#i just know Ghost frames this and hangs it in his barracks

[gomzdrawfr]

hey so like *puts this in your hands*

also just gonna tag @laswells-ashtray wheEZE

I was cursing underneath my breath when I accidentally said "Jesus Price" instead of "Jesus Christ" and I need someone out there with actual skill to draw Captain Price in this pose, PLEASE!

[flawdchaos]

Cold Shoulder

Robert Rosenthal x Reader

Word Count - 1273

Based off of this request:

Hello! First and foremost ,I would like to tell you that I really enjoyed reading Spilled Drink and I would love to read the third part of the story. I was wondering if you could write a Rosie story, where he flirts with the oc but she is giving him the coldest shoulder ( something that he didn’t expect) . So he makes it his mission to make her like him. Thank you 😊

small authors note, it isn’t exactly like the request but i wrote this on my lunch break today and tried my best with the hour i had 🫠 i hope you still enjoy it

Rosie had never been so lost for words in his life. He had never been so blatantly ignored and he couldn’t figure out what he had done to deserve it. His entire flow felt off. He had seen her around Thorpe Abbotts for a while now, sharing glances and half hearted smiles but now - absolutely nothing. A cold shoulder couldn’t even explain her reaction towards him.

After being the only plane to return from their mission, Rosie and his crew were sent to the Coombe house to get some R & R and despite his best efforts to leave, he was made to stay. When he returned to base a week later, everything felt wrong - including her.

He was still frozen in disbelief, hard grip on his glass, when Harry’s hand slapped down on his shoulder. “Tough crowd, Rose?” Rosie let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding and nodded. “You have no idea, Cros. I don’t know what in the hell I did. I asked her for a dance and she all but ran away from me.” Harry turned his friend to face him. “Maybe she’s got a lover out there somewhere, fighting just like us.” The idea had crossed his mind but he couldn’t just ignore the smiles and eye contact they had shared for weeks before. It was possible he had read too far into her actions. ‘Maybe she was just being nice’ he thought, shaking his head and trying to take his mind off of the rejection. Clearing his throat he responded “Yeah, Cros, you’re probably right.” When his head hit his pillow that night the scene replayed over and over in mind, embarrassment coursing through his body.

Two days had passed since Rosie’s run-in at the bar and he would be lying if he said the memories of that night weren’t ingrained in his brain. He was pulled back to reality when the Colonel stepped into the hallway, beckoning him into his office. “How have you been, Captain Rosenthal?”

“Fine, sir.” he said. “I hope the flak house treated you and your men well?” All he could do was meet the question with a curt nod. It honestly hadn’t been what he wanted. He left when everything and everyone needed him and returned to the little semblance he had turned up on its head. The rest of the meeting eluded his mind, putting his brain and responses on auto pilot. Excusing himself and saluting the Colonel, he stepped out of the hut and urged his feet to lead him to the chow hall. All he wanted at that moment was a cup of coffee and a moment to clear his brain. A few steps distanced himself from the building before he caught a glimpse of her, leaning up against the women’s barracks with a cigarette loosely hanging from her lips, her hands busy repinning the fallen curls framing her face. He couldn’t see his own reaction but he knew he looked like he had seen a ghost. He stood, feet planted on the gravel for a good minute - debating his next action. He could continue to chow with his pride intact or take one more chance at catching the girls attention. ‘C’mon Robert. You fly damn planes into warzones. She’s just a girl.’ Fuck it.

He stopped in front of her, her gaze still on the ground kicking around the loose gravels.

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Rosie softly spoke, lightly clearing his throat. Her eyes slowly raked up the body standing in front of her. Her mouth slightly fell open and the cigarette threatened to fall from her lips. She remained silent although her eyes were darting around.

“I know, uh, I know I spoke to you the other night at the bar. I didn’t mean to overstep. It’s just -” he took a deep breath before continuing. “It’s just, I’ve seen you around for weeks now and I’ve meant to say hello or wave - or something - but I don’t know. Would it be stupid to say I was nervous?’ she still didn’t speak but a small shake of her head to signal ‘no’ was enough for Rosie to keep rambling. “I know it probably sounds stupid. I go thousands of feet in the area in a big metal box and fly through battlefields but I can’t even speak to a pretty girl.” He shook his head, letting out a small laugh.

“You think I’m pretty?” his heart almost jumped out his chest as her timid voice broke through the silence. He could feel the heat rising to his face.

“Uh,” he laughed awkwardly ,”Yes ma’am, yes I do.”

They still hadn’t made direct eye contact yet but her feet had stopped scuffing at the patch of grass growing by the side of the barrack building. A hand appeared in her vision, waiting for hers to connect. “I’m Robert Rosenthal but please, call me Rosie. Everyone else on this base does.” Their hands intertwined and he took control of lightly shaking them up and down.

“Y/N Y/L/N but everyone just calls me Y/N.” For the first time in this whole interaction Rosie watched as a small smile had slowly worked its way onto her face.

“Well, just Y/N, I’m on a mission for a hot cup of coffee. Would you like to make the hike with me?” A slight nod of her head had his feet moving once again. He was dying to ask more questions, to pry into her life and truly get to know the girl walking beside him but the last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.

“Can I admit something to you, Rosie?” Her voice breaking the silence almost made his entire body freeze. “Of course, Y/N.”

She took a breath before stopping dead in her tracks, Rosie doing the same but a few steps up ahead. ‘Oh God, this is it.’ is all he could think. He hung his head preparing himself for the blow of disappointment he was suspecting.

“I got worried about you. Last week, you know?” she admitted, sheepishly. “Everyone saw you land, including me. I was selfishly happy it was you. I wanted to tell you that when I saw you next but the next day on my walk to work, I didn’t pass you like I usually do. I didn’t see you the whole week and I think, in my mind, I kinda expected the worst. Seeing you in that bar last weekend I,” she took a moment, seeming to try and collect her thoughts “it was like seeing a ghost.” It was her turn for the heat to rise to his cheeks.

Rosie didn’t know what to say. He was at a loss for words. In all of the scenarios he had dreamed up in his mind that was never one of them.

“You thought I died?” he asked, dumbfounded. She rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly.

“I didn’t know your name. You and your whole crew disappeared. I thought asking people about you would be a sore spot.” she admitted. “So, you don’t hate my guts and never want to speak to me again?” For the first time ever, Rosie heard her laugh. Like a true, doubled over belly laugh.

“Hate you? God no. I guess I was just waiting for the right moment to talk to you. I thought I had waited too long.” He shook his head at the girl. “You didn’t.” he said. “It seems like we have some catching up to do.” she nodded in agreement before he spoke again. “You still wanna get that coffee?”

Author’s note: Hi friends, another Rosie fic for y’all ♥️ I hope you enjoy this. It hasn’t been proofread/double checked at all so pleas disregard all of the little mishaps here and there.

[thevampiremarie]

Heartless CHAPTER 8.5

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience

-

You and Ghost get into a fight when he refuses to go dancing with you

-

Hello. I know it’s been a while 😭😭😭 I’m so so so sorry. Thank you all again for your patience. This was supposed to be one big chapter, but I thought I’d post what I have now just to make everyone happier while I work on the rest. A lot of smut in the next chapter. Hope y’all enjoy. YES THIS IS THE SET UP FOR GETTING DICKED DOWN BY COWBOY HAT GHOST. PLEASE BEAR WITH ME.

If one were to go off your husband’s tone, they’d think you just walked out of the bathroom in a stained brown paper bag. “You’re not goin’ out,” Ghost says after re-locating his jaw to its natural position under his balaclava.

“Hm. Thank you for your input, Ghost, but I wasn’t aware that I’d asked.”

You spin around with a huff and march back into the bathroom to examine your appearance, flinging the door open with such force that it slams into the wall.

Before you can shut it behind you, maybe lock it just to piss him off, your husband braces a veiny forearm on the doorframe and leans in. “You’re not. Not like that.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the way I look?” You ask as you go in with more blue glitter on your eyelids.

“You know what I mean.” His voice rumbles gruff and low.

And you can see his eyes looking at your ass through your cutoff denim shorts in the mirror. “Am I ugly? You don’t like it?”

Said shorts make your legs look fifteen miles long and are cut almost indecently short, accentuating your full hips and flattering your tummy. To fit the night's theme, you have on a very nice push-up bra with a white crop top tied in a bow under your boobs. And black cowboy boots, of course.

You have a matching hat somewhere…

Ghost rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’…” He sighs.

“Gorgeous, doll. Don’t pout. C’mere.” Then he reaches out and snags you by the waistband of your shorts, pulling you into his tall frame. You go easily, unable to resist him even if you wanted to.

Ghost tugs his balaclava down to chastely kiss your cheek. “Prettiest bird I’ve ever seen.” Please, like you can’t feel him pawing your butt with a gloved hand.

You rock yourself back, barely grinding against him. “Then I’m going out. Like this,” You tell him. You bat his hands aside to face him, your nose inches away from his mask. “You can come with me if that would make you feel better.”

Did Ghost really expect you would be content to twiddle your thumbs at the barracks and not explore London? You were pleasantly surprised to find a thriving line dance scene in this part of the world, and doing silly little dances while sort of drunk to cheesy country music sounds like your idea of a good time.

So this lovely Saturday night, you decided, ‘Why the fuck not?’ You can handle your sore back tomorrow.  And now you’re trying to convince your stubborn mountain of a husband to tag along.

Ghost releases you so quickly that you stumble and have to catch yourself. “I don’t dance,” He says in a flat, deeply unenthusiastic voice.

“Please? It’ll be fun!” This might be a little cliche, but you’ve never gone on a date with him before. You’ve spent your time hanging around him and his team, wherever they may be, and yeah, you signed up for that…

But you want a date. You want overpriced drinks and holding his hand as you walk down the street. Something more. That doesn’t seem as unreasonable as he’s making it out to be.

“I don’t dance.” He turns away without looking twice and strides out into the bedroom. Ghost’s coldness hurts more than his rejection.

You don’t understand why you care so much about something so small. If he were anyone else, you’d take the L, move on, and go where you’re appreciated. “I wouldn’t even make you-“ You try, still staring at his back and wishing he’d meet your gaze.

But you don’t want someone else. You want him, just for the night. Have you asked him for anything else before? You haven’t.

“No.” Oh, is Ghost suddenly too good to be seen with you in public? Marrying you under false pretenses is fine, but God fucking forbid you go to a bar together?

“But-“

He snorts. “Fuck no.” He strips off his gloves before tossing them on the bedside table, clearly uninterested in discussing this further. “Christ, woman. Don’t look at me like that. Can’t you take no for an answer?”

You look at yourself again in the mirror. Blue eyeshadow, long, fluttery fake eyelashes. Pink lipgloss dabbed on your mouth. And glitter on your eyelids and cheekbones, like a goddamn fairy.

You’re too beautiful to be upset and too beautiful to sit around doing nothing with a man who couldn’t give less of a fuck.

Where is your cowboy hat?

You find it buried in a suitcase. “Ugh. Why are you being such an inconsiderate asshole? Go fuck yourself,” You snap as you set the hat neatly atop your hair. Then you grab your phone and send a couple of messages. Soap might be free, and you’d even settle for Sergeant Garrick or Alejandro.

You have your IDs stashed in your bra, along with some pounds. You do a once-over in the mirror and brush some imaginary lint off your cleavage.

“Where are you-“

You cut him off. “Out. If you won’t dance with me, I’ll find someone who will.” Someone who won’t make you want to cry, whose dismissal won’t feel so awful. You’re not interested in testing out the durability of your mascara.

“Love-“ You can hear his heavy footsteps heading your way.

Unfortunately for him, you’re already in the living room, making a beeline straight for your front door.

Your phone dings.

“Alejandro is free. I’ll see you later, baby. Don’t wait up,” You call over your shoulder, too upset to look back.

Your mouth presses into a flat, pinched line. You’ll get so drunk you won’t remember this fight and exhaust yourself dancing, and tomorrow, you can go back to pretending like you don’t care about Simon.

-

Music pounds in your ears. A man croons over guitars and banjos and a trilling piano in a thick Southern accent as Colonel Vargas turns you around the dance floor of this American-themed pub. The place is so over-the-top that you find it charming - everyone’s dressed like you, in cowboy hats and boots, and you hear more than a few lousy imitation American accents. Very quaint.

Blue and magenta lights drape all of the dancers in a riotous rainbow of color. There’s a mix of clumsy young folks your age, out for a cheeky pint with the lads, so to speak, and older regulars who came here for the same reason you did; to dance.

