#ghost is fucking his gun

[ghouljams]

Plot twist: when sniper reader shot Konig, she was cockwarming one of the 141 boys.

Laying on the high ledge, keeping your eye trained down the scope as you follow the big KorTac brute through his watch pattern. Feeling the slick slide of Johnny's cock as he rubs it against your ass. His weight pushing down on you as he holds himself up with the same hands that push at your hips, his head hung low to watch the way his cock splits your ass apart with each rut. Staining your jacket with pre-come, and murmuring into his throat mic about how warm you are, how soft, how perfect you are holding still for him. You ear piece buzzes with his praise, your stomach clenches, your finger twitches against the trigger.

You hold steady, unwilling to miss any of your shots because the sergeant can't keep it in his pants. Though you suppose you aren't really keeping anything in your pants either, you did shuck them down below the swell of your ass as soon as he crept up here. The twist of heat that pools between your legs makes you that much more aware of your body, more mindful of the twitches that shudder through your muscles.

He's babbling about his fucking bombs again, reciting schematics like they're pornography. "Wire b to trigger to wire c to detonator, wire d trigger to motion detector, wired to detonator, xx grams of c4-" He takes a breath, "-fuck you should've seen it, all red wires I thought it'd choke my cock clean off, nearly came when the trigger beeped."

"Bloody hell Johnny," You warn.

"You wanna hear the recipe for nitroglycerine love?" He pants, "Ah dae."

"Marked," Price hums over the comms and you steady your breathing to take the shot.

Only to have Johnny thrust hard when you pull the trigger. Your perfect shot hitting the big guy in the shoulder instead of blowing his head clean off. You turn to glare at Soap and he pauses to pout at you.

"Ya ken the lassies dinnae glare at me."

"Go fuck one of your bombs then." You gripe and turn back to finish the job, only to lose visual.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 74

When a new black-haired blue-eyed person appeared in the manor, one could easily be forgiven for thinking that Bruce’s adoption problem had struck again. So color many a batkid surprised that no, this kid isn’t a new sibling, no he didn’t get grabbed from the street, and actually he’s here for Alfred. Apparently Alfred never found it important to mentioned that he has a husband- that the kid kind of implies isn’t human what with the casual way he says he himself is half human- and that this kid is apparently their child. For once it’s Bruce’s turn to come home to a surprise sibling. 

Danny on the other hand just learned that his Clockpa has a semi-mortal partner who has offered to take him in, (in another dimension even! And there’s aliens!!) while the ancient takes care of some stuff at home. And yeah it’s in a rich-manor but Sam has proved that not all rich people are evil, and based off of Mr Pennyworth’s stories the Waynes weren’t bad either. Though based off of the others’ reactions perhaps he should wait to mention that there wasn’t one new family member but three…

[animentality]

metavision is super boring as an ability because all it means is that the character must now yap about everything they see for an entire chapter.

I wish someone with a visually interesting skill was the protagonist. I might as well read a novel, listening to Isagi chatter.

[clockworkcheetah]

brings gun to a ghost fight

[schnee-gheist]

dp fanfic ideas are getting to me again goddammit

[s0fter-sin]

i need a fic of soap bringing ghost home to his family for the holidays. his family’s always disapproved of everything; being queer, being in the military, being with ghost and it’s all over not a great time but they’re trying to pretend for the sake of the holiday. they get into it after dinner one night though and for once soap isn’t backing down, not when it’s ghost they’re attacking, when the power suddenly goes out. soap moves just in time for a shot to come through the window and he orders his family to get down

graves and what’s left of shadow company followed them to glasgow; it’s the first time they’ve been away from the 141 and they think it’ll be their best chance to take them out. johnny and simon are left behind as they become soap and ghost and soap’s childhood home becomes a battleground, his hysterical family who still think he can’t be that good of a soldier now civilians that he has to protect and get out in one piece

[widowshill]

BURKE DEVLIN & ROGER COLLINS. — It isn't really amazing if you know what love is about. — Well, yes, I suppose I don't know anything about love. I guess that's why she married you ten years ago and not me. — I'll go one step further. I think you've gone beyond the point of even knowing what it is.

[natjennie]

😌💭 the captain's "weeuugh!" dork supreme fumbling autism moments unintentional rizz meets havers' enchanted adoration and vehement unwavering horniness. the epitome of "well I can't not fuck him"

[mikurulucky]

My darling! My sweetheart! My beautiful man among men!! 😭😭💖💖💖💖💖😭😭😭😭😭😭💖💖

[honeyboyfelix]

turns out...making your character full ass blind has downsides- such as: making your whole party laugh when you ask to make a (hearing) perception check

[shortfeather]

And today's "deeply distracting au while i wait for my wrist to calm down from attempting to write for too long" iiiiiiiiiis Subnautica! an inevitability for every fandom i'm in after a certain point tbh i just LOVE Subnautica... would love to actually play it myself one day when i have a better computer

ANYWAYS I'm spicing it up this time by mashing both games together and also really mixing up the hermits.

The premise is that the Hermatrix Convoy (HC), a trio of spaceships that travels together in a group as a defense measure against outside dangers, is on its journey. When they have to reroute to slingshot 4546-B, they don't think it's going to be a problem. Knowing the planet is uninhabited and that no other ships are nearby, they all go for the slingshot at the same time, separated by mere seconds.

The gun, of course, gets them all.

Hermatrix-1 crashes in a shallow part of the flooded surface in the subtropics (the setting of the first game) and completely loses the ship, though a dozen survive. Hermatrix-2 crashes in the arctic (Subnautica: Below Zero); their ship remains habitable for survival, but barely, and eight survive.

