#i cannot wait for Wake Up Dead Man

[ignis--fatuus]

I have a theory about the celebrity cameos in Glass Onion

SO- we all know about the scene wherein Benoir Blanc is playing Among Us in the bathtub. He's playing with the stars Angela Lansbury, Natasha Lyonne, and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. I have a theory as to why those four are playing

Starting off strong with Angela Lansbury: The Queen of Daytime TV Mystery! Murder, She Wrote ran from 1984 to 1996. It is still referenced in this day and age just because of how much influence it had on the mystery genre and the idea of a "Female Detective" (not just a female detective- an elderly female detective). She is a Modern Miss Marple in a sense, and her mysteries still hold up to this day. Next is Natasha Lyonne: In 2021 Lyonne announced she would be the lead in an upcoming mystery series: Poker Face. This show too is huge in the modern mystery genre. For starters, it is reinventing a Columbo'-style "Howcatchem" format, and does it well. Secondly, it too is a "Female Detective" lead story. It is carrying the torch of stories like Murder, She Wrote and Miss Marple, and using the tools of famous and innovative shows like Columbo to do it. Glass Onion was released in 2022. The timelines fit perfectly. Then there's Kareem Abdul-Jabbar: Now, at first glance it doesn't make much sense. He was in movies like Airplane, sure, the man is an actor just as much as he is a basketball player. BUT he is also the writer of a Sherlock Holmes pastiche centered around Mycroft and has been a self-proclaimed fan of the Holmes series for a very long time! There's even pictures of him outside the Sherlock Holmes museum!

Finally, Stephen Sondheim: Once again, its a bit hard to see at first. He's a composer and lyricist. Why is he here? The man is the musician behind Sweeney Todd! A MYSTERY AND CRIME MUSICAL. Sondheim also was involved with West Side Story and the musical Assassins- both of which center around crime. The reason these four were chosen is because they are lovers and participators of the mystery genre. That's why Blanc likes them. Thats why they’re playing Among Us (as well as the fact that it was a popular game during Covid). That's why the directors picked them for the cameos. Its always been about the mystery!

[togament]

" 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦. windbreaker boys edition. "

pt. 1. (sakura, ume, suo.)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : kinda suggestive (i mean it's me. ofc its gotta be suggestive somehow), some swearing, kinda ooc for suo. can you blame me though? we know so little about the man and we're already 140+ chapters deep.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀.

- canonically doesn't own a pillow so he only sleeps on his side, curled up to conserve heat. like a cat. but after having you around? he's clinging onto you, man. he may deny it vehemently when you tease him about it in the morning, throwing pillows at you as he's blushing profusely, but he doesn't know you've taken a picture of him with his arm over your chest, tugging you close to him. - clenches and grinds his teeth when he sleeps. you buy him a mouth guard so his jaw isn't as tense when he wakes up. (TMJ sufferers rise up) - sleeps in his boxers when you're around but if not, he's going commando, baby. just... text him when you're planning on surprising him in the morning. give him prep time unless you're looking to eat sausage for breakfast. - gets bed hair but doesn't care. he'd have a huge cowlick on his head but he doesn't mind. best he could do is kind of wet his hair? anything more than that is too much effort. - very light sleeper. if he hears the smallest bump in the night, he's immediately up. - has only one duvet and it's kind of falling apart. you gifted him a new one and he almost cried in front of you (not without freaking out about it first.) - talks in his sleep sometimes. you record him whenever you catch him doing it just to play it back for him in the morning. he's always so confused as to how and why he does it.

𝐔𝐌𝐄.

- won't sleep unless you give him his goodnight kisses. you have to. how dare you deny him of the pleasure of kissing you before you sleep? - always lets you sleep before he does because he reads before he sleeps. - needs reading glasses and falls asleep with them on. CONSTANTLY. you have to remind him about them before you snooze or you peel them off when you wake up before he does. has broken one (close to a dozen) reading glasses before you came along because he kept sleeping on them. - has to read before he sleeps. it's a necessity. he reads stuff ranging from philosophy to manga. never fails to fall asleep with a book in his hand too. - checks on a spreadsheet he's got for his plants so he has a game plan ready in the morning. checks the weather and temperature and everything before he does his reading routine. worries endlessly if a heavy typhoon drops or god forbid hailstorms. - HUGE SLEEP HUGGER AND YOU CANNOT TELL ME OTHERWISE. his body just naturally gravitates towards you in his sleep. it's cute. it's endearing. until it's a hot summer night and you're damn near naked because just wearing a shirt's making you sweat. ume's just a happy sleeping puppy of a man, sweaty body clinging to your side. - a very light snorer. you rarely ever get to hear him snore. he only does after a particularly tiring day or after you've had rounds and rounds of se-- - gets a boner most nights. - wet dreams often. you have to help him out in the mornings. - that being said, he's very, very touchy in the mornings.

𝐒𝐔𝐎.

- sleeps like the dead. you may or may not have held your finger to his nose to check if he's still breathing. - never has bed hair. when he wakes up, he looks absolutely impeccable. it's crazy. - has a candle warmer set to a timer. likes sleeping when his surroundings smell good. also has a scent diffuser. - has like... a 30 minute long ritual before bed. candle warmer, check. proper pyjamas, check. pillows plumped, check. skincare routine, done. you always end up waiting for him on the bed while he's apologizing with that sweet voice of his while crawling into bed with you. - only ever sleeps facing up. if you want to cuddle, he could. but he can't engulf you in his frame or anything. just an arm around you or maybe with you pressed up against his side. - he runs cold so he's got thick duvets over thick duvets. they're really soft too. hotel quality. always gets them washed. - somehow you've never caught him in the process of waking up. he's always up before you, brewing tea or cooking breakfast. hell, he already has a set ready for you by the time you wake up. - who am I kidding suo never sleeps.

a/n: just a quick little thing before i hop into bed. doing part two soon bc i wanna clown on kaji so fucking BAAAAAD omg (affectionately) ok goodnight babycakes.

[panthrology]

waking up horny in the dead of night with SUGURU GETO as your boyfriend is actual hell sometimes

i just know that this man has the worst attitude when really tired. who can blame him? being a guy as hot as he is cannot be easy.

“girl—” suguru would grunt and turn back over after shaking him awake for dick. for dick. yeah self-inflicted really. other times he wouldn't say anything at all, just shoot you a nasty look.

but a girl has her needs.

“baby please?” you try again, perching your chin onto his buff arm. “the dream was a little too detailed.” a small pout forms on your puckered lips.

“that isn't my fault,” suguru counters, the soft bass in his voice resounding in your shared bedroom. “you couldn't have waited until there was light outside?”

you shake your head.

“must be tough. good night, sweetheart.”

this man. you groan out an exasperated ‘suguru!’ and curve over his form, staring at him as if he can see you through his closed eyelids.

“no, y/n.”

“i’ll top?”

you lied.

you knew damn well you couldn't be bothered to ride him to an orgasm at two in the morning and so did suguru. so when he scoffed and muttered “roll over.” you were grinning victoriously.

“I don't belive you.” suguru hissed, lifting up your hoodie over your hips and feeling up the skin of your ass.

“sorry, sugu’.” you're breathless already when he starts spreading the globes of your ass apart to take a good look at your cunt through low lidded eyes with the sleep and arousal still weighing them down. suguru merely tutted, wrapping a hand around his bobbing cock to push his tip in for the second time tonight.

you tensed as you sunk your head into the pillow in front of you. suguru had a big dick. you knew that much from the time you caught wind of what his attitude was like. nonchalant, quiet confidence, tall, pretty large hands. You'd be surprised if he didn't.

“y/n..if you don't relax. I can't move if you're trying to crush me.” you roll your eyes—so dramatic.

you ease up, but quickly choke on your breath when he slides all the way in, filling you with his thick inches. your pussy flutters at the intrusion, squeezing suguru again. “shiittt baby..” yeah—he undoubtedly missed that.

and when suguru sees your ass ripple and hips jump forward with every deep thrust, he suddenly thinks that he made a good decision.

but he was still fucking tired.

“mm-mm, don't run from me, sweetheart. you wanted me to give it to you, so take it—take this dick ‘fore I take it away.”

“you're so needy, can't even let a man sleep.”

“pretty girl just can't stop creamin’ all over me, so cute.”

“listen t'thaat, it's like your pussy's doin’ all the talking. have i made you dumb already, sweetheart?

for someone who’s so fatigued, he can't seem to shut up at all. mumbling and groaning nastiness all up in your ear like he's drunk on your pussy. suguru thinks he just might be.

he's got a firm grip on your hair and one digging into the fat of your hip, balls thwacking against your sticky cunt. suguru's strokes are mean, every ridge of his cock rubbing against your cushy walls. you're actually drooling, the dizzying mixture of exhaustion and pleasure making you float higher than the pearly gates. Yet with the way your hole squelches when he goes real deep..and his fat tip grinds on that one spot, you're going anywhere but heaven.

You don't even have to say it, suguru knows. suguru knows you're about to cum when he can feel you sporadically squeeze him and when your moans get longer and higher against the pillow you bury yourself into.

“gonna cum already?” he's giggling, the trembles of your ankles and the way your fist tightens not going unnoticed by him. “fuck me back, then. show me how bad you wanna cum on me.” he stops all motion before yawning out loud, a lazy hand reaching his face to cover his mouth. how sexy.

pressing your lips together, you brace your hands out in front of you and swing your ass back on suguru. you were on thin ice right now, and with his snarky attitude, he literally might just leave you high and dry.

your knees are unsteady and shaky but you persevere, looking over your shoulder to see jet black strands hang over his face and shoulders, and amber eyes steeled on where you two connect. his lips are parted slightly as he huffs out a gravelly groan.

“yeah, jus’ like that. fuck me.” suguru praises, words sliding over each other slightly. he picks up the pace again, balls tightening as his head hangs low. he listens to your drawn out moans, sounding more like broken sobs with each stroke he gives you and it makes him dizzy. “‘m gonna cum, i'm gonna cum.” he's whining now.

“inside, sugu’—don't stop!” you beg as you spasm around him, milking your boyfriend.

suguru huffs out a laugh, a lazy grin stretches on his lips. he loves seeing you needy and mind-fucked like this—it scratches an itch deep in his soul. “alright. stay still f'me sweetheart—gonna give it to ya how you like.”

a shattered whimper rips from your throat as he pushes his hips all the way forward, and rams himself all the way in so his cock bullies that spot, the one that makes your cunt gush.

“o-ohh, my god! right there..’s right there, ‘m gonna cuumm..” you wail but he shushes you, the volume of your moans making him wince.

“make a mess pretty girl,” he grunts before his jaw goes slack and ropes of his sticky load flood your cunt. “fuuuckk..” but he doesn't stop—he powers through his orgasm and into overstimulation. suguru smiles when your eyes roll back and your limbs go limp, wailling into the satin pillowcase as you cum and cream onto him.

you think you black out for a second with your ears ringing and heart hammering in your chest. knees falling flat, your entire body slumps forward into the mattress as the aftershocks of your orgasm shoot through you like lightning. you could practically feel the beads of sweat sliding down your body underneath your hoodie.

when a warm and wet rag slides against your slit and inner thighs, you glance behind you and see an entirely spent suguru. he's continuously yawning while he pulls your flimsy underwear back up, before tossing the damp towel into the dirty laundry basket.

“thank you sugu’,” a satisfied sigh escapes your lips as he tucks you into his embrace, yet all suguru can do is scoff. you couldn't help but giggle at his annoyance, smiling like a cat who got the cream.

literally.