Alejandro has a very respectful hand on the small of your back as he effortlessly guides you side to side, forward and back.

You relax and let yourself sway with his pace, your feet moving perfectly in time, even once you stop consciously thinking about it. “You’re good at this!” You say loud enough so he can hear you over the music.

Alejandro flashes a white-toothed grin at you from under the brim of his black hat, the band trimmed in shining sterling silver.

“I’d hope so. Back home, in Las Almas, we go dancing a lot. Rudy and I.” He falls silent to guide you past a few people conducting themselves far less elegantly than the two of you.

You feel as though you’ve just stumbled on some great secret and found worthy by the keepers.

“Rudy?”

Alejandro’s face is a sight to behold. You can see a red tinge on his tanned cheeks under the lights. “My, uh, how do you say it? Los Vaqueros. He is my… vaquero.” Cowboy. His dark eyes glimmer, and you understand. Alejandro and his Rudy are continents apart, and you can taste their chemistry from where you stand. You feel it thrumming under Alejandro’s skin, like the mere mention of Rudy is enough to bring him to life in a way you’ve never seen before.

“Back, back, there you go. Out and-“ He lets go of your other hand and pulls back, leaving you plenty of space.

Your hair fans out around you as you twirl towards him on the balls of your feet. “Spin. Very smooth, Colonel,” You compliment. One of his arms wraps around your waist, and the other folds gracefully over your chest.

You untangle your limbs from Alejandro as if you’ve been dance partners for years. “Sounds like you haven’t seen your cowboy in a while.”

“I haven’t. Our jobs keep us busy,” He says. His voice is quiet, a timid undercurrent of sound that you can barely hear over the speakers.

“He serves?”

Girls covered in dark orange tan and shimmering body lotion spill onto the dance floor in a mess of giggles. Alejandro deftly pulls you out of their chaotic path before you fall over them on your ass.

“We served together,” He says as he dips you with a solid arm supporting your back.

Rudy must make Alejandro so happy. “How romantic.” Ghost would never smile like the Colonel does. But what would Simon look like if he were so happy? Would his voice soften? Would he dance with you, even alone in your apartment?

“Sometimes.” Your dance partner catches your hat right before it slips off your head.

You squeeze his shoulder in gratitude. “He sounds like a wonderful man. I hope I get to meet him one day.” 

“Stick around long enough, and you might.”

“Well, then I’ll plan on it.”

The song ends, and something less suited to two-stepping plays next.

The two of you have drinks on a table next to the dance floor. You’re not worried about anyone tampering with them; Alejandro has already scared off any fellow who so much as looked your way. “He’d like you,” He murmurs to himself.

You have your Corona with lime, Alejandro has been working on a glass of expensive tequila all night, sipping it as delicately as if he were drinking tea.

He’s looking at you funny. The way you’re chugging this beer is probably not helping. You finish it and wince at the taste.

“You want to talk about what Lt. Riley said to make you so sad, hermanita?”

You didn’t even tell Ghost where you were going. That’s how fucking mad you were. You turned your phone off once you met with Alejandro, not wanting to see any calls or messages that would’ve broken your resolve. But there’s a worse possibility - that there aren’t any calls or messages at all.

“Not really.” You let the empty bottle thump as you drop it on the sticky, barely clean table.

His disinterest isn’t supposed to be a bad thing. Ghost could be cruel, or unkind, or abusive. You’re very lucky he isn’t any of that.

Kind, handsome, and affectionate in his own way is a hell of an improvement. For a moment, you feel ashamed that you want more. So what if he hates dancing enough to curse at you over it? So what if he doesn’t know who you are, the things you like and don’t like, your favorite movies, or why you avoid your mother’s calls?

You busy yourself with looking at everyone else so you don’t have to meet Alejandro’s knowing gaze. “Sí. Whatever you say,” He sighs into his tequila. Hopefully, that’s the end of the questioning.

Of course, it isn’t. “That one is… Rudy doesn’t like El Espectro.” Alejandro’s brow furrows as he thinks over his following words. “But I wouldn’t want anyone else on my side.” There’s more than a little respect in his voice and the kind of confidence in your husband that makes you want to be a bit more confident, too.

“Sometimes I think he wants me on his side. Then I remember that he’s a stranger, really, and I’m fucking projecting. Projecting that he’ll ever want me more than, you know, normal.” Maybe the beer is making you chattier than usual. You can feel shit you’d never say out loud just flow from your mouth.

Alejandro snorts. “He definitely wants you. We all know that. It’s very clear,” He quips, snapping you straight out of your vulnerability.

“Ugh, shut up,” You tell him as you blush a bright red under your makeup and knock your elbow into one of his buff arms.

He leers at you across the table, waggling his dark eyebrows and grinning once you start giggling. “Why do you think Soap has those new earplugs, eh?”

“Gross!” In revenge, you make a play for his drink. You don’t love anything harder than a glass of wine, but you’ll make an exception to spite Alejandro.

He laughs, holding his glass above his head where you can’t reach it. “I’m just playing!” Alejandro waits until you’re sulking in your seat before setting it down. “I won’t tell you you’re wrong, necessarily. But- but I think you’re underestimating him. Lots of people do. Ghost always gets the jump on ‘em. He might get the jump on you.” You gaze longingly at the remnants of his tequila. 

“Whatever. I don’t want to talk about him anymore. It’ll just ruin my night. I need another drink.” That will solve your problems, at least temporarily. You’re not supposed to drink on your meds, but technically you’ve already started. In for a penny, in for a pound. And those rules are just suggestions, not hard restrictions.

The very friendly bartender with a thick British accent you can barely understand and nice eyeliner hands you one lemon drop shot, then another after you down the first. It burns like lightning in your esophagus. But the burn eventually turns into a pleasant tingle, warming you from head to toe.

You’re working on your third shot when Alejandro catches up to you. “Careful,” He calls over your shoulder.

You wave away his concern, another drink already in hand. This one is a rum and Coke, way too heavy on the rum. Did the pretty bartender do that on purpose, one girl to another? You like her even more.

The next song comes on - something loud and awful, its catchy beat punctuated by dubstep rooster crows.

“Come on, I fucking love this song,” You say, just barely slurring your syllables. “I’m not gonna shake my ass alone.”

-

GHOST POV

Your phone is off.

Ghost is embarrassed to admit he’s checked every hour since you’ve been gone. At least three hours, now bordering on four. And he knows your phone is off because when he calls, it goes straight to your fuckin’ voicemail. Which you haven’t set up yet, so he’s stuck listening to some stupid robot telling him to “leave a message after the tone.”

It’s driving him almost as mad as you are. When you get back - not if, when, the second thing he’s going to make you do is change that goddamn voicemail message.

The first thing is something along the lines of “make you sorry.” Ghost hasn’t ironed out the details yet. No matter. There’ll be plenty of time for that later.

It’s dark out. It’s been dark out this whole time. You left with the sunset at your back.

While he knows Col. Vargas is with you, London is large. You’ve never been here before. Col. Vargas ain’t half bad with a map, but he’s not from around these parts either.

Maybe you never made it to… wherever you were going. How the fuck would Ghost know? How the fuck would anyone know?

He’s even angrier with himself that he was too much of a prick to listen when you mentioned it.

In the privacy of your quarters, Ghost pulls his mask off to run his hands through his shorn hair. The hair you cut.

It’s so quiet when he’s alone. This is the first time since- since you married him that he’s been alone.

You hum. A lot. Or you listen to music on your dinky wired earbuds, and he catches the sounds of your foot tapping along.

You snore, though not loudly. He’d never tell you, and he’s certainly slept under worse conditions. But it’s… nicer to kit up for the day, to brush his teeth and roll on his socks, knowing someone there will be waiting when he gets back.

Fuck.

Did you take the Tube? Buy a ticket? Oyster cards are cheaper, but you wouldn’t know that. Ghost should’ve told you. He should’ve been at your side.

He’s watched you struggle with the unfamiliar currency. You had all sorts of odd American notions about coins and exchange rates. Ghost had to correct you twice. After that, he secretly swapped out some of your dollar bills for pounds so that you’d be alright no matter what.

He left you with more than enough for a cab there and back. But what if the cabby overcharged you after hearing your accent? What if-

It’s a major metropolitan area. Criminals abound. Kidnappers driving ‘round cabs, stalkers, nonces. Statistically, at least one serial killer or two.

God-fucking-damn it.

You could be dead in a ditch, all because he didn’t want to go dancing. In hindsight, it doesn’t seem worth the quarrel.

This place is too quiet without you in it. He can’t stand to sit here in silence a second longer, staring at the lack of notifications on his phone and seeing shadows in the corners of the room. Closing his eyes won’t chase them away - he’s tried.

Simon only sees you covered in blood, a hole in your pretty head. Or duct tape over your mouth and your clothes ripped off, or you lost and alone in some alley, never to come home. Another name on the list of people he’s-

That’s enough of that.

He slips his gloves on, then pulls his daily wear mask over his head. Ghost has been choosing the balaclava more often. It’s something softer and a little civilian for you.

Not like you’re even here to appreciate it, he grumbles internally.

He runs the last moments he saw you over in his head a few times. You said Vargas was free, implying there may have been other options, but the Colonel was the first to respond. Ghost will eat his mask if Sgt. MacTavish wasn’t one of those other options.

The front door slams into the wall with more force than necessary. It makes a satisfyingly loud bang.

As Ghost picks his way through corridors he knows like the back of his hand, he thinks he should have told you again how beautiful you were. You would have left with a smile and kiss instead of a cold scowl.

He’s only being a good husband that watches out for you. That’s it. Ghost takes pride in being good at damn near everything, other than driving, so it’s natural for him to get worked up. Worked up is the wrong phrase. That implies that he’s agitated. He’s not agitated.

Is that a trace of your perfume he smells? Couldn’t be. Doesn’t make sense. Perfume doesn’t linger that long in the air. Ghost can smell gunpowder from a kilometer away and old blood three city blocks over.

And you. The scent is too faint for his comfort. If he can’t touch you soon, can’t gorge his eyes on your face and leave teeth marks in your skin, something’s gonna break.

Ghost leaves a boot print on the door to the communal bunks as he kicks it open. “Sgt,” He calls out curtly.

Surely, man-to-man, Soap can be reasoned with?

“Ah, so you’ve decided to show your face. Well, mask.”

Apparently not.

Irritation prickles down Ghost’s spine. “So that’s the way it’s gonna be.”

Soap finally condescends to get out of his bunk and stare Ghost down like he’s shit on the bottom of the sergeant’s shoe. “You’re a right eejit, Lt,” The other man snaps, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ghost doesn’t have time for this. “Where’d she go?”

“Fuck should I tell you for?”

His patience and self-control and restraint are hanging by a fucking thread, and Johnny’s disdain is like the edge of sharp scissors against it. Is Ghost the only person on this goddamn planet who cares about your well-being? Including yourself?

You’d be displeased if Ghost got your best friend’s blood under his nails. Very displeased. Simon holds onto that reminder for dear life.

“You out your fuckin’ mind? She could be-, “ At this rate, Ghost will never snap at you again. One go at this circus is more than enough for him.

“Ain’t my job tae find your wife,” Soap growls as he sticks a finger in Ghost’s face.

The sergeant is wasting precious fucking time treating Ghost like he’s the bad guy, and you could be gone by now. Ghost has bigger fucking priorities.

Simon misses America - which is something he never thought he’d think. England is full of his ghosts, moments away from breaking out of their graves. In your homeland, you were safe.

“You’re supposed to be her best mate. You don’t know where she is?”

Soap gnashes his teeth, his eyes glinting with fury. “Should fuckin’ kill you, you know that? Awa’ an’ bile yer heid.”

“I’ll come back and beat you black and blue after I find her.” Ghost’s brain teems with swarming, sticky thoughts, blacker than an oil slick. He needs- he’s not sure why he can’t breathe. His heart rate picks up, and he doesn’t know why and it needs to not do that.

He needs you.

“Worry about yourself, Ghost. I won’t need tae do a goddamn thing. She’ll have you on your knees like a dog.” Soap pauses. “You made her fucking cry.” His words hang in the air like a noose around Ghost’s neck.

“Wasn’t tryin’ to,” Simon retorts. Then he shuts his mouth and thanks God that the mask hides his face. He sounds like a whiny, immature brat and certainly feels like one. Not a man, not the kind of man he should be for you.

“I told you not tae hurt her.”

Ghost remembers. With vivid clarity. “…” On the tip of his tongue hangs the thought that Soap hadn’t needed to. Ghost took one good look at you in that dress, the simpering sweetness in your eyes replaced by razor-sharp steel in an instant, and he knew he could never hurt you.