Hermatrix-3, the smallest of the convoy, manages to switch to planetside navigation and mitigates the damage from the crash. If they want to get off-planet, they'll need some serious repairs, but in the meantime they can still move through the water like a particularly clumsy and slow submarine. The problem is figuring out where they are besides "deep, deep underwater," and what exactly the giant lifeforms the scanner insists are out there are...

Of course, there's groups within each ship as well. The friend groups of HC's staff and passengers does not necessarily correlate to ship assignment, which only adds to the stress of crashing on a supposedly-safe planet's anti-spacecraft gun.

Hermatrix-1's survivors: BDubs (architect, passenger), Zedaph (theoretical physicist), Pearl (janitor), Beef (psychologist), False (metallurgist, passenger), Etho (navigator), Scar (actor, passenger), Hypno (gov't agent, passenger), Iskall (athlete, passenger), xB (xenohistorian, passenger), Jevin (communicator specialist), Keralis (doctor)

Hermatrix-2's survivors: Ren (captain), Xisuma (cybersec specialist), Gem (ambassador, passenger), Impulse (chemist, passenger), Wels (bodyguard, passenger), Joe (teacher, passenger), Cub (CEO, pasenger), Grian (shipwright)

Hermatrix-3's survivors: Doc (spacecraft engineer), Mumbo (architect, passenger), Stress (pharmacologist), Tango (mechanical engineer, passenger), Cleo (acting captain)

If it doesn't clarify them as a passenger, then they are a member of the ship's crew. Loosely based on s9 roles, if that wasn't clear - though some of these are definitely going to change because I don't know some of these Hermits well enough yet.

[antisocialxconstruct]

annnnd the conclusion (for now 👀), following off of Ilya's scene. A chunk of this was posted previously but it's been edited to flow better and now it has some context :)<

6.2k, Maksim has a busy day and an important appointment to keep. No serious warnings but he does get knocked on his ass at one point and it's really embarrassing.

----

Abele’s clinic is not luxurious, and it is not especially peaceful. The actual treatment area is three beds squeezed into a gutted back room with blacked out windows, with tools and medical machinery filling all the empty spaces with no method or pattern that Maksim has been able to decipher. He’s been listening to muffled voices and multiple sets of footsteps passing back and forth overhead since he woke up, and he’s only awake because of the sirens that went screaming by outside nearly half an hour ago.

What Abele’s clinic is, importantly, is discreet and familiar, such that he was able to show up in the dead of night, starved and dehydrated, covered in blood, with two broken fingers and a black eye, months after he had moved away from Bayview and cut ties with everyone he knew here, and he was hurried in off the street without a single question. After that things are a little hazy. As soon as he was inside he began to lose the meager shred of clarity that had gotten him to the door, and the second his head hit a pillow he lost consciousness entirely. Given the state he was in at the time, he's willing to wager that he was out for a while.

When he finally has to admit that sleep won’t be returning for the moment, he makes a valiant effort to push himself into a sitting position. An exceedingly brief few seconds of effort later he gives up, discouraged both by the way his head immediately begins to spin and by the light pinch of the IV drip in his right arm that he had managed not to fully notice. He lets his head drop back onto the pillow but he does muster the energy to raise his right hand up to where he can see it, just to grimace at the bulky beige cast stretching from his pinky and ring fingers down to just below his wrist. His hand feels heavy and distant beneath the wraps, in a way that seems incongruous with the dulled sensation he’s accustomed to from the inhibitor. Pain killers? He glances at the IV bag with a frown, making a mental note to insist Abele taper them off the next time the doctor comes by.

What else?

His thoughts are achingly sluggish and disjointed but if he focuses on planning his next steps he doesn’t have to think about the way being unable to move freely invites other memories up to the surface of his mind. Should he see Chiba as well, on the off chance there was any lasting damage to his cyberware? At the very least he’s going to need his hand re-tuned once the cast is off but that won’t be for a while. Can he risk going back to his apartment, or will Callahan have cased it already? He’s lucky his manhunter was on him when he was caught, but the rest of his gear would sting to have to write off. He does have a deposit box in Excelsior under another fake name, if Callahan hasn’t managed to connect him to it, and if he can reach it safely, he’ll at least have money. And then… And then what? Does he keep running? Ilya should be long gone, at least, so-

It’s a testament to whatever drugs he’s on that the reaction to that thought comes a full couple seconds after it actually forms in his mind. His chest constricts and he winces, laboriously raising his left hand to rub his eyes as he fights to get a full breath into his lungs.

Ilya should be long gone. If he warned them in time.

That’s what he wanted. He wanted them safe, even if it meant urging them out of his life. It doesn’t make the reality hurt any less. It doesn't feel any less like he had to carve something out of himself.

This is pointless, he thinks. He's not going to make any progress lying here dwelling on what's done and feeling sorry for himself. With one more concerted effort he pushes himself up until he can rest his back against the wall behind him and coughs to clear his throat. His voice still sounds dry and ragged when he calls out, "Abele!"

A quiet beat, then the soft padding of approaching footsteps. The middle-aged dwarf who pokes her head in is not Abele, but he dimly remembers that she was there when he first arrived and might have been the one who actually guided him into a bed. When she catches his searching expression she smiles, picking her way around the clutter to his bedside as she explains, "they had to step out for the afternoon. I'm Harper, I can take care of anything you need in their absence."

"I need to leave," Maksim replies bluntly.

Harper tsks lightly. "What you need is some proper food and liquid in your system," she insists. "That drip's not enough to get you on your feet after you were out for a day and a half."

"A day and…" Maksim repeats incredulously, then grits his teeth in frustration. That's at least twenty-four hours more than he had hoped, Callahan could have gotten a lot done in that time even if he was still licking his own wounds. “Did you drug me?”

