, eggs, flour, butter, and sugar. Then you set them on the table. “I can help you.” Marina stands next to you, taking the butter to melt it.

“you want to make cookies, correct?” She asks, and you nod with a small smile. With the butter fully melted, you begin mixing in the sugar, beating the mixture until it becomes light and fluffy. The repetitive motion of stirring is almost meditative, and for a brief moment. “Baking is rather calming, i should've tried it before.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, a knowing smile on her face. "Yes, baking can be quite therapeutic," she stated, watching as you mixed the sugar and butter together. "I've found that working with your hands, especially when it involves creating something good to eat, is a great way to clear your mind," she continued, adding chocolate to the bowl.

You had both finished combining the ingredients, and the room was now filled with the warm, comforting fragrance of cookie dough. Marina stood beside you, watching as you shaped the dough into small balls and placed them on a baking tray. As you finished placing the last cookie onto the tray, you and Marina stood together, admiring the array of small, round cookies waiting to be baked in the oven.

The sounds of the gates opening is what catches your attention next, making you stand up from your chair to immediately abandon the kitchen and rush towards the entrance, your eyes searches him when you reach the front door, and surely enough, your husband has arrived.

He looked almost disheveled, tired, yet he still held a straight posture.

Capitano's weary eyes widened behind his helmet as you rushed into his arms, his body stiffening as if caught off guard by your sudden affection. But the tension in his form swiftly melted away as he wrapped his strong arms around you. His grip was tight, as he pulled you against his body. He was silent for a moment, his chin resting on the top of your head, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths as he held you.

“I…” you want to break the silence, you want to tell him how much you missed him. “I missed you.”

Capitano's grip intensified as your voice reached his ears, he was more than relieved to hear those words. To know that somone dear is waiting for him, someone as precious as you that he's willing to risk his life for.

He exhaled deeply, "I missed you too," he whispered, making sure the words only reached your ears. He pulled back slightly to look down at you, his gaze raking over you as if to confirm you were real and not a trick of his tired mind.

Capitano allowed you to lead him inside afterwards, his hand careful to be gentle when holding yours. The weariness in his body was evident as he stumbled a bit as you pulled him along. However, he matched your pace as best he could, following obediently as you guided him to your chambers.

Being greeted by the familiar room before him made his shoulders relax, the only place where he can be himself.

"How was is it? Being away from your wife for more than two weeks?" You ask while your hands started working on helping him out of the thick layers of his heavy, dirty clothing. Each layer you removed revealed more of his muscular, battle-worn physique, the scars and marks on his body a testament to the dangers he had faced.

He paused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he noticed your pout. He reached out a calloused hand and gently tugged at your lip, "It was a long two weeks," he admitted gruffly. "I have missed you sorely.”

“I'm sure you did,” you hummed, walking towards the closest to grab a sweater for him. "Don't pout like that," he chided gently, "You're making me feel guilty.”

You try hiding your smile when you hand him his new warm clothes, your arms crossing next, “as you should.”

"I've missed that pout," his lowers his voice, "but I don't miss your little attitude.”

You shrug, “i don't know what you're talking about.” Capitano's gaze held yours unflinchingly, his eyes studying your expression. He knew you were baiting him, daring him to guess your reason for being upset.

"Let me see.." he started, his voice taking on a tone of mock contemplation. "Perhaps it's the fact that I was gone for more than two weeks and left you here all alone. That's a start, is it not?”

“maybe.”

"Or perhaps it's the fact that I didn't send you a letter everyday and left you wondering about whether I was alright or not. Hmm, that could be it, couldn't it?”

“Go on.” your raise your eyebrow while tapping your feet impatiently.

"Or maybe," he stepped closer, taking a few strands of your hair in between his fingers, "It's because I didn't come home and ravish you as soon as I returned, instead letting you pout and sulk and complain like a spoiled little thing.”

He could see right through you; the way you suddenly straightened your stance and tried to act nonchalant only confirmed his suspicions.

You gasp, ”whaaaat? Nonsense.”

"Is that so?" he drawled, his hands now taking your upper arms, his thumb thumbs rubbing circles around your skin "i will make it up to you, my wife.”

Despite his promise that you could do later, you wanted him to rest more than anything, so you make him sit down on the bed while you leave to get the cookies you baked together with Marina.

“You have to tell me your opinion.” you hand him one of the chocolate chip cookies. Capitano let the taste of the chocolate chips and the buttery cookie dough settle on his tongue for a moment. He swallowed, his gaze still fixed on you, before giving his verdict.

"They're good," he admitted, "Better than good, actually. Well done.”

Praise kink goes crazy huh? Your smile widens, and it makes you feel all giddy, as you took a bite of the cookies as well.

He leaned back against the plush bedding of the bed, his strong arms resting on his lap as he observed you. "You've been busy while I was away, hm?"

“Not really, more bored than busy.”

“… i am sorry. I do not mean to leave you alone.”

You scoot closer to him once you see how guilty he looks, you sit next to him, your head resting on his shoulder. “When do you have to leave again?”

Capitano's silence spoke volumes, pausing before answering, "My duties are unpredictable, and there's no telling when the Tsaritsa will call for me again. I cannot give you an exact timeline, and that is the reality of what I do. I am a warrior first, a husband second.”

Ouch, that's fine. Totally fine.

You knew what you were getting into when you married him, after all. Still, a part of you couldn't help but wish for more. The thought kind of makes you sick… quite literally.

“I think the cookies had too much sugar.” You put the dessert back on the plate before standing up from the bed. “Shall i go get you wate—”

“no, thank you. I can do it.”

—

You were rotting in bed. From the morning, and now it's afternoon. It makes you feel useless since you barely did anything.

Capitano left before you woke up, even though he promised to return later today.

You felt miserable, your body weak and your spirits low. It was a mixture of loneliness, hormones, and the unease bubbling in your stomach. Capitano's absence only made it worse, adding to the feeling of helplessness that had settled upon you.

You tossed and turned in the bed, the plush sheets tangling up around you as you tried to find a comfortable position. But no matter how much you shifted, the discomfort in your stomach remained, persistent and nagging.

“Make the pain go please, I'll take any disgusting medicine,” you tell Marina weakly as you look up at her while she sat on the wooden stool next to you.

"I can give you some ginger root. It might help soothe your stomach.” she offered gently, handing you the ginger root she prepared just for you.

“… i lied i can't take anything disgusting.”

Marina chuckled softly at your admission, "I thought so," she said, setting aside the ginger root. “Have you considered telling Lord Capitano?”

You shake your head, “not that he's here. It's not that important.” you cover half of your face with the blanket, “why though? Isn't it just a normal cold from the change of weather?”

It was clear that you were trying to downplay the severity of your symptoms, perhaps not wanting to worry anyone or admit that something might be seriously wrong.

"Dearest, it's not just a cold," she chided gently, "the symptoms you're describing are not typical of a mere cold.”

You frown, “is it not?”

She shook her head, her voice soft but serious. "No, it's not. The nausea, the fatigue, the changes in appetite...these are all common symptoms of something else." Shee paused for a moment, "my lady, have you considered the possibility that you might be... Pregnant?”

You immediately rise from the bed, sitting down with eyes wide to stare at her, "what? Pregnant?” you ask in shock.

"I shall ask for a healer right away, my lady.”

—

You stare outside the window at the dark skies, although your eyes fixated on the gates opening, indicating his arrival.

You almost flinch when he dashes inside your shared chambers, taking his helmet off but not bothering to take the rest off before he's gently grabbing you by your arms.

“where?” He asks urgently, “where are you injured? Who did it? Do not hesitate to tell me.” He says in a dangerously sharp tone, his eyes searching for even a single scratch on your body.

“what… are you talking about?” You raise an eyebrow, and your unbothered state made him confused. “the healers were here, yet you're not injured?” he blinked before sighing, his hands caressing your arms instead, “then why? Are you sick?”

“Sick… no not sick.” You tell him, your hands ever so gentle taking a hold of his face, “… but pregnant. I'm pregnant.”