But what Soap meant is that he’d trusted Ghost with someone precious, and today, that trust was shattered. “Aye, so ya can put a shot in some poor sucker’s head from 2,500 meters, but ya can’t spend time with the woman you married? And be fuckin’ polite to her?” The sergeant’s tone is so caustic he could use it to clean a Scorpion’s engine.

Simon is familiar with guilt. Guilt has been his companion his whole life. The kind of guilt that can never be cleaned because the people he wronged won’t come back.

This is a new kind of guilt. One with the hope of absolution. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, almost nauseous.

“…I can’t make it up to her if I’m not with her.”

That tiny concession still isn’t enough. “Useless. Absolutely fuckin’ useless,” Soap mutters.

“Johnny, you ‘bout done takin’ the piss out of me?”

“Right now, that’s Sgt. MacTavish to you, Lt.”

Dammit. “Sgt. MacTavish. Sir.” There’s blue glitter on the sink back home from where you were dusting it across your face. Pretty shade of blue. But Ghost had turned away when you stormed out, so he can’t remember how it looked on you.  “Please.” Did it run when you cried? He hopes not. You shouldn’t waste tears on a bastard like him.

Soap doesn’t speak for some time.

Simon feels some odd, heart-wrenching, panicky desperation build and build, his hands grow clammy under the gloves.

His phone buzzes, and for a second, Ghost hopes it’s you. But it’s not - Soap’s sent him an address. Some shitty little pub not more than a half-hour drive.

“There. Don’t come back until you’ve proper apologized. An’ if you make her cry again? I’ll dummy-cord ya head to ya hand since you’ve lost your goddamn mind.”

Under Ghost’s mask, there’s the tiniest smile.

Soap claps him on the shoulder. “Now get out of here.”

-

if you want off the tag list, please just shoot me a message/ask! thank you <3

Tagging: @abbiesxox@thedevillovesflowers@averyyreads@lialacleaf@backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @strvqtt@pinkwigonmytv@almightywdm@discowizard88@castielsangelsx@jaymicrosoft@rengokulover96@copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld@idesofarch@teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan@deadpoetsandhoney@crowsjourney@vanevafu@xxghostyx@rafaelacallinybbay@akaotv@chibijusstuff@wasteland-babe@anubiseqq@lilpothoscuttings@soapyghost@maliceex59@valdemarismynonbinarylove@confuseddipshit@sanfransolomitatm

[cookies-super-secret-blog]

That's it I'm making a full text post about this because my tags did not do the carnival of bullfuckery Lady Love Dies has to investigate in Paradise Killer. I'm just gonna ive a spoiler warning for the whole game because there's A LOT. There's a locked room murder of the entire paradise council. There's FOUR layers of convoluted security to bypass in order to even get into the crime scene- let alone commit the murder of these 10 people. So Lady Love Dies, has to not only investigate a murder, but investigate how the killer even GOT there to begin with. Al without seeing the crime scene for herself, until she can crack the four security seals. These seals include: -Some guards (already dead) -Symbol input puzzle in a pocket of SPACE. -Having Council Blood -Having A Piece of a God And that's not even counting having to set off a false demon alarm because the marshals won't let the investigator investigate the barracks. And that's just to get in to the crime scene! Besides that, there's the disappearance of K. HX who designed the second seal, Grace Bloodlines who was presumed to have died in an accident- who's ghost is just hanging around by the way- among other batshit stuff like secret demonology labs, secret portals, a lot of blackmail and underhanded deals (namely framing my man Henry for at least two separate crimes), and an imprisoned god whos flesh was cut off TWICE and fused to the flesh of another person in one case. Speaking of that other person, there's a secret little guy living on the island called Dainonigate, who architect Carmelina Silence birthed and raised in secret SPECIFICALLY for this plan. Along with BUILDING THE ISLAND in such a way that she could have a WARP ZONE to make her crime easier. Lady Love Dies, trying to figure out how to get to the scene of the crime she's investigating, discovers a WHOLE ASS PERSON hidden on the island AND a hidden transport system! Also Carmelina got Grace killed by leaving her alone in a room with a demon-possessed Henry. Fuck Carmelina all my homies hate her. And that's not even the end of it! There's also the schemes of Witness to the End, iconic skeleton cosplayer and religious fanatic who effectively bribed two other characters to do his dirty work by promising that they could leave the organization they're all in if they snuck a demon into the penthouse! A demon that Witness has had in secret for at least a decade for this purpose.

And these two batshit conspiracies are happening SIMULTANEOUSLY and both of the orchestrators of these plots were also just chilling together on the night of to be each other's alibi. Despite not knowing the other person's conspiracy.

So, given the shit Lady Love Dies already has to put up with, I imagine the kira case would be a god damned cake walk. She already knows about gods and demons and powers similar to the deathnote. between her investigative prowess and L's psych profiling (which, like, LLD could piece together soon enough anyway? Light isn't exactly subtle.) Light wouldn't get done experimenting on inmates before Love dies....and only the facts remain.

[cookiebae333]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓

━。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ。゜✿ฺ✿ฺ゜。━

𝗜 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀♡︎

Pairings: erenXfem!reader

Context: Eren has been undergoing hardcore and tiresome experiments with his titan for Hange. Recently, he’s been hit with fatigue and a loss of motivation. It’s up to you to bring his spirits up, so you decide to do it the way you know best.

warning !NSFW! - this contains: female masturbation, choking, degradation, somnophilia, spanking, humiliation, breeding kink, dom/sub,toxiceren!, daddy kink.

My boyfriend Eren has always been a perfectionist, he’s always been ambitious and he’s always-and I mean always been obsessed with freedom. Since the day I met Eren I knew that there would come a day in which these characteristics of his would finally catch up with him, and not in a good way. But, I was most certainly sure of this when the scouts-when I, had learnt Eren had a titan in him. Or, some may say. Eren became a titan.

Eren has recently been overworking himself, more than usual. Most nights more recently, he wouldn’t come and visit the girls barracks to kiss me goodnight. When we’d speak it was like I was speaking to a whole different person. He wasn’t himself anymore and I knew I-as his girlfriend had to do something about it, it was my duty as his woman.

“Eren?” I say softly, squeezing my hand into the crack between the door and the wall, I gently push the door open and stand in the frame of it.

“Baby?” He groans out, wincing in pain as he attempts to sit himself up.

These experiments with Hange must be really tiring him out

When he’s finally able to he stares at me confusedly and chuckles. “Fuck. Why are you just standing over there like a ghost? Come in?” He adds smirking at me, just like he did the first time we met. Eren effortlessly never fails to make me blush. I shine him an innocent smile and walk over towards his bed.

As I get closer to him I see grazes and bruises on his chest. I look into his eyes defeatedly as I sit on the stool beside his bed. “eren.” I say gently, running my finger over the gashes and grazes. He winces.

“I’m sorry y/n. You know how it’s like. I have to be the best-always. I’m doing this for us.” He jumps out, grabbing my hands and holding them to his chest, I look at him sadly and shake my head.

“You’re helping us by hurting yourself?” I question, smiling at him awkwardly, Eren tries for a response but gives up, turning away from me.

“I thought you’d be supportive of me. Turns out your just like the rest. Okay with being slaves to our fucked up society. You know what I liked about you? The fact you weren’t like everybody else, I thought you were just like me. You’re boring-can’t even be a good girlfriend. What are you good for? You’ll never bear my kids so why are you still with me? You might as well leave now. I’m not going to change what I’m doing, at least I’m doing something.” He growls out, I pause, not sure how to respond, Eren has never spoken to me like this so it almost physically hurt for him to say something so hurtful in such a casual way.

“e-”

“Get out.” He cuts in, I move my hand away from his body and hold it in between my thighs, biting at my lip. It was my fault. I didn’t go about this in the right way. I should have supported him. What am I doing? I need to be his woman, not his mother.

“I’m sorry.” I say quietly, no response. “I’m so sorry, daddy” I repeat, more innocently, this time as a whisper, no response. I sigh defeatedly and get up from the stool, making my way towards the door.

“If you’re going to say shit like that, you might as well say it when your on your knees with your hair up, with my cock in your face. Slut.” He says bluntly, sitting up to look at me. I pause in my tracks and turn around to face him. He looked beautiful, his hair was messily put into a bun and his face look almost delectable, even with the marks on it. Though, he looked different-there was a slight darkness to his demeanour now.

“really?” I ask, finding my way back to his bed again, he smirked to himself when I arrived.

[witcher-ot3]

List of Iorveth/Roche WiPs

Because somethings I like to torment myself by showing how many fucking things I’m working on. Doesn’t help that lately, I’ve started a new WiP every time I get stuck in another fic. So, in no particular order (literally just how the tabs are ordered in my window lmao), here are all my Iorveth/Roche WiPs

2 fics in the Petals and Stripes ‘verse - one with Roche’s POV straight after and one of the Stripes’ POV as they deal with the aftermath... and try to help their boss woo Iorveth. Surprising no one, they’re terrible at it.

Curse breaking WiP where True Love’s Kiss strong emotion for one’s enemy saves Iorveth’s life. And then he, Roche, and Triss team up to go save the Scoia’tael.

Roche’s POV WiP set before they first meet. Includes some nice knife and blood kink during a face off between Iorveth and Roche. No idea where this one is going.

Eye On You Chapter 3, for which the plan is thigh-fucking. That’s it, that’s all I got.

Fake dating casefic (The Curious Case of the Murivel Resort for Couples). rn they’re playing strip gwent and I somehow signed up to write 5 different gwent games for this 😢

Competitive makeouts (The Chase) rn they’re spiderman kissing, but there’s gonna be a conspiracy plot that Iorveth has to reveal.

New ‘verse involving Iorveth/Roche/Kayran and Roche/Foltest lmao. First WiP is Roche running into Iorveth during his monthly fuckdate with the Kayran... and then joining in. Second WiP is a comparison of Roche’s two relationships and how they make him feel. For some reason, I framed it around the Chivalric Virtues from Blood & Wine and made it a 5+1 lol

Pining and Poignards, a WiP in which there is pining and stabbing lol. A poignard is a type of knife, which Iorveth generously “gifts” to Roche. rn Iorveth is sneaking around the army base and has just caught Roche masturbating. I...only sort of know where I’m going with this one.

Tittyfucking. That’s it, that’s the plot lmao. Iorveth is a lil obsessed with Roche’s chest and attempts to fuck it.

Gross Gremlin Man aka Iorveth prefers Roche nasty and sweaty. Uh... I just started this one and somehow it went from “huh, why do I not mind Roche when he’s all sweaty” to “hmm, I think I’m gonna steal his clothes and smell them while I touch myself” and I’m still working on the transition from one to the other lol

Red is the Rose Chapters 3+4 - Ch3 is about ready for posting, but I’m trying to figure out how much of the events of W2 to cover or if I should just skip all of them and get to the post-W2 plot.

Fun fact: all of those WiPs above are in 1 document because I like to make life difficult for Google Docs. But the other docs are all specific ‘verses (or themes) and these ones are theoretically standalone. Theoretically.

More standalones

Letters - a post-W3 WiP where Roche is running Temeria and hates it and starts receiving letters from Iorveth (sealed with a forget me not in wax).

WiP where they both get captured and imprisoned in a magic cell and whoops, sex ends up happening... and then their teams come rescue them.

Cuddles with the Commander - continuation of Pride of Temeria, where Roche wakes up cuddled up with Pillow Tits and his team.

Fire Breathing - a Meet the Family WiP where Iorveth is hanging with the Stripes and PT decides to demonstrate how to breathe fire. Iorveth is more than slightly freaked out that humans have this ability.

Iorveth gangbang - uh yeah, what it says on the tin. The Blue Stripes take Iorveth apart under Roche’s guidance.

Different first meeting identity porn WiP - they meet in Flotsam just as the Scoia’tael is starting to get formed. Neither knows who the other is, but they have amazing sex and every time they’re in Flotsam together, they meet up again. But Iorveth, of course, leads the Scoia’tael, and Roche has been tasked with hunting them down.

Crones WiP - Roche went to the Crones to plead for his men back. He gets them back - but as ghosts. He also gets assigned to help work on a cure to the Catriona plague, and it turns out one of the people already working on it is Iorveth. I literally just want Blue Stripes ghosts laughing at Roche’s bad flirting, but somehow it’s mostly angst rn ooops

Love Shack WiPs

First Time WiP - this one is so close to being done dammit. It’s actually the first WiP I ever started for this pairing and it just needs like 2 more orgasms aaaaahhhhhh

Medicine WiP - morning after their first time, they have a discussion about scars and medicine and how elven medicine is way better than human medicine. Not at all based on the billions of medical procedures I’m going through or anything.

