#knitting simon au

[lxvvie]

Your relationship with Simon is... shocking to say the least. Well, it is to others. Not to you.

Your dynamic suits you both.

When folks meet the Missus™, no one expects a chainsmoking, tattoo-having, mountain of a man who looks through people more than he does at them and doesn't speak unless he absolutely has to.

He knows how to sew? "Yes, he does," is what you answer, pride in your voice. He learned that and so much more from his girls in the knitting group. In fact, he's on his way there right now.

He made your lunch? "Yeah, he did," is what you say mid-chew, "want some?"

He keeps house? "...Uh... yes?" you answer as if your coworkers asked the dumbest question you've ever heard. And what a damn fine job he does. It's not like you're incapable of it but Simon's homemaking skills are to be commended. Credits his mum.

They don't see what you see, though. They don't see the teddy bear under all that armor, how he makes you laugh, how you make him laugh, and how you hold and love each other as if it were the very first time.

But it's okay, they don't have to understand your relationship.

You and Simon do and that's all that matters.

[tojisun]

Poor poor hockey! Simon :(

he lost and now the only thing to make him feel better is a good bj

this made me twitch so here u are my love !!!

!! comfort/smut - minors dni; hockey au; praises (in a tender way and but also in a kink way); D/s-ish; some semblance of plot ig // 2.4k words (LMAO)

the horn blows, marking the end of the game and, with that, the end of spec gru’s season.

it was heartbreaking to watch the way the boys' bodies slump, their loss descending onto them like heavy rain. the arena shakes, screams from the opposing team's fans piercing your ears, but you can't blame them, really—they won on home ice, against the leviathan of the league. it is a tremendous win for them, and a devastating loss for your side.

you feel your hand getting squeezed and you turn, looking at johnny's fiancee, seeing the way her own face is crumpled in her sadness.

"i guess that's that, huh?" she says, comforting, her voice a quiet whisper that was almost devoured by the loud cheers.

sometimes you forget that she's an athlete too; that she feels things a lot more intense than you do because she understands the grapple. the desperation. the way how everything you give and everything you put out is, at the end, not enough.

you sniffle, holding her hand tighter.

"i'm so proud of 'em," you say wetly, unable to compartmentalize your grief.

she laughs, the sound of it so empty of any humour but not any less kind.

“i am too.”

you both turn your gazes back to the rink and watch the teams shake hands with each other, the players finally amiable like they hadn’t just been tussling on ice, all sparked by the sharp tension that buzzed throughout their play.

you watch as simon takes a lap, patting the backs of his team members with his lips pursed, but otherwise he is put together. and yet here you are, shaking, lips wobbling, nose twitching because you are trying your best not to cry. it isn’t like you were the one who lost so you wonder why your heart twinges with so much pain; why is it that you are the one holding back the tears?

simon turns to the crowd, roving his eyes past bodies, until they finally lock on you. his lips twitch into a smile; you give him what you hope is a big one—the type of smile that will let him know how in awe you are of him, win or not.

they skate away and you all shuffle out, preparing for the flight back home.

.

it was expected for the players to fly back home together—a semblance of normalcy even amidst the staggering defeat. it was their last attempt at showing sportsmanship; at showing the hounding media that despite the abrupt end of their season, they remained close-knit. 

simon understands it, of course. it was a media play, one that contends with the politics of the league, but it was difficult to act impartially, especially when they were making their way back, empty-handed, from the home ice of the team that had defeated them. it was difficult to not show the turmoil in their hearts, but they all managed to hold their heads up high during the exit and that was that.

they didn’t talk about it much, avoiding that last game as best as they could until the briefing, but hunger thrums in their jowls—no one was satisfied with being the second best. 

the promise of a better next season hung above them, but it is still so unreachable.

simon feels angrier than usual, unable to stop himself from taking this loss personally. like what costed them their win were only his shortcomings; like this defeat was his sole failure because he did promise to lead his team on ice, with price unable to stand as their official captain during the games. he had promised to score the most, after all, and had promised to keep the opposing puck out of price’s net, but he failed in both and, well, here they are.