“We didn’t have to,” Harper admits. When Maksim casts another doubtful look at the IV she adds, “that’s just a saline solution, you were dangerously dehydrated.”

He doesn’t particularly like that answer although he can’t imagine why she would lie. But it means he’s got nothing to blame for the bleariness of his thoughts or the unsettling heaviness of his limbs. "Okay. Get it out," he scowls at the needle in his arm, "give me my things, tell me what I owe Abele for the help."

The doctor still regards him uneasily, beginning to say, "why don't you at least rest easy until they-"

"Harper," he interrupts, "it would be in everyone's best interest if I'm not here when my problems catch up with me."

After one more moment’s hesitation, a sort of grim understanding settles over her features and she nods. She doesn’t like it, but she knows when a runner shouldn’t be argued with. “Alright well… just let me get you the address.”

Maksim blinks, and just as Harper is turning to step away he stops her with a quick “what address?”

“That your friend left for you,” she clarifies with a light smile, as if he should know precisely what she’s talking about.

Naspok says come when you’re able

Abele’s round, looping script stares back at him from the scrap of paper, six simple words followed by an address he placed somewhere in Haight-Ashbury. When the crossing signal chirps to beckon him to the other side of the street he stuffs the note back in the pocket of his ill-fitted hoodie and keeps walking.

His head’s buzzing, a hit of jazz the quickest way he could think of to cancel out the fatigue, and easy trash to get ahold of in Bayview. And still no matter how furiously he turns the situation over and over in his mind, he can think of only two possibilities.

If someone other than him knows he told Ilya to go somewhere safe, it means he was right to suspect some kind of trace on his commlink (which means it was the right move to pawn it as soon as he left the clinic so he could buy some clothes that were inconspicuous and not crusted in blood). But that also means they should know he very explicitly instructed Ilya not to tell him where they were hiding. If it is a trap, it’s a particularly bold one, especially considering the last time Callahan tried to weaponize Ilya against him he nearly tore the man’s throat out. Even if he knew that’s what this was, he would have half a mind to go anyway just to show whoever’s waiting for him what he thinks of them using Ilya’s name like that.

The other possibility is that Ilya received his instructions, went to a safehouse, and then immediately contacted him to tell him where they were.

He comes to an abrupt stop on the sidewalk, massaging his temples as he curses under his breath.

That does sound like something Ilya would do.

And in spite of the frustration bubbling under the surface of his thoughts, he can’t deny the truth: he hopes that’s what Ilya did. Even if it means putting them both in greater danger, even if it means tempting Callahan to call NeoNET down on top of them… it also means their last conversation doesn’t have to be Maksim on death’s door urging them to disappear. It means they chose not to abandon him.

Whichever way he looks at it… he has to take the invitation. He has to know. But he doesn’t have to go unprepared.

Guardian Vault & Safe seems like the most reliable first stop. He bristles under the receptionist’s dubious once-over, keenly aware that he doesn’t have the advantage of his usual wardrobe to offset the unavoidable fact that a heavily modded troll is a bit of a novelty in a middle class district like Excelsior. The fidgety posture he can’t quite calm and the ugly purple bruise spread across the left side of his face probably aren’t doing his respectability any favors either. Still, a gentle telepathic nudge to humor him–and a mandatory thumbprint scan–gets him through the door under the name Grigoriy Kozlov (at least you were good for something in the end, Grisha, he thinks wryly), and a half hour later he’s back out with five thousand nuyen across four different credsticks, and a thin backpack with a spare magazine for the manhunter and another change of clothes in it. He had actually forgotten how much he’d stashed there; it had been one of the first things he did upon arriving in the city, for when he thought he would inevitably need to get out quick.

The apartment is a coin flip… if the safehouse is a trap, it seems likely Callahan won’t have split his resources between that and staking out a second location. If Ilya really is waiting for him, then he has no idea what to expect in Oceanview. Still… There's a customized Remington 990 sitting in a locker under his bed, and the thought of abandoning it–or worse yet, the thought of Callahan getting his hands on it–is enough to cement Maksim’s resolve. He has to go home.

It doesn’t feel right, creeping around his own apartment building like he’s there to rob it. But he’s not in any state to be confronting his neighbors right now, and he’d really rather as few people as possible have any sense of where he’s been and when. After a tense few seconds of finessing the lock (not much of a feat when it only has to be jostled in just such a way), the back door to the service corridor spares him having to pass by the front desk. No one else ever takes the stairs when the elevators are as cushy as they are, so it’s an easy enough task to dart up one flight at a time, stopping on each landing to listen for anyone else coming and going, until he’s finally on the fifth floor. He has the least cover here as he steps out into the main hallway, leaving him no choice but to simply stride to his own door as purposefully as he can and pray no one else is around.

He’s just beginning to marvel at his own luck when he gets close enough to realize the door is already just the slightest bit ajar. Like someone let it swing closed behind them and didn’t check to make sure it latched. He stops a few paces out, hand drifting to the pistol holstered at his back, and although he expects to regret it he takes a deep breath and stretches his senses outward, pawing blindly around the astral space for signs of other minds. There’s the familiar thread of one neighbor, the absence of another telling him the unit on the right is empty right now, and then… someone else, dead ahead. Someone bored.

The second he brushes against their mind his awareness snaps back into place and he flinches, pressing a palm to his forehead as his vision blurs. He’s not excited at the prospect of fighting someone in his current state, but he’s not excited at the prospect of turning around and retreating either. There is at least one other alternative… He drops his hand away from the gun and squares his shoulders, doing the best he can not to look like he’s operating on nothing but sleep deprivation and the tail end of a stimulant high, and pushes the door open.