You both stare at eachother, both of you holding your breaths. You have never seen him so distracted, like he didn't hear you the first time.

Does he hate it? You never thought of the possibility.

“Capit—” before you could continue, he's down in one knee and you're bewildered, unsure of what to do.

“you're carrying our child.” he utters out so softly that you think you might tear up—and you really are in the verge of tears. He takes your hand, he's held your hand many times, but this time it feels different, he holds you like you're glass, he's so careful with it.

“I swear to protect you both, and put you both first. Should anyone hurt you, i will not hesitate to draw my sword, if i ever hurt you… then you should not hesitate to draw your sword on me.” his words hung in the air like a sacred vow.

You tried to speak, to respond, but only a soft gasp escaped your lips. Tears welled in your eyes, and you could only stare at him, utterly overwhelmed.

Capitano's gaze softened even more as he saw the tears falling down your face. He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, his hand still holding yours in a gentle but firm grip, he reached out with the other hand, his large palm cupping your cheek to brush your tears away. “Don't cry, I'm here.”

His embrace, so warm, so protective around you that it eases every single thought in your head.

Everything is going to be okay. With him, it will.

—

Months passed in a blur of morning sickness, cravings, and blossoming excitement for the new life growing inside you. Capitano, as promised, was by your side through it all and he went away for more than a week.

He attended to your every need, from getting up in the middle of the night to find the most ridiculous late-night snack, to comforting you on days when you felt overwhelmed by the changes happening to your body.

You rest back against the bed’s headboard while tracing random shapes on the skin of your swollen belly, a hum of some sort of song followed after. You stop once you hear the sound of slow footsteps, catching your husband freeze.

“I'm sorry, i didn't mean to stalk you like that—”

“you're so silly. Come here, honey.” You pat on your empty side with a smile, inviting him to share this moment you.

Capitano took his place next to you then continued watching as you gently caressed your belly, tracing over the stretch marks with your fingers.

“They're beautiful, you know.” he speaks first, as if sensing what you were about to say. “Beautiful?” You repeat. He lifted your hand to his lips, gently pressing a kiss on your knuckles before he replied, his voice a soft murmur. "Yes, beautiful. They're a sign of life growing within you. A sign of strength. Of creation. That's beautiful.” he continues his trail of kisses to your arm up to your shoulder, “I want to kiss every inch of you, stretch mark or not.”

You've come so far with him that it feels surreal, it feels right, “i love you.” You whisper to him, turning your attention to him again. “I love you.” he doesn't hesitate to say it back, the declaration coming out of his tongue smoothly like it was meant to be.

His hand then moved to your growing bump, "and I love this," he added. “This?” You giggle.

"Mhm," Capitano confirmed, his hand now rubbing your belly in slow, soothing circles. "This. Our baby." His eyes flickered up to yours, "We created this," he continued, his voice with pride and awe. "Our love made this.”

Love.

—

Were toddlers always this fast? Because one second he keeps an eye on her then the next he looks around before she's gone right from infront of him.

He was supposed to play tea party, but a little butterfly flying creature must've caught her attention.

Capitano, despite his size and strength, found himself struggling to keep up with your energetic three-year-old daughter.

He chuckled as he chased her around the garden, his large frame a stark contrast to her small, fleeting form. As she ran past you, you couldn't help but burst into laughter at the sight of your husband's face, "almost got her," he panted out, his hand on his knee as he attempted to catch his breath.

“You got this old man!” You decide to tease him from behind, laughing endlessly from the sight. Though he shot you a mock glare through his labored breaths, “old man, huh?" he grumbled, straightening up and crossing his arms over his chest. "You think I'm old now, do you?" he continued, raising an eyebrow playfully. "I'll show you 'old,' darling." With that, he took a step further to sweep you off your feet, carrying you effortlessly in his arms, and your smile only widens.

“Me!” Your little girl raises both of her arms at her father, and he kneels down to carry her in his other arm. Now carrying you both in each arm.

“Oh, how strong.” You tease, poking at his bicep and he shakes his head almost shyly, “papa, butterfly.” Your daughter proceeds to show you both the butterfly she caught, the little creature doesn't seem scared of her as it rests on her tiny fingers.

“Looks pretty,” Capitano smiled, his expression amused as your daughter leaned toward the butterfly, attempting to kiss it. "Careful now," he warned gently. "Don't scare it away." He watched as the butterfly fluttered its delicate wings at her attempt and she giggles.

"You have to be gentle," he told her, his voice soft. "Just like how you handle the kittens.”

She gasps, suddenly remembering the cat that's half asleep on the grass with the three of you. “Kitty!” She shouts at the cat, jumping off Capitano’s arm so suddenly that it makes him gasp, worried that she might’ve injured herself.

“she's fine.” You pat your husband's chest and just like that, he's relaxed again. “i think our cat is tired of her sometimes.” You get down as well, watching how your daughter carried the lazy cat in her arms to run in circles with her. The cat that grew within these years, from a mere kitten to a big cat now.

"I think we should just be glad the cat hasn't hissed at her or swatted her yet," he sighed, and you hum in reply, “i don't think it ever will. That cat has been clinging to my belly ever since i was pregnant. Kept me warm i must admit.”

You grin when your daughter runs back to both of you, carrying the cat in the air, it's eyes almost closed, unbothered, "meow."

Tags: @duchessofherself @itsjustnikkixoxo @erasme143 @yvesswoo @mooshbb @bigboygoose

[gloomwitchwrites]

Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): canon-typical cursing, heavy suggestive themes, non-descriptive intimacy, domestic/soft/playful Simon, flirting, kissing, canon-typical mentions of violence, military-based discussions, brief trauma reflection

Word Count: 5.2k

A/N: Part Twelve of Ink & Needle

You and Simon spend the morning in bed together. Amelia and Evie corner Simon in the kitchen. Price, Soap, and Gaz finally talk to Simon about the mission.

Chapter Eleven // Chapter Thirteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Tea.

Eggs—large, at least two dozen.

Bread.

Bulk butter.

Milk—full fat.

Flour.

Batteries.

Postal stamps.

Chi—

The electric kettle shuts off and Simon sets into routine, brewing his morning tea without a second thought. The hour is early, and the sun hardly breaks the horizon. Simon’s flat is almost completely dark except for the faintest bits of light that creeps in as the sun’s rays skim over the tops of nearby buildings.

Simon disposes of the tea bag and holds the steaming mug in both hands. Yes, it’s hot, but the warmth is comforting. It grounds him. Keeps his resolve from snapping and returning to a different warmth.

He starts over, listing all the things he’s growing low on.

Tea. Eggs. Bread.

You’re in his flat. In his bedroom. In his bed.

Naked. Flour. Asleep. Batteries.

Soft. Postage stamps. Bare beneath the sheets. Still slick between the thighs.

Fuck.

Simon pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, and inhales deeply. He needs to get a fucking grip. Every instinct within him commands Simon to go crawl into bed, to wake you up, and to slide between your legs. To greet the day with you beneath him.

That can’t happen.

Not because Simon doesn’t want to but because he wants to do this right. You deserve more than a dirty couch in a club’s green room. You deserve more than a quick moment of passion. You deserve patience and attention, to have someone focus on you and only you.

You may already be his, but not entirely. Not completely.

Not yet.

But, when Simon makes it happen, when the two of you finally bind this into something solid and real, you’ll never want to him leave. Simon will make sure of it.

Lingering in the kitchen, Simon drinks his tea, allowing the vestiges of sleep to seep out of his muscles and bones. His fucking jaw hurts, but that hardly matters to him. Not after what he did last night, or how you bloomed like a flower.

Spread wide. Perfect. Open.

Just for him.

Only for him.

Bravo nudges Simon’s thigh with the tip of his wet nose. Absently, Simon reaches down and scratches between the dog’s ears. The German Shepard leans into it, his eyes closing slightly with contentment.

Sighing, Simon pats the top of Bravo’s head. Sauntering toward the bedroom door, Simon leans against the frame, arms crossed, one hand clutching his tea mug. He watches you snooze for a few minutes. Most of you is covered by the bedding, but Simon glimpses just a hint of bare arm and shoulder. You’re completely submerged under there, and if Simon listens hard enough, he can hear a gentle snore.