“next time, I'll just ignore you and get my well deserved sleep,” he spits, resting his chin atop your head.

totally worth it.

© NEPTNSZN 2024 ★ please do NOT copy, repost or modify my pieces, apply credit when necessary.

[propertyofwicked]

speed demon - LN

warnings: speeding + dangerous driving, references to sex

short fluff :) fewtrell!reader -> can be read as a stand alone or an extra to the secrets series!

my take on a BTS of the quadrant athletes video with willne and bambinobecky :) p.s hey caitlin i know ur reading this

lando’s girlfriend was a concerning driver. growing up in the english country side, especially with her racing-mad brother max, she became very accustomed to driving at insane speeds down backroads, learning where the swerve potholes and where all the cameras were. honestly, put her in an f1 car with a good song and watch max verstappen crumble.

her brother and his friend could speed around race tracks, y/n preferred real roads.

the only flaw in her driving ability arose when lando, who notoriously hates being a passenger, sat to her left, gripping any hard surface he could as his girlfriend threw her car around a corner.

“y/n, angel, you know i love you - but why do you drive like you had somewhere to be 10 minutes ago?”

“this is a good song,” she answered with a shrug, which only confused him further, yet she slowed down, glancing at the man besides her, “it’s got a good bassline. you literally drive at like 200 miles an hour and yet you’re getting stressed about me going 80 on an empty road?”

“the difference between you and me is that i wear a helmet when i drive that fast.”

“no one is stopping you from putting a helmet on in my car, lan.”

“erm, i think the national speed sign meaning 60mph should be enough that i shouldn’t need to wear a helmet in your car y/n.”

“god you’re so dramatic, lando - has anyone ever told you that?”

“yes. you. the last time i complained about your driving, you little speed demon,” he said, finally laughing quietly at the situation.

in fact, they were late. they were supposed to be at a quadrant shoot in 10 minutes, but still needed to pick up will and becky from the station near to the warehouse they were filming in. when they finally reached the station, lando jumped out of the car to meet them, leaving y/n to sit in silence, queuing a few songs for the short journey to the shooting location.

“y’alright y/n?” will asked, climibing into the back seat of her car, becky climbing in from the other side.

“i’m good, thank you will. how are you?”

“im good, however i’ll let you know how i feel after ive experienced your driving,” he joked, earning a guilty chuckle from lando who was buckling himself back into the passenger seat. her hand rose, slapping his arm lightly.

“hey! my driving is not that bad.”

“let them find that out for themselves, angel,” he responded, dramatically rubbing his arm, feigning pain. she ignored him, shoving the car into gear before jamming her foot onto the accelerator, the loud engine loud enough to wake the dead.

when they did arrive at the shoot, will had gone silent, his face paler than usual. becky was still smiling and chatting, but her face conveyed the same level of fear as wills. the group of them walked into the warehouse, where max was already waiting.

y/n walked up to max, taking him in a small embrace before stepping back to let him greet the rest of the group.

“will? you good man? you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” max said, taking a step back to look at the man a second time.

“yeah, yeah, im good,” he responded, smiling sheepishly. y/n absentmindedly played with her car keys, the jingling of her key rings raising max’s attention.

“lando let you drive? jesus, no wonder will looks like he needs a fresh pair of trousers,” max laughed, doubling over.

“why does everyone think im such a bad driver? i have not crashed once. never. not a single crash. the same cannot be said for you or lando, max,” she exclaimed, beginning to feel offended at the accusations.

“in all fairness, lando warned me. i thought he was joking when he said she loved the accelerator more than she loves him,” will replied, the colour coming back to his face as he smiled. max shook his head at his sister again, before directing will and becky round to the sofas, running them through the plans for the day.

y/n felt a warm pair of arms snake around her body from behind, lando’s head coming to rest on her shoulder. he turned his head to look at her, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek.

“im not actually a bad driver, am i?” she mumbled to him.

“no angel, people are just jealous of your sheer ability to drive at dangerous speeds and do it safely,” he responded, he meant to be sincere but y/n could feel the sarcastic undertones.

she shook her head at him, pulling away from his embrace, but his hand reached out, latching onto hers, before pulling her back into him. this time her chest melted into his, her head tilting to glance up at him.

“i hate this scarf,” she announced, but stretched her neck up to presses soft kisses along his jaw.

“ouch. why? i like it.”

“’cos it covers your neck. i love your neck,” she said, smiling up at him again.

“i know you do angel. your love for my neck is the reason i have to wear a scarf for the shoot today,” he said, laughing, his hands moving from her back to push loose strands of her behind her ears. a blush rose up her cheeks at the memory of the night before, as her fingers moved to pull the scarf down slightly looking at the bruises beginning to darken on his skin.

she hadn't meant to, but she had found herself on top of him last night, legs straddling him as his pushed up into her. with max only a room over, she needed to find an outlet for the noises she wanted to make and his neck fell victim.

“whoopsies. but im sure the lando girlies would love to see you with hickies.”

“i’m sure they would,” he said, grinning at her still and nodding slightly, “im sure your brother would love it to,” he added sarcastically, glancing over to the man in question who was now handing becky a script.

she tutted in response, pulling his scarf back up to covering his neck. lando’s head tilted down to look at her again, using his hands on her jaw to pull her face up closer to his. his lips pressed soft kisses to her forehead and cheeks before finally planting a soft but quick peck to her lips.

“lando did you want to stop getting it on with my sister and come and do your job?” max bellowed from across the room, pulling the two apart.

lando decided he should probably drive the two of them home that day, and let max take the others back to the station, but the moment the car moved off from where it was parked, he stalled the engine.

"formula 1 driver but can't drive a manual without stalling it. that's embarrassing - now who can't drive?" she joked, laughing at him as he restarted the ignition.

"still you," he replied bluntly, his foot slamming down on the accelerator sending the car flying across the car park.

"please don't destroy my car," she begged quietly at the sound of her engine about to take off, "a man i quite like bought it for me and id hate to make him angry when he has to buy me new tyres."

"ill just buy you another car," he joked as he returned to the speed limit of the road ahead, his hand moving from the gear stick to rest on her thigh, grabbing lightly at it.

"you're not a bad driver, you know that, don't you angel?" he said after a few minutes of silence. he'd admit that she wasn't the best driver, but she was still skilled even if slightly reckless.

"i know," she said, her voice still heavy with the annoyance from everyone's teasing.

"you would be great at karting, you know?"

"stop it - i spent my entire childhood trying to avoid karting please do not bring it into my adulthood," she begged, albeit jokingly.

"why did you avoid it? im sure max would've loved to race with you," lando asked, glancing to his side to look at her face, her head leaning on the door panel.

"it was max's thing, i guess. i didn't want to do what he did. i wanted to be my own person. i still do," she said with a shrug. lando's hand moved from her thigh to grab hers, pulling it up to his face to press a kiss to the back of it.

"i'm glad you're unapologetically you. i don't think i could cope with two max's in my life. or two of you for that matter."

[jedi-starbird]

Time Travel is my favourite trope and I think we need more fics where both Obi-Wan AND Qui-Gon time travel together because no matter when they get sent it's chaos. They're saving the galaxy and being physic flash-bangs to everyone around them.

like before Bandomeer?

The entire council is baffled to watch as Qui-Gon 'never taking a padawan again' Jinn has suddenly cut off his post-Xanatos depression tour to return to the temple and beeline to the creche with a frantic energy. His wild eyes immediately single out a fluffy, red-haired initiate.

"You." he exhales with a pointed finger, slightly ominous as he towers over the child. Said child starts vibrating with delight. "Me." he agrees, launching himself at the man. Qui-Gon drops to his knees with a thud that cannot be healthy. Obi-Wan's attempts to clamber into Qui-Gon's robes and maybe onto his shoulders is thwarted by the fact that Qui-Gon's massive hands are cupping Obi-Wan's tiny squishy cheeks. He stares at the initiate for a few minutes with an intensity that is starting to worry people.

Finally, "You're so small." Qui-Gon sounds like he might cry.

'What the fuck?' Plo Koon projects at Mace.

"I'm 9! That tends to be the case!" the child chirps back.

"You're nine." Oh. Ah. Qui-Gon's eyes are distinctively misty. He squishes the boy in a hug so hard he squeaks. Mace makes a series of gestures that imply the need for a head-scan. Depa obligingly drifts off towards the halls. Qui-Gon scoops the child up onto his hip and claims him as his padawan on the spot. The assorted council members and creche-masters burst into noise. Mace tells Depa to bring some space ibuprofen as well.

after Naboo?

Anakin is a little apprehensive of his place in both the order and Obi-Wan's life, but then one day Obi-Wan wakes up and is suddenly a lot less sad in the force?? In fact, if Anakin didn't know better he'd say he was almost giddy, but he's watched Obi-Wan try to pretend his world hasn't fallen apart for the past few months so it can't be that, right? And um, Miss Bant? He knows grief is a funny thing that affects people differently but he's pretty sure 'massive mood swing' and 'having full conversations with invisible people' is not...great? and you said to tell you if Obi-Wan got really weird in any way.

Anyway after a lot of medical exams, intense consultation with the archives, and a couple exorcisms, Anakin ends up being raised by his 'real' master and his ghost master. He is far more well adjusted emotionally and far less well adjusted for what counts as normal people behavior(not talking to thin air). When questioned on this, all he ever says is that he's talking to Qui-Gon. Isn't he...dead? Well, yes. Wait, he's a ghost? Ghosts are real? ...Well this ghost is real.

This starts a great number of existential crises among non-force sensitives and incredibly heated theological arguments amongst the Jedi. Whenever Obi-Wan is questioned on this, all he ever says is some variation of "the force got to know him for 5 seconds and kicked him back out." Mace backs him up on this even though that reasoning is technically blasphemous. Qui-Gon is having the time of his un-life. He's ascended to his final form, his sheer existence is a heresy, this is truly all he has ever aspired towards.

the Clone Wars?

The minute they get dropped back Qui-Gon immediately goes and haunts the shit out of Dooku. They have a signed terms of surrender and promise of info on the Sith Lord within the year. Only half of it is because Qui-Gon's giving Dooku complexes that are only perceptible to shrimp, the other half is because they now have a ghost spy that is not bound by the laws of physics nor spacetime.

Obi-Wan only nominally pays attention to this as he immediately goes and implements his 19 step seduction plan with Cody (he had to focus on something on Tatooine to pass the time). It fails. Spectacularly. Publicly. Ah right. Tatooine was not exactly the height of his sanity. Everyone in the GAR and temple is now riveted by High General and Councilor Obi-Wan Kenobi's attempts to go on a date with his Commander, who bats him away him like a particularly annoying stray and seems one bouquet of cactus away from committing mutiny. Anakin is worrying if it means his master knows about his secret marriage and this is some sort of really weird power play. (It is, but not in the way he thinks)

The next time Dooku goes after Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon spends a good few months appearing tear-stained at the edge of Dooku's perception and only communicating in terrible wails and discordant mutterings of 'padawan. my padawan. my little one.' 24/7.

"Wait, you're annoying Dooku into surrendering?"