back home, anguished. defeated.

he–

simon's phone rings, a quiet trill that echoes in the empty locker room. 

he shoots awake from the swirl of his thoughts, sluggish as he pulls it out of his bag. he expected it to be laswell or keller, or maybe their coach, but simon feels his world tilt when he sees your name flashing on his screen. and just like that, like he wasn’t even drowning in his self-doubt and self-hatred, simon feels like he can breathe again. 

he feels lighter, his anguish seeping out of his pores, leaving him with nothing but his flesh and his heart and his love. 

simon picks up the call, hears your voice, then he is up and running back home. 

.

there is a sense of urgency in the way he finds you, his cold body folding into the warm touch of your own. you gasped out his name, surprised at how fast you have him back in your arms after a whole season of flying and leaving and pursuing his chance at the cup—

“i’m home, petal,” simon murmurs, his voice deep and beautiful and longing, and you giggle, your eyes watering, before you nuzzle into his chest.

he breathes you in, the faint smell of ozone and rain and something distinctly flowery fills his nose, and somehow this is what grounds him, his blood spiking as desire and need fill him up instead.

and it trickles into him like wafting smoke—soft, gentle, cascading like a warm kiss. it is still intense, hungry, but it is tender. quiet. like everything about simon’s buzzed energy had transformed into this careful folding. the anger, the desperation, all of it snuffed out for a vulnerable moment.

“baby,” you begin, voice muffled from where your head is still pressed on his chest. “love, you did so well.”

he shakes, his words failing him now. 

you pull back just enough and he sees the glazed look in your eyes as you stare up at him, your lips curled in your smile. “i’m so proud of you, si.” 

his heart stutters inside the cages of his ribs, jumping, before it lodges itself in his throat. 

you giggle at his wordless tremors and press close again, your body melting onto his again, before you tip your head back to his chest but this time, instead of a nuzzle, you greet his beating heart with a kiss. one that is so light he barely feels it from his shirt, but simon feels so shaken. 

he feels so raw. 

you are holding him like he is the best thing in this world. like all his bulk and his size and his anger is still worth this softness.

“i need you,” he croaks out, unable to stop the way his feelings bloat and rage in the pit of his stomach. 

“you have all of me,” you reply, breathless, your eyes still blown open, wide and full of wonder. then they shift, turning sharper, gaining edge; still careful, coaxing, but overwhelming. “tell me, my love. tell me how you need me.”

“fuck,” simon rasps out, feeling like he’s running out of air. his fingers twitch, digging deep into your skin, feeling it mould under his touch.

he’s missed this, alright. he’s—

“mouth,” he finally manages to bite out. “wan’ feel your mouth, love.”

“okay,” you croon, kissing his pec again. “sit f’me?”

simon doesn’t even have it in him to feel embarrassed about the way he falls to his ass on the plush mattress, bouncing a little bit because of the force, before he spreads his legs open, so, so desperate. 

you have your bottom lip trapped between your teeth, canines dimpling the flesh, and simon feels like he is burning from the inside; doused with the fires of need, spark untamable, licking up, up, up.

“come on, firelily,” he rumbles, needy. “c’mere an’ kiss me.”

you huff, fond, and fall to your knees, scooting close to him. 

it was silent as you fumble with his sweats, tugging at the drawstring and grumbling when the hem gets snugged on his hips. simon chuckles, pushing your hair out of your face before he juts up just enough to give you room to slide his sweats and his boxers down.

the cool air makes him tremble and you murmur something. it was so faint that he doesn’t get to catch what it was, but his curiosity sizzles at the sight of you licking your palm, shyly with how you refuse to meet his eyes. he almost teases you, his cheeks round with giddiness, but then you wrapped your fist around his half-chub, and his sanity is razed. 

simon hisses, eyes fluttering close at the warm curl of pleasure.

jesus. he’s missed the feeling of this; your hand is softer, more supple, around his cock. it was so different from when it was his own fist rubbing himself, beating at his angrily flushed cock with desperation only for his peak to tip over mutedly, and not enough to truly satiate his hunger.

but this? fuck. 

simon doesn’t even realize he’s whimpering, his head thrown back at the curious pace of your hand, not really jerking him off but mapping along his veins almost in quiet awe. 