PWP Ovi WiP - uh yeah, this one is just pure porn. rn Iorveth is giving Roche his eggs and Roche is loving it.

The Picture Says It All - next is gonna be a sketch of Roche hard at work hunched over a desk and Iorveth is all “no, this is wrong, he’s meant to be wielding a sword and fighting me”

The Haunting of Barrack 8B - Adda!! Adda is officially getting introduced in the next part, which is good, ‘cause she’s important in this ‘verse (and in my heart)

Roche builds Iorveth a home WiP - oh yeah, I stalled out because I realized I had to establish Roche and Rinn’s friendship before she could give him a hint about making a nest for Iorveth

Long Live the King - WiP about Roche’s relationship with Foltest, some of what he’s done for the King, how Iorveth feels about it, and then the big finale for this ‘verse, which I will leave secret for now.

Don’t Cry For Me, Temeria WiPs These are only the ones that have actual WiPs started, because believe me, I have a LOT more ideas

(Im)Perfect Strangers ch 27 - time for Roche to step up his wooing. Featuring dinner, dancing, and gift giving. And, of course, it wouldn’t be me without misunderstandings lol.

Between Two Fools Ch 8 - I’m working on getting this out as soon as I can. Just gotta finish writing their sex from the end of (Im)Perfect Strangers ch 26

Unlucky Number Thirteen - I want to write about how he starts spying for Roche and their developing kinda mentorship relationship

Silas’s story - he’s literally JUST joined the Stripes and I need to write how he and Thirteen work closely together but also this poor anxious boy is like 3 seconds from a heart attack at all times rn. It will get better tho.

Earning Your Stripes ch 2 - the first time. This chap will actually have porn! But first I gotta finish writing it lol. Rn Ves and Finch are double teaming Fenn and PT and Thirteen are in subspace cuddling with Roche, but soon they’ll get to join in too.

break (v /brāk/): to destroy someone's resistance - cnc WiP where Iorveth asks Roche to break him - and Roche has a lot of fun doing so as they pretend to fight like they’re still enemies.

Bath House - this was SUPPOSED to be a porny lil thing where Roche talks dirty to Iorveth while they’re stuck being proper for the kids, and then finally they get some alone time. But what it also turned into is that Anais and Thirteen equally hate baths lmao. Boussy loves them tho. He’s a hedonist, while Anais is just bored and Thirteen is like a cat with water.

Tutti Ch 2 - Iorveth begins to compose a symphony for Roche about their love story.

Daggers, Dumplings, and Dresses - the Elihal/Hattori side story. Not gotten much written so far - mostly just Elihal reflecting on his friendship with Iorveth.

The First Rule of Fight Club ch 2 - Ves now has time to think about what Ciaran said about Roche not being worthy of her loyalty. And also about how Ciaran’s skin tasted when she bit him.

Dragonfucking - another PWP WiP featuring a threesome with Saskia... except Roche still doesn’t know about the whole dragon thing, so he’s in for a surprise.

Water Balloon Fight - silly lil WiP where the Scoia’tael and the Blue Stripes have a water balloon fight. PT is the ref.

Baby Mama - lmao yes that is what it’s listed as in my doc. Not gonna say a lot about this, but will probably be a longer piece. Set in the distant future in DCfM,T.

Tempt Not a Desperate Man ‘verse Yeah, does anyone know what this is? It’s the ‘verse that started with Devour What’s Truly Yours and so far has nothing else published oops

Part 2 - in which they actually have to face each other again and figure out where they stand. And then there’s some fisting.

The Chaperon - Iorveth decides to make Roche a chaperon since the last one was sacrificed as a cum rag

Human Bootlicker - Iorveth makes a joke about Roche surrendering on his knees when he gets the upper hand in a fight between the Blue Stripes and the Scoia’tael - and then Roche actually does.

Elven Baths - so it’s kinda a thing in this ‘verse that they end up meeting and fucking in the elven baths in the Flotsam forest. As in, the legend about “if you’re in love, you can still hear the lovers’ sighs in the garden” came to being because Roche is fucking loud lmao. Also, roses of remembrance. 😉

Sort of series fics, but technically stand alone. AKA apparently I decided I wanted to do Themes. 

Theme 1: Possessiveness aka all the kinky sex kinda embarrassed to admit to these which is dumb because fuck shame

Piss fic - uh, kinda what it sounds like? Roche decides to be an asshole and refuses to move out of the way when Iorveth tries to get to the bathroom - and somehow this turns into Iorveth pissing on his crotch.

Come inflation + piss fic - Roche gets a potion that makes him come a lot. Iorveth likes it and wants more.

Possessiveness - Iorveth has feelings about his nemesis and Roche does not know how to feel about this.

Tentacles + Breeding - a tentacle/vine plant instinctively tries to lay its eggs in Roche. Iorveth is not okay with this plant going for his enemy... until it turns out Roche is very much here for it. And also for Iorveth fertilizing the eggs after they’ve been laid.

Dream - Roche dreams about Iorveth being an elven king and himself being essentially Iorveth’s plaything, to use and to show off

Theme 2: King Roche aka hey, wouldn’t it be funny if he ended up in charge? He would hate it so much

Murder husbands - Iorveth breaks into the palace and finds the very unhappy “King” Roche, then they go run away and kill war criminals together. But of course Roche could never abandon Temeria, so he’s still in charge by day. But by night, it’s murder time.

Okay, technically this has like a line written for it, BUT bodyguard AU where Roche knows he’s gonna get assassinated without protection once he becomes king, and only Iorveth is allowed to kill him. So only makes since for Iorveth to become his bodyguard. 

Arranged Marriage AU - inspired by softestpunk’s The Gift, I literally just want cracky fun where they are forced to get married and they hate it but also fall in love. That’s it, that’s the story.

Holy fuck, I have a lot of WiPs. But I think that’s all the Iorveth/Roche ones. Which is not to say I don’t have more, but rn, I am hyperfixated on these idiots, so these are the ones I am actively writing.

[theolddarkmachine]

tell me (i’m ten feet down)

A reason, a continuation, and a reunion.

The first time Shiro’s drunken thoughts find Keith’s name at the bottom of a bottle, he’s twenty-four, and they’re in the middle of a war.

AO3

Rated: M

Tags: Canon compliant, Post S8, 3+1 Format, Mentions of background character but this is 100% Sheith, Angst with a happy ending

A/N: I won’t lie you guys, I am really proud of this. Who woulda thunk that all this craziness woulda been the inspiration I needed to get out of my writing rut. That being said, Curtis does show up in this but much like canon, he is but mere background. 

**************************

The first time Shiro’s drunken thoughts find Keith’s name at the bottom of a bottle, he’s twenty-four, and they’re in the middle of a war.

It’s an errant thing, fuzzed at its edges, and saccharine, filled with all the same heat of warmed honey.

First, he chalks it up as a lingering thought. One that belonged to him, as if he was any different than Shiro was. Made up of the same blood and bone, their desires, their hopes, and their dreams all rang the same. The only difference was, he had never lied.

Not to himself.

Not when it’d counted.

I love you, the thought spirals, adding a new headiness to that of the sweet wine that has stained his lips. Keith had said that.

I love you.

Said it like a saving grace, reverent and feeling. He’d said it like last words. Shiro supposed, at the time, he had probably thought they were.

Now, those three words are circling his mind like the wisp of molten cabernet that has left him feeling pliant and his lips feeling loose, ready to sink ships.

He thinks about how he’d be in his room right now, just the opposite end of the hall from his own. It would take nothing more than a handful of strides, and a sharp rap of his knuckles against the door to see those burning eyes. To ask why.

I love you, he’d said.

The cool metal of a door against his skin wrenches him from his thoughts, surprised at where his feet have led him roiling low in his gut.

Seconds. It takes mere seconds before the door opens, and he’s there. Concerned, and bright, and there.

“Shiro?” Keith asks, voice smoke and tone liquid worry. His hair is rumpled, and his face soft with sleep.

A small yawn cracks his jaw.

“What’s wrong?”

Why? The question sticks to the roof of his mouth, dulled by the dry taste of the wine.

“Did you have a nightmare?” He continues, already moving out of the way to let him in. Behind him, Shiro sees Kosmo lift his head, tongue lolling and tail thumping in greeting.

For a brief, flashing moment, it feels like coming home.

“No,” Shiro manages, shaking his head as he crosses the threshold. He prays that Keith doesn’t miss the slight wobble of his step. A pleasant buzz rolls down to his toes, making them warm as he hears the door slide shut behind him.

“Can I stay here tonight?” He asks, words tumbling, stumbling from his lips before he can wrap them in a first thought.

Not, that he thinks it matters.

The thrum at the base of his skull tells him he would have asked anyway.

“Sure,” Keith answers, as if the sound of the locking mechanism wasn’t answer enough. It stokes a contented purr of heat to life in the center of his chest as Keith walks by him, silently inviting him to follow to the small bedroom through the door at the back of the living room.

It’s cozy.

It’s home, the wine whispers.

But it can’t be, Shiro bites back as he walks into the dark bedroom, lit only by the slices of  moonlight through the shades. We’re in the middle of a war.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Keith asks, nothing more than a darkened shadow as he watches him from the foot of the bed.

“Yeah,” Shiro breathes as he imagines the look that would be twisting his mouth down. “Just didn’t feel like being alone tonight.”

It’s not a lie, so much as a small version of the truth.

Quiet, heavy and thick, rolls between them like a Southern storm. Sticking to his skin, it raises the hair at the back of his neck as he sees the shape of Keith nod.

“Okay,” he says quietly, moving to the side of the bed with the comforter turned down.

“Okay,” Shiro echoes, mirroring the movement from the opposite side of the bed. With the cover turned down, it’s inviting and plush, almost like the weight of the stare on him.

Not looking up, he settles down into the warmth of Keith’s all too familiar scent, eyelids growing heavy almost as soon as his head finds the pillow.

I love you, the ghost of a voice whispers in the dark as the bed dips beneath Keith’s weight.

Why? He wants to ask.

But that one word never comes.

They’re in the middle of a war.

There will always be time after, he thinks as he drifts soundly into sleep.

***

It’s whiskey the second time, and it burns the words right out of his mouth as he sees Keith looking over him through the bottom of his emptied tumbler. The glass warps him, but he still knows the exact look he has fixed on him, if only because it’s one he’s grown to know so well.

Molded of softened galaxies, it questions, and it worries, almost as if Keith continues to fear that he’ll just disappear.

As if it’s something that he might still fear the most.

The thought, carried on the back of a wave of liquid heat, licks its way down his spine and makes him shudder as he drops the glass on the bar counter.

Ice clinks softly against its confines, jostled by the sudden drop. He returns the appraising look, brazen and courageous as his mind warms with his drink of choice.

It’d been a year since that last time he’d let himself slip like this.

Shiro’s twenty-five now, and the war is over, but the rebuilding has just begun.

And Keith? Keith is leaving in the morning.

“What?” He asks, leaning back slightly in his bar stool as he questions Shiro and the stare he has fixed on him.

He knows it must look as if he’s far gone, lost to the mire of swirling whiskey that slightly blurs his vision. Shiro relies on that, because what he’s doing isn’t allowed.

What he’s doing, is memorizing the strength of Keith’s jaw, and the shape of the lines that crease the corners of his eyes. He’s memorizing the exact shade of his onyx waves, and the obsidian flecked galaxies trapped in his gaze.

What Shiro is doing, is being greedy.

It’s a fault of his really. Has always been when it came to Keith. On most days, he can tamp it down.

But today? Today’s the last day, and he feels it burning like acid in his lungs.

“What?” Keith asks again with a bright smile that Shiro adds to his collection before he looks down at his old, worn leather jacket. “Do I have something on me?”

“No,” Shiro answers truthfully, shaking his head as he pushes his Altean arm toward Keith’s still half full beer and moves it away from him. He tries to ignore the way it weighs a bit heavier now.

“I do think I’m cutting you off, though.”

A scandalized gasp, just this side of too breathy, rips from Keith’s chest as he slaps his hand on it.

“Takashi!” He exclaims before laughing, the sound lifting a pink flush to his cheeks. Shiro wonders if it’s closer to crushed peonies or a peaceful sunrise when Keith continues, voice softer.

Intimate.

Like he’s sharing secrets.