"Oh no Anakin, we're crushing his psyche like a bug. :)"

[bi-writes]

it took the end of the world to bring you to where you were supposed to be. (18+, 5.5k words) ghost (+ johnny) x fem!reader (apocalypse au -> dark content ahead)

you know it is luck that you are still alive. in times of anarchy, it isn't the soft and weak hearts that remain. only the unfeeling stay alive. the ones that are willing to do what others are not. the lot that know what isolation feels like. the ones familiar with survival and everything that comes with the wounds it leaves behind.

the loneliness. the paranoia. the heat of hunger and the impossible itch of thirst, on top of the fact that running for your life is second nature to you now.

if it wasn't the sick and dead lurking in the shadows, it was the live ones that would take you. and you have seen what they can do, and you have watched what the opportunities of the unbecoming have given them, and you vow that you will kill yourself with your own dull army knife than let yourself succumb to that kind of death.

you'd rather be eaten alive by the things that don't understand than the ones that do, because they don't know any better, and the others do, and they know what they are doing isn't human, but they don't care.

whether they eat for survival, for pleasure, for power, it is becoming more and more difficult to discern between the sick and the healthy, and in that in-between, you've decided to be on your own.

you know the loneliness will eat at you from the inside. but you are comforted by the fact that you are not being eaten from the outside.

you sleep in the trees tonight. you climb, high enough to be out of sight, and then you use the rope in your pack to anchor yourself to the trunk. as soon as your head falls back, you fall asleep. you have been walking for days now, you think, and with nothing in your belly except for a few scavenged snacks, sleep comes easy.

when you wake up in the morning, you feel the crisp edge of the sky against your face, and you know it will rain soon.

if there is a god above, they will wash you away with it. you hope, at least. you don't know if this is how you imagined noah's ark--the cleansing of the earth, a flood great enough to wipe it of what they deem ugly and unimaginable and irredeemable. and god must be a man, because only a man would unleash something like this that comes with consequences he never intended--the fact that it didn't fucking work. in his effort to eradicate the fucked up pieces of shit he supposedly created by his own hand, he unleashed them.

he set them free.

and like a man, instead of fixing his fucking mistakes, he turns a blind eye. he forgets. he allows it to manifest, and now that it is out of control, he will blame the sins of what he's done on someone else, someone like you. the innocent. the unknowing. the small and the weak, the ones who he said would inherit the earth, where is he now that there is nothing to inherit? how come he's allowed to go back on his promises, and i'm not? what have i done so wrong that this is the lifetime you gave me?

you don't know why you care. you don't know why you've survived and why you keep trying to. you don't know what drives you forward, but there must be something. there has to be something waiting for you, because you don't think your life can fall any lower than this.

but fuck, there are other plans for you.

there's no one to hear you scream. they cut the branch, unravel the rope, and one of them has gotten ahold of your legs, and they're dragging you. you cry, you scream, you thrash, but all your clawing hands do is leave sporadic trails in the dirt. they laugh, you think, but you cannot hear them over the blood that rushes in your ears.

your nails are raw when they flip you over onto your back. they bleed from how you scratched to be let go, and you don't know why you fight this, but you just have this voice inside you that screams that this can't be how this ends. this can't be the way you go--this isn't the what you deserve, this isn't fair--

you vow to leave your mark. when they come closer, you don't let them come easy. you claw at their faces, rip out chunks of their hair, and when another comes close, you use your teeth, biting off chunks of their flesh, tasting blood, because i won't make it easy for you, i won't go silently, i'll leave you worse than you leave me, i'll take you with me if i fucking have to.

and when it stops, you sob. suddenly everything is still, and there are no hands on you anymore, and all you can see through the blood in your eyes is the sky above you, and how it is early morning, and there's a flock of birds passing by overhead. they fly peacefully. they have no idea what they're observing--the struggle of being alive, the humanity of your will to live, the defiance of dying at their hands, they have no idea that they are witnessing the death and rebirth of something fragile, something so delicate.

you sit up on your hands shakily, and you swallow hard as you look around. to your horror, your savior is a man.

bodies surround you. there's blood staining the dead leaves along the forest ground, trickling from sickening wounds in heads. in one hand, the man in front of you holds a dirty stone, large and jagged, and the sharp edge of it is darkened with red and drips on the tips of his boots. he has wild blue eyes, and while his hair is grown out, it is carefully cut along the sides. his dark hair falls in effortless curls along his forehead and at the base of his neck, and when he meets your eyes, he smiles, wickedly.

he wields other methods of killing people, but he chose a fucking rock. and you think he must be crazy.

you shake, and you find your balance, crawling back on your hands to get away from him, but you're only able to crawl a few feet before your back hits an imposing wall.

you gasp, jerking to the side, and you bow your head to cry when there is another man behind you. this one towers, broad and big, and he wears a sickening skull mask that shadows any human part of him. he might not even be human--maybe he's as dead as everyone else.

you hiss when your hair is pulled. crouching at your level now, the one that wears a real face stares down at you, still smiling. he's chuckling now, licking his lips, and you lean forward and spit at him. it lands on his cheek, a mess of saliva and blood, but his eyes seem to only sparkle. his smile widens.

"what do we have 'ere, LT?" he snickers, and you gather the saliva in your mouth and spit it at his feet this time. there's more of a mess of cartilage and blood and spit, but instead of disgusting him, he just grins up at the ghost behind you. "with a will ta live. ever seen anythin' like it?"

"she's dead fuckin' weight." even his voice has you shaking, low and gravelly, and you hold back a whine when you're let go of. the scottish one is yanked backwards by the scruff of his hair by his superior, who bends to growl in his ear. "she'll only hold us back. dunno why y'even had to intervene, she'll not make another fuckin' day."

"fuck you," you snap, wiping at your face with a trembling hand. you wipe at the tears under your eyes, coughing, and you stare back up at him. with the sun in his face, you can see his eyes. they are dark, and they are unforgiving.

he is one of the ones who is free. he is one of the ones that god intended to kill, and yet here he stands, stronger than ever. and even though you know he's a murderer, an undeserving, broken inside and scarred on the outside, he'll outlive you because he thrives in the anarchy of what is left behind, and you are consumed by it all.

"let's go, johnny," he spits, and you close your eyes. you don't know why you were spared your life. you don't know why luck has been on your side, you don't know why men are what punish you and save you, but you cannot escape them. they send you to slaughter, and then they pick you out of the pen, and you wish you had more control.

you want to be more than this. you want to be more than whatever it is you're made of. you are not meant to be here, you're not meant to be alive, but you are, and fuck, you're so tired of it.

johnny belongs to him. it's obvious, in the way that he lets that man pull on him and order him around, even if they are adorned in military fatigues. you imagine there is no authority anymore, but he listens to that beast anyway, because he's getting up onto his feet, letting it guide him away from you.

if you want to live, you'll have to tame that beast.

"i-i can be useful," you say softly. your eyes are wet and big, and you look up at them as they stand over you. johnny turns his head, looking at his handler, who tilts his head to the side and glares at you. he does not believe you, at least that's what it feels like, but you look right into his eyes and take a deep breath. "you'll just kill me if i'm not. w-what do you have to lose?"

the hum he lets out isn't an agreement, but he doesn't say no either. so when he turns to walk away, you stand, brush your bloodied jeans off, and you follow them. johnny trails, putting you between them. you're pretty, but he doesn't trust you yet, but you're also aware of the eyes you feel on you from behind. when you catch him staring at your ass, he doesn't pretend to look anywhere. he simply giggles.

they are a unit. they can speak without words. johnny tells you his handler's name is ghost. his lieutenant, a man of many talents, and you refrain from rolling your eyes at his sergeant's praise. but instead, you look up at him, and you smile, and you nod, and you give him those doe eyes that you can tell make him a little dizzy.

at night, they alternate keeping watch. they carry lots of gear, and while one guards in his sleep, the other stands in the shadows and keeps their head on a swivel. they take efficient rounds of sleep, getting their rest in while keeping their senses on alert. the first night, you aren't able to sleep. you are too afraid of johnny and how he smiles, because he's a dog, and you don't know when ghost will let go of his leash.

and you are too afraid of ghost, because he looks at you like he wants to kill you, and when he does, you'd like to look him in the eyes for it. you want him to know that you might not be strong like them, might not be the kind of survivors that they are, but you aren't a coward.

you aren't a man, and you'll die the way a woman should--with her fucking dignity.

the days pass easier. ghost hunts, and johnny cleans. ghost scavenges, and johnny kills. and when there is food, johnny feeds it to you, and you put on your best face, opening your mouth, letting him spoon you a mouthful of something that warms your belly. johnny eats your lies right up, but one look at ghost, and you know he sees right through you. with each lick of your finger, he snarls, and with each foot you step closer to johnny, he growls.

he doesn't believe you. you need to make him believe you.

you see your opportunity. it crawls towards him on soft hands, flesh spongy and quiet from the weeks of decay and rot. you see its mouth, black teeth sharp and ready to sink into the meat of his calf, and you lunge, pushing the vase off the table and watching the heavy clay fall until it squishes the head into a heap of rotten matter and dead meat.

ghost turns, looks down, and when he looks back up, he sees you gasping for breath, heaving. there's a desperation in your eyes. it trickles between panic and worry, and you don't know how it is you wear it so well, but it manifests into wet tears that gather at the corner of your eyes.

he's not a beast. he's just a man. and when he passes by you, he reaches up and grips your face hard, nearly shaking you, but it isn't like any other time he's touched you. he glares down at you, right into your eyes, and you melt, stepping just that much closer, sinking your nails into fabric of his tactical vest and gripping it tight.

i can be useful. it rings in his ears as he looks down at you, the burden he has been carrying with him, and suddenly he drags you that much closer, until your open mouth touches the front of his mask.

even your determined conscience can't stop your legs from squeezing together when you feel the warmth of his breath.

i can be useful. i can be useful. i can be useful.

you can be the thing that wakes what is dead inside of him. you can be the virus that infects his veins, the dagger straight through his heart, the heat of the sun, the thing that builds back up what he's buried so far down. johnny keeps him human, but you'll keep his blood pumping. johnny satisfies the itch of authority that ghost needs to keep, but you challenge the fire he keeps under his tongue, and fuck, those eyes.

you pretend with johnny. you play the damsel in distress. you fawn, let him coo over your soft eyes, keen at his touch, but it is a game you play, and he sees it, he sees it, but this time, it doesn't make him angry, and he likes it, and fuck, have you always been this pretty?

you swallow your smile. his grips tightens, and you know you have him.

he's yours. and he's going to keep you. the world ends, god doesn't answer your prayers, the salt of the earth runs free, but it doesn't have to be the end for you. you will learn the hymn of what makes monsters move, and you will sing that song until you can't sing anymore.

you will learn their language, and you will convince them of what you are not, and keep what you really are a secret.

the good, the easy, the soft, you'll keep it inside, because that isn't who lives at the end of the world--it's ghosts that remain, and this one belongs to you.

this one belongs to me, this one is mine, this one you can't fucking have.

and maybe it's selfish. maybe it's wrong to think this way, to take from your saviors this way, because that is what they did, they did save you, but this is the only way you can make sure you make it out of here, that you live. a man takes, and a woman gives, but wouldn't it be nice if it wasn't always this way?

because the dead are still moving now, and there isn't humanity in the living; this is what you are owed.

you think it will be difficult to pretend. when it is night again, and you are staring up at the blue of johnny's eyes, you think it will be difficult, but it isn't. despite what you know he doesn't have, even though you know there isn't anything good in him, he still smiles, and he's so pretty, and you let him kiss you.

it's easy because he's warm. his voice low, his breaths heavy, and it feels like love, and it isn't hard to imagine yourself somewhere else. in another place, meeting him in another time, falling in love with him because it is the only thing you really have to worry about. if you lived another life, you wonder if you still end up here.

you wonder if he would eat your cunt this way in that other place. like he'll never have it again. if he's just as aggressive, spreading your thighs, trapping himself between them, slurping at your folds until you are nothing but a wet, leaking mess underneath him. you wonder if he would groan the way he does, gripping you tight enough to bruise, taking his fill because everything that begins has to end, but maybe if i keep making her see fucking stars, she'll let me stay here forever--

johnny's so much easier to control when he's pussy drunk. anything you whisper in his ear, he just nods, licking into your mouth, mumbling incoherently. he'll say yes to anything you say, and when the gruff call of his name pulls him away from you, he struggles to leave. it isn't obvious, the power you have over him, not to him at least. but it's real, and because he watches you even as he goes, you know he'll do anything for you.

he'll do anything for me. he'll live for me. he'll kill for me. but will he do it even if ghost tells him not to?

because that is the only question that matters. if you and ghost stand on either side of him, who will he go to when his name is called?

if i call both of their names, will they come to me?

if he calls my name, will i come to him? am i just the same? do i wear the collar, am i the puppy, is it me that fell and not the men i hate so much? how do i tell the difference between what the fuck is real and what isn't?

you don't know what time it is. it's dark outside, it must be the middle of the night, but you can make out ghost's silhouette in the doorway. you've been holed up here for some days, and he takes turns with johnny covering the perimeter. your legs are tired, and so are they, and the bed in this house gives way to a comfort and peace that you haven't felt in a long time.

you tilt your head to the side as you watch him there. you sit up, your hair falling around you, and you watch the shadow of him shift in the hallway there.