“‘m not gon’ last long if you–” he gasps at a particular twist. “if you keep doing that.”

“oh, no we can’t have that,” you tease, chuckling, and simon’s reply builds on the tip of his tongue, cheeky, but then you’re already moving, your back folding, your breath hitting his sensitive head.

his thighs tense in his anticipation, his stomach locking. you flit your eyes up at him, pupils blown wide in your own ragged need, before he jerks at the feeling of your tongue pressing on the underside of his cock, licking up, and teasing his leaking slit.

simon moans, guttural, his voice caught on the back of his throat. he drops his hands to his sides, fisting at the sheets as you keep licking, teasing his slit and tracing his veins, lapping at his cock so messily. 

if he didn’t know any better, he’d think that you’re inexperienced; all sloppy and curious, like you’re attempting things you’ve probably seen in porn, but then you close the ring of your mouth around the bulbed head, suckling like it’s a goddamn loli, while your hands drop to squeeze his balls, and simon’s gone. 

“shit-!” he gasps out, battling air like he’s back on ice. 

he bucks his hips forward, unable to help himself, and only stops at the warbled sound of your surprise.

“fuck,” he hisses, hand coming up to swipe the hair from your sweaty face. “i’m sorry, darlin’. didn’t mean t’force it down. s’just that y’r so good.”

he keeps petting your cheek, overtaken by his desires and no longer able to stop the string of words trickling from his heart. “missed you lots, swee’art. missed you so much—take me deeper?”

your cheeks hollow as you hum, so obedient for him.

“yeah, jus’ like that,” simon trills, his chest rising as he breathes in deeply. his stomach flexes at the feeling of you swallowing more of him, taking his thickness past your gummy cheeks and into the wet vice of your throat. “shit, baby. christ. y’feel so fuckin’ good ‘round me. so perfect an’ wet.” he giggles, drunken in his bliss. “such a messy baby y’are. so sloppy. y’wanted my cock that much, din’ya? so hungry f’r it.”

there’s a wet slurp when he hits the deepest you could allow him, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. you choke, your body lurching in protest, but simon is at the throes of his pleasure and his rational thoughts are devoured by his gluttonous need, and simon knows it is wrong to ask but—

“hold it in? can you do that f’r me, love?” he croons, his voice curling in his euphoria.

he knows this is playing dirty; to use your weakness—the deep rumble of his voice and the gentle beckoning—to make you weak, malleable. to make you just as desperate for him because he knows all you want to do is to be good for him even when it has you straining, your eyes filling up with tears. he knows it is wrong, but he can’t help it. he wants you this way.

and you want him like this too—his desires sharpening, shaping him to be mean and dangerous. his thickness fills you up, pressing at the roof of your mouth and trapping your tongue underneath the weight of his flesh. your larynx is stretched out, stuffed, but simon is looking at you so adoringly, his own ecstasy so dizzying, so addicting.

you nod, sniffling, finally replying to his question because you want him to feel good. because you want him to lose his restraints when it comes to you.

because you want him to use you until he’s truly relaxed, his body exhausted with something beyond his heartbreak. with something beyond his loss.

simon’s lips wobble like he knows what it is you are thinking of. 

he fucks your throat that way, gentle and sometimes slipping into something so mean it makes you squirm on your knees, the muted throb of your strained legs finally turning into staticky numbness, but you don’t complain, your jaw relaxed as you let simon use you.

he growls out his praises, his words chewed on in his peaking euphoria—nose flaring, cheeks flushed red—or lilting as he teases you—pulling his cock out enough that all that is left is the head, and you whine because you want him in, please simon. wan’ more please—