“You’re my best friend, you know.”

I love you, that old, pesky memory shadowed, buzzing like an undercurrent to his words. Shaking his head with a breathy chuckle, Shiro stands, ignoring his own gentle stumble as he offers an arm out to Keith.

“You’re my best friend, too,” he says, hoping the edge of it doesn’t sound as wrong to Keith as it does to his own ears.

Don’t go, he wants to add.

“Let me get you home, buddy,” Shiro says instead as Keith throws an arm over his shoulders and sidles off the barstool. His hair tickles his chin as he leans into him.

That’s another thing that Shiro mentally files away as he easily takes on his weight.

He’s grown so much taller.

“You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he adds as an after thought as he pulls them both to the door.

The walk back to the barracks feels like it goes too slowly, and yet all too quick, filled with the quiet of the late night and the rolling warmth of the alcohol through his veins. It’s volatile, and it mixes like gasoline with the flame of Keith’s skin.

Shiro wonders if it will etch itself into his own, an unseen brand to carry with him over his heart.

Don’t go, he wants to say when they find themselves in front of Keith’s door.

“Here we are,” he says instead, bracing Keith as he reaches for the lock pad at the edge of the door. There’s a smooth sound as it slides open and he steadies himself against the frame. It’s quiet again, but this time it bows beneath the weight of expectation as Keith clumsily turns, pressing his back into the wall as he looks up at him.

“Here we are,” he agrees, pulling his stare languidly down Shiro’s chest and he feels it like claws. They tear and pull at his skin, and he’s certain if he looks down, he’ll see the stain of blood on his shirt.

“Want to come in?” Keith asks once his gaze flicks back up to capture his own.

Yes, Shiro thinks, need pulling like a hook behind his belly button as he shakes his head.

“I shouldn’t. You—”

“Have a big day tomorrow,” Keith finishes, mimicking his voice as he smiles.

Shiro doesn’t miss the way it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Don’t go. It hangs on the tip of his tongue, weighted by the dangerous bite of whiskey. All he needs to do is say it.

Two words, with a world of meaning, and all he needs to do, is say them.

Reaching out, Shiro offers his open palm by way of the words.

“Take care, Keith,” he adds, all too aware of the deep indent that works itself between his eyebrows as he takes in the gesture.

Keith is his best friend, something more than, even, and all he can think to offer him is a handshake.

Mentally, he files away his look of disappointment.

“You too, Shiro,” Keith says quietly, hands balled at his sides. They stay there for one breath.

Two breathes.

Three—

Flames erupt through his chest as Keith’s arms wind around his neck, anchoring him to him in a crushing hug. It steals his breath, and several beats of his heart, before he wraps his own around his waist and keeps him close.

Char aches deep in his chest, turning his bone black and filling his lungs with smoke.

It’s an honorable death, he thinks quietly with a small squeeze.

And then, he’s gone.

Cool air cascades over him, shocking his senses as Keith offers him one last smile.

Don’t go, he wants to plead.

“Goodnight, Shiro,” he says, dipping his head before pushing through the threshold of his suite.

“Goodnight,” Shiro offers, helplessly.

Hopelessly.

It’s met with the soft hiss of the door sliding shut, and the artificial silence of the hall.

All he had to do was say it.

But it never quite felt like the right time.

Moving quickly down the hall, limbs sobered by the interaction, he finds himself in front of his door.

Standing there, he turns his attention back to the other of the hall, a small, distant hope that Keith will be standing there.

He isn’t.

Shiro sighs lowly, lost to the way Keith’s heat is still burning against his skin in a way he’s sure will haunt him for the rest of the night.

It’s only meant to be a year.

There will always be time after, he thinks, as he unlocks his door.

***

Shiro’s twenty-eight, and alone in his study the third time.

It’s a hot sip of bourbon, and a rush of a thought, barely there and fleeting, but there all the same.

It’s a soft breath, and onyx waves that don’t match the brunette waiting for him in his bed.

With a quick shake of his head, he presses the half full glass to his desk, eyeing it as if it had any say to the intrusive thought.

The ever stray thoughts had been bound and stored in a hidden darkness at the back of his mind for two years now, leaving behind a ghost that follows Shiro everywhere he goes.

Even lost to the safety of a soft smile, and chocolate eyes, he still feels it like a weighted stare. All consuming, just like phantom he’d been trying to run from.

To compare the two would be an impossibility.

Keith had been a wildfire, filling his veins with smolder and soot, blackening his insides until there was nothing left, while Curtis was a soft ocean tide.

Cooling and calming, with the ability to pull him away from all the noise and settled a careful peace over his soul.

Exact opposites in near every way, it was easy to push down the pain of his forlorn thoughts and the wickedness of that voice at the back of his mind that licked around his thoughts like poison.

He’s not him, it used to hiss until Shiro had forced it down with a sheer determination.

He may not be him, but at least he’s here, he’d bitten back until the voice would recede back into the darkness.

Keith’s stay on Daibazaal, meant for just a year, had turned to two, and then three, with communications coming fewer and farer between.

Not that Shiro could even blame him for that. He was doing work alongside Krolia and Kolivan rebuilding the Galran empire, and rebuilding the Blades as a humanitarian force. Their breakthroughs had been revolutionary, and far beyond the scope of what any of the coalition had imagined for such a short amount of time.

Shiro understood, but it had left a distinct hole in his life that he hadn’t been able to fill with work, nor post-war efforts, nor burning liquor.

And then he’d met Curtis.

And then what had once been daily phone calls turned weekly phone calls, had become monthly phone calls, until Shiro couldn’t even remember the last time they’d spoken.

What had even been the last thing that Keith had said to him?

That’s right.

Congratulations.

Pressing his fist of papers down beside his glass, Shiro reaches for his holoscreen, life flickering across its surface as he started to search his contacts.

He could call him, he thinks.

Should call him.

Had he ever even been the one to call first, Shiro wonders, as he rolls through the alphabet before finding his mark.

Sucking the warmth of the bourbon from his teeth, his finger hovers over Keith’s name, a barely there space between his digit and the ‘K.’

It would be so easy to close the distance with a quick tap. Can already hear the tinkling chime of the holoscreen ringing and waiting to be answered. Shiro can even hear the soft sound of Keith saying his name.

A judgement weighs heavy on him with the imagined sound, wrapped around his left ring finger in the form of a shining silver band. Looking down at it, he can’t help but notice the way it winks at him with the soft light of his lamp, watching and waiting.

He deserves better, Shiro thinks with a sigh before switching the screen off.

Shiro doesn’t linger too long on the fact that even he doesn’t know which he he means.

Huffing a loud sigh, he pushes the screen away and rubs a hand over his eyes. It’s a futile attempt at scrubbing the bourbon laced thought from his mind.

Instead, he sees the flash of distant galaxies, and a pretty pink flush pressed against the backs of his eyelids.

“Enough,” Shiro growls suddenly, pushing his chair back and standing in one smooth motion. Snatching his glass off of his desk, he quietly pads down the hall to the dark kitchen.

There will always be time after, a small voice offers as he dumps the rest of his drink down the drain.

No, he chides, just a shade off bitter, as he sets the tumbler to the side. There won’t.

It’s the last drink he has.

***

Shiro is thirty the last time, and it didn’t take a drink at all.

They’d all met for the fifth anniversary of their loss, and the universe’s gain, and it’s the first time Shiro has seen Keith since the divorce. It’s a fact he becomes all too aware of when he sees the way Keith’s gaze flicks to his hand, and then back up, softening at their edges before he offers him a handshake.

The motion tugs at a distant memory as he finds his head spinning with the intensity of Keith’s amethyst eyes as he takes his open palm.

His stare burns like wildfire.

It always had.

Lingering with palms pressed flushed for a tick longer than strictly necessary, Shiro pulls away when he felt something a lot like lightning crack against his sternum.

I love you, the whisper tickles at his ear in the same way it had for far too long now.

And then, that was it.

Keith had nodded, expression resigned and all knowing as he walked towards where the others have their heads ducked together to look at something Hunk had pulled up on his holoscreen.

Shiro didn’t miss the way he’d pointedly chose a seat on the other end of the table from where he sat, or the way his tone had been diplomatically pleasant when they’d addressed each other. It had been easy to brush away beneath the conversation with their friends, but dinner didn’t last forever, and soon, they were parting ways once more.

More importantly, Keith was leaving once more.

“Let me walk you to your suite,” Shiro calls after him, stopping him before he can disappear into the night. Time folds around itself as he waits for a response, drawing lines across the back of the faded red leather of his jacket.

It’s a shade he’s only ever been able to associate with Keith.

Looking over his shoulder, Keith sizes him up with a dangerous flash in his eyes. Tension rocks down Shiro’s spine in the balanced moment before Keith’s eyes soften and he shrugs.

“Alright,” he throws over his shoulder as he starts to walk once more. The invitation stalls Shiro, roots him in place just long enough to paint real distance between them once more.

Jogging to catch up, he falls in line with Keith’s steps as they make their way towards the proud standing barracks.

It’s like a long lost memory as they move through the quiet night, side-by-side in a silence that they had never needed to be filled. Almost as if nothing had changed at all.

Electricity picks at his sternum as he tracks the path through a memory of a drunken night, a missed confession, and deep regret.

He wondered, if he truly picked through all of his thoughts, how many times he’d made this walk, only for it to come down to the same results.

And then, they’re standing in front of his door.

“Here we are,” Keith pushes through a smile, echoing what felt like a lifetime ago.

Here we are, Shiro had said last time.

“Can I come in?” He says this time.

Shiro feels the hesitation before he sees it in the way his smile disappears, replaced instead by an electric tension in Keith’s shoulders. It’s palpable, the way it’s roiling under his skin like a lightning storm looking for an escape.

The pause feels like a small eternity before he finally nods, turning away to press his palm to the lock pad. Keith never was good about not letting him in.

He aches with the fact that he’s undeserving of that too.

Not looking back, Keith steps over the threshold, flicking the light on to reveal the all too familiar layout. Dust and the thick scent of mustiness cling to it, but it’s still the same.

Shiro had never been able to let them reassign it.

The soft swish of the door closing behind him seals him into the dizzying feel of deja vu.

“What happened?” Keith asks, not turning to look at him as he speaks, dropping his jacket on the unused couch. Leather hitting the cushions is the only sound that stands between between. The air feels dangerous with the delicate quiet.

It’s just waiting to be shattered.

“What do you mean?” He asks, but he knows. Shiro can feel the absence of his ring like a loosened noose.

It doesn’t choke, but it’s there.

It’s the wrong thing to say, and he knows it as soon as the question drips from his lips. All the evidence he needs is the way Keith turns on his heel with a snarl twisting his lips.

“You know what I mean,” he growls, eyes flashing yellow and expression fierce. In that moment, Keith looks inhuman. Galran.

Beautiful, Shiro’s mind supplies.

The flash is a mere second before his face crumples and he pulls a deep breath between his teeth. Taking a step back, he levels Shiro with a look of composure before he repeats, “what happened?”

The truth of it is, nothing happened. Comfortable, and safe, their relationship was a tepid thing, ending in a mutual split. There hadn’t been any mess to it, which, almost made it worse.

You were never meant for this life, Takashi, Curtis had said before pressing a last kiss to his lips, and his ring to Shiro’s open palm. Shiro had heard the undercurrent of what he’d really meant.

You were never meant to be with me.

He’d tried denying it. To Curtis. To himself.

Shiro had loved him. He truly had. But love, as it turned out, wasn’t enough when you’d already been broken apart and rebuilt by the hands of someone else.

Keith’s mark had been left on him like a signature, like a brand, and no matter how he’d tried to hide it, it still bled through.

“Keith,” Shiro breathes, soft and low. It’s a plea for salvation. For repentance. For everything he’s done wrong. He’s done so much wrong.

They were supposed to have had time.

I was always meant to be with you, he wants to say.

“Shiro,” Keith counters, and it cuts like a warning, sounds like a curse.

“It didn’t work,” is all he manages. It comes out strangled, a wisp of a truth that barely brushes past his lips.

“It didn’t work,” he repeats, trying to put strength into his admission.

“Why?” Keith pushes, folding his arms over his chest defensively. The stance makes him look smaller, even if his gaze burns straight through him.

Shaking his head, Shiro begins to the the room as it begins to shrink around them. The weight of the walls crush into his shoulders, pressing the air from his lungs.

They were supposed to have had all that time.

I love you, Keith’s voice roars at his ear, as if it was from the Keith made of flesh and bone, and not that ghost that had clung to him for so long.

