#i love where this is going
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damedont · 2 years ago
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Alhaitham is a smart man, a genius to be exact. From going through his Story Quest it’s visible that he is always aware with what he said and can predict the outcome of the conversation from his choice of words. So for him to suggest THIS
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oh he knows alright HE IS VERY AWARE OF WHERE THIS CONVERSATION IS LEADING. Is this seriously his idea of flirting???
Though then he proceed to say how he is going to charge for the drinks just so he can win the argument and piss Kaveh off.
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black-ajah-hq · 1 year ago
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There's a reason why she's my favorite Aes Sedai!!!!
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brandwhorestarscream · 1 year ago
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Random thought for Cybermorphs and Orion unwillingly becoming Prime:
Imagine if some mecha associated with either the senate or the Primacy are the ones to bring the Matrix into the prohibited part of the planet to Orion. I say either because the senate thinks its a good way to get him dead and the Primacy because as far as they're concerned Orion is a baby Prime in all but name so surely once he gets the Matrix he'll come back to them and abandoned these cursed creatures.
So when Orion is given the Matrix and becomes Optimus, Megatron is half ready to attack him if he dares stray from the hive and the party that delivered the Matrix has a different reaction based on who dragged the Matrix out here (if senate-associated, they're like "oh shit", if the Primacy workers "Yay new Prime now come with us!"). Only for Optimus to immediately turn on the ones who brought the Matrix to this place and kill one of them. Megatron is proud while the rest of the other party runs away.
The Matrix does not make Optimus any less of a monsterfucker than Orion was. And maybe the Matrix just sees the Cybermorphs and all their variations as still part of Primus's children, since they are technically still Cybertronians.
But it's just an idea so feel free to get rid of this if you so wish.
Oooh this is very fun! Smuggling the matrix across the border genuinely isn't something I had thought of yet! That's ao interesting
I did have another idea for how Orion becomes Optimus (and yk, all the surrounding angst because I'm a sucker for that), but this is a fun what-if we can definitely explore
Maybe... ok. Consider: the Senate gets word that the matrix has been "stolen" and their new Prime is still tucked away in the monsters' Hive. They decide that enough is enough. They reach out to Vos to ask for support, Winglord Hurricane says No Way In Hell, and the Senate takes matters into their own hands. They bomb Vos at the same time as the Hive in Kaon, hoping to kill Optimus and Megatron and as many of their filthy monstrous spawn as possible, so they can reclaim the Matrix. In the rubble, Optimus disappears, dragged off to Iacon and subjected to some light mnemosurgery, changing all his memories to he's loyal to the Senate and willingly takes his place as the leader of the autobots
Megatron gets the double hit of losing so many of his children, perhaps even many unhatched eggs and newborns, and also losing one of his beloved mates. He's devestated, he's furious, and probably mobilizes what remains of his Hive and decepticons to destroy the borders' wall and rush Iacon (perhapd the rest of the north as well) in retaliation >:)
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halfblood-princes-crown · 2 years ago
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Hey sorry for being gone so long, it's the "severitus with alive Jilly au gone wrong, horcrux edition".
So, were going to do the same thing as last time. Harry pov, I'm warning you though, this boy has trust issues now and doesn't tell anyone almost anything, so nobody tells him thing in return so my boy is confused.
Year three
So I spend most of my summer with my parents but they are acting strange. It's probably because of the witch that escaped from Azkaban, Bellatrix Lestrange.
I still don't know what's going on with Tom's voice, but he calmed down (?) and only talks to be about once or twice a day and lately it's been preeeaty monosilabic. Not that I mind all that much since Tom's soul (?????) is kinda warm it's nice not to be alone
I'm gonna drop in and say that Voldy's soul is begining to merge with Harry's soul and I'm saying this because Harry won't find out until seventh year.
My parent's reconnect with some old friends, one of them is my godfather and is apparently really rich so I should be nice to him
The other one's are pretty okay, one of them is my future teacher and the other one is really creepy but oddly nice (??), like he gives me a pat on the back and hush me at random times and says stuff like "I wish it didn't have to be this way" and "You're such a nice kid" and stuff like that in a really creepy way
Peter apparently convinced my parents to let me go to my aunt for the weekend after I told him I kinda wanted to go ( he seemed really enthusiastic about it and was super exited I wanted to do it that weekend particularly ) I think I kinda like Peter, he seems like a genuinely nice guy even though he doesn't act that way around my parents. He also gave me advice on how to deal with my peers thinking I'm the butt of the joke
I'm on my way to Hogwarts and I encounter some dementors. I faint and I hear the sounds on children crying and a boy begging not to be beaten
Again, dropping in. Those are Tom's memories, he's sixteen year old (Tom) so he's not going to hear full on torture, just the childhood trauma.