"scared of the dark, ghost?" you ask softly, and the way he stills tells you he didn't realize you could see him. he steps into the room, and the candle that flickers in the corner deepens the shadows that dance along his masked face.

"nothin' scares me," he murmurs, and you find his eyes in the dark. it unnerves you every time you stare at one another--his gaze is always so intense. he always looks in between all the layers you hide, and it's hard to remember what you are doing here when he looks at you this way.

"i don't believe that," you counter, and he narrows his eyes, shuffling closer, and you tilt your head back to look up at him. "you're terrified."

"not of wot y'think," he pushes back, but you shake your head.

"don't lie, simon," you whisper, and at the sound of his name, he reaches for your face--cups the underside of your jaw, grips the base of your throat, bends down to growl against the skin of your cheek. "are you jealous? is that what it is?"

"of wot?" he mutters, and you hold your breath when he grips your neck firmly. "of m'pet 'n his little lamb?"

"yes."

"nothin' to be fuckin' jealous of," he laughs, but it holds no humor. "what's his is mine."

"says who?" you breathe, and he pulls back to look at you again. there it is--the thing in your eyes that he cannot escape. he doesn't know what it is, but there is something there, and he craves it. he wants it more than anything else--more than food, than water, than survival, he wants to have it, to own it, to command whatever it is there because it's what he thinks he deserves.

he saved your fucking life, and this is the price for it--he gets to have the thing that lives in you that makes his fucking head spin, and you will give it to him, so help him god.

you kiss soft. he hasn't taken his mask off in a long while, but you move it up easily and without resistance, and now you're kissing him, and he moves without thinking. he hasn't even let johnny this close--he hasn't let him underneath his skin, not this way, and here you are, sighing against the scars he wears and kissing them anyways.

the ugly and the irredeemable, that is the skin he wears, and you love it anyways, and the ringing he always hears is gone because you don't seem to care. you caress his face, and you tug on the front of his vest, and then he is with you, and--he doesn't know if this is real.

when you pull away to look at him, his eyes flutter open. you don't say anything as you climb into his lap. the look you share, you don't know how to explain it, but you are almost afraid that it is understanding.

because it's the end of the fucking world, and he isn't capable of love, and you are only here to survive, and yet there is something here that you can't explain. god isn't real, he's just a man, but you think for a moment that that man might be simon riley because what the fuck is happening to me?

"simon--"

he kisses you this time. hungry, all-consuming. if there is anything you've learned about him in the weeks you've spent beside him, it's that he does everything with purpose or not at all. he has a will, a will of what you don't know, but of something, and he does everything with his entire chest. you've heard him talk to johnny when they think you're asleep, the pillow talk that you aren't supposed to be privy to, and suddenly you wonder if this is what johnny feels like--like the only person left in the entire world. because to matter to someone like lieutenant simon riley means you must've done something right, because he doesn't care about anything, and he doesn't love anyone, and--fuck.

he fucks like it, too. he fucks like he won't live another day, and maybe he won't. he fucks like it's the last time he'll ever see you, and it could be, and maybe that's why you're crying. you're sweaty, naked under him, and he can't stop kissing you. he breathes you in and swallows your breaths like it's what keeps him alive, and maybe it does.

"simon--" you cry, because it feels good, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck. your hand rises, slipping under the mask, and your nails scratch over his shaved head underneath. god, it feels sacrilegious to feel him this way, to know what's under it, but it doesn't matter.

"know wot y'r doin'," he hums, and you claw at his back when he slows down. your knees try to widen to accommodate the width of him, and he puts two big hands on your thighs and pushes, nestling himself deep and pressing himself right up against your pelvis. "know y'r playin' tricks on johnny, on me--" you cry, and he tsks, shaking his head, "'s pathetic, luv...thinkin' y'could fool us both."

"i-i--"

a particularly rough thrust shuts you up, and you arch your back, pebbled nipples hard against the warmth of his chest as he chuckles, laughing at you, so mean.

he leans down, and all you can do is whine as he mutters into your ear. "johnny's so fuckin' distracted by y'r cunny, swee'eart. and fuck, i get it, 's such a sweet pussy, luv--" you whimper, grinding up against him, needing him to move, but he puts both hands on your hips and squeezes, holding you still. "--such a nice cunt, make a bloke forget all his fuckin' troubles, but i know--"

you yelp when he reaches up and grabs your face. his palm cradles the lower half of your face, squeezing your jaw, and he squeezes your cheeks as he looks down at you and snarls.

"i know wot y'are. wot y'r here for."

"you--" you sob. "'m here for you--"

"can lie to johnny all y'like, luv, but don't you ever--" you whine as he shakes you gently, "--don't y'ever fuckin' lie to me. y'r usin' us. known since we found ya."

you let out an exhale, a deep one. you find his eyes, and he looks down at you, and you swallow hard. because it's true, in a lot of ways--you could never love them, right? this could never be a real thing. the only men that are left are god's mistakes. when man broke off his rib to make a woman, he didn't know a beast like this would come from him someday, did he?

did he know his sons would try to kill each other? in each and every generation? is he watching the dead roam the earth and wondering why those ones died and ones like this one are still living and breathing?

the thing that you don't understand yet is that nothing will kill ghost. his father couldn't kill him, the dark couldn't kill him, the earth he was buried in couldn't kill him, and every bullet that scarred him had missed the vulnerable places of him by just that much. the virus couldn't kill him, and he has an inkling that even if he was bitten, somehow, he would still live because that's his fucking fate.

his fate is to live, to endure, to grieve, no matter what happens around him. the world collapses, and he watches, and he picks up pieces as he goes hoping they will last, but he knows they won't.

he doesn't know how johnny will die, but he will. he doesn't know how you will die, but you will, and he'll be there to watch. for some reason, there's a little comfort, because at least this means they won't be alone. johnny wouldn't handle being alone well, and neither would you, because johnny is a mutt, and you are a leech, and neither survive without a keeper and a host, something else to keep them alive.

"'s olright," he licks over your bottom lip. "'m keepin' you, luv. but let's get one thing straight, aye?" you grunt when he turns you roughly under him, forcing your face into the mattress and caging you underneath him. you can't move much, all you really can do is sit up on your knees a little and push back against him, burying him deep inside you again as he presses his hips flush against your ass. he tangles his hand into your hair, pulling your head back, and he plants a chaste kiss against your throat. "y'r not above me, pet. you can order around m'mutt all y'like. bet he'll like that..." you hum when he cants your hips, the tip of his cock hitting a nice, warm place inside you, "but y'r gonna do as i say. and be a good girl."

you open your eyes, looking up at him over your shoulder. you plant your palms against the mattress and push back against him again, moving just enough to encourage a few slow, wet grinds.

"anything you want, simon," you whisper, pressing your face into his neck, and he grunts as his hand disappears underneath you to cup your mound, hissing as he feels the place where his cock is moving inside you. "can have whatever you want, please--" you whine in his ear. "i won't lie to you! i-i...i won't lie..."

with his other hand, he cups your breast, squeezing, his thumb circling your nipple before he tugs on it gently.

"gonna be a good girl?" he asks. "gonna let johnny fuck ya? let my mutt have his fill?"

you nod, panting.

"are--" you sniffle. "--are you gonna take care of me?"

ghost laughs, as if it's a stupid question. he maneuvers you onto your knees, and as you start to push back against him more eagerly, you start to hear the jangle of the dog tags he wears. you want to turn around and pull on them, want to see his face when he comes, but you tell yourself that's for another time--that right now, you need to get him cumming and agreeable.

he leans over you, picking up the pace, punching his hips into your ass. the sound of your skin against his is wet and quick, and as you press your chest into the mattress, he starts hitting you so deep, the air feels tight in your chest.

"need to see you--!" you gasp, and when you're on your back again, you grab for his face. your knees spread again, welcoming him deep, and you force his eyes to stay on yours as you feel the rough grind of his hips starting to build up that sweet, soft feeling in you.

fuck--he's so big. every part of him, it swallows you, and this isn't any different. you come when you feel him, so much of it that it's leaking down your thighs because he stuffs you so full, and there's tears in your eyes, but he isn't sorry.

looking at him this way is jarring. you have really only ever seen his eyes incredibly dull, nothing in them except a void that you aren't able to understand. but you are using him, and he is using you, and you smile, because now you can read him, read what's reflected there.

when ghost shoves his cum-soaked fingers into your mouth, you don't fight it. you keen, arching your back as you let your tongue swirl around his thick fingers, and he tilts his head to the side as he watches you. he's making sure you're doing as he wants. he's making sure that you will be pliant and good, that you will do as you are told and nothing else because that is what he asks of you.

he's making sure that even though he knows you are not the submissive puppy you pretend to be, that you will be it anyways because if you don't, you won't like how he bites.

you and ghost are the same. you are equals, even if he will never admit it. you trade different parts of yourself, but this isn't about preservation, it's about survival, and you are willing to give yourself for it. you are willing to say yes, ghost, of course, whatever you want, because you aren't supposed to be alive anyways, but you might just have a chance if you hide in his shadow.

you're still on the bed when he dresses himself. he straps his vest back on, zips his pants, and you watch him lick his fingers clean before putting his gloves back on. you reach down, your mouth falling open when a glob of his cum slips out and dampens the sheets, and ghost has a hint of a smirk on before he rolls the mask back down.

"don' worry, luv," he mutters, reaching over and gripping your jaw rough. you pucker your lips, and he snickers. "soap'll fix you right up."

"soap?"

"mmm. the fuckin' thing is useless unless there's a mess to clean up, yeah?"

will you take care of me? will he take care of me when it's time? will he keep the dead out of my eyes and my blood inside?

he never answers your question. and deep down, you're certain it's because he would kill you, and maybe johnny would, too, because johnny does whatever he says, even if it isn't good for him. and you aren't sure if it's because this is his lieutenant or because saying yes is the only thing that make's sense anymore.

i can be useful. i can be useful. i can be useful.

when you are not useful anymore, you'll need to be the first to strike then. because maybe you don't deserve to live, but neither do they. god is a man, and he makes mistakes, and ghost is one of them, and he's eaten johnny's soul, and if you go down, you will take them with you.

god is a man, and he was a fool to think he could've cleansed the earth by himself.

it was the flood that cleansed it the first time, and mother nature always does her fucking job.