“gonna cum, sweetheart. gonna cum—fuck!—gonna—”

simon throws his head back, a blinding white filling his eyes and his ears ringing. his body trembles at the intensity of his orgasm, immense pleasure overtaking every synapses in his body until all that he feels is the feverish wrap of your mouth on him.

he flicks his eyes down, panting, and twitches at the sight you make—jaw slack, eyes faraway, skin shining with a thin sheen of sweat. 

you look, fuck, you look angelic like this.

simon cups your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your teary eye. you focus back to him slowly, blinking owlishly. 

“shh,” he croons, gentle. “i’ve got you, darlin’. i’ve got you.”

a whine builds from the back of your throat and simon hums, responding to your wordless babble, trying to ease you back down from the fog. he continues to hold you even amidst his oversensitivity, waiting so patiently so he can take care of you now.

yeah, he thinks to himself as he continues to return your unblinking stare. i’m glad to be back home. 

hope this was good :'33 once again pls dont judge me for my blatant self-indulgence hhHHHHH oki oki mwah!!

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part nineteen —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The cool paste feels tingly on your skin as you rub it against your bruised stomach, wincing. Christ. Maybe Ghost was right to think he might break you. Beneath the mottled patchwork, another kind of pain stirs— your muscles are growing. Firm and tight. The only soft parts of you left are your breasts and your ass. Gently applying the paste to a nasty purple one on your left cheek, you curiously pinch the sore flesh between your fingers. Scratch that. Even your ass is firming up. 

Arnica has healing properties. Yesterday, you found a patch of it with Blue and created a salve with some water. You already applied some last night before bed. Whether or not it’s helping probably doesn't mean much when new ones are about to be added; still, the placebo effect brings some comfort.

You're still massaging your backside when the bathroom door groans beneath a heavy fist. 

"Hurry up. Grab your bow."

“Shit.” You startle, almost dropping the salve. "Uh, coming.”

Chucking on a clean shirt and your old pair of jeans, you pad out of the bathroom, ignoring the cry of your joints. Ghost is outside waiting for you. Wait— bow? Confusion delivers an uptick to your pulse; you never bring your bow to train.

“What’s going on?”

"The air," he replies in a flat tone.

The stale smell offers enough explanation. You cringe. "Should we split up?"

He shakes his head and nods towards the direction the gentle breeze is rolling in. "No need. It's coming from this way."

In the violet wash of morning, you trail beside him over tall grasses and scattered groundhog burrows as the air leads the way, luring you opposite the clearing where you train. There haven't been any Greys since the one you burned together. For the past few weeks, you'd almost forgotten about their existence— a pleasant naivety for once. 

Neither of you bothers with much small talk. He asks if you're sore, probably noticing how stiff you are, and you answer honestly. That's it.

You keep your attention strictly on the wood bow molded into your palm and the slight rustling of leaves all around you, scanning for signs of anything astray. You don't look at Ghost, even when you feel his eyes flicker to the side of your head. Staring at him for even a second longer than necessary rouses something in your gut that was once easy to label as fear; now you don't know what to call it.

He is wearing thicker clothes today, the intimidating vest stocked with ammo glued to his chest. You'd gotten used to his more casual wardrobe of gym shorts and hoodies. They make him look... softer, almost. A little less like a death omen. Though, you sincerely doubt there are any soft parts of Ghost left under all that gear, given the rigid planes you felt beneath your hands when you—

"There."

You snap your gaze in the direction Ghost is pointing at.

At first, you don't see anything.

Then, squinting, you make out a red color far too metallic to naturally sprout among the conifers. 

An arrow is urgently slotted on the bowstring as the two of you head towards it, your brows tightly knitted. You've been this way a few times and never saw a— is that a red car?— before. Closing in, your suspicions are confirmed when a stroke of sunlight bounces off the metal bumper. The patchy sedan is tucked within a bush, tail-end sticking out, with half-flat tires resting on corroded rims. Shadows of movement dance behind the tinted windows, too disjointed to be natural.