The open floorplan affords him an immediate view of everything but the bedroom and bathroom, but he doesn’t need the luxury of a full sweep to isolate the only threat in the apartment. She’s rifling through the cabinets in his kitchen with her back to him, and judging by the clutter of nonperishables on his counter it looks like she’s been on a determined hunt for something.

Human, sturdy build, dressed for combat but not so heavily that it would obscure the elaborate wolf-centric sleeve tattoos. This isn’t another of Callahan’s goons imported from the east coast. In fact Maksim recognizes her, if only peripherally, as another runner moving in the same circles Ilya does. That might actually make this easier. He freezes to search his memory for a name, and then rolls his eyes when he remembers what it is.

“Lupe,” he says to announce his presence, at the same time pushing the door more firmly shut behind him. She straightens and wheels around, staring him down for a beat before he sees recognition spark in her eyes as well.

“Shit,” she sighs, “no one told me I was getting a babysitter, Mr. Johnson must really want this guy.” Something in Maksim’s expression must give him away before he can decide how to use that information, because a second later her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline and she lets out a long, low whistle. “‘This guy’ is you?”

Maksim steels himself with another deep breath before responding. “Listen… I would really rather not kill you inside my own apartment.” Lupe’s mouth quirks into a dry smile, and he worries that he’s not managing to sound confident instead of exhausted. He makes a quick course-correction, shrugging the backpack off his shoulder and lowering it to the floor, then making a point of drawing his pistol, reversing his grip on it, and leaning over to lay it on the seat of a nearby chair. “What would it cost for you to let me get my things and then swear I was never here?”

She tilts her head, eyeing him down the bridge of her nose before she answers. “How much you got?”

That, at least, is a question he’s prepared to answer confidently. “Two thousand,” he says, pulling one of the cred sticks from the deposit box from his pocket and holding it out. “That’s all I have but you can take it all.”

She hovers in the kitchen a couple seconds longer, watching him as if he might spring into action at any moment, but he must look suitably beaten and desperate because she finally comes around the counter and approaches, stretching out a hand to accept the bribe.

When she grabs his wrist instead he tenses, but he registers the incoming fist a split second too late to react and then he’s on the floor, seeing stars. The fresh wave of pain crests against the inhibitor before it can really hinder him but he still feels thoroughly rattled as he rolls onto his side. He groans, bites out “чертова сука” only to taste a fresh trickle of blood down his lips.

That was embarrassing, and not the kind of cheap move that ever should have surprised him. He would have preferred a more controlled round of troubleshooting but at least now he can be reasonably certain. Something’s wrong with his mods.

“Sorry Avos,” Lupe sighs. “But work’s work, y’know?” She grabs his ankle and drags him further away from the door–away from his gun–continuing, “I don’t know what you did but someone’s got a lot of nuyen riding on settling the score.” Her weight comes down on his stomach as she straddles him, grabbing the wrist of his injured hand as she reaches for something on her belt.

That was a bad judgment call.

His left hand shoots out to the front of her tactical vest, claws digging in for purchase, and he hauls her down the same moment he lunges forward to slam his forehead into her face.

That was also a bad judgment call.

Lupe grunts and goes limp enough for Maksim to throw her off, only to drop back onto the floor as the room spins. It takes every ounce of his focus just to get some semblance of control over his limbs, enough to roll over and lurch-stumble-crawl back to the chair to grab the manhunter and fire off a shot near-blindly in Lupe’s direction. It misses her entirely and smacks into the laminated window behind her as she sits up. She follows the trajectory before turning back to him with a sneer, the expression rendered grisly by the mess of gashes Maksim’s horns delivered to her face.

She staggers to her feet as Maksim slouches back against the chair, but in a moment of inspiration he sets his jaw and fires two more shots past her into the window, until it finally shatters and he hears someone down on the street shriek in surprise. Lupe stops in her tracks and gives the window another look, and this time when she faces Maksim again she seems genuinely puzzled. “What was that for?”

“This is a nice neighborhood,” he says, slightly winded. “And people in the building are nosey. I’d give the SFPD… fifteen minutes? Maybe less if they’re bored.”

She gives him the same calculating stare she did when he first showed up, but she does look markedly less confident in her advantage now. “And which one of us do you think they’ll believe is supposed to be here?”

Maksim snorts. “Honestly? Neither of us. But I bet only one of us knows what name is on the lease.” He glances over his shoulder and then reaches back, hauls himself up off the floor and into the chair. He rests his elbows on his thighs and dares to take a second to screw his eyes shut, rub his forehead, try to blink everything back into sharper focus. When he looks up again Lupe hasn’t moved. He waves the gun listlessly toward the door with a frown. “I’ve already had to pay off a street doc, I don’t want to have to call in a cleaner too. You can keep the cred stick.”

Lupe takes a step toward him. “I don’t think you understand what kind of price tag is on you right now.”

“If you don’t leave I’ll shoot out your knees and then you can talk to the cops yourself when they get here.” It takes a concerted effort to keep his hand steady but he levels the manhunter with her legs just to make sure she understands he’s not being hyperbolic. “Get out of my house.”

This time she doesn’t argue. Maksim sinks back into the chair as the door swings shut behind her and he listens to her heavy footsteps recede down the hall until he can’t hear them anymore. Then he lays the pistol in his lap and rubs his hand vigorously over his face, letting out a long groan of wordless frustration.

But he’s on a tight deadline now, thanks to his own flawless strategizing.