[transformers-spike]

I cannot be the only one who wants to bang peepaw Alpha Trion plEASE TELL ME IM NOT ALONE 😭

I will never stop being an old man enjoyer. Give us your spike, peepaw

“I’m relieved we aren’t the only ones in this universe.” The words echo in his processor like sand in the desert wind. Fading in and out of consciousness under the rubble, he clings onto the softness of your voice, the faded edges of your smile burnt into his memory. He cannot make sense of your shape anymore, it’s a blotch of ink in his vision, something he recalls but cannot fully visualize. His mind reaches out to you, so close yet so far away. With every step he takes, you grow smaller, and still, you patiently wait for him with your arms outstretched. Like old times. You are dead. This he knows. Unequivocally dead. His digits twitch, warnings encapsulate his vision, reminding him each and every nanoclik of wakefulness that the next in-vent could be his last. He can’t help himself. Duty has led his life for so long, bestowed upon him by his creator, and he cannot fall back now and forgo his promise to protect Cybertron. But he is weak; pain receptors growing numb from the boulders crushing his frame, limbs quivering from a battle long lost. Primus forgive him, allow him this final comfort. Cycles ago, your crew had first established contact with Cybertron. It was a message sent across space, a simple signal that would tie your fates forever. The Council debated answering, fearing you could pose a threat to their planet, but there were only three ships with only a handful of members each. They chose fraternization over static silence. Communication was difficult, but somehow, someway, you understood each other just enough to arrive on their planet. Surprise struck him when he saw your kind, small, frail and soft to the touch. Your people were just as startled as them, but in your optics he saw something greater; a delight in meeting fellow sentient beings. They took in your crew and treated them like brothers and sisters, communicating through gestures and drawings. You could not speak their language, but they could learn yours. Knowledge was shared among you, tales of your worlds, their history, your technology, your people… Perhaps your place among your own was what drew him to you. Standing on the sidelines, you watched and took notes, occasionally serving as a sketch artist to exchange information. The others were mingling with the Council, asking questions, telling stories, showing what machinery brought you to them. But you kept your distance, politely nodding along and busying yourself with your notebooks. When he approached you, taking slow careful steps, you nearly dropped your pen in shock. His size was already intimidating by Cybertronian standards, but for a human? He could barely imagine the primal fear you felt when met with someone of his stature. You recovered quickly despite it, uneasy but maintaining your composure. Having knelt down to your level, he offered you servo, the sand within it shaping into a miniature version of your ship. You blinked, clutching your notebook to your chassis. Then, after a drawn out silence, you smiled, optics gleaming with wonder. That was the start of your companionship. You would sit in his servo, looking up at the night sky, speaking words he could barely understand but tried his hardest to learn. He recalls bits and pieces, meanings he managed to grasp through what you taught him. It wasn’t long until your time together grew intimate. As a prime, he was so focused on his duties that he barely got the chance to relax, much less interface. Things were… difficult due to the size difference, but there were workarounds. Charge runs through his fuel lines at the memory. How you would brush your digits against his valve, testing the waters so to say, before slipping your servo inside of it. There was no true relief in the interface, no way for you to properly satisfy each other. But you were both content, savoring every moment of your companionship. You would press your lips to his spike, working your servo in and out of his gushing valve. It made his frame shudder and his optics glitch.

He touched you much the same way, digits rubbing at the sensitive nerves between your thighs, gazing down at you lovingly as you grit your denta and arched your optical ridge in pleasure.

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[mqrrstarr]

CHRISTMAS SPECIAL!!

Gladiator Characters x GN! Reader

Feat: Geta, Caracalla, Commodus, Lucius, Maximus, Acacius, Lucilla, Macrinus!!

Christmas Day and Eve headcanons!

Warnings: poorly edited, just a girl who loves these characters and the holidays, a bit short

A/N: MERRY CHRISTMAS!! don’t feel the same vibe as I did when a child, so I’m coping with writing. This will be a seven part series regarding Gladiator characters and Christmas and I’ll try to post them all BY THE END OF THE WEEK (?) but uhh don’t hold that against me. Enjoy!!

EDIT: the series has been canceled cause I can’t write. Wait until December 2025!! 💗

Summary: headcanons for all the gladiator characters and how they’d spend Christmas Eve and Day with their SO.

｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ

Geta would spend Christmas Eve with dinner specially made for his SO, (he def has better cooking skills than Caracalla) and he’d lovingly give them a bonus Eve gift. It’s a beautiful moment, where the strong and feared leader of Rome and succumb to the one he loves.

“Enjoy it darling. The beauty of the holidays does not compare to yours.”

He’d watch you enjoy his meal, and drink the wine he picked out especially for the occasion. As much as music was needed, Geta refused to let anyone interrupt your moment together.

On Christmas Day, it would depend on what happened during the night. Was it a peaceful night, was it active, or was it bland? Either way, Geta would get up and prepare presents for you, a surprise for no one other than the love of his life. He’d do it quietly, and super early in the morning. He’d rarely sleeps in peace anyways, so why use the energy elsewhere?

It would also be a morning where you wake up gently, and be surprised by the lavish decorations Geta has placed. Gold and white silk decorating his room, and most of all, your Emperor was still yours.

- - - - - - -

Caracalla is in love with the holidays. He gets giddy, childlike, and excited every time. This is a period in the year where he can remember something good about his youth. He likes to keep himself happy, and now that you’re his? You’re included in all the traditions.

During your Christmas dinner, he’d bring out a bunch of dinner games, have slaves perform for the both of you (AMND reference btw) and it would be a wholesome night.

Before Christmas Day, the eldest emperor cried during the night. He laid in your arms, and caressed you in return.

“Sweets. I cannot express how much care…”

He looks at you like a puppy worshipping its owner.

“I truly care about you. And although these times are happy and remind me of things, I hope to make new memories with you.”

The night would pass, and the morning would come. You’d wake up in Caracalla’s embrace, and to be frank, none of you got the others gifts out. So you just opened everything together, and you had never seen the man so happy.

- - - - - - -

Commodus and Christmas. What an interesting mix. Take a emotionally damaged man with immense childhood trauma and put him in a holiday where he did nothing but suffer? Where his own father ignored him and gave him nothing but one gift?

Christmas Eve with him was truly nothing but a dinner. Now that he had you, he tried to forget and make new memories. But the shame and pain was still visible in his eyes. You couldn’t take it anymore and sat next to him, caressing him and saying words of affection.

“My present from Venus, ignore my past and ignore my anger. My father ruined my mind, and all you can do it heal it. This Christmas will be my first with you, and if my last? Than I would rather be dead.”

You looked at him with such sincerity in your eyes, he became submissive to your touch and you both proceeded to sit next to the fire in his room.

Christmas morning arrived promptly, and knowing this was a very sensitive time for Commodus, you got him a gift he’d never forget. This necklace, engraved with your initials and his; with both of your favorite jewels. And, a new laurel crown for the one and only Emperor himself.

Commodus nearly fell down into tears, so grateful he was finally seen.

- - - - - - -

Lucius loved you with his entire heart. After being forcefully removed from his mother as a kid, and already losing his first wife, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing another person special to him.

To Lucius, Christmas is the mark of the end of the year, another time to celebrate the fact you’re both alive, and that you’re both still warriors. (writing from a Gladiator! perspective rather than Prince!)

“My love, I am eternally grateful to the Gods that we can be together.”

He kisses your forehead, gently as to not hurt you. You spend your Christmas Eve with a simple meal, and the next day not as lavish either.

Lucius adored you already: but he’d try to get a gift anyways, even though he already admires and thinks you’re just amazing! (Poppy and Branch dynamic)

He’d come up with something cute and homemade, providing the point that it doesn’t have to be expensive to matter. (save me Lucius save me)

- - - - - - -

Maximus wasn’t the same after the loss of his previous wife and child, and this time was bittersweet for him. His SO kept him sane, and he tried not to let his sadness show through.

You decorated the tree in your home, one Maximus was able to buy after years of being a Gladiator. He occasionally goes to the fights, but not anymore. Now he’s a Senator. (NOT CANON ITS JUST SO HES NOT DEAD AND IT WILL MAKE SENSE IN THE OTHER SEVEN PARTS)

He came up behind you and kissed your neck, watching you place the last of the ornaments.

“Excellent work my dear. Excellent. I’m going to bed now, meet you there?”

And he went away in a form far too sad for the usual Maximus. You knew him well, and simply decided to go to sleep as well. The following morning, you woke up first and decided to get your gift for Maximus.

It was a wooden carving of him, his late wife, his late child, and you all together.

Maximus woke up a few minutes later, and got your gift from the bedroom! (You were in the living room.) He got you a bracelet from his dead wife, something that really meant a lot to him.

“My dear? I’d like to give you this. It belonged to my former wife, and she liked it dearly. Made form Spanish jewels and metal, of course. I love you, but I beg for you to understand that she and my son still live in me. You understand, right?”

You nodded, happy and overwhelmed. You gave Maximus his gift, and tears were shed from the both of you. Your gift meant a lot, as you accepted his love and the love for those gone.

- - - - - - -

Acacius loved the holidays. It was a time where he could relax, sink into his own bed, be clean, and most important, be with you.

You finished preparing the meal, a mix of both his and your favorite foods with some Roman delicacies thrown in there.

“Looks great my sweet. Not as good as you though! But you know I love you.”

He caressed your hips before helping set the table. The meal was prepped and Acacius sat you down first. (WHAT A GENTLEMAN)

He sat across from you at the table, and you talked about what was going on, what you wanted to happen in Rome, etc.

Eventually, stuff happened and you both woke up in the each others arms in the morning. Acacius always laid very still in the night, out of pure instinct. However, Christmas morning he couldn’t stop moving around, and woke the both of you up together.

He eagerly said, “Hurry up and change, your gift is outside.” He smiled and left promptly.

Outside, there was a gleaming white stallion.

“For you. A horse just as grand as your soul.”

You smiled. Who wouldn’t want a horse as a gift? But inside you shattered. The only gift you got for Acacius was a painting of himself. You showed it to him, and he reassured you it was enough. Let’s just say he’d also show you it was okay.

- - - - - - -

Lucilla loved the holidays. She decorated excessively, both as a young woman and as she is now. (hc, it’s because Lucius loved the looks and lights of Christmas and the guilt of having him leave her has followed her forever)

“One more wreath I promise… it’s just an extra special one… done!”

She looked at you and smiled. It radiated calm and positivity, an effect only Lucilla had. You kissed her and assured the place looked great.

“Dinner should be set by the slaves by now. It should be good. I trust it is. They sent by fresh fruits and veggies and proper meat as well. I’d like to give you your gift now, would that be alright? I just truly cannot wait.”

You nodded yes, but you’d have to get the gift from the room. You agreed to meet again in five minutes to exchange gifts.

Soon, the two of you are reunited, and she presents a lovely sculpture of you, portrayed in such an ethereal form; as if the gods had carved it themselves. You gave her a crown made from pure gold and a ring, as you knew she loved collecting rings. The ring you gave her had your initials carved, signifying the both of you tied together.

- - - - - - -

Macrinus had a holiday anytime one of his prized gladiators won. Yet, Christmas, was an actual holiday he could look forward to.