Don't worry, Harry will remain in control of his body even if he will pick up some things from Tom
School otherwise goes like normal except when fucking Bellatrix Lestrange breaks into the tower and holds the knife to my throat. I swallow. She smiles, "Why do you feel like my lord?"
See you next time I know what to do!
Ooouuuu!!
This is really good, Anon! You have a nice concept going. I really think you should write this 😌☝🏽
So their souls are merging and now Harry is having childhood memories from Tom? That’s insane
The last bullet point! Broooo
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hinamie · 2 months ago
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post-graduation trip airport looks
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inkskinned · 2 months ago
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this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.
good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.
sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.
so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.
one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.
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anna-scribbles · 3 months ago
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adrien in my outfit from a few days ago✨ feat. my claws out converse
bonus:
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o0kawaii0o · 8 months ago
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no mercy 😭
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Yeah, I don't know about you, Fidds, but I'd fold at this 🙏
Previous!!
Next!!
First!!
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brewed-pangolin · 2 years ago
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Taken me a hot minute, but finally got a chance to get into some Soap and Squid. And damn is this a good way to start.
It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing. 
The pining, the jealousy, the wanting to have what he can't is just so heart-wrenching in this it made my chest burn. But it's that easiness, freedom from the world that Squid gives Soap that just shatters all of it.
He’s still everything, without being anything. 
And this just made me melt. So much complexity in almost nothing.
And I'm really falling in love with Squid as a character. She seems so determined and stubborn. Like a wall Soap just can't seem to break. Going to thoroughly enjoy reading more about her, and where this is all eventually going.
trouble keepin' my eyes off you
john 'soap' mactavish x f!reader wc: 4k | warnings: angst, jealous!soap, pining summary: soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you.  an: prequel to yours to keep and a thousand — and dedicated to @guyfieriii who i adore, and dedicate all my soap too. teehee.
soap masterlist
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It’s uncomfortable, the heat. It clings, wraps and drapes over everything, smothering any breeze or fresh air.
The sweat builds on his brow, dripping down the back of his neck, leaving puddles at the base of his spine. Worst of all, beads drop from his hairline, sliding down his cheeks, dropping from his jawline as he runs his hand through his hair.
His hair has grown—the shorter sides having gained some length, beginning to conceal his very deliberate mohawk he had going. Which is another string to the bow of annoyance. It tells the tale of how long they've all been here, sweating, not sleeping, watching and waiting.
But the bow, the real thing which has been grating him is that you’re on the other side of a slightly ajar door, sparring—and it isn’t with him. 
Soap has been trying not to listen. 
But, they’re loud—you are loud. 
Even his attempts of burying it have been futile. He's attempted to recall songs from home. Ones where there’s a scotch or beer in hand, swishing from side to side as his voice cracks as he screams the words—arms around a friend or two. The words which he knows are embedded into his soul—into the very fibre of his being—and yet, you’re making it hard for him to finish a verse, never mind a song. 
He’s tried to focus on the quieter noises. The ones he wouldn't usually pay any fucking attention to—like Gaz tapping the keys of the laptop in the kitchen and the hot breeze trying to brush through the open window. The background noise, never loud enough to cause any impact—but he needs them to. He clings to hope that they will. He practically claws out for them, grabbing them with metaphorical hands—anything to drive the much louder noises away. 
The ones coming from the door he’s forbidden from entering all because of stern words from even sterner eyes behind a balaclava. 
On some level, he understands. 
The whole place is small. Privacy is not something any of you are granted. But, he knows Ghost is trying to provide that for you in this case. Because you, little Squid, rarely ever ask for help—especially from him. 
Gaz, yes. Price, maybe. Even him, occasionally. 
Ghost—never.
But, he’s softened. He has jokes with you, purposefully having chosen to spend time with you on watch. Something rare, and very out of character for a man who initially didn't even show any of them his bloody face.