He drags himself back to his feet, holsters the pistol, retrieves the backpack from by the door, and heads for the bedroom, cursing under his breath when his balance wavers and his shoulder catches on the doorframe. Then out of the closet comes a black duffel bag, and out from under the bed comes a sturdy locker. He flips up the latches and throws it open to retrieve the prize he came all this way for, the 990 settled peacefully in its tactical holster. Maksim pauses as he wraps his hand around it, allowing himself a moment to imagine firing a slug through Callahan’s skull just to make the trip worth it, then stuffs it into the duffel along with his remaining ammo for both guns, the manhunter’s drop holster, the reinforced field jacket he normally wears on runs, and all the contents of the backpack. He zips the duffel shut and stands, then after a brief consideration pulls off the hoodie and tosses it on the bed, ducks into the bathroom to hastily wash the blood off his face, and then shrugs into his leather coat. It’s not any less conspicuous, in fact it might be moreso, but it’s familiar. It’s his. Even that tiny bit of normalcy does something to settle his nerves.

He slings the duffel over his head onto his shoulder and leaves the apartment, making a beeline for the exit. A door opens behind him and someone calls his name, but he just picks up his pace and doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the stairwell. By the time he's stepping back out into the alley from the service corridor, he can hear sirens around the front of the building.

Only one destination left now.

Haight-Ashbury isn't the kind of place where people pry, but after the chaos of his apartment the hike to the safehouse still feels disconcertingly simple. Traffic rumbles by overhead as he exits an underpass onto a quiet street, counting down building numbers until he arrives at the address he was provided. The structure is entirely unremarkable, easy to dismiss as an old shuttered storefront or a dingy unlisted residential building. He knocks twice on the front door, steps back, waits for a beat. A rusty intercom set into the wall crackles to life, only for a slightly distorted voice to tell him, “deliveries to the side door.”

Maksim hesitates, giving the facade a quick examination to see if he can spot a camera. Does he look like he’s here to make a delivery? Then he reaches over and holds down the one little silver button on the intercom. “I’m… looking for Naspok,” he says experimentally.

There’s no immediate answer, and Maksim is just beginning to wonder if he needs to try another approach when he hears the door unlock from inside before it creaks open. The orc that greets him at the threshold is a head shorter and looks to be at least a few decades older than he is, features well weathered but eyes sharp as he takes in Maksim’s appearance with pursed lips. He’s leaning lightly on a cane, but he takes up the doorframe confidently enough that Maksim doesn’t even entertain the idea of trying to force his way inside.

At last the orc simply grunts, “name?”

“Avos.”

The orc nods, then shifts his weight to rest one hand on the door. “You wait here,” he says. “No weapons on your person inside the building.”

Maksim blinks. “I’m not-”

“Not even well hidden ones,” the orc interrupts, raising the tip of his cane to flip Maksim’s coat aside and point directly to the concealed holster’s belt.

Maksim scowls down at him, but he still takes a step back to unclasp the belt and disarm, lowering the duffel onto the ground to store the manhunter away alongside the 990. Then he straightens, holding up his good hand to flex his claws illustratively.

The orc sniffs. “Well… Just keep that to yourself. Now wait.” He turns away, shutting the door behind him.

If this is a trap, Maksim is making it unbelievably easy for them. But that theory is rapidly beginning to crumble under the weight of evidence. Or hope, at least.

He’s left waiting on the doorstep long enough to start fearing again that he may have mishandled the situation. He turns to look up and down the sidewalk, a perfunctory effort to spot an ambush if it’s coming his way, but nothing seems out of the ordinary. He stoops to retrieve his bag from the ground, and doesn’t immediately process the next sound he hears coming from inside the building, only registering it as a rush of footsteps an instant before the door flies open.

When he turns back around Ilya is staring at him, wide eyed and slightly out of breath. For a long moment all he can think to do is stare back. He lets the duffel slide off his shoulder back onto the ground again. Every other thought in his head terminates at once, every frustration and paranoid fear and survival plan blotted out by the all-encompassing relief that overtakes him. This. This is what it was all for. For this moment, for the chance to look them in the eye one more time and… and tell them…

“Are you okay?” he asks numbly, just for something to say. Some way to fill the silence. He only registers the irony of him asking them that when Ilya’s expression contorts into something caught inexplicably between humor and pity.

“Am I okay?” they echo, “Maksim…”

“I just didn’t know if I contacted you fast enough, Callahan was going to… and I haven’t been able to think straight… I-” he rubs his eyes, shakes his head. Then he manages to catch hold of a single thought long enough to say with a little more exasperation than intended, “I told you to hide.”

“I did!” Ilya insists, holding their hands out to indicate the building around them.

“And I told you not to contact me.”

“Ah.” Ilya smiles weakly, then chews their lip for a second. “Technically I contacted a clinic in Bayview… if you happened to be there… coincidentally…”

Their excuse peters out as Maksim takes a step forward, spurred on by some impulse that barely even surfaces in his conscious mind, and takes hold of their shoulders. Or at least, he takes hold of one shoulder and rests his injured hand on the other. “You had time to run. You could have disappeared, you could be halfway to Seattle by now.”

The half-hearted attempt at humor falls away and Ilya’s eyes dart over his features, searching his expression with an unusual intensity. “The thought never crossed my mind,” they say softly. He believes them. He doesn’t know why that scares him, why it makes him feel dizzy and tightens his chest until he feels like he can’t take a full breath, but he believes they never considered leaving him behind. Not for a second. The question he wants to ask is why, the same question he asked before. Why didn't you sell me out. Why won't you leave. But he’s still grasping for the words when he feels their hand on his arm, and they’re saying, “but hey, we don’t have to do this right here, I think you’re clear to come inside. Do I need to get your bag?”

“No…” he mumbles, and then comes back to himself enough to actually process the question. “No,” he says more firmly, inhaling sharply and letting go of them to pick up the duffel again. Ilya moves away from the door and Maksim tails them inside, pausing when they poke their head through another door nearby and mutter something to someone in the next room. Then they close it and move on, beckoning him to follow them.