“Uh, Dove, do you know if the servants have finished the meal? I’ve got a bunch of gladiators waiting to fight in your honor.”

(he calls you Dove bc you’re his symbol of peace!)

He planted a kiss on your forehead before leading you to the garden outside, where a meal was served and the servants were waiting patiently, deserts, fruits, wine in their hands.

Five gladiators waited in chains to be released to have a “playful” hand to hand fight, something Macrinus found plenty delight in.

“I have a gift for you. I won’t be around tomorrow, as the Emperors requested a meeting with me. So I wish to give you this. I know it’s a bit excessive, but you deserve it.”

He gave you a pearl necklace with ruby earrings to go with it, and a slip saying you owned a young gladiator.

You thanked Macrinus, and you enjoyed the meal as the gladiators fought and the moon shined upon the both of you.

“I live for you, and I love you Dove. Fly high always.”

[ghcstlyy]

"Force you to Sleep."

you cannot tell me that this man is not a cuddler. my first time writing for the slasher fandom so please be nice to me.

reader has trouble sleeping. bo is annoyed at their absence and comes to bring them back to bed. kind of comfort for disassociation? if that's not an accurate term I apologize. reader is gender neutral.

2:47AM the alarm clock’s bright, red-lit numbers practically yelled at you through the dark as you rolled over onto your side. You couldn’t sleep, again - and by this point you’d grown tired of the cycle - trying to sleep, staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, rinse and repeat. The frustration and boredom had become too much. You had to get up, to get out of bed, to do something. So, trying your best not to wake a sleeping Bo, you carefully slid out of bed, silently cursing the both of you for being so damn clingy at night as you pried his arms from around your body. Somehow, you managed to wiggle out of his grasp without disturbing his sleep, and quietly made your way across the bedroom floor and down the stairs. In the dead silence of the house, every creak of the floorboards sounded x10 louder than it was, and a part of you wondered if you should have just stayed in bed even longer. Waited whatever was keeping you from sleeping out, until you eventually succumbed to exhaustion. Too late now, you thought.

You padded your way to the bottom of the steps and across the kitchen, the cold tile pressing against your bare feet. Standing there in front of the sink, you focused in on the sounds around you, listening intently to the calls of the cricket, and other nocturnal creatures. Staring out of the window, off into the distance, you felt… uneasy. Ambrose always unsettled you at night. It was weird enough during the day, sure - but it was your home now. It felt safe, especially with the boys walking around all the time. Not at night, though. Something felt different as you started out into the dark, empty streets. The empty yards, empty driveways, empty houses. It somehow felt like the town itself was staring back at you.

It hadn’t taken long for Bo to notice your absence once you’d wiggled out of his grasp, and slipped out of bed. He’d assumed you were going to the bathroom or something, that you’d be back eventually. So, he didn’t bother moving. Until you didn’t come back. He couldn’t stay asleep for very long without you anymore, growing used to the weight of you next to him, your body pressed tightly against his as you slept peacefully in his arms. The feeling of empty space in the bed beside him pulled him back to consciousness once again, and he found himself feeling sleepy and frustrated. What the hell were you doing up past three in the morning? Why hadn’t you made your way back upstairs and into his grasp again? Whatever it was about that town had captivated you so completely, you hadn’t even noticed him make his own way down the creaky stairs, though much less gracefully than you had, and shuffle sleepily up behind you.

This wasn’t the first time he had found you like this. It had been happening more and more often these past couple weeks, and he didn’t want to tell you, but it was worrying him. He’d come down and find you, usually staring off at nothing out the window, just like you were now. It’d take him a minute to get your attention, usually, coaxing you out of whatever state you found yourself in during those moments. Gently bringing you back to reality. So slowly, as gently as he could, he reached out and placed a hand on your waist. “(Y/N)..”

Bo’s voice was quiet, a barely audible, soothing whisper right behind your ear. Carefully coaxing you out of your trance, like he’d done before. He wrapped an arm around you and turned you to face him. He absentmindedly stroked patterns onto your skin. “Sweetheart,” He drawled, in a rough, tired voice. You didn’t break your gaze out the window until he gently cupped your face, turning your head so you were looking at him instead. “What’re you doin’ down here? Hm…?” Still a bit far away, your gaze finally met his, a brief wave of realization in yours. He flashed you a sleepy Bo Sinclair Smile. “There ya’ are,” The arm around your waist pulled you closer, your body flush against his. “What’s goin’ on?” Everything was starting to come back as he pulled you back to reality. Focusing on the soft sound of his voice as it hit your ears, the feeling of being pressed against his sturdy frame as you wrapped your arms around his torso, letting your head fall against him.

Eventually you managed a soft, “Couldn’t sleep… m’sorry.” mumbled drowsily into his chest. The only explanation you could form right now. His arms wrapped around you tighter, holding you securely, supporting most of your weight as sleep finally started to creep up on you. “At’s alright. Don’t need to apologize to me,” He brought a hand up to stroke your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. “Come back to bed, though, huh? S’lonely up there all by myself.” He wasn’t actually asking, not that he needed to. More like telling, but y’know… nicely. “Need to stop leaving me at night.” His tone was comforting, but held an edge of seriousness you knew not to question. Bo clearly did not like waking up to an empty bed in the middle of the night. It sent his thoughts spiraling, thinking maybe you’d ran off, or worse, something had happened to you.

Attempting to ground yourself further, you held onto him tight, taking everything in. The feeling of his skin against yours, the comforting smell of him as he held you safely against his chest. You let it pull you back to reality, letting yourself fall deeper into unconsciousness as sleep threatened to claim you already. After a moment, you could feel yourself being lifted off of the ground. “C’mon,” One arm hooked itself under your knees, the other holding you securely around your torso. “Let’s get you some sleep, hm?” Bo kissed the top of your head, trying his best not to jostle you too much as he carried you back up the creaky stairs. Gently, carefully, he set you in the bed. He chuckled softly, watching as you nestled yourself comfortably into the blankets. Finally, he slipped into bed next to you, his arms wrapping around you to pull you tight against his chest. His head rested in the crook of your neck, nestled against you from behind. He knew you were already out, your sleeping form snoring away peacefully beside him, letting himself drift back off again, muttering to himself in the dark.

"Next time I'll force ya' to sleep if I have to."

[st4rgrl4l1f3]

Stupid stuff I think the 141 would do if they all lived together

—————

Underwear. Who’s is who’s. They all have a red, black, blue and gray pair. Soap may have a pair with the Scottish flag on it.

“I FORGOT WHO WEARS AN XL” Soap would scream from downstairs.

“I DO” Ghost would reply.

“…fatass.”

“I heard that.”

—————

Most random shit in the fridge. Why is the fridge nothing but the cheese drawer and beer?…Okay, let’s check the cupboards. There’s fruit snacks and one of those gallon buckets of goldfish. Okay. Another cupboard. Four cups, four bowls, four plates…The silverware looks the same.

“Why don’t we have food in the kitchen? What happened to the groceries I bought??” Gaz is terrified. He was gone for a week.

“Soap ate it all, and Ghost followed. ‘Saw a cat outside, figured I’d feed it. Now it’s comin back with ‘er kids…” Price says, that last part more quiet than his first two sentences.

“…Is this your idea of groceries?” Gaz looks at Soap, Ghost, and Price.

All three of them in unison, “…Yes.”

—————

Sleeping in the most random places. Why is Gaz halfway on the couch, halfway on the floor? Soap is drooling all over the couch, Ghost is passed out beside his bed, and Price still has his gear on, sleeping beside his rifle, hat halfway on.

Waking up with a sore back, Gaz opens his eyes. Yawning and wincing at the ache right in the middle of his back, he gets up, holding his back like an old man, and cracks it.

“Well good Lord in Heaven, lad, ye nearly broke yer own back crackin it like that.”

Gaz turns around, Soap is holding up his head with his hand, Mohawk all outta whack. Gaz gives him a small “g’mornin.” Before fixing himself breakfast (tap water and cheese from the cheese drawer)

Ghost wakes up, crawls in his bed and falls back asleep. He sleeps like a log.

Price wakes up, oh God, his back hurts. Maybe it was because of all the gear he still has on. He strips himself of it and puts on a gray t-shirt and some sweats. (He still has his hat on???)

—————

Coming home drunk. Holy fuck. Uber loaded with grown ass men laughing about the man that was break-dancing on the table so hard that tears were coming out.

“Yaswereslads gonna make me fuckin cry you know wha I sayin I’m fuckin dead lads, oh shite—“ Soap says, all in one string of words. His accent really comes out when he’s drunk.

“‘T was like he was-wheeze-goin in slow motion when he fell-Another wheeze” Ghost cannot hold his laugh back. He wheezes.

Gaz is looking straight forward, nearly drooling.

Price is listening to Soap and Ghost shit themselves laughing as he silently laughs, gasps of air every five seconds. Even the Uber is laughing.

“Have you ever seen a breakdance?” Gaz says, chatting up the Uber who’s trying to keep his composure.

—————

Discussing pets.

“Can we PLEASE get a dog??” Soap is pleading with Gaz.

“Soap. Look at the fridge. All we have is beer and cheese.”

“The cheese drawer is a necessity. So is the beer.”

“No- listen. You get half decent groceries without me helping, we’ll get a puppy.”

“Hey, wait, can we get a snake—“

“Fuck no we’re not getting a snake, Ghost. What, make you feel at home?”

“I’m not Australian, Soap.”

Price and Gaz look at each other, wide eyed at their stupidity. They rub their temples, trying to genuinely find the brain in their words.

—————

Microwaveable things.

“Can I microwave this bowl?”

“No, Ghost.”

“Uhhh, pretty sure you can.”

“Why did you ask, then??”

“Just cuz.”

Price goes back to his dad show.

“JOHN?”

“YEAH?”

“…YOU WERE RIGHT. MY BOWL MELTED.”

“Oh for fucks-“

“Yer brain is fuckin mush, lad, how’d you not know you can’t microwave that?” Soap laughs at Ghosts misery, his soup gone to waste.

—————

[nmakii]

Hi! I'm not the one that requested no one is better than I am.... BUT I loved it so much! I was wondering if you could make a part two say maybe the person we ran away with turns out to be abuse or something like that and we're kinda like 'I fucked up' and realize maybe running wasn't such a good idea.... Anyway you can add your own little twist and you can ignore this if you wish <3

- rose anon 🌹

AND I KNEW YOU’D COME BACK TO ME.

— this relationship wasn’t meant to last long. all is forgiven though. alastor will forgive you.