To him, it’s cute. You might not find it so.

Simon rubs the back of his neck as Bravo pads into the room, gently jumping up into the bed. He doesn’t disturb you. Instead, the black-furred dog circles three times before settling.

You’ll wake eventually and Simon isn’t wearing his mask.

Simon hasn’t put it on since he took it off last night. There, in the dark, he removed it, only wanting to taste you. Simon isn’t ashamed of his face or his scars. He doesn’t consider himself ugly. It’s just…habit to put the mask on. He was Ghost in the field. Now, he’s Ghost in his shop.

Mysterious. Different. Detached.

He was Ghost when he met you at Riot Room, and now he’s Simon. Just…Simon.

Running his tongue over his teeth, Simon turns around and heads back into the kitchen. While Simon is a tea drinker, he keeps coffee on hand. Simon isn’t one for smashing energy drinks or soda even though his sweet tooth can be a fucking fiend, but sometimes he needs an extra kick.

Taking his time, Simon measures out and drops the ground coffee into the filter. From there, he closes the machine lid, filling the carafe, turning the ancient machine on. It hums and it’s almost too loud. A little green light comes on, and Simon steps away, checking the fridge. There are still a few eggs and bacon. Flour is low but he might be able to scrape up enough to whip up pancakes.

His stomach growls softly and Simon shuts the fridge.

Back in the bedroom, you still snooze softly, and Simon takes this time to clean up. He can still taste you on him, but it is faint, nearly a foreign sensation. Grabbing a towel, Simon hops into the shower. He scrubs down, brushes his teeth, even dries his hair.

Simon tugs on the balaclava, wearing nothing else except black boxer briefs. Stepping back into the bedroom, Simon pauses, noticing tussled hair and sleepy eyes.

“Morning,” says Simon.

You stretch, the grey sheet covering your breasts slipping a bit, nearly revealing nipple. You catch it just in time, stifling a yawn.

“Good morning,” you reply, the raspiness of sleep still clinging to your vocal cords.

Bravo rolls over onto his side, oblivious to the two of you.

“Shower’s available.” Simon gestures with a shrug of his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom.

Your gaze follows and then promptly returns to Simon. At first, your face is blank, and then, slowly, it drifts into a sultry mischievousness that sends blood straight to his groin. Any more of this and Simon will come undone.

“I don’t want to shower,” you murmur, some of the bedding slipping from your fingers. It’s dangerously close to revealing all of you. Last night you were bare for him, but the two of you were in the dark, and Simon only saw pieces of you. It wasn’t nearly enough, and now it’s almost too much.

The thought of your naked body within reach, wanting him, saying so with words alone is enough to start to crack at his resolve.

Fuck. Fucking hell.

“What do you want?” Simon almost doesn’t recognize himself. What comes out of him is a needy groan.

The slow blink before your response sends signals to his feet to start moving. “I want you to come to bed,” you reply.

Simon stops right at the edge of the bed, every muscle in his body coiled with tension. All he has to do is tug and the bedding will fall away.

“And do what?” prompts Simon, the restraint within him oozing off him to slip between the cracks in the wood floor.

Bravo’s ears perk up and then his head. He glances between the two of you and immediately slinks out of the bed, hurrying away. Simon listens for the dog door and then places one knee on the edge of the bed. Some of his joints resist the movement, those old wounds making themselves known. But Simon ignores them all, his full attention fixed on the woman asking him to join her.

“Whatever you want, Simon.”

Whatever he wants? There are so many things he wants. Simon wants to make you his, to keep you here, to never let you go. None of those are options right now. No. Not yet. But he can still play.

Simon’s fingers curl around the topmost sheet. He tugs, ripping them out of your grasp and away from your body. You immediately cover yourself, legs crossing in front of you and your arms resting across your chest.

The moment the bedding is out of his way, Simon wraps his fingers around your left ankle to drag you closer.

“Simon!” you gasp, but it is all teasing.

“Come here,” he growls, using the natural weight of his body to propel him fully onto the bed and push you down on your back. Your arms and legs fall away then, opening for him, and Simon slots himself between, his mouth already seeking yours.

Simon kisses and touches until your soft giggles become moans. His mouth seeks lower ground. Lower still, and then those moans become shaky and limp legs with gasping breath. You reach for him, and Simon leans into your touch, allowing you to stroke and caress until his haughty, smug smile becomes something else entirely.

With his balaclava-covered face pressed against your neck, Simon inhales, wrapping his large arms around you. He helps your limp-limbed form slide out of bed, and somehow guides you into the shower. While you’re scrubbing away at your skin and scalp, Simon is in the kitchen, managing to prepare breakfast with the little he has.

It’s Sunday, and Simon has absolutely fucking nothing to do. It’s always been Dancing Faun, drinks, and then finding someone on his roster to have it off with. But Simon doesn’t need to do that. He doesn’t need anyone or anything but you. If you want it, he’ll spend his entire Sunday in your presence, partaking in whatever it is you’re interested in doing.

When you emerge wearing nothing but one of his shirts, Simon has to squash the urge to bend you over the table.

“Breakfast,” rasps Simon, grabbing a plate to distract himself.

“Please,” you sigh, approaching him and placing a hand on his lower back.

“Little of everything?”

You nod, giving Simon’s shoulder a quick kiss before walking over to the dining table. Simon’s body vibrates with happiness. He overloads your plate and his, bringing the coffee and a newly made kettle to the table.

“Plans for the day?”

You shake your head, yawning. “No. But I do need to check on Evie.”

Simon checks the time on his phone. It’s nearly the afternoon. “After breakfast I’ll walk you.”

When you go to change back into your clothes, Simon is handsy, grabbing at bare thigh and waist just because he can. You giggle through the whole thing, the two of you ending up on the floor with your limbs intertwined and your mouths meeting.

It takes forever for the two of you to make it out the door. The walk is short but slow. Simon drags it out, keeping you close to his body as the cool autumn air kicks up. His hand delves, teasing, keeping you playful the whole walk to Amelia’s.

You’re still fumbling with the key to the front door when Evie yanks it open. Simon promptly hides the view of his hand under your sweater. Simon isn’t fast enough because Evie’s grin is downright feral.

“Good afternoon.” She pointedly emphasizes “afternoon” by glancing in Simon’s direction. Her dark hair is piled up on the top of her head in a messy bun, and the robe she’s wearing is untied, revealing pink pajamas and a massive belly.

“Sorry, Evie,” you laugh, awkwardly shifting away from Simon to dislodge his hand.

Still glancing at Simon, Evie snags your upper arm, hauling you inside. Simon steps in after you. Bravo shoves his way in, navigating the cramped entry space and aiming for the kitchen. The German Shepard rounds a corner, and Simon hears Amelia greet the dog.

“Go change,” urges Evie, shoving you toward the stairs. “Take a shower too.”

“I did,” you snap with a laugh.

“Take another one. I can smell you.”

You flip Evie the bird and she gives one right back. Glancing over your shoulder at Simon, he gives you the slightest of shrugs. He doesn’t want to be left alone with Evie and Amelia, but he’ll deal with it.

The moment you disappear to the top level, Evie is turning that feral grin on Simon, her hands on her hips. Amelia appears like a phantom in the doorway where the entryway and living room meet.

“Made tea,” says Amelia. She’s wearing her gardening clothes. There are dirty patches on the knees.

“No thank you,” replies Simon.

“You’re having tea.” One of Amelia’s eyebrows arches like she’s begging him to question her.

Simon nods instead of refusing again.

Right. He’s having tea.

In the kitchen, Bravo is munching away on a small pile of dog treats. Simon sighs, watching the German Shepard happily chew them up one by one. He takes a seat at the table, the two women joining him.

At the center of the table are chicken salad sandwiches on plain white bread, an open bag of crips, and a bowl of mixed fruit. Evie starts piling her plate while Amelia distributes the tea.

“Hungry?” Amelia asks Simon, offering him a plate.