“You have to know,” Shiro all but whispers, dropping his stare long enough to catch his bearings before looking up through his lashes in time to see the way Keith falters.

I love you. Keith had unknowingly haunted his dreams with those three words that he’d never been able to return.

There was supposed to have been time.

I love you.

“I love you,” Shiro lets his words curl around the memory. They fall bluntly between them, landing flat and dull, before there’s a flash of movement and the sharp snap of his head against the door.

It triggers another memory that he can see flash in the yellow of Keith’s eyes.

They stay yellow this time.

“Why,” Keith bites out, snapping the syllable between his fangs. “Why now?”

Heat crushes against his windpipe as Keith presses into him with the flat of his forearm. The pressure catches his words in his throat, forcing him to shake his head against it as he tries to turn his gaze anywhere than the flames that threaten to turn him to ash.

There’s no good answer.

Not one that will make it better, anyway.

Keith leans further into his forearm.

“Always,” he chokes out. Tears catch at the corners of his eyes as his lungs start to burn with the lack of air, but he doesn’t struggle. Doesn’t try to pull away.

Shiro’s done that enough.

“I didn’t say it.” His voice is nothing but scraps beneath the choke of his arm. “Keith.”

There’s a tremble against his throat, then the squeeze of more pressure before Keith hisses and pushes away. Cool air falls on him, filling his lungs as he gasps in an attempt to drag as much of it as he can down into his chest. Anything to put out the wildfire that’s waging a war beneath his bone.

“You didn’t say it,” Keith agrees, eyeing him warily. His stance is animalistic, and ready to flee. “You didn’t say anything at all.”

A lick of thunder, palpable and crushing rolls between them.

“Keith,” Shiro tries once he’s caught his breath only to be cut off.

“I waited,” Keith says lowly, shifting his stare downward. “You needed time, and I waited.”

“And then you left.” He doesn’t mean to say it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction to an infinitesimal moment in a long list of cataclysmic events.

Keith had left once, but Shiro had left time and time again.

“And you let me!” He hurls back, heaving with the burden of his anger. “Then you got married.”

The last word is a sneer, and it buries itself in the middle of Shiro’s chest as he flicks his gaze past Keith’s shoulder and to the off white wall. He’d look anywhere to avoid the cutting edge of hurt that has turned Keith into a weapon of the strongest design.

“So was he the replacement,” he growls, “or am I?”

The blow is low, and aimed for the space between his ribs where it stabs through him like a heated knife. It rakes a gasp, hard and harsh, from deep in his throat as he looks up in time to see the way Keith bites into the meat of his bottom lip.

“Neither of you,” Shiro wraps the answer in a whisper that shatters something in the tension holding Keith’s shoulders so taught. Visibly deflating, he watches the way Keith’s knuckles pull white over bone as he clenches his fists, and then lets go.

A vague flicker of something a lot like hope licks at Shiro’s nerves when he steps forward, and Keith doesn’t move away.

“Why?” The word breaks around the sound of a half formed sob as the black curtain of his hair hangs in his face, covering his eyes.

Why now? Why me? Why?

Shiro hears every question trapped in the hitching breath as he takes another careful step forward.

“There was supposed to be time, and we—” he breathes, stalling at the word, because it never was we, was it?

“I never got it right.”

Liquid lines Keith’s eyes as he looks up, the watery look making him look younger. Untouched by the burdens of a war that had taken him across universes.

There’s a strange brightness there too. Of fear, or of hope.

Maybe they’re on in the same.

“I could never be right,” Shiro finally admits. And that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? It was never about time, or places, or other versions of himself, but him. He had never let himself be the right that Keith needed, because Keith deserved more than he could ever be.

They’d pushed each other to be better and better, until Keith had surpassed him, and Shiro had decided that he deserved the entire universe, and not just a man who had foolishly tried to hold it.

“Be right now.”

It’s a whisper, almost lost to the breadth of the space between them. For a moment, he thinks he imagines it until he sees the flicker of a gaze through Keith’s bangs.

They both move then, meeting with a cataclysmic clash that reverberates through Shiro’s entire being. It shakes him wholly, as he feels something snap within his chest, and then he’s on fire. Burning, his skin is blackening and peeling back from bone, exposing his nerves to the ache of unbridled starlight on his skin.

It tears him down, exposes him, as he feels arms around his neck and the scratch of nails at his nape.

Opening his lips to a heated gasp, they move against each other, lost to the act of discovery as they track searing lines across each others skin. Stumbling blindly together through the living room, they push past the door of Keith’s bedroom.

Shiro hasn’t been in this room in six years, but he can’t help but linger on the fact that he still remembers the exact number of steps.

A moan brushes across his lip as he slides his metallic palm across the small of Keith’s back and drags his other down the back of his thigh. Curling his fingers at the back of his knee, he pulls it up over his hip as he lowers Keith down onto the bed. He does it slowly, carefully, like he’s breakable.

Like he’s precious.

Like everything that he always had been.

Continuing his exploration, Shiro captures snapshots of moments as he lets his hands roam under Keith’s shirt.

Soft skin.

Softer moans.

The fluttering stutter of his breath, half formed around his name.

Pushing the fabric up towards Keith’s chest, he only pulls away long enough to draw it over his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says then.

It’s easier to say into the darkness of the night, but it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

No, it isn’t enough.

It will never be enough, but it’s all he has to offer as he presses the words like small offerings into Keith’s skin.

He arches blissfully up into his mouth as he traces the expanse of his chest, revering the goosebumps and pink flush that spreads across it in his wake.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro breathes again, fingers brushing across the dark hair below his belly button before they start to make work of his belt. The metal of the buckle clinks loudly in the darkness, joined only by Keith’s escalating breaths as he nips as his hip.

Beautiful, he thinks. Or maybe he says, as Keith let’s out a small whine, his hips rolling upward as he pulls his dark pants away. Brushing his hand carefully against him, Shiro revels in the heavy heat that fills his palm as he licks a stipe along the underside of his length.

“Shiro,” Keith moans when he opens his lips around him, taking him carefully against his tongue. Fingers brush through his bangs as he rolls his tongue. They grip at them when he slowly starts to push closer, taking him further until his nose brushes against the soft skin of his stomach.

I’m sorry, he thinks, as he pushes and pulls, working Keith until he’s writhing with the forceful sounds of his gasping moans and pressing up into the heat of his mouth.

It’s a flurry of movement, burning heat, and the sharp tug at his scalp before Keith comes across the flat of his tongue with the softest of sounds.

Just a breath, like he’s finally letting go.

“Shiro,” he hushes, pulling him with the grip of his hair to crash their mouths together. Licking his own taste from his mouth, Keith moans his name like a quiet prayer, filling each syllable of it with new emotion.

Anger. Hate. Pain. Fear. Joy. Love.

“It’s okay,” Shiro breathes, moving his lips against Keith’s as he speaks. Running his knuckles up over the hardened muscle of his arms, Shiro tracks the path up over his shoulder until he can open his palm against his neck.

Pressed against it, he can feel the quick beat of his heart as he pulls him close, settling his back against the plain headboard of the Garrison issued bed and Keith against his chest. The darkness of the room crushed down upon them, weighted heavy and comfortable as he loses track of time to the slowing cadence of Keith’s breaths.

“I love you,” Shiro whispers after a stolen eternity. “I don’t deserve to, but I do.”

Keith’s hand stretches wide across his chest, pressed just above his heart as he starts to brush the pad of his thumb back and forth against the steady rhythm that it beats.

“Takashi,” Keith says low, brushing his name across his skin. He chases it with the soft press of his lips.

“I love you,” he echoes, voice dripping with the same sincerity that he’s treasured for so long.

It drifts through them, ebbing them slowly into a soft shadow of sleep, and Shiro thinks that maybe this is it. A love to fight for. A love to lose for. A love to cross universes, and lose universes for.

A love to force the fickle hand of time for.

The thought enraptures him as he turns it over and over, smoothing it like a stone until he’s lulled into the basking warmth of sleep.

This is it, he dreams, for hours, or maybe for minutes, until it’s shaken away by the bed shifting beneath Keith’s weight as he rolls away from him.

He does it quietly, stealthily, as if he hadn’t planned on waking Shiro at all.

There’s time, he thinks hazily as he reaches forward, capturing the fine bones of Keith’s wrist in his hand. There’s time now.

“Stay,” Shiro says.

No, he pleads.

“Stay.”

The night is quiet, but alive, writhing like a live wire with the force of his request. It clears the fog of sleep from his mind as he looks up into Keith’s eyes, lit by the sinking moon.

Stay. He should have said it then.

So Shiro says it now.

He knows it isn’t enough, but it’s an infinitesimal start to an eternity he’s all too willing to spend making it enough.

“Please,” he breathes when he feels the sudden tension of Keith’s hesitation. It starts as a moment, that stretches into a breath, and finally into a contained lifetime before he feels Keith turn back toward him.

“Okay,” he says into the night, dropping back into the mattress and leaning back into the burning, aching space of Shiro’s chest.

“Okay,” Shiro hums, as he holds him close once more.

***********

[everything-lobotomy-corporation]

Worries & Welfare ::Chesed x Reader::

-Chapter 3-

HEIRARCHY

It was almost impossible to focus on filling out you report on the Punishing Bird in your new surroundings. Chesed's office was a dull blue and to no one's surprise there was a coffee maker on the counter and many mugs in the cabinet above. Many diplomas and awards lined the walls and his desk, while filled with paper work, also had a good amount of stress balls and toys meant for anxiety. Even as you filled out your paper work he had a small cube in his hand with various buttons and switches on it and in his other hand a coffee.

"Where did you get all these toys?"

"Gi- Netzach gave them to me." He admitted, "You used the wrong Abnormality ID number."

"Shit," You marked through it with a single line, tapping your chin while you thought of the correct number. He was waiting for you to realize that it was already at the top of the paper. He went in for a sip of his coffee, not expecting you to speak. "So you and Giovanni are close?" He choked a bit, letting out a light cough and trying to compose himself. 

"Y-Yeah, We're friends. He's a nice guy. We aren't allowed to go by our names at work. That's for after work, out of the professional setting."

"I think that's dumb." You admitted, jotting down the experience of being pecked mercilessly. "I Just think it makes things more complicated. "

"Well, with the twins it does." Chesed admitted. "Even when you assume the mantle as manager we can't call you by your name.Hell, When you eventually take your father's place as CEO you'll be referred to as A."

"What about right now?" You asked, making his let out a light gasp. "What do you call me right now then? While I'm neither of those things?" He just looked at you, putting his coffee and toy down on his desk. He bounced back quickly, clicking his tongue and thinking. 

"I guess I can use your name then."

"Can I use yours?"

"You are just trying to get me fired." He said with a chuckle, his eyes darting around his office. He didn't have proof or any sort of evidence but he had a feeling that Angela had his office tapped. He bit his lip, trying to plan his words carefully. The entire facility was probably tapped. "You can call me whatever you'd like. You're technically my boss....but I didn't give you any ideas."

"Daniel it is then!" You said cheerfully, twiddling your pen in your hands. He felt his face heat up but wasn't aware that the blush was drastic or visible until you laughed at him. He turned away, picking his coffee back up. 

"Whatever floats your boat."

—————

"That doesn't sound safe." Chesed said, narrowing his eyes at Gebura as she gave him the news. The redhead simply shrugged, sashaying from behind her desk and humming a bit. " Look, She had a tough time with the Punishment Bird."

"Then this is sure to get her to take her future job more seriously. It'll build character."

"Porccubus is dangerous to new employees. I'm not going to send her in there."

"Look, I can Spare Porccubus or I can spare Nothing There." Gebura said sharply, slamming her hands on her desk. "So, Which one would you prefer?"

"....There has to be another abnormality you can spare for my department. "

"We've got our hooks in the others for serious testing all week. The only thing I can give you at the moment is one of those 2. So an ALEPH or a HE . Pick one." Chesed took in a deep breath, keeping his composure as best as he could. The harsh black and red or Gebura's office always put him on edge. He sucked on his teeth and tried to calm himself. He was stuck no matter what choice he made. You would be exposed to something very dangerous either way.

"...I'll take Porccubus."

"That's what I thought." She said smugly, not helping Chesed's mood. She dug in her desk, taking out a clasped file and throwing it onto her desk, gesturing for him to take it. "Get her to read it about 60 times tonight because tomorrow morning Porccubus will be in your department. Also, Hod wants to hand you over Der Freischütz if you can take him. He's causing hysteria among her team."