Soap knows you've done it again. Seeped under his layers, like you did with all of them, weaving your way, making it hard not to instantly take a shine to you.
He doesn't blame Ghost, he understands why. He can see that time was taken making you, carving each element of your personality, creating someone that is both good, clever and funny. You're strong-willed, giving-a-shit attitude is most likely the reason Ghost is helping you—training with you, offering guidance and support.
Handing you fucking praise.
Because he too has caught on to what they’ve all seen. He’s taken notice of how fucking splendid you are, how you’re capable and fucking gorgeous all rolled into one. 
That’s it, Squidlet. Use your—perfect, that’s it, you got it. Atta girl. 
He’s sure he’ll need bleach to burn Ghost’s words from his brain. 
Even if it’s his fault—because he knows he shouldn’t be listening. 
Having created his own personal torture chamber that he’s taken the time to design, construct, and build. Because there wasn’t a table and chairs here before—he moved them here. Choosing this spot so he could be close, just in case. Of what? He's not sure. But he needs to be here, something within him compelling him to be.
Under his jealousy, he doesn’t blame you, and he doesn’t blame Lt either. He knows the two of you can hardly be expected to spar outside, where every pair of eyes could be the enemy. Out there, the air isn't just thick with heat, but tension too.
Apprehension simmers as they come closer and closer to completing the very thing they are here for. 
So, he's sat outside the room. Pretending to be interested in the latest report. Not wanting to move. Twisting and turning his emotions like playing cards, wondering why didn’t you ask him? 
He bristles, chewing the inside of his mouth, breathing heavy, hating it—hating it all. His cheeks burning, coated in sweat as he stares at the words on the page, unsure why none of them are soaking in.
Why wouldn't you choose your lieutenant? That's the thought that gnaws, that sinks its pointy teeth into him. And it makes his bones ache. 
Because he's so close, and yet so far. He almost has you, but not entirely. And it pecks at him, weaves into his insecurities, his need to prove himself—so much so he can’t rid the image of his lieutenant looming his big fucking frame over you. You under him, eyes staring up, lips parted, shredding your clothing for the man who rarely shows his face—
Your groan punches the air. 
A sound he knows is from you being knocked on your arse, but it makes his fingers turn white. The sound so painted with frustration, and tiredness. He can tell—christ, he can even imagine the look on your face that accompanies it. Yet his brain twists it, morphs it, transforms it into something so ugly it almost breaks his heart.
It makes him want to claw at his brain, scratch out the images the tortured parts of himself keeps creating.
Because he knows you’re both sparring, that Lt is likely knocking you down, over and over again—not knowing that you’re stubborn, not knowing he should stop, that you’re running on nothing. 
He’s your lieutenant, yes, but he doesn’t know you. Doesn’t know that you push yourself until you snap and shatter, leaving fragments of yourself in your hands. Pieces he’s tried to help guide back into place when he’s found you, lost and broken in such a way he’s not sure how to glue you back.
But, you didn’t choose him. 
You chose Ghost. 
Asked, practically pleaded with him. 
So, he had to listen—even if he really fucking didn’t want to. He had to take the few sightings of you through the cracked door—the proof that you’re not on the floor, broken, breathing hard with sweat blending with tears. 
Which means he also sees your body sheened with sweat, hair sticking to your face, neck and shoulders, and your tiny, tight shorts. It means he's seeing you looking ethereal, almost too good for this goddamn place.
And it nips at him—fueling his jealousy. It peels at his skin that Ghost is seeing you like this without a filter, without anything getting in the way.
All of it whisking against the vexation of the heat, the fear of failure and the growing tiredness. It makes his knuckles almost crack, his skin almost translucent as his wrists ache from the way he continually clenches his fist. 
He’s down bad. He knows that. 
Soap has been aware of it for longer than he’d like to admit. Each time his eyes land on your mid-smile, each sound of your laughter—all he thinks is, I want this, I want it all with you. 
Not that he says those words. He just thinks them. Lets them swirl around his godforsaken mind until they try to drag him under. 
Sometimes, he can’t even think because of it. The depths of his own thoughts like water, drowning him from the inside, made so much worse by the simple fact—he’s not the one pinning you to the floorboards. That he has barely seen you, spoken to you, been around you since they all landed here.