He’s fucking full from breakfast, but he’s not refusing this like he did with the tea. “Yes, thank you.”

Amelia plops a sandwich on Simon’s plate, scoops out a heaping portion of fruit, and shakes a mountain of crips out.

“Weather is expected to cool off in the next few weeks.” Amelia shrugs. “That’s what the forecaster says anyway.”

Evie places her hand on her belly. “Hopefully she’ll be out by then.”

Simon glances at the spot where Evie’s hand rests. “You’re due soon?”

“Yes. Very soon. Due date is technically a week out but could happen any day.”

Simon nods, his tattooed fingers playing with the handle of the tea mug. He stares at the pile of food in front of him and frowns. Simon is so absorbed with his own thoughts, that it takes him a few moments to recognize the absolute silence.

He glances up only to find Amelia and Evie leaning back in their chairs, bemused expressions on their faces as they observe him.

“What?” he blurts, suddenly nervous.

Amelia and Evie exchange a look.

“You remember our conversation?” asks Amelia softly.

Simon crosses his arm, shifting in his seat. His phone digs into his thigh and he adjusts again. “I do,” he replies slowly.

Amelia nods. She glances down at Simon’s plate. “Haven’t touched your food. Something wrong?”

Fuck.

Simon pushes up the balaclava enough to shove a few crisps into his mouth. They’re cheese and onion flavored. It’s the wrong choice. The only sound in the room are the crunching crisps in Simon’s mouth. Amelia and Evie still stare at him.

He swallows, the half-chewed food nearly sticking in his throat. Simon hastily drinks his tea.

“How’s business?” asks Amelia once Simon sets the tea back onto the table.

“Busy.”

“I would hope so. Saw you on the cover of a magazine while shopping. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” says Simon, bit of heat warming the tops of his cheeks.

Evie’s eyes widen slightly. “That’s wonderful. What magazine?”

“UK Ink,” he answers. “Best tattoo artist.”

“Very deserved,” says Amelia, lifting her tea.

“You’ve never been in my shop,” chuckles Simon.

Amelia shrugs. “But I see you almost every Sunday, and Ben is always bragging about you.”

Simon shifts again in his chair from embarrassment. His phone digs into his ass this time. Frowning, Simon removes it from his pocket and places it on the table facedown.

“You’re being polite,” says Simon, attempting to push the praise off him.

Evie chews quietly, her gaze darting between Amelia and Simon. Over her shoulder, Simon glimpses a series of photographs. One of them is a wedding photo, a recent one. The woman he recognizes as Evie, and the man she leans against must be her dead husband.

Simon’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it. He really needs you to finish showering and changing your clothes. The phone ceases and Simon goes for some fruit this time.

Amelia opens her mouth to reply but Simon’s phone kicks up again. She promptly shuts her mouth and glances at the device.

“They’ll leave a message,” says Simon dismissively. Sometimes business calls are rerouted to his personal phone. During the week, it’s not an issue, but on a day like today, it’s annoying.

Amelia inclines her head, but Simon’s fucking phone won’t stop. It starts buzzing again.

“You should answer that.” Amelia nods toward it.

Simon stares down at the phone, all the food in his stomach suddenly solidifying. There are only a few people who would relentlessly call Simon like this. The cellphone stops, begins again, and Simon’s frown deepens.

He picks it up, turning the screen over to face him.

Price.

Fuck.

Simon lets it go to voicemail.

When the buzzing begins again, Amelia tuts. “Answer it or I’m chucking it into the garden.”

“Excuse me,” murmurs Simon, pushing his chair back and standing, heading for the living room. When Simon nears the entryway, he answers the phone, bringing it up to his ear.

“Price,” he says flatly.

“Simon.” Price’s greeting is polite but reserved. “Were you sleeping?”

“No.”

Price grunts on the other end. “Have you handled your business?”

He means you. Last night floods into Simon’s mind, bringing up Adam and the whole fucking mess of an evening.

“Yes,” answers Simon, though he hears the slight shake in the way he says it.

“Is tonight good?”

Simon silently swears. He wants to spend the day with you, not talk to the boys about their upcoming mission. But Simon made a promise to them, and he intends to see it through.

Simon licks his lips and sighs. “Meet me outside the shop.”

Price rattles off a time and Simon agrees, knowing that he won’t have much time with you between now and then.

Simon ends the call right as you come down the stairs. You’re already moving toward him and Simon instantly reaches out, seeking you. When your hand slides into his, Simon pulls you close. Placing your other hand on his chest, Simon leans down and seeks your lips for a kiss.

“You taste like onion,” you murmur.

Simon chuckles before drawing back a bit. “Amelia fed me.”

“She tends to do that.”

He adjusts his grip, drawing you into his side so Simon can wrap his arm around your waist. Over your shoulder, he notices Amelia and Evie dangerously leaning around the corner in the chairs, trying to watch from a distance. Even Bravo is poking his head around the corner.

“I have to go,” murmurs Simon, brushing a few damp strands from your face to tuck behind your ear.

Your smile faulters slightly and Simon immediately regrets saying anything at all.

“Right now?” you ask.

Simon shakes his head. “Not right now. In an hour.”

“Did something happen?”

No. Yes. Maybe? Simon has no clue what the boys want to talk to him about. They’ve never been shy about asking him for advice or looking something over for them. But rarely have they ever asked to come in person to discuss something confidential.

“You remember the men who escorted Adam out the pub last night?”

The middle of your brow scrunches. “Yes?”

“Our evening was…interrupted. Just need to finishing up with them.”

“I see.” You glance down and then back to Simon’s face. “My fault?”

“No,” he says, drawing you closer against him. “Don’t think that.” Simon kisses you for good measure. “Can we make plans for later this week?”

Your fingers tangle with the fabric of his shirt. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” Simon checks over your head to find Amelia and Evie still watching from their chairs. “They’re nosy, aren’t they?”

You laugh. “Wouldn’t you be?”

Simon inclines his head, knowing that’s true. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Need some help finishing the plate Amelia made me.”

In front of Simon is an empty whiskey glass.

It’s the first one, and Simon expects to have plenty more as the evening progresses. Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun strides over, removing the glass and placing down a fresh one.

“Might need this,” he says, the deep timbre of his voice like thunder. Ben places a half-full whiskey bottle down next to Simon’s glass.

Simon nods in thanks as Ben turns his back and disappears behind the bar.

This isn’t the evening for beer. Simon needs something strong if the three grim faces staring back at him are any indication. Johnny has a Scotch, Price has whiskey like Simon, and Gaz has tequila.

All hard edges here. Nothing soft.

Ben closed up Dancing Faun early to give them some space and privacy. The sun isn’t down yet but the light hardly makes it into the front window. The four of them sit around a square table, one to each side. Inside the pub, the lights above the bar and the one directly above their table are on.

Simon’s gaze darts to each of the men he knows as brothers. Price, who is always tired and complaining of heartburn, appears exhausted like he’s been awake for days. Gaz is subdued, his mouth turned downward into a slight frown. Johnny, who is always upbeat, is quiet and calm.

It’s fucking weird seeing them like this. It doesn’t sit right with Simon. Whatever is on their minds is eating away at them. Either something is completely fucked, or he’s about to hear something unpleasant.

Ben stays behind the bar cleaning glassware, taking inventory, and occasionally disappearing into the back. The man is discreet when he needs to be, and if he overhears anything, Ben won’t snitch or turn around to spread it to others.

Simon isn’t worried about that, but he is worried about Price, Gaz, and Soap.

“Why the long faces?” asks Simon, attempting to joke but failing completely.

Price sighs heavily. “He’s back, Simon.”

It’s such a vague way of putting it. He could mean anyone. Task Force 141 made plenty of enemies while Simon was part of it. Hell—Simon made plenty of enemies just from working in SAS. He’s executed so many missions they’re almost a blur to him.

“Who?” prompts Simon. “Makarov?”

That would be a fucking joke if that wanker got out. Simon would certainly need to be on alert but not overly concerned. It’s not like Simon is in the way anymore.