"......I'm getting the impression everyone is trying to kill us both." He said playfully, tapping the folder in his hands nervously. "She's just met her first abnormality today. This woman is technically our boss. You want me to send her in-"

"Then fucking go in alone. You've been doing this longer than her. Look, If it will make you act like less of a baby, put in a request for some E.G.O weapons and suits." He rolled his eyes. It could take days before his request is approved and it isn't a guarantee that he would be granted a suit that could properly protect you. Gebura didn't seem to understand the situation. You were bright eyed and ready to help. Of course if he asked you to hang back, you probably wouldn't. However, His hands were tied. He was going to have to do this job alone after all.

"Thank you, Gebura. I'll get my proposal in right way." 

———————

You walked into the empty barracks of the Welfare department, an air of sadness washing over you as you entered the stale room. The lights stalled a bit as they turned on and your steps echoed off the deep blue walls. There was nothing. The beds were empty, the shelves beside them empty and the foot lockers all open and empty. It was as if every trace of the old team had been thrown out the moment they died. You stopped in the dead center of the room, feeling overwhelmed by the memories that were surely made here. 

"Yeah, I know." You heard, making your quickly spin around towards the door. Chesed was leaning against the door frame, naturally having a coffee in his right hand. "It's pretty barren in there right now."

"...Yeah."

"You don't have to sleep here. It's...I've never seen it so empty in here." He chuckled nervously, forgetting his own train of thought upon looking at the dull room. The ghosts of the past moved around him as he imagined his team moving to and fro, getting ready for bed or preparing for work. His team. His friends. "You don't need to be in here."

"It is a bit spooky." You admitted, "but-"

"There's a couch in my office," He started, finally waving the folder he had been hiding at his side. You didn't even notice he was holding it. "We're getting a new abnormality tomorrow. We're cramming tonight and when we're done I'll sleep on the couch, you can take my bed."

"Daniel-"

"It's not negotiable." He said sternly, nodding head to the side as a motion for you to follow him. "Come on, this one is far more dangerous to handle."

[sansa-of-oldstones]

In the Chaos - Chapter 8

Chapter 1/ Chapter 2/ Chapter 3/ Chapter 4/ Chapter 5/ Chapter 6/ Chapter 7

Also on Ao3

Drunken, sexy times are had - you have been warned. Also, Jon is struggling with PTSD and alcoholism, so if that isn’t your jam, I don’t recommend reading this chapter. 

-

His head is spinning. He’d drank too much, and didn’t realize until he went to get up off the couch. His tolerance isn’t what it used to be. They would have to walk to his place, but it isn’t far, and Sansa isn’t opposed to some fresh air.

He slips on some ice while they walk, and Sansa steadies him.

“Easy there.”

“I am fine.” He smiles up at her before regaining his balance. It’s been years since he’s seen her, and it’s obvious when he really looks at her. He studies her, watching her while she walks. She’s always been pretty, he won’t deny that, but damn. She’s down right tantalizing. To him, she grew up over night, and it’s fucking with his head. He reaches in to the pockets of his leather jacket, and removes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She makes a face. “Don’t give me that face.”

“When you can’t breathe later in life, you’ll know why.”

“You haven’t changed a bit.” In that respect, at least. In other ways, she’s a completely different woman.

“I see you’re as self destructive as ever.” Sansa gripes. “I can’t believe you smoke.”

“It helps with the anxiety.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“I’m not making an excuse.” He takes her hand. He wants to be close to her. “I’m explaining.”

“It’s disgusting.”

It’s relaxing. It calms him. He slips the pack back into his pocket with his other hand. If it bothered her that much, he could do without. “I’ve missed you bossing me around.”

“I think there are plenty of people to boss you around.” She swings his arm, and he brings her to him.

“It isn’t the same.” He pauses, and rests his head against hers. He gets clingy when he drinks.

“Come on, it’s cold.” She leads him down the sidewalk.

They are quiet the rest of the way to his place. He can’t take his eyes off of her. He’s in awe of her. She licks her lips, and thoughts of everything he’d like her mouth to do makes his pants uncomfortably tight.

He unlocks his front door, and Ghost nearly knocks Sansa over with excitement. She crouches down to pet him, and laughs when Ghost kisses her face. Which, is so very unlike Ghost that Jon is taken aback. He hates to interrupt the adorableness. It’s melting his icy heart, but it’s been hours since the poor dog was out.

“Outside.” Jon snaps his fingers, and Ghost trots away toward the backdoor with a huff. Jon slides the door open, and Ghost runs out into the yard. “He usually has better manners.”

“It’s okay.” She hangs her jacket over a chair.

“I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m afraid it’s pretty dry here at the moment.”

He’d been trying to not drink, but the stress of the party had done him in. He shouldn’t have promised Sam he’d go. Then he wouldn’t have run into Sansa, though.

“I’m alright.” She smiles, leaning up against the table. She slips her long boots off. He stares at her again for a few moments. He’s probably creeping her out, but he does not even care. His eyes cannot get enough. “Nice place.”

It’s much nicer than the barracks, he’d give her that.

“You should see my bedroom.”

She snickers, and then she’s kissing him. It’s different than at the party. It’s more desperate, fervent. Her hands play with his hair, and massage his scalp. It’s heavenly. Ghost scratches at the door, and Jon tears himself away to let him in.

He locks the door, and Sansa tugs his sweater over his head. Her eyes widen when she sees the scars. He is just now realizing she would have no idea about those. They’re easier to hide than the small ones on his face. She brushes them lightly with her fingers, and Jon takes her by the wrist. He spins her around, and leads her into bedroom with pat on the ass.

He helps unzip her dress, and she steps out of it before turning to kiss him. He unclasps her bra, and tosses it behind him. He lifts her up by the legs, and lays her on the bed. He buries himself in her breasts, enjoying her moans as he moves. He kisses her, and can see the flush of her cheeks in the moonlight. She’s gorgeous.

She moans loader when he rubs his thumb against her panties. She’s unbuttoned his jeans, and pushed them down. He kicks them off, and slips his fingers underneath her panties before pulling them down. He coaxes her until she’s writhing against his hand, and panting his name.

He’d love to go down on her, but he’d also love to be inside of her. He rolls a condom from his bedside table on, promising to properly devour her later. He hovers over her, and slowly guides himself in. He grinds against her with each plunge. They find a rhythm, and he feels her flutter around him. She cries out, and he drives into her hard and fast to finish.

He passes out shortly using the bathroom, and disposing of the condom.

He’s woken up a few hours later by his alarm.

“Turn it off.” Sansa groans beside him. “Please.”

“It’s such a lovely sound.” He smirks. “I thought I’d leave it on.”

She reaches over him, and turns it off. He’s grateful. His head is pounding.

“I told Grenn I would take his shift this morning.”

“How much are you regretting that right now?”

“So much.” He rubs his face. He’s regretting a lot of things. “I should get in the shower. You’re heading back to Winterfell today, right?”

“Eventually.” She answers. “Once I feel like moving.”

“There’s supposed to be a storm, so you might want to get moving sooner rather than later.”

“Kicking me out already?”

“The storm could strand you here for days.”

“Would that be the worst thing?”

“Where my head is at right now, yes.” He sighs. He hates to admit it, but it’s true.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m freaking out.” Jon leans against the door frame. “I need to shower, go to work, and forget this ever happened.”

“You want to forget it happened?” She’s hurt. He can tell by her body language. He can tell by the pitch of her voice. He can tell by her face. It is not helping with the self loathing. All he does is hurt her. He wonders why she even wants to be around him.

“I do.” He felt terrible, but it was honest. “I shouldn’t have gone to that party, I shouldn’t have drank, and I shouldn’t have slept with you.”

“Well, you did, so.”

“I was drunk.”

“So was I.” Sansa snapped. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“I told Sam this would happen.” Jon raises his voice, and clenches his fists. Ghost nudges him forcibly in the leg with his snout. He’s angry with himself. For getting drunk. For failing. Jon takes a breath, and pets his dog’s head. “I’d been doing so well. This is why I shouldn’t drink!”

“That isn’t on me.”

“I’m not saying it is!” Jon groans, absentmindedly hitting the doorframe with his fist. Ghost nudges him again, and then jumps up to put his paws on Jon’s chest. “It’s on me. I should have known better. You’re my CO’s niece! You’re Sansa.”

“Pretending you didn’t fuck me isn’t going to change that.”

“You’re barely eighteen.” Jon reminds her, and then panics. “Holy shit, you are eighteen, right?”

“You forget how old I am?”

“My brain isn’t properly functioning right now.” Jon shakes his head. “You’ll be nineteen in a couple months.”

“How sweet of you to remember.”

“I’m sorry, but I need you to leave.” Jon shrugs sadly. He is this close to drinking the hangover away. He doesn’t want her to know that.

“Fine.” Sansa throws the covers off, and finds her clothes. He doesn’t know what else to say. He just stands there petting Ghost, and Sansa glares at him.

“I’ll give you a ride to Gilly’s.” He remembers where her car is.

“Don’t bother.” She walks out the door, and he slides down to the floor with his face in his hands.

-

Jon’s head is a mess right now, and I’m sorry. He’s sorry. He’s been through a lot. Don’t worry, he’ll get some sense talked into him. He’s getting the help he needs, but it’s not something that simply gets cured. They’ll figure it out, eventually.

[ladystarks]

Cliff’s Edge

A fic that will be cowritten with my partner in crime and only fan, @direwolfpupy

Jon had known from the start that restoring Starfall would not be an easy task. When his aunt Allyria had written to him of his mother’s death, Jon—reading her letter in a cramped, muddy barracks in France—hadn’t been sure he’d return. But after the war was done, he had no where to turn, no place to go but the only home he’s ever known. And so he is here once more, watching Beric Dondarrion flirting hopelessly with Allyria, patching leaky holes in the roof, smiling stiffly at the visitors to the inn.

Some days, it feels as though nothing’s changed after all. These are all things he’s done thousands of times before—before the war, before his dreams were filled with blood and fire.

Before his mother died.

“She was walking on the cliffs,” Allyria had explained, once he returned. His eyes were dry by this point, his stare unflinching. Jon knew it made his aunt uncomfortable, but she persisted. “She took walks often—she missed you so, Jon, and she’d look out over the water and say that you might be looking at the beaches in France, or England, or wherever you were fighting. It made her feel closer to you. She just…she slipped one day. It was raining, the wind was strong. It was an accident. An awful accident.”

Jon would love to believe it was an accident. But his mother was a smart woman. To go out in the rain and stand on a cliff—the Dayne blood was mercurial, his uncle Arthur once told him. His mother changed her mind all the time. Perhaps she had done so about living.

“You’ve got more of your father in you, boy,” his uncle had told him years ago, squinting down at Jon as they’d lugged firewood back to the inn. “That might be a blessing. The Dayne blood’s got more fire in it than we know what to do with. You’ve a bit of ice to temper it all.”

It may be he inherited his temperament from his unnamed father. He thinks he’s inherited something else from his mother, though; her loneliness. He’s never felt more alone than he does now, alone among a sea of people from town with their condolences, alone among his aunt with her sad eyes, and alone in Starfall, with the ghost of his mother at every turn.

The inn is in a state of disrepair when Jon returns. Beric has done what he can, for a man who has no stake to the land and a job besides. Allyria has almost gotten rid of the mildew his mother had written about—the one spreading through room 2B. The stove works properly now, thanks to some of Jon’s clever tinkering. Sometimes he’s glad for Starfall’s sorry state, glad that at least he has something to do while determinedly not thinking about his nightmares, his mother, or the future. He wants to truly reopen for business before summer, catch the business of all the returned soldiers with their families.

The weather is fighting him on his determination, though. The spring is a wet one, which does nothing to help the moldy shutters or the dampness that hangs in the air. If this keeps up, the inn will fall apart long before they reopen.

“Well,” Allyria says, rolling up her sleeves when Jon comes down to the kitchen. Her cheek is streaked with flour. “An idle mind is something you don’t have to worry about today, at least. The front porch’s rotting floorboard gave in. Unless you want Ned stumbling into it tonight when he brings us the groceries, you’d best cover it in some way. Do we have any boards that will do?”

Jon filches a steaming pastry from the tray that’s just come out of the oven. They’ve got two guests this morning–Theon Greyjoy and a woman who is most certainly not his wife. “We’ve got the extra boards from when I tore up the boathouse,” he says around a mouthful of butter and apple. “I’ll use those.”