— tangled reimagined 😮‍💨 didnt even realize it until i finished writing HAHAHAHAHA

a month later, the honeymoon period had died out. to be fair, you hadn’t exactly made a plan…crashing at a motel on the edge of mississippi, not exactly what you had in mind.

living off the scraps of what you took, pawning off your belongings. oh, this was not ideal at all. and, how your lover got when he was angry; he’d bruise your arm from gripping way too tightly whenever you didn’t get enough money. how you started to miss alastor, it’s true what they say— you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

if you were able to run once, perhaps you could just one more time? he is not as smart as alastor, you should be able to get away easily in the night.

yes, you should. after trading away many of your items, all you have left is but a satchel worth of dresses. new orleans is not particularly far with a car either.

and so, a familiar memory of running away at the dead of night. only now, it is you returning to alastor, just like he knew you would.

when you returned home, it was 2 AM. the house was just as it was when you left, albeit quite dusty now without your care.

you dropped your satchel on the dining table, just as you left it. it’s almost as if your home was abandoned when you left.

in the bedroom, your husband, sleeping peacefully— an arm clinging to your side of the bed, as if holding onto what little scent of you there was left.

when you opened the bathroom door, a silk nightgown was hung, simply waiting to be worn.

after you had changed, you sat back on your bed, the familiar smell of home coming back to you. as you laid in bed, you found yourself facing alastor.

your hands moved to bring him closer, the warm touch waking him scarily quick. “my love, you’ve returned.” he smiled, bringing you close.

your muscles tensed at the pet name, frightening reminders of the last month coming back. “hey, calm down, dear. i’m not mad.” he reassured you, awfully calmly at that. “running away; it was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

you nodded as you relaxed under his touch. “he was awful… im sorry, alastor…” you frowned. “oh, darling, i told you, didn’t i? no matter, all is forgiven.” he cooed, brushing your hair gently with his nimble fingers. “i’ll protect you from all that is bad in this world. no evil will meet you as long as i live. all i ask… is that you stay here, with me, forever— take care of our house, cook dinner, and perhaps even care for our little ones in the future?” he rambled on, a wide smile upon his face as he thinks of your future together. “ah, i’m rambling, we can discuss that in the future. in the meantime, could you do that, dear?” he asked, offering it to you as if you had a choice.

you nodded, not even looking at alastor. “good. i love you very much, don’t you know that, my dear? all i want is for you to be safe.” he told you. “…i” you started, thinking carefully of your words. “i love you too, alastor…” you said.

did you truly love him? of course you did. he took you back after you betrayed his trust, he’s a wonderful husband.

the moment the words fell from your sweet lips, a wide smile found its way onto alastor’s face. a kiss pressed upon your forehead.

his little doe finally returned his affections. it’s only a shame of his that he had to hurt your delicate heart first.

why would a single man be in a luxury store? oh, words cannot describe how thankful alastor is for your foolish naivety.

word on the street, that eugene was quite the heartbreaker. not to mention, that criminal record of his.

convincing him to go through with it wasn’t hard either. seeing a new toy that knows nothing of his record, he was more than eager to play with you. all it took was a bit of cash for him to keep up the sweetheart act.

and now that his doe was home, there’s no use for trash like that man in this world. the bruises on your arm, they were not what was intended.

all he asked was a simple grab, but it seems he got carried away, that piece of garbage.

as alastor forcefully swallowed his anger, he held you close, massaging the bruises on your wrist. “rest well, darling. you’ve been through a lot this past month.” he cooed, slowly lulling you to sleep.

oh, how excited he is that his little doe is home. to celebrate, we need a special meal, don’t we? say, there is a rare meat that alastor has been dying to try.

[kaiser1ns]

𝗶𝘁𝗼𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝘀𝗮𝗲 𝘅 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

╹synopsis :: loving, realising, missing and living. the first love comes with these four components.

╹contents :: [scheduled post i will be inactive when this is posted] can be read as fem/gn reader; angst, inspired by "spring day"

ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ? ᴏʀ ɪꜱ ɪᴛ ᴍᴇ? ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛ, ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜰʟᴏᴡɪɴɢ ʙʏ ᴡᴇ'ᴠᴇ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇᴅ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ? ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ, ʏᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ? ʏᴇꜱ, ɪ ʜᴀᴛᴇ ʏᴏᴜ, ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴍᴇ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴏᴘᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜ, ɴᴏᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴀ ᴅᴀʏ ɪ ᴍɪꜱꜱ ʏᴏᴜ, ʜᴏɴᴇꜱᴛʟʏ, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ʟʟ ᴇʀᴀꜱᴇ ʏᴏᴜ 'ᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪᴛ ʜᴜʀᴛꜱ ʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛᴏ ʙʟᴀᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ

The room was cold, even in August it was still neverending winter. It wasn't just the temperature that made it feel like frozen in time — it was the absence of your presence. He stood there, staring at the empty couch you once used to fall asleep waiting for him after practice. The midfielder could still see, feel, and hear you as he closed his eyes, you are here just waking up and ready to greet him. But now as he opened his eyes you are not next to him and the memories remain like scars, a road made of fallen petals in the neverending garden of life.

But deep down, Sae knew the truth. The distance increased, the connection decreased, the feelings disappeared and the problems appeared. It was you who changed. He tells himself that every day because he doesn't want to admit that he is the one who has changed. Because of him, summer feels like a spring rain, cold and unstoppable, which cannot wash away the traces of love in his heart and soul. It cannot wash his mistakes and past, and to start a new. It was me who changed. A bitter taste in his mouth just by the thought of saying those words, but he can't and won't accept the fact that he was in the wrong.

Itoshi Sae hates you, at least that's what he wants to think, despite the hurt, despite the void you left in his heart, you were the one who made him whole. Anger, sadness, regret, shame, fear. He kept his emotions in check, but when he was alone, they spread like the first blooming spring flower. Itoshi Sae doesn't hate you, he hates missing you. He never stopped thinking about you, and not a day goes by without something reminding him of you.

The young man sighed, his breath audible against the dead silence. He sat on the soft couch, dropping his bag on the floor, taking one of the many burdens off his shoulders. With a heavy heart, he unlocked his phone and the wallpaper was the cherry blossom tree that you visited for your first date. The too familiar number of yours was still there in the contact list, the contact name didn't change either. He was starting at your picture and then at the "delete this number". It's better to erease you, to remove you from his life because it will hurt less than to blame you, Sae had to let go. And he did, he clicked the red button and you disappeared, the last thing he kept was finally gone. You fell first, he fell harder, and the painful reality of a love that could never blossom again finally catched up to him.

©2024 kaiser1ns do not copy, repost or modify my work

[mockerycrow]

CONGRATS ON YOUR 4K POOKIE I’M SO GLAD FOR YOU, YOU DESERVE THE WORLD 🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛

can i pretty please request roach x gn!reader with a fluff prompt “god, i’m so glad you’re alright”, after him and ghost survive “loose ends”, because they were warned in time that they cannot trust shepherd. THANK YOU AND CONGRATS AGAIN, MWAHHH

- 🐇

STILL STANDING (Roach x GN!Reader) — 4K CELEBRATION

[WARNINGS; talks about death, life affirming kisses, roach is selectively mute, fluff.]

IT WAS THE last second. It was the very last second when Roach and Ghost had heard Price’s panicked shouts through the radio, to not trust Shepherd, to go somewhere else, that they will meet again. Ghost and Roach had exchanged panicked glances the DSM in Roach’s hands when at the last second, they turned around in went deep into the woods, a completely different direction than where the chopper with Shepherd was—anything to survive that.

All Roach could think about was you and others. Ghost and Roach had cut all contact, knowing Shepherd’s men would canvas the surrounding areas for a couple of days, weeks at most; they managed to find an extremely rundown medium sized shed, one that was hidden by brush and trees. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to shelter the two from the natural elements.

Combining Ghost and Roach’s wilderness survival skills, they were able to scrounge up food when they ran out of MREs. It has to be day six when he begins to think about you again—wondering, hoping you were good they got away.

That leads him to dread another possibility; would Shepherd go after you next? Would he be found, only to be let know you’re rotting in a pool of your own blood somewhere? There’s too much that would be left unsaid between you two, not enough fucking time.

When Roach approached Ghost with his predicament, rapidly signing his thoughts—way too fast for Ghost to understand. “I— wha— alright, slow down, will ya? Can barely understand you.” Ghost says, putting his hands up as if to calm him.

Like anything could calm him; not when he had a nightmare about finding you cold and dead.

Roach takes in a slow breath as he forces his hands to slow down into more concise sentences so the other masked man can understand him. “When will we be out of here, Lieutenant?” Roach signs, watching how Ghost’s eyes track the movements of his hands and fingers. Ghost crosses his arms, his eyes flickering up to Roach’s. “I’m not too sure, I don’t think too much longer. Why?”

Roach signs your name and that’s all it takes for it to register in Ghost’s head, his eyebrows raising above the sunglasses he’s wearing. “Oh, you’re worried about them, are ya?” Ghost hums. “I’m sure they’re fine, we’ll try to contact ‘em tomorrow.” Roach let’s out a huff of relief and lazily signs thank you before he sits down on the wooden floor of the shed next to some of his gear.

Roach doesn’t sleep much that night, ranging from the fact they’re going to attempt to make contact again and the gnawing worry in his stomach; as well as the fact they’re still sleeping in shifts just in case. Roach is awoken by Ghost grabbing his shoulder and shaking him awake, his voice urging for him to wake up. Roach groggily sits up whilst Ghost stupidly tries to tell him what he has to say right off the bat, causing Roach to just stare at him with exhausted eyes.

Ghost lets out a sigh. “Roach.” He utters, waiting for Roach to give him a sign he is processing things. Roach takes a second before nodding, running his fingers through his hair. His helmet and goggles are by his side which Roach grabs before adjusting the tan mask on his face. “I made contact, they’re fine.” Ghost murmurs, making Roach light up, his eyebrows raising. He begins to rapidly sign, making Ghost chuckle. “Calm down, will ya? We’re meeting them 2 klicks north from here, so we can regroup.”

Roach wastes no time, quickly putting on his helmet and goggles, clicking the strap. He adjusts the goggles and the man stands up so quickly, he’s dizzy. “Woah there—“ Ghost grabs his shoulder to steady the man, but Roach quickly begins to gather his things, reorganizing what’s needed in his bag. The excitement and nervousness beneath his skin threatened to burst with every moment, his fingers trembling. Roach knows he needs to feel you under his fingers to properly process you’re genuinely okay.

Ghost packs his stuff as well, and they work together to make it look like no one was in the shed in the first place. They leave the shed with their guns in hand, slowly making their way through the thick forest towards the location. Roach is deep in thought as they begin their journey; are you as relieved as he is? He hopes so, but on the other hand, he doesn’t want you to be so worried over him. Roach keeps reminding himself to sign slowly for you, because he knows the second he sees you, he won’t be able to properly sign. 

His heart is pounding in his chest as Ghost utters that they’re close, that they should be able to spot a vehicle soon. A few more minutes of walking and they hear shuffling of leaves. Roach quickly turns and aims his rifle—it’s you. He nearly drops his rifle, a smile widening under his mask. You’re running towards him which does actually prompt him to drop his rifle—his bootcamp instructors are screaming at him in his head—but he starts running towards you as well. You run right into him, nearly toppling him over with your hug, your arms wrapping tightly around him. Roach’s hands scramble to grab onto your gear, stumbling around as you sniffle, holding onto him.

Roach lets out a shuddery breath, relief rolling off of him in waves. His tense shoulders relax once he finally has you in his arms. You pull your head away enough to look at him in the eyes, tears in your own. “God, I’m so glad you’re alright.” Your voice cracks as you express your relief. Roach’s breath hitches in his throat and he lets go of you, shakily ripping his helmet off, dropping it in the sticks and leaves to the side. He raises his goggles to sit on his forehead and he rips his mask down before he cups your cheeks and presses a desperate kiss against your lips which you return. You both know you’ll equally be embarrassed about this, kissing so needily in front of the others, but it’s needed—you both needed it.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 35 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

Winston’s solution essentially turns into a waiting game. 

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because whether he thinks or not, you know John needs time to heal his injuries before you face a sitdown with the High Table, the brat prince, and the top bosses of the Camorra, none of which are exactly eager to convene at a mutual time for the sake of John Wick–and you? You still don’t know what to think about this strange world John Wick has plunged you into. 