Price shakes his head while Johnny and Kyle exchange a look. “Makarov is still in prison. Securely. Last time I checked.”

“And when was that?”

“A week ago,” replies Price.

“A week is a long time.”

“It’s not Makarov,” interjects Kyle, his fingers tapping the side of his glass.

Simon glances in Kyle’s direction. The frown is still there but his eyes tell him enough. It’s a sad sort of pleading. An apology but not because Gaz has done anything wrong. Simon has seen this look before.

Pity. It’s pity that Simon sees in Kyle’s gaze.

Price clears his throat, shoots his whiskey back, and then pours himself another from the bottle Ben set down on the table. “Kyle is right. It’s not Makarov, Simon.” Price lifts his glass and stares into the amber liquid. “When I say he’s back, I mean him.”

Simon’s stomach is toxic slime. It bubbles there, brewing, waiting to eat away at flesh and bone and blood.

Him. Him.

From the nightmares. From the scars. From the wounds that never healed properly.

No. No no no. Fucking no.

“You’re lying,” growls Simon, his hands forming fists under the table.

“Simon—”

Simon slams his fist against the tabletop. Everything rattles. “He’s fucking dead, Price.” Simon points at himself. “I put a knife in his chest. Watched him fall.” He gestures to everyone at the table with a sweep of his hand. “We all saw his burnt corpse.”

Johnny is the one to speak, not Price. “A corpse so burnt it couldn’t be identified.”

There is pity in Johnny’s gaze too, and Simon fucking hates it. He hates how they’re all looking at him right now. If he’s back, that means all the therapy, retirement, and all the pain is absolutely bloody pointless.

Nothing. Just air. Dead confetti wasting away on concrete.

“I didn’t earn these injuries or have retirement shoved on me just for you to come back here and tell me he still lives.” Simon’s tone is cold. Broken.

Price sighs again, crossing his arms and resting them on the edge of the table. “You think I wanted to come and tell you this, Simon?” Simon removes his fist from the table, dropping it into his lap. “I didn’t want to say anything at all. But I’m out of options. And things are going to shit fast.”

Simon understands. He doesn’t need to ask because he knows why Price, Soap, and Gaz have all come. This man they’re hunting, the one that Simon believed he killed, the one who gave Simon the burn scars along his upper arms, back, and shoulders, is walking around somewhere, returning to what he does best.

“You were the one who got close to him. You know him better than any of us,” continues Price. “And we need your help.”

Simon does know him better than they do. He got close enough to get into his head.

Kit Walsh.

Simple, isn’t it. Unsuspecting.

Evil people aren’t born with evil names.

Kit Walsh who grew up in Manchester just like Simon. Attended school there and even lived in a nearby neighborhood from the one Simon grew up in.

Kit Walsh who radicalized himself by talking to likeminded individuals in private chatrooms on the internet.

Kit Walsh who, as he got older, decided he wanted the rest of the world to look and think just like him.

Evil people always start somewhere, and sometimes they’re not rooted out until it’s far too late for everyone else.

Simon flexes his fingers, stretching the joints before forming a fist again. “Help how?”

“You don’t have to do this, Simon.”

Slamming back his whiskey, Simon reaches across the table to snag the whiskey bottle.

The worst kind of evil is always domestic. It always starts at home.

Of course, Simon has to help. The whole reason they got as close as they did was from the work Simon put in during his time with SAS.

“Where is he, Price?”

Price sucks his teeth and then rubs his temple. “It’s complicated. Messy.”

“Then explain.”

Reaching into his coat pocket, Price removes a stack of photos. Sorting through them, Price removes two, tossing them across the table toward Simon. Picking them up, Simon examines them. Both photos are of Walsh in a mega church. He’s posing with men in nicely tailored suits, but it’s not like Simon knows who these men are. Walsh, Simon recognizes, but he’s changed his hair and put on a few pounds.

“Those were taken a week ago in Texas.”

Simon glances up from the photos. “He’s in the States?” Price opens his mouth but Simon laughs. It’s short and clipped, but high. “You’ve fucking lost him.”

Price frowns but Simon continues. “Last time he bounced between here and the Continent. If he’s gone to America, you won’t fucking find him.”

“Laswell already knows.”

“I’m sure she does.”

Kyle leans forward. “Are you hearing what they’re saying over there? The idiotic shit coming out of people’s mouths?”

“They say shit like that here, Gaz,” snaps Simon, anger lacing his tone. “They say it in Germany. In France. In Russia. Everywhere. It’s just wearing different faces for the same thing.”

Kyle’s frown deepens and his stare could slice glass. Simon immediately swallows down some of that irritation. His anger isn’t with any of them. It’s the fact that everything Simon went through meant nothing. All these scars now covered up by ink are just reminders of his failure.

“You know how he works, Simon. Everything we have on him we have because of you. I know it’ll be difficult now that he’s jumped the ocean, but I’m desperate, Simon. Give me anything.”

Simon stares down at the tabletop. The dark wood stares back. His priorities have changed during retirement. He’s no longer active military. He doesn’t have to help them at all. Simon has his shop, his new career, and Bravo.

Now, there is an addition to the mix. You. You are a priority now.

“He’s killed someone. Or had someone do it for him.”

Simon glances up from the table to stare into Price’s stern expression. “Walsh has killed a lot of people. Directly and indirectly.”

“Someone important,” interrupts Johnny, swirling his Scotch around in his glass.

“Someone important to certain people,” amends Price.

Simon adjusts in his seat, the chair suddenly becoming uncomfortable. “Who?”

Price fans out the pictures in front of him. A few seconds pass and then Price selects several, slowly pushing them across the table.

“Archibald Williams,” begins Price. “Also lovingly referred to as ‘Archie’ by friends and family.” The face staring back at him is a face he knows. He saw it just this morning in a wedding photo behind Evie’s left shoulder.

Simon’s tattooed fingers slip under the photograph, bringing it closer to him. There is zero doubt in Simon’s mind that this is the same man.

Price taps one finger against the table before selecting another photo and setting it closer to Simon. “On his great grandfather’s side, our boy here has a bit of Windsor in him.”

Simon’s head snaps up. “You’re bloody joking.”

Price shrugs. “Distant relation. At least a hundred would have to die before he’d even be considered for the throne.”

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, organizing the photos so he can see them all at once.

One is a photo of him with his football mates, all of them sweaty and smiling and dirty. Another is a massive family portrait. It’s the kind that the Royal Family or any aristocratic family enjoy taking with the immediate and extended family. Simon locates Archie amongst what seems like a hundred faces. Next to Archie is Adam, and Simon immediately frowns.

Moving those to the side, Simon picks up the next photograph. In this one, Archie poses next to three well-dressed young men. They’re all lined up in a row with Archie on one end and a stranger on the other. The two in the middle are no strangers. They’re much younger in this photo but the heir to the Throne and his brother are faces any Brit should know.

“You can see why it’s messy,” says Price after Simon sets the last photo down.

“Shambles,” mumbles Gaz before tossing back his tequila.

Johnny grunts but says nothing. Simon glances at him briefly but returns his attention to Price.

“Why him?”

Price leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Rumor is that Archie here planned on relinquishing his titles. Running for public office. Wanted to make a difference.”

“That’s enough to kill him?” probes Simon, knowing there has to be more.

“Having political opinions is frowned upon for people like him. He’s supposed to stay neutral. Not take sides. He was being vocal. Donated tons of his wealth to different charities. Made lots of people uncomfortable.”

“Like Walsh?” Simon shakes his head. “That’s not like him. He prefers the long game. He’s not like Makarov. Makarov will look you in the face. Walsh will hide behind a wall of politicians.”

“I know,” says Price sadly. He rubs his temple again, sighing. “Williams left a wife behind.”

I know, Price. Sat at the table with her just this afternoon.

Simon says nothing. There is no reason to involve Evie or you in this. Price is only asking for advice. He needs some input into a vastly complicated situation.

“You looking for her?”

Price shakes his head. “No. Hadn’t been married long. Sad, is all.”

“It is,” agrees Simon.