But Ghost has. His lieutenant has. The same Lt who is funny, witty, and even has his own nickname for you. The one who has height even on him, who is broader, and who your eyes land on immediately when briefs are given out. 
Not his. 
Each time he almost wants to exit the room, his teeth cutting the inside of his cheeks. Instead, he sits and silently stews. Bubbling away like a broth his mum used to make—hoping, waiting to get back to base where things feel easier.
And then, your squeal pinches the air, Soap unaware he's even standing until he blinks.
Then he hears the unmistakable gruff, Manchester twang of “Y’alright, Squidie?”
His heart pounds, attempting to crack his ribs and fly out of his chest. More so as each millisecond ticks on, as they add up into seconds and your voice hasn’t cut through the air—
“Not broken. Winded. But—“ 
You cough. Heavy. Chesty. 
Soap’s mind fighting, urging him to push the door open more and visibly check you over himself. But, he hears movements, feet—boots. 
“And. Stop callin’ me, Squidie.”
“Prefer Squidlet?"
"Fuck no."
"Get up.” 
“Alright, alright,” you hiss, and the floorboard creaks again as you do. “Anyone tell you that you're the worst sometimes, Ghostling.”
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Each night, he hopes the air will be easier to swallow. But, each night he wishes, it brings a new fresh hell he feels ill-prepared for.
Tonight, it’s sticky—the air clogged with thick, stubborn heat. There’s moisture, but it’s wrong. It smothers, makes his clothes chafe against his muscles. 
All of it is made worse by you being difficult. You're kind, warm-hearted, and beautiful—but fucking difficult too. Especially on low sleep. Especially when you're woven so tightly, you're going to snap.
He’s heard Price order you to get some fuckin’ sleep—your back against the dingy wall, his palm flat against the wall, eyes close to yours. Soap watched as you lifted your chin defiantly, muttering back, I’ll sleep when you do, Captain. 
Anyone else, he suspects they’d have their neck wrung. Sharing a look with Ghost—one he wasn’t able to translate—as you spit that you'll do the next watch, climbing the stone staircase and the ladder at the top before anyone can argue.  
It reminds him of months ago, when you’d driven yourself to near exhaustion then. Your stubborn, difficultness being the backbone for you not to sleep, something always needing to be done—as if you’re the sole person who can stop all of this and put the world to rights. 
You’ve always taken on so much.
The fire in your chest is both a blessing and a curse. He’s heard Price chew you out for the same reason. You try to do it all, not because you don’t rely on them or because you don’t trust them, but because:
“I care about you, all of you.” 
Soap had been lingering, hanging outside the door of Price’s office when he heard his response. 
“What makes you think you’re alone in that, hmm? You’re one of us, Squid. So, be one of us.” 
When you’d emerged—tail between your legs—it didn’t take a genius to see you’d taken it hard. Not the berating, but the statement; the fact you fit in, that you were cared for.
And, even then you’d tried to shift the emotions dancing in your eyes from him. The mask not slipping down quickly enough, and the smile was not being presented fast. 
“Y’alright?”
He always wondered if you’d have lied if he’d found you one minute later. If you’d have done so because you’d have known he hadn’t seen you undone, exposed—walls at your feet. 
“No. Not… not really.”  “C’mon, lass.” 
It wasn’t the first time, but it was one of his favourites.
He’d held you against him, his sheets over both of your bodies, comfortable silence surrounding the two of you, clothes a welcomed barrier to anything else—as you held him like he was your rock in a storm.
Just like the two of them did on that first mission together. 
I trust you. You know that, don’t you? Course, lass. Be bit awkward if y’didn’t? I mean, I don't do this with anyone else. Sleep with them... like this. I hope fuckin' not. You're special, Johnny. That's all I mean.
Sleep took you seconds later. Gently stealing you from him, breaths turning heavier and body relaxing and moulding around him. 
Soap had found, in that space between reality and sleep, that’s when you were the most free. When your tongue is loosened and your heart is without chains. A side of you he sees in fleeting moments when he’s alone with you, but in a greater capacity like this—when you’re about to leave him for your dreams. 
Now, though, it’s different.
You're weighed down by more than stress and pride, but rocks and fucking anchors. Whether because of the growing casualties or because you missed your bed, because it brought up memories you only ever half told him about.