“I don’t think anyone else is here right now,” they say idly while they’re climbing the stairs, just as Maksim was also noting how quiet the building was despite its size. Without a full examination he’d still estimate it could house a couple dozen people.

In the second floor hallway Maksim’s muddled thoughts alight on another piece of information that feels important, and without warning he blurts out, “Alabast.” Ilya stops to face him. “The reliquary… the artifact we were supposed to steal from the warehouse. They think I have it, they’ve had someone following me since I left New York thinking they could get it back.”

Ilya doesn’t respond immediately, but Maksim imagines he can see a question surface in their expression only to fade just as quickly as they give him another quick once-over and do the math themself. The cast, the bruises, the length of his disappearance. They don’t need to ask what happened. What they do ask is, “how did you get out?”

“I…” Maksim grimaces. He hasn’t really spared any time to reflect on that… It wasn’t like he had a lot of options, but he’s been determinedly averting his eyes from the reality of what he was driven to. Full telepathic possession… it’s not something he’s ever done before. Not something he was ever taught to do. Not something he ever wanted to do. But he’s not about to start reflecting on it now. “It’s not important.”

The progression of Ilya’s expression is harder to read this time. They look like they want to press, but they catch Maksim’s eye and they see something there that keeps them quiet. “I’m glad you did,” they say, softly enough that Maksim might have thought it was just to themself if they weren’t standing so close. Just as their attention drifts back down the hall and they turn away, something hitches in Maksim’s chest, a quiet little cry of wait! He shrugs the bag off his shoulder again and reaches out, hand trailing down their forearm to linger around their wrist, and when they turn back to face him he throws his other arm around their shoulders and draws them in close. He can feel the ripple of tension that passes through them, for no more than the length of a heartbeat, before their body settles into the embrace.

“You didn’t have to do any of this,” he says, breathing the words into the warmth of their throat as he rests his head against their shoulder.

“You keep saying that,” they point out, lacing their fingers together at the small of his back. “Like it wasn’t the only choice that made any sense.”

None of this makes any sense, Maksim thinks, but he doesn’t argue as the moment stretches quietly into another second. Another. When he lifts his head away he can still feel the air stretched tight between them. A tether–or something more active. A magnetic pull as Ilya’s eyes lock with his, two opposing forces drawn back together into something natural and inevitable.

Then that moment bursts like a soap bubble as Ilya lets out the unmistakable snort of a poorly stifled laugh.

Maksim doesn’t lean any further back but he does narrow his eyes. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing, sorry,” Ilya replies quickly. “I just remembered the last time I asked if you were about to kiss me and you nearly decked me for it.”

Maksim holds their gaze for another beat. They’re teasing. It’s normal, it’s so perfectly, comfortably normal, but it still lights up something inescapable in Maksim’s head. If you were about to kiss me… He leans in, places a light peck along their jaw. When they don’t pull away, another against the soft skin just below their ear, and in his gentlest, most confidential tone, just to settle the score, he tells them, “I still might if you’re going to make this weird.”

Ilya’s hands unclasp just to slip under his coat and wander up the curve of his back to rest against his shoulders. Their grip is light but he can’t ignore the way they’re holding him in place, the fact that if he tried to step away it would be easy for them to stop him. He can’t ignore the fact that he would never let anyone touch him like that. Even without seeing it he can hear the grin plainly in their voice as they respond, “if you think threats are going to make me behave better then there’s been a serious miscommunication between us.” Maksim pulls back again, just enough to properly take in the pleased little smirk that they flash him to punctuate the comment as they splay their fingers out over his shoulder blades.

There’s a shift then, something in the stream of his thoughts abruptly changing direction, catching on a hook in the midst of the natural current. It registers as an invitation- no. A challenge, like Ilya is daring him to…

Even with two fingers out of commission he’s got the collar of their jacket in both hands before he can think about it and he shoves, just hard enough for them to hit the wall with a startled huff that turns into a muffled exclamation against his lips as he kisses them–deep, insistent bordering on aggressive. But there’s an underlying note of desperation to it that Maksim can feel in his own gut, a need for something he can’t name but is suddenly convinced, on some fundamental level, that he could finally have. Something Ilya could give him, that he could find in them–in the way they relax into the kiss just as quickly as they relaxed into the hug, the way they invited this and then surrendered to it so easily. He can feel their hands balled up in the fabric of his shirt and now they are holding him fast, telling him stay here, stay. There’s a stability, a realness to being held that he had allowed himself to forget. A feeling of certainty in being this close to another person, feeling the rise and fall of their breath and the warmth of their skin. Of course he would stay, he would dissolve into this moment, fall into Ilya’s orbit like a captured moon, let himself be pinned through the chest and held in place forever-

Then the rational part of his brain finally catches up only to bring the rest of it to a stuttering halt as it cries out you can’t, you can’t have this, you can’t want this. He breaks away with a gasp, a breathless silence hanging between them as he leans back into Ilya’s arms still wrapped around him. They let their head tip back to thump softly against the wall, seemingly unaware of his sudden discomfort as they study him with an expression he doesn’t recognize. Eyes a little wide, skin darkened by a subtle flush across their cheeks and the wry twist of a smile just barely tugging at the corner of their lips again. A growing unease bubbles up in Maksim’s chest and he lets his gaze fall, grasping for something to settle on other than their eyes.

As they so often are, Ilya is the one to find the nerve to break that silence, though they still sound a little stunned. “Sure, that’s one way to shut me up I guess.”