“So, you’ll help us?” asks Johnny, drawing Simon’s attention away from Price. “Take a look at the files?”

At Johnny’s question, Price presents Simon with a small stack of file folders.

They’re just asking him to look. They’re just asking him for some advice.

That’s it.

That’s all.

Price holds them out and Simon reaches forward.

taglist:

@glassgulls @km-ffluv @tiredmetalenthusiast @spicyspicyliving @childofyuggoth @lialacleaf @theshrikeandcanary @coffeecaketornado @wren5650 @aykxz98 @kayden666 @36namey @creamwhxre @pearljamislife @miss-mistinguett @keiva1000 @cherryofdeath @pertinentpostmortem @enfppuff @cinnabeanz @berarenado @rogerrhqpsody @c0pernicus @josephquinnschesthair @corvusmorte @saoirse06 @therealbloom @ninman82 @no-oneelsebutnsu @marispunk @thewulf @knight4xmas @jupiternighties @darling006 @hayleybarnesx @lxblm @ferns-fics @ooldcardigan @carma-fanficaddict @beebeechaos @enarien @xxkay15xx @sw33tsnow @kessi-21 @makayla-666 @lifes-project @burn1ngw00d @mudisgranapat @heeheehoohoohahahihi @i-feel-violated

[unklarity]

Malcolm Mini Box Write Up

Here is a little write up of Malcolm’s contents as a few people wanted to know what was inside!

(Photo on the left shows potion bottles 1-2, photo on the right shows 3-4 and the glass vial)

Potions:

1. Lisianthus for royalty, violet for seeing through lies. Lavender for mistrust, suspicion, being cautious with allies and enemies alike. Larkspur for devotion morphing into obsession. Tiger eye for single-mindedness and passion. Deer tongue for solving a mystery, vervain for protection from evil. Handwritten quote saying, “I thought I heard a voice cry out…” Sealed with black wax and thistle stamp, gold ink.

2. Clothes-pinned photos on a red thread, for the strings of photos in the back of the detective agency. Sealed with black wax and ballroom symbol stamp, gold ink.

3. Dust (ash from Hecate’s boat), a feather from Duncan’s bed, and two tiny eggs. Sealed with black wax and key stamp, gold ink.

4. Ripped up king card for the Speakeasy card game scene and for Duncan. Fluorite for the endless pursuit of knowledge. Sealed with black wax, bird stamp, gold ink.

Misc:

1. Tiny vial with brass feather and rolled up paper “On Tuesday last a falcon was hawked at and killed”; hung on a red thread.

2. Malcolm’s typewriter in the inside lid of the box.

3. Ballroom symbol in the bottom of the inside of the box.

This box is tiny so not too many photos but thanks for reading!!!

Malcolm has sold but I’m currently available for custom mini boxes, you can email me at unklarity (at) gmail (dot) com to inquire!

[putting-zooble-in-places]

Kagoshima Splatoon Pop-Up Store Thread - Part 1

NOTE: No Zooble edits, just highly detailed descriptions and a lot of photos!!!

ABOVE - Multiple shelves with the following items stocked: seagreen Grizzco jacket, hi-viz Grizzco raincoat, egg basket laundry hamper, Grizzco toolbox chiller bag; golden egg frying pan, golden egg inflatable ball, Grizzco plate, plush lifebuoy, plush Smallfry, and tableturf wafers with sticker + Smallfry ink stamp with power egg candy (as a present for spending ¥5,500)

ABOVE - Multiple shelves with the following plushies stocked: squids, octopi, (Lil') Judd, Smallfry, Inklings, Callie, Marie, Pearl, Marina, Shiver, Ian BGM, Frye, Splat Bombs, and golden egg inflatable ball

[akehoshimystar]

Chapter 1

Mao: Welcome. Ito: Welcome. (It's sure busy today. Not even peak time yet, but it's already full.)

Tomose: Table E and Table A.

Along with Onda-san's voice, milk puddings for two tables' worth of lunch dessert were placed at the service counter. As I headed over to get them, I heard another voice from nearby.

Customer 1: Excuse me. What is this Piccata, the daily special one…? Ito: It’s meat fried with eggs and topped with tomato sauce. Customer 1: Wow, sounds like a treat. Then I’ll go with that…. Wait, maybe hamburger steak instead…? Ito: (…..Maybe I should let Mao-san or Mika-san handle this.)

Customer 2: Excuse me. Mao: Coming. Mika-nee, a drink for table B.

Takeru: Got it. Hold on for a sec, D’s order is not done yet. Ito: (A no-go.) (………………Hmm?)

While the customer was looking at the menu and wondering what to get, I glanced over to the kitchen. Onda-san peeked out from the serving area, checking out the dining area…or should I say, Mao-san. Their eyes met for a moment. Shortly after, Onda-san went back.

Ito: (…Come to think of it. I have the impression that Mao-san usually keeps an eye on the situation, and reminds Kise-san or Nina-san to hurry up with an order, or asks for a progress.) (I haven't heard something close to that today.)

Customer 1: ……Okay, I've decided! Can I have pasta? Ito: Understood. Would you like to order a drink as well? Customer 1: Iced coffee… Ah, wait. Chai tea… can you ice them? Ito: We can do that. All drinks except herbal tea can be served with ice. There’s a set drink over here…

Leaving my trivial thought behind, I returned my attention to the customer's order.

The next day

When I opened the door with the envelope from the mailbox in my hand, Rare-kun greeted me in a cheerful voice when he noticed my presence.

Rare: Mornin’~ Ito: Good morning. Rare: Rare-kun… Food? Ito: Sure. Just wait a minute. Rare: Uhmm…..

Kosaka-san and Kise-san are out all day today, so I'm the only one in the office.

Ito: (Hmmm. Addressed to the office, I’ll just leave it to Kise-san. Still….) ……Eh?

No stamp, no address. A large black envelope. It was thick, almost like there was something other than a letter inside. As for the recipient’s name…. It had been written in white ink, "Mao-sama."

Ito: (Mao… Ukyo Mao-san?)

I slowly turned it over and checked the sender.

Ito: “Mason Eliot.” (Mason Elliot… The sender’s name maybe?)

Mao: Good morning. Ito: ! Mao-san… Mao: What’s with the startling? Ito: Good morning. Um, I found this in the mailbox. Mao: And… What’s the big deal? Ito: Do you have any idea who sent this? Mao: I know a few people who might do this kind of prank, but I don't think there's anyone who would commit so much to address it to the store… Shall we open it? Ito: Ah… I already messed around with it, are you fine with that? Mao: This envelope can't be sealed tightly, and it's not suitable for a device that will do anything if you open it. If it's a trap that is activated by a shake of this magnitude, it should have been triggered by the impact caused by putting it in the post. Ito: You have a point. Mao: But there are also cases where it gets really dangerous. If you find something like this, don't touch it. Let someone know first. Ito: (… That's also true…) I'm sorry, that was thoughtless of me. Mao: Do I look angry to you? Anyway, it should be fine, but take a step back just in case.

As he said this, Mao-san carefully opened the envelope using scissors from the pen holder. Fortunately, nothing happened. When the envelope was finally opened…. A message card that’s as black as the envelope and a small box.

Mao: "I'd like you to take care of this until October 31st, the day of Halloween.” Ito: Oh. There's something written on the back as well.

“Find me! I trust you.”

Ito: ("Find me… I trust you…"?)

Mao: ………. Ito: …Is it common for the Simulation Dept. to be in charge of this kind of service? Mao: Never have we done it. Neither have I or any other members. It depends on the situation, but I think it usually goes to ST Dept.

After taking another good look at the card for a while, Mao-san slowly picked up the small velvet box and gave it a quick listen before gently opening it. Revealing a beautiful, pale pink crystal.

Ito: …A gem? A real one…? Mao: There’s just no way…. But if this is a real deal……. How much does it cost anyway?

Chapter 2

[joshuaballsett]

my favourite part of the egg is the ink stamp

[leaofthewolves]

Splathammer (Warhammer 30k x Splattoon) Part 1:

Honestly, I have had this AU on my mind for a while...