Even though you would supposedly be safe on hotel grounds, of course John doesn’t want to let you out of his sight. He rarely wants to leave the room either; you sense this is not just because he’s healing. The thought of wandering around here fills you with equal parts anticipation and dread. Maybe you both have caught a touch of agoraphobia, living your secluded little life in the mountains together. Gone are the days in which you flounced about the house in your designer sundresses with paint on your fingers and no panties to your name. If only you could have known at the time, how idyllic those precious moments had been.

Or maybe your recent trauma has skewed your memory of it all. 

It still feels strange, speaking to anyone but John, even when you’re just calling in your orders for room service. 

You sleep a lot, tangled together in the cloud-soft bed. Sometimes you watch TV or read, and sometimes you just lay there, and at least on your part, marvel that you’re not dead. 

You both have nightmares about the night the Camorra soldiers infiltrated your home. You relive the moment in which you’d nearly lost John, the knife wielding commando trying to stab him again and again in a replaying reel in your mind. In your dreams you cannot lift the gun to save him, or your every shot misses. The scene of John’s terrors seems to go a step further, and you know he has dreamed that they made it past him, up the stairs to you, when he wakes you with clutching arms and desperate kisses on your hair, as though he is assuring himself of your wellbeing.

One morning, he wakes you a different way, with his cock stuffing you full from behind and slow kisses on your neck, his strong arms wrapped around you. Up until this point you’ve avoided such things, scolding him that he’ll pull his stitches [again], and for once he actually listened to you. No more, it seems, and you cannot suppress a moan as he thrusts lazily up inside you with his hand on your breast. “John…” 

“Mmmm. I need you, baby,” he whispers into your hair, flipping you on your belly with his solid weight pressing you deliciously down into the mattress. “Need to feel you.”

“Your stitches–”

“Will be fine,” he interjects, and you can tell his patience has run short for you worrying about it. You don’t mean to be a nag, and you know he’s endured worse–you just don’t want him to have to be in unnecessary pain, again. You realize you would put this man in a bubble, if you could, he is so precious to you. It’s essentially what he tried to do to you, and see how that worked out?

“Please?” It’s the pure need in that last word that melts your last thought of resisting, and maybe, the fact that he actually asked. You realize you have not properly made love, have not felt him inside you since your primal chase turned borderline hate fuck in the woods, what feels like a lifetime ago. He thrusts again, his hips pressed into the curve of your bottom, and you feel your coherent thoughts evaporate into lust. You cant your hips just the way you know will tighten your hole and drive him wild; a ragged moan from behind you is your reward. 

“Temptress,” he grumbles, though you can tell he is smiling. “Trying to make me cum already?” His next thrust is a little too deep, but you take the punishment, only wincing slightly as you hide your grin in the pillow.

“Would I do that?” You sit up on elbows so you can look at him over your shoulder, your heart so filled with love you fear it might burst. He brushes your hair out of your face with tender fingers, a fire in those dark eyes all for you. In this love-charged lull he seems to change his mind about positions, withdrawing only long enough to flip you over before burying himself inside you again. 

Of all the ways John Wick has taught you how to make love, this is still your favorite; simple, vanilla missionary with his delicious weight on you, heart to heart with his mouth locked to yours. Something about almost dying together makes it even more intense for the both of you. When he draws back to look into your eyes while he wrecks you? It’s almost too much–too raw, too visceral. 

Too vulnerable. 

A part of you just wants to flee. 

“I love you,” he tells you between thrusts, one of your legs folded nearly to your chest, the other locked around his hip to hold him deeper.  “I need you.”

“You’ve got me. I love you, John, you’ve got me.”

There’s no room for higher cognition, in this gasping, bone-melting exchange of pleasure and bodily fluids. There is only the ability to speak the truth from the heart, and the breathless pursuit of release, together. It hits you both like a freight train, almost painful in all its ferocity–there’s no way in hell they don’t hear you next door, and maybe down the hall. 

You’re going to get into trouble. 

The absurdity of the thought makes you smile as much as John rearranging your insides. Sweaty and breathless, you stay locked together for what feels like a long time, neither willing to let go. Naturally its John who recovers first, catching your mouth in a deep kiss that curls your toes all over again. “Shower with me?” 

“Yes.”  

***

“Can we take Dog outside?” you ask during breakfast, the gentle beast in question leaning against your leg in pursuit of pets–and bacon. “I think he’s bored, walking the halls.” There was a pee pad for him on the roof–it was not the same, as touching paws to real grass.  

Once, John might have gotten mad that you would even suggest it. You think its a testament to improval, when he just sighs at you. “You know the answer to that, sweetheart.”

It’s too dangerous. 

You sigh too. 

As magnificent as The Continental was…it was starting to feel like you were going to be locked up there forever. 

“Is this a hint that you are bored?”

You consider this question, stirring sugar into your second cup of coffee. It does feel a bit like the two of you are stuck in purgatory, waiting. “Maybe I’m feeling a little cooped up,” you admit. “But the wake up calls here are spectacular…” You grin at him over your mug, and see your comment has the intended placating effect, the corner of his mouth pulling in a small smile, a flash of heat in his dark eyes that makes you clench between your crossed legs.

“I might have a solution for that.” Again, it’s like he’s asking, and he could have pushed you over with a feather. Have you arrived? Even with the sword of Damocles hanging overhead, just waiting for the moment you might set foot outside this hotel, this is the thing that starts to make you feel like everything might be alright someday. 

“Yeah?” 

“I want you to do some work with the Personal Trainer while we’re here. She’s very good.”

Everything is cloaked in double meaning in this place. Somehow, you suspect the title doesn’t mean this woman will yell at you to do five more sit-ups. “You…want me to lift weights?” you ask cheekily, waiting. 

“I want you to learn how to kill a man with your bare hands,” he tells you bluntly. “If you have to.”

You choke a little on your coffee at that. Point: John. 

“Jeesus.” 

“You’ve seen the truth of my world. Even though I’m retired…it just keeps fucking following me. That means…you’re in danger too. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

You’ve always thought you were a nice person, but as it turns out your moral fiber must be fairly flexible–at least, for this man. Back at the coffee shop, you’d known he’d murdered those creeps in the van, and you’d done nothing. You’d shot a man to save him without a second thought. Now he wanted you to learn how to kill–and you were perfectly willing. 

A part of you wants to caution him, that you will never be as dangerous as the lowliest clown in this vicious world of thieves and killers. But in the end, you keep it to yourself. He wants to train you out of hope, and you don’t want to take that chance for some peace of mind from him. And, of course…maybe it will save your ass someday. 

You’re in no hurry to die. 

You can see he is troubled, brooding over the danger he’s put you in. You know the dark spiral that can lead him down, and you offer him a lifeline. “John…even if I’d known, in the beginning, about who you are and the risk…I still would have followed you anywhere.” 

It’s the truth. He wouldn’t have even had to kidnap you. You keep that to yourself too. 

He weighs you with those dark eyes–once upon a time, that penetrating look might have made you squirm. But maybe there’s a freedom now, in having traveled through the darkest labyrinths of his mind–and come out in one piece on the other side. You just meet that gaze, letting it wash over you, and in the end it’s he who looks away.  

“I actually believe you now, you know.”

You manage not to grin like a fucking idiot, even if it’s how you feel inside. Utterly unable to remain in your own seat after that, you slide into his lap, pressing your lips to his cheek, the side of his mouth, then lingeringly, his lips. You snuggle like that in the chair for several minutes, just holding each other, and not to be left out, dog shifts to lay on John’s feet. 

“John…” you say quietly, not wanting to break the spell that’s fallen over the room. “What if…we just ran away together?” 

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you get the feeling that the option maybe hadn’t even occurred to him. He’s so accustomed to charging at his problems head first, guns blazing and fists flying–and usually that works out for him… Not so much, for the people around him, though. 

“Where would you want to go?” he asks, his lips against your temple. 

“I don’t know. Where could we go? Does anyone want you dead in South America?”

He’s quiet as he thinks about it. “...Maybe not?”

“We could…get new identities, and…move to Buenos Aires.” 

He blows through his nose as this, but you can tell he’s amused. “What is it with you and Argentina?” 

“It sounds like a great place to go,” you reason. “The Paris of South America. Good food. Culture. Architecture. Adventure… And they sleep in until like, 11 o’clock in the morning, it’s awesome.” 

He does laugh at this. “And I thought you were such an early bird, working at the coffee shop?” 

“I’ve come to find waking up early is overrated.” 

His chest quakes with mirth beneath you, and you reckon that even if he’s not taking your suggestion seriously, at least he’s amused, and that is good for morale. 

“So…when do I start with The Trainer?” John peers at his watch around your body. 

“In an hour.” 

“Fuck. Were you going to tell me?” 

He chuckles at this. “The less time for you to worry about it, the better.” 

“Why?” Now you are worried. “What is she going to do to me?”

“She’s not going to beat you up,” he’s quick to assure you. “I’m not putting you through real assassin school. But…I want you to take it seriously. Please? For me?”

Well…fuck a duck. 

“Ok, I will,” you promise him, wondering what you’re about to get into. 

[mcflymemes]

PHANTOM THREAD (2017) PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

i cannot begin my day with a confrontation.

i feel as if i've been looking for you for a very long time.

you found me.

i wanted time with you. i wanted to have you to myself.

you are a very handsome man.

why are you not married?

i'm certain i was never meant to marry.

you sound so sure about things.

i think you're only acting strong.

maybe you have no taste.

you have the ideal shape.

don't start crying.

i'm not crying. i'm angry.

whatever you do, do it carefully.

kiss me, my girl, before i'm sick.

i want you flat on your back. helpless, tender, open with only me to help.

i think it's the expectations and assumptions of others that causes heartache.

are you a special agent sent here to ruin my evening and possibly my entire life?

why are you so rude to me?

why are you talking to me like this?

yes, this is your house. of course it's your house.

i'm surrounded on all sides!

you brought me here!

when the hell did this happen?

where's your gun?

stop playing this game.

if it's my life that you're describing, it's entirely up to you whether you choose to share it or not.

why don't you just fuck off to back where you came from?

is there something i'm unaware of?

don't you start using that filthy little word.

there's nothing i can say to get your attention aimed back at me, is there?

a house that doesn't change is a dead house.

if you want to have a staring contest with me, you will lose.

is this an ambush?

then i want you strong again.

i don't understand what you're saying. i can't hear your voice.

you might wish you're going to die. you might wish you're going to die, but you're not going to.

i can predict the future, and everything is settled.

i finally understand you.

right now we're here.

i'm getting hungry.

what a model of politeness you two are.

marriage would make me deceitful, and i don't ever want that.

you need to settle down a little.

you certainly won't come out alive.

i'll go right through you and it'll be you who ends up on the floor.

[name] has made my dreams come true.

it's comforting to think the dead are watching over the living.

i don't find that spooky at all.

are you here? are you always here?

i miss you. i think about you all the time.

i hear your voice say my name when i dream and when i wake up, there are tears streaming down my face.

must be quite a challenge to be with him.

sometimes i jump ahead in our life together, and i see a time near the end.

i just miss you. it's as simple as that.

i want to tell you everything.

don't pick a fight with me.

you are not cursed. you are loved by me.

who is this lovely creature making the house smell so nice?

there is an air of quiet death in this house and i do not like the way it smells.

i don't even know what that word means.

it does concern me. it concerns me very much.

i'm not moaning.

it hurts my feelings.

i don't know what i'm doing here.

i'm just waiting around like an idiot for you.