“Sorry,” Maksim utters, and the contrition feels wrong on his tongue, feels like someone else speaking for him. He doesn’t want to apologize. There are so many things that he does want but he’s pushing them all back down below the surface where they’re quiet. Where it’s safe.

“I’m… not complaining.” There's a note of surprise in their tone… at hearing themself say it? Or just at the fact that Maksim needed to hear it? It doesn't matter, he doesn’t want to know what they’re thinking. He wills his hands to loosen, to let Ilya go, and is at once both relieved and disappointed when they take it as a signal to do the same and allow him to step away. It's for the best, he tells himself. He’ll disappoint them, he won’t give them enough–he never has, he’s never known how–and he can't bear the thought of facing that frustration and discontent again. Not from Ilya, not after all this.

But he can’t pretend that didn’t just happen either–not with the way Ilya’s looking at him now. Not expectant, and certainly not angry… they just seem a little bewildered, like they’re not sure what happens next either. Then they clear their throat, apparently arriving at a decision. “Come on,” they say, leaning around him to grab his duffel, laying a hand on his shoulder as they do so. It feels�� right. It feels normal, and as they’re straightening he places his hand on top of theirs and they falter for just a second. There’s that mystified little ghost of a smile again as their gaze darts across his face, then they squeeze his shoulder and tilt their head toward a door a little further down the hall. “You look half dead, I’m sure you wouldn’t mind sitting down.”

[whipitgod]

please dear god i want lin to drop a drake diss track

[partiallysame]

Ghost Gets No Bitches Part 2:

second part to THIS

Word count 1400

Content warning: suggestive, alcohol

When ghost finally texted you the message was something along the lines of: 

Hello. This is the man from (insert specific grocery store name followed by the exact address of said grocery store). 

You: Do I get to know your name or am I just supposed to call you Man From Grocery Store?

Ghost: Simon

Wow ok not a talker but we can work through that. Simon knew he should take you to a proper dinner but you made him so anxious he needed somewhere safe. Comfortable. Ah yes the closest bar to his base that he goes to almost daily. When you agreed to the date the panic really set in. He’s gonna be alone with you again (he ran to Price to ask for help on what to do. “You can’t wear the fucking mask” “but why?”)

The second Ghost got out of his car he noticed Soap had followed him to the bar (how could he not, Ghost had been sweating all day about meeting his lil lass again) “you walk in that bar and I’ll put a bullet in you, Mohawk”

“Aye come on. Jus wanna see a little more of the pretty bird that’s got ya all nervous”

 Soap knew he was bluffing about shooting him until Ghost pulled up his shirt enough to show his gun and the silencer attached to it. Yup ok he really would shoot him. Suddenly Soap is back in his car.

And then there you were, picture of perfection walking towards him. Big smile and small dress oh he was fucked. He opened the door for you and you let out a “good boy” as you walked through, an audible gulp came from him. Making your way to the bar to order, you told the bartender your drink, turning to ask Simon what he wanted only to find him standing 4 feet from you, scared to get too close. “Come here.” A command. One giant step and he was by your side. You moved closer until your shoulder was touching him. Control your breathing Ghost. “What do you want big boy?” You looked up at him and he should be embarrassed that you just called him that in front of his favorite bartender but he is definitely not. He said the beer he wanted and you added “two please. He’s nervous” the bartender was trying not to laugh.

“Tab Open or closed?” The bartender asked to which you quickly said open and began sliding your card over. 

“No.” Simon’s voice was deep and gravely and his sudden outburst caught you off guard. He may let you walk all over him but there was no way he, a gentleman would let you pay. 

You turned to him, eyebrows raised, “did you just tell me no?” Voice laced with genuine surprise and his eyes got wide, fuck was he in trouble? He nodded too afraid of how to properly respond but he continued to hand his card over and return yours to you. 

“You only get to tell me that once and that was it.” You scolded him as the barkeep slid the drinks over to you. You grabbed his two beers, one in each hand to hand to your date. He nodded again in response but did not miss the way your eyes were glued to his giant hands when he easily held the two bottles in one hand. 

Making your way over to a booth to sit, someone bumped into you, slightly spilling your drink down your hand. The man kept walking until a large (big sexy) hand grabbed his shoulder. Terrified apologies stumbled from his lips at the sight of Simon. But your hand quickly found its way onto Simon’s chest. 

“It’s not a big deal. Right Simon?” He looked down at you just in time to see you put your fingers in your mouth sucking the spilled drink from them. Christ’s sake woman. Your hand on his chest could feel his racing heart beat. 

“Not a big deal mate.” He let go of (pushed) the man as he watched you finish the walk to the table you wanted. He followed but when he got to the table he just stood there so awkwardly. 

“Simon, sit down. This is a date you know.” He’s sat. You decided that if he wasn’t going to talk then you wouldn’t either. You just sat there watching this giant muscle man fidget in his seat, emotional support beer being held so tightly in front of him. Your eyes taking in all of his features, pretty blue eyes and chiseled facial features. After however many minutes of silence (Simon squirming) you decided it was time for billiards. This is a bar after all. 

“Let’s go play” your head nodding to the empty pool table. The sudden sound of your voice made him jump. For goodness sakes man chill. He downed his second beer as he stood beginning to relax slightly. The bar was starting to get crowded so you reached for his hand before making your way to the table, pulling him behind you. You’re touching him. Fuck your hands are so soft, small compared to his. How would they look holding his…  A small and disappointed “oh” came from your lips as you neared the table. A group of men had gotten to it first but with a quick clear of his throat and deadly stare from Simon they gently handed you the cue ball. You turned to face him and god you were so close to him. He thought you holding his hand was bad? Now your chest is touching his. 

“Ready to lose?” You questioned batting your lashes at him, watching his pupils dilate. 