The Emperor of Mankind failed. He was unable to prevent humanity from destroying itself, despite the massive powers that he possessed.. not even he could prevent the rising of the ocean tides, nor the driving of humans underground.

He had revealed himself too late, albeit despite the humans despairing for a miracle. He watched as the last few humans died off. He had some idea of how and where his perpetuals were, but as far he had concern, as much as he hated it.. he had to move on.

He remained in the shadows, watching as the new species grow and change. The new species, although humanoid in appearance only two had the ability to transform into what was known as squids and octpi within his time of the earth.

In order to blend in, he used his biomancy to assume the prime form of their species, yet keeping somewhat of his more human features. However, despite the new races' inherited a shattered earth, they adapted it, and made it their own.

It surprised him, that they had created little miracles of their own... a large catfish to be able to produce enough electricity to power tons of cities, ink based weapons that were based on human tools that were long gone.

He witnessed the Great Turf War, where the octopus based amog them were driven underground, like the humans before them. In his heart, He thought that they should have won given their numbers and the odd way that they can reproduce.

To make sure that his plans went through, he went underground, but within the places that he knew that Octopus species would not touch. Although, his resources were limited, he had heard about the power of the Golden Eggs. So, he went on his own hunt, it was a ripe opportunity to get used to this form, and gain some of that precious resource.

He used it wisely, and crafted 20 beings like him... although it took almost a ton of his great power, and unfortunately... two of them didn't survive... He had to rest and he let the Golden Eggs power his creations.

Lion El Johnson

Species: Octarian

Alias: The Great Salmonid Hunter

Weapon Choice: Grizzco Splatana

Special of Choice: Ink Armor/ Reef Slider

He was one of the first to awaken after time gestating within his test tube. The lab in which he was "born" was rather dark and gloomy. Still, he was. he left the lab, and somehow used his senses to make his way above ground. Unfortnately, during that time... a Great Salmonid Migration was in process...

Millions of them, were rushing throughout the roads... each biting and chewing on anything they could get their fins on. Lion even noticed with great shock the some had consumed their fellows.

Despite this, he noted a worker fall, their clothing dissipated as they cried out in pain. His shock turned to rage as he grabbed the worker's fallen weapon and turned his rage upon the Salmoniods...

Eventually through many hours of hacking.. many corpses lay beside them. Including some Smallfry, which he took the time to crush underfoot. However, when he had turned to see the new species that came to embrace him after what he did... every thing just felt wrong.... And so... he left them.

Currently, Lion is trying to hunt down the hideouts of the Salmonoids, while using their precious golden eggs as bait.

Fulgrim

Alias: None

Weapon of Choice: Dapple Dualies, Dynamo Roller (if hes in a mood), InkBrush

Species: Inkling

Special of Choice: Ultra Stamp

Fulgrim was the second to emerge from his tube, but took a different path from his brothers. He made his way throughout the underground but arrived in Inkopolis.

Although he was a foreigner and had little memory in the city, he adapted to its culture well, and enjoyed his time after fighting in Turf Wars. In that, he realized that he was scarily good with that, it even got worse for his foes when he had picked up and settled on his main weapon of choice.

Currently, he is X ranked in almost every mode, despite using some of the worse weapons and kits within. In fact, many a team if their of whispers that he would be playing often forfiet out of fear.

When out of Turf Wars, he is a great artist, often using a modified Inkbrush and his own ink to create masterpieces. They are often abstract in nature.

Despite the fame of being so great...the X ranked matched sometimes get boring... and often he switches to his other weapon, the Dynamo. He purposely picked this weapon, as he had heard an off color comment about a player's intelligence if they used this weapon.

Perturabo

Alias: The Shelled Builder

Weapon Choice: None

Special Choice: Modifed Ink Armor

Species: Horsecrab/Octarian Hybrid

Perturabo was alive. He felt some level of higher awareness due to kind. He burst out of his tank and walked out of the underground. He noted that at least two of the other tanks were broken... there were others like him... but they were gone. He turned to the others still gestating.

He made a perfect mental note of their faces... he would come back.. yet they were not ready. Still... he had to escape.

He wandered the Underground endlessly, until he picked up a tune. A simple 5 tune jingle. Somehow he knew in his heart that it meant something. He followed the tune and arrived at a patrol.

They uttered something and he tried to recite the tune back to him, but all it uttered was confused. Still, the patrol went and brought him into the Octarian underground domes where they lived.

There he grew, and learned... He learned much about weapon design and armor and specials... He was promoted quickly. He had studied all that he had known about inklings and their weapons based on the data.

However all that changed when, he got news that he could be promoted no further... and for what... His heart was full of wrath and bitterness... Why couldn't he be apart of the elite...At that

Still he continued... the only times where he felt some level of joy was when his "leader" got captured by the Inklings...

Currently, he is still in the underground making wholely unspeakable weapons for the renewed war effort, and slowly making plans to overthrow and rule Octarian society.

[sawdusst]

in canon do you think wire or vintage would win in a turf war

OOH ok ok ok

so

First off, this is just my opinion and also pure nonsense because I don't know a lot about positioning and all that stuff :"

anyways more stuff after the cut since i accidentally wrote a bit

but I'm going to assume Vintage has roughly the same amount of strength as Skull since they used to be on the same team. Unless Vintage made it to X Rank after Skull & Avi left the team? Anyways that's not really important I'm just kind of using that as reference in my head. So if the Blue Team beats Wire but can't beat Skull/Vintage (in the stamp rally),,,, then I guess that'd make Wire weaker (?) but idk that's not really a good way to scale because Team Blue is Team Blue and they're just really silly.

I want to say Vintage might actually win this one. Mostly because their weapons are more suited for covering ground while Wire's team is more aggro...? if that makes any sense? Yeah Wire would probably splat a few of Vintage's teammates and vice versa but it wouldn't really be anything game-changing.

Also the angle shooter doesnt really do much realistically, it's a bit exaggerated in the manga but in all actuality it probably wont do much against Vintage's team. But then again, pretty much everyone on Vintage's team has sprinklers 💀

If they have the Splat3 weapon kits: Vintage also still has the inkjet could probably wipe out the crab tank. Unless Wire does some fancy maneuver out, I think that's a hit there. Double Egg would have the zipcaster, which can let him get up close and ink turf/splat players. At least from what I could tell, I think I know Wire's team has a jet squelcher and dualie squelchers-- not quite sure what the third one is,,, so I'll just put that aside. Another thing is that they also have the X-Fall thingy and all that. Not sure if that would count in the turf war, but I'm considering it in my answer.

ANYWAYS I think Vintage would win. It would be a close battle but I think Vintage is more likely to win. :D

[lattehearted]

"Dearest Peg, It's a sacred day and I regret that I'm not by your side to experience it. After all we've been through—preparing to raise a little one, all the books we read, all the elders we consulted—the fact that I can't be there on this beautiful birthday for one very special person rips me to pieces. So in conclusion, please give Waggle a very happy birthday and make sure that he gets plenty of barkon and woofles for breakfast. Your loving husband, Dog-tor BJ."

She loves him.

She loves him, she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.

She misses him more than she knew you could miss a person, but she has to focus on the positives. BJ doesn't need letters of her longing when that won't bring him home faster.

So instead, when Erin's settled down for her nap and the birthday boy himself is contented with a bone outside in the summer sun, Peg sits down to pen a response.

My darling Dog-tor Bark-us Jawbone,

Our Waggles misses his father dearly but knows you're doing incredible work in Seoul. He's very proud of you, he told me himself. He's outside right now, soaking in the sun with a fresh milk bone, happy as can be. Is it warm over where you are? I hope you're staying hydrated and eating well. I hope the mess hall has plenty of bones for you!

In case they don't, I've sent some snickerdoodles along with this letter. Erin even cracked the eggs! I think I managed to get all the shells out but you can just feed the extra crunchy ones to that Burns fellow you've mentioned with such... abundant fondness.

The second box is for Hawkeye, by the by! You mentioned his birthday had passed and though it's belated, I wanted to give him something. Thank him for looking out for you for me, would you, Beej?