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath, boots scuffing over a long-faded gravel pathway that is now shrouded in weeds. The car must've been following it before winding up in the bush— the occupants no longer human enough to drive.

"They... they must have just turned while they were driving," you think aloud. "When did this even get here?"

"Maybe during the night," Ghost mutters.

He paces forward and swings open the passenger door. A string of moans is released as a Grey lurches within the confinements of the seatbelt, but he quickly silences it with a bullet to the forehead, causing it to flop sideways out of the car. Maybe just a day ago, it was a young man. His hair is fully intact and he's wearing a blue shirt with the Chelsea Football Club logo on the back.

"I wonder why they were driving this way to begin with," you say quietly, stomach rolling.

In the driver's seat is the slumped-over corpse of an older man, having died from so many bite wounds before the infection could take hold. The early stages of decomposition smell almost worse than the infection and you have to breathe through your mouth as you head for the back door. 

"There's another here I think."

You're ready to shoot and put whoever it once was out of their misery when you pry open the door, but the sight of a small body wriggling around makes you freeze. Curled up against the faded leather is an infected boy, no older than eight or nine. His eyes are all white except for the outer rim where a few vessels are still filled with red blood. Your fingertips dig fiercely into the frame of the door as you stare down at him; his soft brown hair, his small hands, his Minecraft shirt. He whimpers and tries to claw at you, mouth hung open in mindless hunger.

The feeling that washes over you is hot and cold at the same time. It's not the first or last time you've seen an infected child, so you don't know why the sight traps you for a few heartbeats.

A voice emerges beside you. "It's not a kid anymore."

You almost forgot Ghost was there. Your teeth clench. "Yeah, I know."

You feel his eyes burning into you. Your fingers tighten and untighten around the arrow's stem as you aim. 

"Hone it, Twix— the anger."

The tension in your jaw releases at the same time as your arrow snaps forward, cutting through the boy's skull and driving his limp body down to the car floor.

“You good?”

You forcefully swallow and look away, giving Ghost a short nod. "Guess that's all of them."

He slowly nods in agreement, studying you, but all he says is, "For now."

“Don’t you think it’s strange?”

“Seen stranger things over the years,” he says. “It seems like they were headed somewhere, maybe needed a new place to settle, and one of them got bit. Infected the others.”

You nod, thinking it over. “What about the car?"

"No fuel left, so it's pretty useless." Rifle still in his grip, he moves around to the hood and props it open. "Might have some parts I can use, though."

While he scavenges for gears that aren't rusted beyond functionality, you take a look at their belongings. There is an empty bottle of whiskey in the cupholder. In the boy's lap is a stuffed tiger that you assume was once white, but now it's a worn of grey. You carefully shift his corpse and take it.

"I have a friend who might be able to care of this for you."

In the trunk, at least, you find some tripwire. 

Dragging the two adult bodies back to the trench for burning is your 'strength' training for the day. Since they haven't decomposed much yet, they're heavy; you go back and forth, taking one at a time. Ghost carries the small one over his shoulder. After the flames snuff out the smell of rot, he relieves you, claiming he has other shit to take care of—more traps to set with the newfound tripwire.

"Hey. Would you like this?" you ask Blue when she's up, handing her the tiger. 

"I'm kinda too old for dolls, Twix." She must see the expression on your face because she shakes her head and disappears into her room for a minute before coming out with a teddy bear. "My mom gave me this one when I was a baby and it just sits on my bed by itself, but now it can have a friend."

You smile and nod. "Yeah, okay."

The day is spent playing board games with her. When she notices how sore you are, she offers an exclusive massage from Grim, who hops over your back and legs as you relax face-down on the couch. However, even with the honorary treatment, the aching lingers. 

"Auntie, I'm over here!"

In a violet-tinted field, you search for the voice.