It’s going to rain, Jon notes when he walks outside. So far, with their penny-pinching and all the elbow grease Jon and Beric have put into Starfall, they’ve managed to stay afloat. But their war against the rain and decay will only last so long on the funds they’ve scraped together. Jon isn’t much of a churchgoer, but he’s caught himself fervently praying for guests—and soon. They won’t last without the money.

And as if God hears his prayer, she rolls in with the storm.

The rain is falling hard against the windowsills, and Jon’s placed a pail under the one leak he hasn’t patched yet—it’s been too wet to climb the roof to get to it—when he hears a fumbling on the porch.

“Hello?” A voice calls, a voice that is quite clearly not Ned Dayne’s. It’s muffled by the door, but Jon can hear it over the rain—a woman.

The door is open. It’s always open in these parts. No one, save Jeyne Poole, ever locks her doors. Still, Jon rushes to it, nearly tripping over a knot in the carpet.

It’s a girl, soaked to the bone.

“Are you the owner of this inn?” She asks, voice shaky. Her hair is red, plastered against her face by the water.

“Yes,” he replies. “Come in. You must be freezing!”

There’s a cutting breeze coming off the ocean, and she nods, her blue eyes wide and darting around. She takes in the pail collecting stray droplets from the ceiling, the worn rugs, the streak of dirt on the yellowing wallpaper. She’s holding her coat together at the chest, shivering in the cold, when Jon finally gets the door closed—it had caught against the carpet.

“What can I do you for?” He asks, voice pleasant as he can make it. Pleasant doesn’t come easy to him these days, not since he left for war.

She’s pretty, with her wide blue eyes and the hair, wet and in disarray as it is. She seems to be making up her mind about something, her eyes darting ‘round, as though she isn’t sure she wants to be here, alone with him. Jon takes a moment to study her more closely. She’s dressed older than he thinks she truly is—her blouse is dark and matronly, her coat boxy and two sizes too big. It’s as though this is her idea of how a respectable woman ought to be dressed. In reality, it simply highlights how young she is. Not much over eighteen, he’d say.

“I—I need a room,” she stammers finally. Her eyes finally meet his. She’s pale, as though she’s seen a ghost. “Just for tonight. I was in the rain and I—” she cuts off, tightens her lips.

Jon waits, but she doesn’t continue. “Miss—”

“Stone. Alayne Stone.”

Jon clears his throat. “Miss Stone, I’m afraid I need to see your identification. Are you old enough to book a room yourself?”

Her cheeks turn red. “Yes,” she insists, hands clenching the strap of her purse. “I just need a room, that’s all. Do you have vacancies? The sign up front said there were vacancies.”

He doesn’t answer her question. He’s seen girls like this before—shifty, scared. Slowly, he reaches towards his desk phone. The storm may have cut out the connection, but he figures he can at least try.

“I can call for help if you’d like, miss.”

Miss Stone shakes her head before he’s even finished speaking. “No, no, I really don’t need—please don’t call anyone. I swear I’m not bringing any trouble.” She looks hesitant, but reaches into her pocketbook. “I can pay. Look, how much is it for a night?”

The wad of cash she pulls out is thicker than Jon’s seen in a while. He can feel his eyes go big.

“Please,” she pleads when he doesn’t answer. “Its raining very hard outside and there aren’t any lights. I doubt I’d make it back to town in the dark, and I’ve come so far—” She cuts off, and Jon can’t tell if the water droplets still drying on her cheeks are from the rain outside or stubborn tears.

Jon hesitates. She’s clearly on the run from…something. He might regret this.

“We’ve got room,” he says slowly. “Just tonight?”

Alayne's eyes flutter closed for a moment, and he can see relief. Strange, this girl. He hopes he’s not getting mixed up in something, letting her stay.

“Maybe a few nights,” she corrects, her voice soft.

Jon sighs, and crosses the room. He finds the key to 1C, their nicest room.

“I won’t be staying long,” she assures him slowly, her fingers closing over the key he holds out, careful not to touch him. Her eyes don’t leave his, blue on grey locked over the shabby desk he’d put in this front room, hoping to give the place a more legitimate feel.

He watches her sign her name in the registry, loopy script that reminds him a bit of his mother’s. This girl comes from money, though the shabby coat and pocketbook scream otherwise. Her back is too straight, her skin is too clear. Her words are too crisp to be from these parts.

“What—what’s your name?” She asks, once she’s finished. Jon has the feeling she knows, that she’s known since before she stepped in the room.

“Jon Snow,” he says, clearing his throat. “I own Starfall.”

She bites her lip and looks him over, her wet eyelashes sticking together. Her hair’s quite a bit longer than the fashion, but when it falls in her face, Jon thinks it fits.

“It’s a beautiful inn,” she tells him. “I—I’ll be going now. Would you—would you be able to get my trunk from the porch? I don’t want it getting too wet.” She starts to peel out of her wet coat. The blouse beneath sticks to her frame.

“Sure,” Jon says, mouth suddenly dry. “I’ll get my aunt to brew you tea while we prepare the room.”

With that, Jon makes for the door.

He feels her eyes on him the whole while.

[fandom-in-reverse]

Young Heroes | Doc Ock/Avengers AU

CHAPTER THREE Tony walked into the lab with a tablet in his hand. He scrolled through some blueprints of things he wanted to spruce things up. He stopped in front of one of the computer's, swiping on his tablet for a few more seconds before he turned to the computer screen. Tony tapped the computer, turning and changing through blueprints, changing minor details of some. He glanced around the room, found a chair, and pulled it in front of the computer. He went from one electronic to the other, getting lost in thought. Tony has now been working at S.H.I.E.L.D for a couple years now, and those years have flown. Everything was a blur, yet he remembered everything that happened. It was weird feeling; wasn't everything weird? Everything that has happened and everything will happen in the future was strange. Tony knew nothing was going to get easier, but a little bit of pressure couldn't hurt anything, right? Hell, Tony thought, they have a genius on deck -who wouldn't want that? That should take a bit of the weight off S.H.I.E.L.D's shoulders for when it comes to technology. They have are getting one-up's on everything, and, after a while, all their equipment should be the most advanced until Tony could think of ways to upgrade those. It was a continuous cycle of bettering everything. Pressure turns carbon into diamonds after all. There was a soft knock on the door, and a "May I come in?" Tony scrunched his eyebrows and turned on his heel. No one asked to come in -they just strolled in with no second thoughts. "Jarvis -hand!" Tony stuck out his right hand and one part of his Iron Man suit shot itself onto it. He aimed the palm of his hand at the man standing at the door. The man at the door raised his hands in the air in defense. "What the hell are you doing here?" Tony asked, laying down his tablet as he stood up. "What-" "Unlike your name, you were supposed to have drowned. Answer the damn question." "Stark." Director Fury comes to beside the man. As the man lowered his hands, Tony refused to lower his. Fury crosses his arms behind him. "In case you didn't know, you recently started working here too." "Started working here too? Don't tell me he's working here too." The beam on the robotic hand started to glow brighter as Tony asked. "I'll give you all the details, Stark when we have Captain Rogers here with us in a few hours as well. For right now-" "Right now, he needs to get put in the barracks. Or do we just let anyone join S.H.I.E.L.D at this point?" Tony stopped Fury mid-sentence. "The last time I checked, bad guys were the ones you guys fought against. Now, you just hire them at the spur of the moment." "Dr. Octavius has been through reform and rehab, and has been helping us in his spare time-" "He tried to blow up half of New York!" "I'm right here, ya know?" Otto raised a finger, attracting the attention of the two men. "Oh, no, I see you." Tony waves his hand at him. Otto let out a small sigh as he continued. "I would be lying if I, uh, didn't agree with the both of you, but in all regards, I don't expect for you to... trust me completely yet." He shrugged his shoulders and stuffed his hands into the pocket of his dark sweatshirt. His collection of sweatshirts has grown steadily over the last few years, mainly for the fact that they could, if not fully, conceal the mechanical arms on his back. Fury looked back to Tony. "Now, Stark, if you'd please." His voice grew louder at the last word to emphasize the order. Tony knew what he was talking about, and though he resented the idea of letting the elephant in the room roam free, he commanded Jarvis to connect the arm of the suit back with the rest. He rolled his eyes as soon as Fury turned his back. Otto stood there awkwardly at the door frame before he took a step in. "Just so you know," Tony started, taking his tablet back into his hand and sitting back down in the seat. "There's, like, hundreds of S.H.I.E.L.D agents on board." He could feel his grip on his tablet tighten a bit. "You try anything someone will catch it." "Don't worry," Otto nodded. "I promise I won't." He added, raising his hands in defense. Tony didn't trust Octavius, to say the least -after seven years, the man tried to blow up half of New York City for Christ's sake! Tony remembered the day that happened, most if not all of his electronics were on the fritz due to the magnetic field. It took him weeks to get things straightened out. And to make matters even worse -if there was even such a thing as fate- the man was supposed to be dead at the bottom of the bay. Pressure was also a bad thing: too much and it could kill. ========== Grandpa Torbert traveled to the school student parking lot, following the tow truck. The mechanic hooked up the 95' red Chevy car I had, and when asked by my grandparent, checked what was wrong with it and why it wouldn't start. "They took the oil cap off and disconnected the battery. Other than that, the car's perfect, sir." The mechanic commented. "I could hook the battery up; you'll need a new cap, though." "She could've taken care of that herself if she would've checked under the hood!" Grandpa stated, throwing his hands in the air. With a couple snaps of the wires, the mechanic hopped off the back of his truck to get into the driver's seat. He opened the door, then asked Grandpa: "You following me?" "Yeah." Grandpa waved at the mechanic. He got into Grandma's car, a silver 90's Mercedes, to follow the tow truck from the school to the house. The two came back to the house and Grandpa told Grandma and I what we needed. I took it upon myself to search for the requested part online. I had to go to the Chevy site; upon further searching, the part was coming from California. It was my only option. The part would be at the house sometime in two weeks, though I doubted it very greatly. I scratched my head as I looked at the checkout screen. Two weeks... I could walk to school, sure, and honestly, that looked better. I didn't care about the weather then because I would have endured that instead of going on the bus or risking taking Grandma's car. I sauntered down to the living room, carrying my laptop in my arms. I see Grandpa sitting in one armchair, feet up and hands behind his head to the right of entering the living room, and Grandma sitting in another on the other side of him. There was a couch to the left with a television set placed in front of it all. Right now, Law and Order was on. I sat on one end of the couch as the show played on. I exited off the car site and started to go through other websites lazily. "If you want to change the channel, Lily-" Grandma started, but Grandpa stopped her. "They're getting to the good part!" He pointed at the screen and put on a sleepy smile, a sure sign that he was bound to go to sleep. Grandma took the remote from the arm of Grandpa's chair, giving it a nimble toss. I threw my hands over my laptop screen, catching the remote with a little fumble. The two of us share a giggle at this acrobatic exchange. When I'm around my grandparents on days like this, I forget my worries for a while. Everything seems fine like the storm has lifted, if you want to use that metaphor. They don't want to hurt me nor do they want to see me break down just to laugh at me like a sideshow oddity. High school students were liked that -Mean Girls comes to mind. Those girls that liked to torture me (I wouldn't exactly use the word torture; if you were harassed for an extended amount of time, it would certainly feel like it) and one of the things that got a run for their money was seeing the bruises up and down my arms. I learned quickly to wear sweatshirts and long-sleeve shirts, even in the dead of heat. Anything to keep my dignity. I turn the guide on and scroll; I see Downtown Abbey is on. I liked it for the first few episodes, but it was something about it that had detoured me from it. As I scroll down some more, one show -Being Human- caught my attention. I clicked on it considering its description. The main synopsis of the show is this: a vampire, a werewolf, and a ghost are living together, and try to act normal... With respects to the show, this is actually is quite hilarious. I lay the remote on the arm of the couch and position myself on the couch with my legs on the cushions and laptop, well, in my lap. I lay my head on the back cushion, cocking my glasses my the slightest of fractions but paying no mind. I listen to the television as I scrounge the internet for whatever reason. Just scrolling and feeling the keys tap beneath my fingers is relaxing enough for me. After a few minutes, I hear my grandfather start to snore lightly. My grandmother tapped my shoulder gingerly and pointed to him, rolling her eyes in the process. I restrain as much laughter as I can as she goes to the study. The study was used for Grandma and her paintings. She would go there in some of her spare time, and add to the forest landscape she had dreamed of: a line of trees that circle around a lake, with a setting sun overhead. It was her hobby because cooking that is. Several of her paintings hung throughout the house: small canvas paintings of the city, some a bit larger of pictures about the the family -there's one picture hanging beside the bed in her and Grandpa's room of my father as a child.