“I was gonna ask you the same.” You bit your lip at his response, excited to finally get somewhere with this man. There was a stare down for a few moments before you turned to begin the game. 

Were you bad at pool? No. Were you good? Also no. But Simon? Never missed a shot. No no this won’t do. Quickly realizing that you are losing (you only got one turn) you changed the game. Now you’re just standing at the edge of the table, looking pretty, moving the balls around with your hands, demanding trick shots. 

“Orange here to here then this pocket.” Hands pointing around before being placed palms down on the table, cleavage exposed and Simon can’t breathe. He does it and you praise him with another “good boy.” Two more planned shots and now you’re curling your finger, beckoning him closer. 

“8 ball. Corner pocket.” Simon begins to bend to line up his shot when you move so you are sandwiched between him and the table. Breathe Simon breathe. “Go on handsome.” Fuck ok he can do this. His large body easily envelopes yours, slowly bending at the waist and you are pushed down slightly, his chest pressed against your back. Your ass pressed exactly where you want it. Simon’s arms wrap around you to place his hand under the stick to steady it. You wiggled your ass back against his crotch and you could hear him stifle a groan. You can tell he’s trying to focus on the task at hand, but let's make it more fun. You turn your head until your lips are brushing against his jaw, sliding their way up to his ear and the whine that escapes this man at the contact. His hands glued to where they were placed on the table, too scared to move them where he actually wanted them.

“If you make this, you’ll get a reward.” You pressed your body into him more, feeling what was starting to form in his pants and you could feel the vibrations in his chest from a suppressed growl. “But.” you paused for a moment and he thought he was going to break the pool stick from holding on so hard. “But if you miss, your friend from the parking lot is allowed to come play too next time. So whats it gonna be?” You removed your lips from his ear, signalling him to take the shot. A breathy and accidental “fuck me” came from him as he lined up his shot. There was no way he was going to miss this, but when you added “thats the plan” after his last comment he missed the ball all together, pool cue scratching the green fabric on the table. He stood quickly cursing every god there ever was as you spun in his arms now face to face. Your arms reached up to wrap themselves around his neck. “What was his name again?”

Part 2.5 Part 3

[bet-on-me-13]

Bruce owes Danny money. He does Not want to pay up.

So! Danny had to run away from Amity Park when his parents discovered his Powers. But every time he tried to stay in a single place in America, they somehow managed to find him.

Turns out, they were working with the GIW to track him using the GIW's resources and the Fenton's Genius to find him everywhere he ran to. Eventually, Danny figured he had had enough and ran to Europe where the GIW had no Jurisdiction.

After wandering for a while, Danny was found and recruited by the League of Assasins. He was powerful, skilled, and connected to the Lazarus Pits, so they approached him with a job offer.

They would hide him from the Fentons, who had began to search for him in Europe independently, and in return he would work for them as an Assasin.

Considering his situation, Danny agreed.

He began training to be an Assasin, supplementing his Ghost Abilities with the abilities of an Assasin to become even more Stealthy.

While training under the League, Danny met another recruit simply known as Bruce. They trained together for years, even going on a few missions together gathering intel, and using disguises to hid in plain sight.

On one of these missions, Danny lent Bruce some money with the promise to get paid back when they returned to the League. That same night, Bruce left the League of Assasins and never came back.

...

Bruce was sitting in the Batcave going over a case with Tim, Jason was off to the side cleaning his Guns, and Dick and Cass were holding an acrobatics competition in their Obstacle Course, with Damien, Steph, and Duke cheering them on.

Suddenly an Eldritch Emerald Light sprang to life in the center of the Batcave, and everybody dropped what they were doing and sprang to action.

Slowly, a glowing green figure emerged from the Light. He appeared Eldritch in Nature, as if he existed in multiple layers of reality at once and looking at him gave them minor headaches. Then, the figure spoke up.

"BRUCE. ITS BEEN 15 YEARS. YOU STILL OWE ME 16 DOLLARS."

Recognizing Danny, Bruce took a moment to compose himself before responding.

"Fuck Off."

[a-b-riddle]

141 who don’t know they are fucking with a reformed maneater

Price: Tries to pull the “just wait” card. Just wait until the next mission to make things official. Just wait until he gets back before you break things. Just wait until the holidays are over to meet his family. Just wait until he’s ready to retire before settling down. You liked him enough to hold out, but enough was enough. Which is when he tries to stop you from leaving with your duffle bag of clothes, insisting your jumping the gun in wanting to move in with him after almost a year together you turn and face him. Your tone sharp. “I'm not asking for too much I'm just asking the wrong person.”

Kyle: he’s a pretty boy and he fucking knows it. But damn when he wants to try and be a fuck boy too? You need to take him down a peg. He may have looks but he’s still the shortest of the 141. You eye him up and down before grabbing your bag. “You’re cute, but you’re not tall enough to be acting like this.”

Soap: Loves to play games. Which is why he thinks it’s hilarious when you’re meeting his friends for the first time to take the absolute piss and make a joke out of it. He’s crude and crass. Nothing like the man who begged on his knees just for the chance to lick your pussy. “Dinnae get upset. Just havin’ a wee bit of fun.” You sigh mumbling loud enough for him to hear “the one time I don’t go for looks and this fuckin’ happens.”

Ghost: Simon who bails on your date last minute, choosing to get shitfaced with the boys rather than take a pretty little bird like you out. He’s surprised to find you had texted him back with an ‘okay’ and not losing your shit or trying to guilt trip him. What he is surprised about is you turning him down when he tries to come over. He knew you’d be miffed about him not taking you out so when he tried to arrange something, you turn him down again. He tells you not to be mad. Shit came up. Your response? “I’m not mad. I’m just no longer interested.”