He knows this because he's overheard Gaz ask you if you’re okay—Soap watching from the sidelines as you lie through your teeth. Something you’re getting better at, somewhat able to control your features, almost a poker face. 
He knows you hate lying, to them at least. Each lie you spit opens a sore inside of you. It’s why he’s not asked himself. Not wanting to give you something else to churn and worry over, knowing it knots your insides and makes you spiral. 
It’s not his turn to keep watch, but he follows you up the ladder all the same. He leans, the air coating his skin, making him already dream about the dribble they call a shower. Because even the rooftop wall is boiling, almost cooking him through his vest and clothes. 
“Talk to me, lass. What’s keepin’ y’up?” 
You don’t look at him, continuing your pacing, eyes trained in the distance. But your breath audibly catches, clearly startled, clearly rattled by his question—his presence. 
“I hate losing.” 
“We ain’t gonna lose, Mari.” 
Your chin lifts, tongue swiping across dry, cracked lips. “I know… we’re the best of the fucking best. But…” 
He knows. 
He’s been feeling it too. 
That thing. Unexplainable. The shadow in the corner, the one which has been haunting and hunting them since the wheels touched down. Sometimes, it’s easy, and sometimes it’s methodical—it’s torturous observing until the perfect moment. And when it’s the latter, it has a way of scratching at sensibility. 
They all have a past. A failed mission that stands out from the rest—one that reminds each of them not to relax, to not let their guard down—what a single mistake can cause. 
Your head turns, the moon casting a shadow across your features, and the hold you have on his heart tightens—nails digging in deep as the muscle tries to thump. 
“Johnny, I’m just so t—“
But it’s stolen, your explanation. 
Heavy boots and a masked face cut off whatever you were about to say. Eyes sitting around darkness, staring from him to you, bouncing, before frowning. 
“It's not your watch, Johnny—"
"—I know—"
"You should get some sleep."
He wants to argue. Almost bloody does, too. 
Wants to dig his heels in, and get you to continue, but he’s tired—his shoulders aching, his eyes stinging.
But, it's your words from another mission that come to mind. The ones from when you’d emerged like a phoenix—fire and smoke behind you as you stumbled into his arms— 
Dunna do that, lass. Scare me. Need to stop worrying, Soapie. I always find my way back. I promise.
So he nods. He leaves. His palms descend down the ladder, half-stopping when he realises he left the window opening pausing.
He's not sure what he’s expecting—if anything at all. A confirmation, maybe? That the girl who drives him mad, has feelings for the more obvious choice. The brooding, big lieutenant who spits army jokes like he has an arsenal of them; the one you spend more time under, even if it’s sparring, than any of the others.
He’s about to move, shaking his nonsensical thoughts when he hears Ghost.
“Y’gotta stop fighting us all, Squidlet.”
“I’m not.”
“You fuckin’ are, and you know it.” 
Silence. Horrid, fucking silence. So much so, his mind begins to fill with images of your bodies moving together, arms pulling the other close, ripping, shredding—
“You’ll be a piss poor shot if y’don’t sleep. Plus, you’re wearing Johnny out.” 
His face flushes, bloody burns in the space between the second floor and the roof.
He doesn't miss you mumble that you’re not. All dismissive. Making his hands grip the spindle of the ladder, releasing a puff of air. 
“If I sleep—“
“The world will keep turnin', trust me.” 
“You almost sound like you care.” 
His heart sinks, drops—and fucking plummets. Because you’re right. It does. It sounds exactly like that. The nickname. The way he’s come up when it’s not even his watch. All of it screaming that it’s something—all flashing lights and loud music accompanying it. 
“Go to sleep, Squidie.” 
“It’s my—“
“Go.” 
He has to move. 
He needs to move. 
Even if he wants to pull you close to him. Even if it feels like you’re slipping through his fingers.
Just like he had done when he first realised how he felt, how he’d been feeling. When he’d almost told you. Rain hammering down, drowning you both to the bone. The two of you sent east, the rest west. Splitting a building each, finding his empty, and telling you as much. Your radio silence still haunted him. His blood thumping in his ears, ripping through each room, doing what he does best—cleaning fucking house. Finding you, bruised, bleeding, your knife in hand trembling under a dead body. The sound of boots drawing nearer to the opening they’d made—
“Thanks, Simon.” 