I miss you more every day. But I hold on to the hope that you'll be here soon enough for Waggles' birthday, or yours, or mine, or Erin's or even a regular old Tuesday in the middle of winter.

Take care of yourself and come home to us in one piece.

With all our love, Peggy, Erin, and Waggles Hunnicutt

She has to take a couple minutes to compose herself, less she warp the paper with her tears. But after she settles herself, she digs around her desk for a pad of stamp ink. She has a dog paw to paint, for Waggles' signature.

[authoralexharvey]

Find the Word Tag

Was tagged for this one by @k--havok, thank you! My words are:

Fast

Their attention flicks back to Professor Darzi fast enough their neck muscles protest. They watch as he pulls a stamp pad closer, flips open their folder, and presses a stamp into the top page, hard enough to make it crinkle. Simone reads the words as he pulls away: Discussion Needed. Their breath catches.

Muggy

I don't have this one!

Dying

Their lips fuse together, voice dying in their throat. Sweat beads on Etienne’s face as he glowers at them, a piece of paper clenched in his other fist. The glove he wears shimmers, the magic fading away as Simone watches it in disbelief.

Also the amount of times I have used the word "studying" in this project. Wow.

Tree

The skin on her hands is ink-black and gnarled like the bark of an old tree. Each finger ends in claws the size of daggers. The veins in her arms have blackened and pulse in time to her racing heartbeats.

Tagging: @magic-is-something-we-create, @flowerprose, @galactic-mystics-writes, @arigalefantasynovels, @author-a-holmes, and @bardicbeetle! Your words are: shell, music, trickle, and egg. Have fun!

[eggstamp]

GERÇEK YUMURTA DAMGASI SADECE BİZDEN ALINIR

PİGMENT İZMİR 0553 444 88 88

[reith-sheep]

Forefront 4 Birdsong

It's a wonderful look at the late field biologist John Sincock, especially his last encounter with Hawaii's now-extinct Kaua'i 'ō'ō ( Moho brackets) of the encounter animated work. The animator's artistry and aesthetic are very sophisticated, even if this is only her second-year film at CalArts. I love her postage-stamp-like style of pen drawing. She's always been very good with that.

She has also put out some tutorials on how she combines these things together beautifully, and I love the way she combines and discusses the Eastern and Western painting styles. It's a digital painting that combines a Western sketching relationship with an Eastern layered ink painting style. The relative feel of her use of ink brushes in this was new to me.

I was drawn to her style of drawing like early American movie posters, the combined use of materials, and the little thought that went into conceiving the story, and she suggested ending the film with the buzzing of mosquitoes. This is a small reference to the main factors that led to the extinction of ʻoʻō on Kauai. In the 1800s, mosquitoes were accidentally introduced to the Hawaiian Islands by ship. They brought with them avian malaria, a disease that many birds could not fight off. In this sense, island life is extremely fragile and human behaviour (intentional or not) can completely change the equation of the surrounding environment. I really like this form of buried eggs. This kind of iterative approach to sound effects is something I would like to learn. I will try to use more forms of using sound to convey information for my future projects.

reference

(No date) Thekidshouldseethis.com. Available at: https://thekidshouldseethis.com/post/birdsong-hawaii-kauai-oo-extinction-animation (Accessed: May 8, 2023).

lemoncholy (2020) SHANGHAI | Speedpaint + Video Journal. Youtube. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2OyeuOnz0sI (Accessed: May 8, 2023).

lemoncholy (2022) Birdsong (CalArts Film 2022). Youtube. Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4_dq_e4KGs (Accessed: May 8, 2023).

[surveillance-0011]

What I have for the singular boss battles so far is:

All three would predominantly attack through their music rather than getting up close and personal, but there could be instances where they’d physically attack you as well. All of them do get away in the end

DJ: Kind of similar to DJ Octavio’s fight (in the first game) in terms of a floating DJ booth, you have to keep advancing forward to attack and attacks r similar as well. instead of deflecting missiles you use the egg canon from bosses around the stage or something like the cohock charge canons. Or hit switches to shut down the power. Yknow what I think I like the idea of shutting down the power better but either works. The DJ sends out enemies, deploys sprinklers and torpedos, and uses specials like the killer wail and trizooka or stinger to hold you back. Basically to stop you from getting to them or turning off the power Gets more complex over the three phases but there’s musical cues and by the end they do go down. I could see them being the first of the three fought or the last depending on how difficult the fight is in practice.

Timpanist: OK THIS ONE I have a better idea of. The arena is circular and maybe rotates ala Octowhirl but he’s on an elevated platform with his timpanis. The rhythms send out wave breaker or big shot esque soundwaves, alternating between quick and less damage and slower but more. Cohocks can be summoned and he also has some sort of bloblobber like projectiles at one point. He can also throw one of his drum sticks with a sort of ultra stamp like effect but you can deflect it. So you either have to hold the line until he attacks like that or make it through the obstacles and rotating stage, climb up yourself and attack? That’s the part I’m unsure of ig. With each stage the attacks grow in intensity. His ultimate attack is a sort of flaming booyah bomb that takes up a lot of the stage. It can be canceled or deflected if you’re quick enough. Also the drumsticks are on fire the entire time, with a green flame that doesn’t burn the drums but can definitely hurt you.

Cellist: literally fucking nothing. Ok that’s not true i have some ideas I think that maybe he could summon lesser salmonids with his playing. And unlike the other two you’re on the same one platform stage BUT it’s all these moving parts that shuffle near constantly so it’s harder to reach him as he sits and plays. I also think it’d be interesting if like halfway through he straight up put down the cello and fought you personally, attacking like a maws or flipper flopper. Just quicker, so there’s not as much reaction time. That and no splatzone sort of thing for his jumps. The hit box is way smaller so you’ll only be hurt if you’re right where he dives but he cannot the stopped by inking the area, only by bombs (which stun) or shooting him until he goes down. For this phase the stage would stay still. First or third of the bunch fought, probably first bc the DJ is starting to seem like a harder fight than it sounded in my head

[k00292941]

Week 6

Print

For my second week of print I wanted to capture the importance of motherhood, and how being a stay at home mom isn’t something a woman has to be embarrassed.

I gathered a few images I felt represented motherhood and I decided the dodo was the best to create a stamp from.

I created a stamp, I sketched a dodo on a piece of link and using tools I hollowed out the background. (I was able to do this thanks to the knowledge I gained from the print Seminar)

I then created a baby pink and baby blue colour to represent baby’s.

I rolled the ink onto my stamp and created a few different designs onto a multiple different pieces of paper ( both black and white)

I was inspired by the gorilla girls to create more poster but this time to represent the importance of motherhood, and a strong female figure.

I was inspired by Sarah Lucas to create a feminist T-shirt for mothers.

I practiced the stamp on fabric and a few different angels to get the desired look for t shirt.

I marked the T-shirt where I wanted the dodos to go and I stamped two dodo in the breast area. ( made sure stamp was very clean in order to avoid colour transferring)

Once I was happy I photographed the T-shirt on a black background and recreated Sarah Lucas icon fried egg photo. I used my own mom as the model to really get my message of motherhood and feminism can go hand in hand.

[cosmicanger]

ACT UP Art Box.

Wooden box with 6 mixed-media multiples and color hand-printed ink on box lid. 350x608x130 mm; 13 3/4x23 3/4x5 inches. Numbered 8/95 in felt-tip pen and black ink on the underside of the box. With the justification booklet signed by each of the artists in pencil. Published by ACT UP, New York.

Includes works by Ross Bleckner, Untitled, painted plastic, card and metal hook; Louise Bourgeois, Untitled, silicone rubber; Mike Kelley, Hibernating Egg, birch wood, cork, glue and wood putty; Simon Leung, Approaching, screenprint on silk; Lorna Simpson, Untitled, pyrex, rods, lampworked, text and recycled paper; Kiki Smith, Untitled, color photograph and stamped glass; and Nancy Spero, To the Revolution, unique hand-printed ink on the outside box lid. 1994.