He blinks in the present. The memory faded into nothing, vanishing like smoke—like it was never even there. Whatever held the last parts of him, snapped. His eyes staring up, pricking with the heat and the moment—stinging, aching. 
You called him his name.
It left your tongue wrapped in intimacy, in care.
He’s unsure how he reaches the bottom of the ladder, his palms closed, fists clenched, nothing else in his head except getting to his room. Crossing the landing, passing the room with the others, only focusing on reaching his own room. The small thing—the cupboard with a single bed he’d managed to cop. 
Everything he's squashed down, rises. They all begin to angrily fuse, mixing with the heat and his pent up frustration that he’s still here—so much so he almost slams the door. Almost.  
His fingers instead press the thin wood into its frame. The click blessing the air like the first strum of a guitar, his heart beating like a drum—and then a knock, one belonging to a smaller hand, calloused, but still soft, the bass that sets the mood. All of it blending, creating a song he's not sure if he'll love or hate.
He knows it’s you. Knows it as he opens the door, watching you stare up at him, sliding your vest from your body, all defeated and knackered beyond belief. 
Deep down, no matter what his brain says—what he hears, what he sees—he at least knows it’s him you choose to curl up to. That when you really need comfort, it’s him you look for. It’s him you pull close until your bodies almost merge into one. 
“Hi.”
“Lass...” 
You look troubled, more weighed down than he really noticed. Not even bothering to hide it, to plaster a smile over the cracks. 
“Can I… Soap, I can’t…” you chew the inside of your cheek, avoiding his eyes as you sigh. 
He tugs on your wrist, pulling you to him. Your body falling into him like it’s weightless, like you’re all attitude and feathers. Bringing you close, holding your head to his chest—almost swaying with you. 
It always starts like this. 
One, long hug. Rooted to the spot. Nothing—not a single thing able to penetrate the two of you. Frozen in a moment no one can ever take. And then, he’ll turn, finding shorts and a different t-shirt, hearing you undress before finding something more comfortable. Sometimes it’s your own, sometimes it’s his. 
And fuck, when it’s his. 
Your wicked, but sleepy smile is a picture for sore eyes and one he wishes he could take a photo of when you wait for his invite, as if you ever need one to climb into his bed.
Your bodies slide against the mattress. Usually, the springs protest, but the cot you’re sharing just groans in frustration as both of your sets of limbs find their place. 
It should feel awkward, but it never does. He shouldn’t crave this, should be able to sleep solidly without a person on his chest. But, he finds he sleeps better with you. Finds that dreams are easier, that there’s more sunshine, more hope and fucking rainbows in the world when you’re on top of him, softly breathing. 
“Night, Mari.” 
He waits. 
Your usual sleepy ‘Soapie’ or ‘Johnny’ blessing his ears. But none come, none. And he almost tenses, almost moves you to see your face. 
“You… you don’t mind that we do this, do you?” 
His hand tilts your chin up, staring into those eyes, begging them to give him a reason—either to close the gap or begin the process of getting over you. Something. Anything. 
Because how could he mind this, when he wants something more? 
He’d ask for it too. If he weren’t afraid. The big demolition man scared of losing you, of losing this, by being greedy and wanting more. 
“Neve’, lass. I like being the person y’come t’when you need somethin’.”
He doesn’t miss the smile. The soft one. The one which you rarely show, but is bloody beaming for him now. 
“It’s only you, Soapie,” you say, curling tighter into him, leaving no space. 
And it takes all of his control. 
Thoughts of his great-aunt with her harsh accent and wiry moustache to be able to pull you closer. Your head on his chest, fingers dancing up and down your arm as he feels you relax, muscle by muscle. 
“Only me, y’say?” 
You let out a soft breath, one that dances warmth over his t-shirt—almost over the hair on his chest. “You’re an idiot, Johnny. Course it is, who else?” 
And he smiles. 
Not at his name, not at the insult, but the fact you’re falling asleep—something you’ve not done for two full days. And it’s on him. 
Only him. 
He buries the rest of your words. The ‘who else’ and the instant answer that appeared on the tip of his tongue. He can unpack it another time. 
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There’s something about waking on top of him. Clothes are a horrid, but necessary barrier between the two of you. 
You don’t want things to change, for them to spoil, to wilt and fade from grasp. So, you’ll put up with only having this, having him in this way. At least then, you'll always have arms around you that you know won’t hurt you. You’ll accept the hugs, and long for the cuddles; you’ll settle for sleeping alongside him, rather than with him. 
And, you won't tell MacTavish that you think he’s handsome, no matter how much he dares you to drink. That even asleep he is beautiful, even minus the evidence of his smile, and the dimples you wish to trace with your fingers. He’s still everything, without being anything. 
He’s your best friend, your safety, your person. 
He feels like home, a soul that grounds you and keeps you rooted. He makes you better, helps you grow and—
Your fingers draw a circle on his chest. Watching his lashes flutter, his eyes slowly opening, and your throat going dry—like it does each time he looks at you with so much softness. 
I think I’m in love with you, Johnny. 
That’s what you should say. 
Instead, you say, “Morning, Soapie.” 
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READ NEXT PART
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chloesimaginationthings · 3 months ago
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FNAF Into the pit? More like into the daddy issues
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hollis-art · 6 months ago
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fem hilson is attacking my brain like they're seagulls and i happened to bring food to the beach,,,
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and in regard to my original fem hilson post where i mentioned that wilson for sure had an impulsive pixie cut that she very much regretted:
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women,,,,
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bluerosefox · 6 months ago
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Always Favors You
Another Sibling Danny and Jason idea!!
"Are you Jason Peter Todd?!" demanded a deep and commanding tone from the strange glowing being in front of them.
All the Bats stiffened and tensed, no doubt gearing up for a fight against the being that somehow knew Red Hood's full name.
Jason, Red Hood, decided to put on a brave front despite no doubt cursing in his head and wondering how the heck did this thing know his full freaking name.
"Whose asking." he snarled out, his hands twitching for his gun when the huge glowing knight with purple flames coming out of his helmet and cape, who was riding on a nightmare looking horse while they all had been in the cave going over tonight's patrol.
The Knight didn't seemed bothered by his response nor did he even seem to care or flinch when Batman made his own demand on 'Why was he there and who was he' or when Damian unsheathed his sword and pointed it towards him. Instead the strange glowing Knight reached to it side and pulled out... A glowing scroll? Huh. (Also he completely unnerved everyone in the room when the Knight didn't even react when Batman had tossed a Baterang when he reached for his side)
The Knight opened the scroll and spoke clearly with purpose.
"Jason Peter Todd,
You are hereby invited as a special guest of honor to the crowning of our future King of the Infinite Realms.
Daniel Phantom, once Daniel Jackson Fenton, and once Daniel Austen Todd.
Prince of the Infinite Realms, the Keeper of Balance, The Peacekeeping Halfa, the Defeater of the Tyrant King Pariah Dark, The Great One, Youngest of the Ancients, Ancient of Space, The Bridge between Life and Death.
You, the half-brother of our King, have been given the highest of honors for your past actions and will be given housing and food in the Realms and Phantom's Keep, for the week long event. Personal servants and attendants will be at your disposal and a seamstress will be on hand to tailor make your attire for the Coronation.
Signed: Clockwork. Ancient of Time. Watcher of the Infinite Timeline. Kronos. Mentor and Adviser.
PS: I shall have Fright Knight ("Me" the Knight bluntly said for a second) leave this scroll along with a personal one for you from Daniel to read over and once you make up your mind sign the bottom of the scroll.
I do hope in time you will pick the right choice Jason Todd, we of the Infinite Realms would like to reward you for your actions. After all, if you hadn't gotten young Daniel away from your father that night all those years ago, we would never had gained our Prince nor be free from our once Tyrant King.
Ah, one more thing.
The Infinite Realms will always favor you Jason."
Jason felt like he couldn't breath as Fright Knight? Rolled up the scroll, pulled a letter from his side, and held out the two items for him to take.
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egophiliac · 6 months ago
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tsum events really are just the best, huh
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umbrellainkart · 2 months ago
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Hey can we talk about Wendy. I’m dying to talk about Wendy. Let’s talk about Wendy. Hey can w
(Hcs and character ramblings under the cut)
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muppetfreak · 11 months ago
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Mr. Riordan, it is truly a pleasure getting to experience your second draft.
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