It's barren and hazy, with no hard edges or places for a little boy to hide; so why is it so hard to find him? You call his name. You wander around, aimless, until you catch a familiar whiff of baked cinnamon and fresh laundry. This way. He's this way. You start running fervently. When a small hand tugs at yours, you whip around and try to grab him, but the soft touch dissolves through your fingers like ash. 

When you wake up, there's a hand on your back and blood on your tongue, evidence that you'd bitten through it during your sleep. The taste is quickly replaced with bile as you launch up, grabbing the sleeve of someone's shirt.

"Oh no, you don't."

The hand moves to your hair, wrapping it around in a fistful before forcing your head to tilt down. A bucket is tucked beneath your chin. You vomit into it, the cool metal rim hissing against your fingertips. Again and again. When it's all out, your throat feels like sandpaper. 

"Done?"

The dark room surrounds you; the perfect place to hide what you know must be a ghastly look on your face. Awareness creeps in, and you're not thrilled by the fact that you've thrown up in front of him twice now. Without looking up at the white skull you know is there, you nod.

Wordlessly, he takes out a cigarette and lighter. You hear a deep inhale. See the dull glow of the flame. Then, he passes it to you and leaves.

"You look like shit today."

You can't even be offended, fully aware of the purple painted beneath your eyes. One look at you quirks his brow up in that annoying mannerism of his.

You offer a tight-lipped simper, mumbling. "At least I can always count on you for brutal honesty."

"Good trait to look for in an ally." He throws the gauze at you and you begin wrapping up. "I don't suppose it has anything to do with the fact you nearly ruined another shirt of mine last night."

You tie off the gauze and glance up. "Look, I'm s—" you stop yourself, "I mean, I'm not sorry, because you wanted my box open so now it's open. You already knew the potential consequences."

"Try opening it without emptying your stomach next time."

You flash him a look. "I think I miss when you pretended I didn't exist."

"And I miss getting a full night of sleep."

"Can we just get started? I'm ready."

Ghost keeps his eyes on you as he motions a fisted hand. "As you wish."

When the familiar dance begins, and adrenaline ripples up your spine, you realize that you missed this yesterday. The rest felt good, but this— the thrill of seeing Ghost start to get as worked up as you, the sweat stains on his shirt matching your own... it is something you itch for these days. 

You get a few hits in that have your ego swelling. But then— the rough night catches up with you after half an hour of wordless sparring. Your breathing grows labored, while his is barely winded.

"Tired yet?" he asks.

"No," you say, but he calls you out immediately.

"You're a terrible liar," he reminds you. A few more swings have your lungs burning as you dodge until one finally catches up with you, and whatever healing your homemade salve has done is erased by a fresh layer of pain. 

As you clutch your side, he changes the subject. "Are you going to tell me what it was about then?"

"What what was about?"

"Whatever was making you whimper in your sleep."

Your face twists. "I wasn't 'whimpering'."

"Fine, then. Crying," he corrects plainly.

You sigh through your nose, averting your gaze only for a moment, then focusing back on him before he can strike you again. His words hang in the air, ignored, as you jab an elbow toward his ribs. He grabs you by the knob of it and pulls you unnecessarily close to his chest. When you try to wriggle free by placing a hand on his chest, he fists your hair, which has slipped out of a bun into a haphazard ponytail, and tugs hard enough to force your eyes up to his.

His gaze is demanding but his voice is light— a mere breath over your forehead. "Tell me why someone who has seen plenty of infected kids by now seemed so bothered by the one she saw yesterday. He reminded you of someone, didn't he?"

The mention of it makes you snap. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Trying to act like you know anything about me."

"I know enough. You are easy to read."

So that feeling you get when he looks at you isn't just in your head; he truly can see through. Your nails dig into your palm. "There's no need to read me. We're not friends. We're just... allies, or whatever."

"Or whatever," he repeats thoughtfully, tasting the words. "You talk like a teenager."

"Compared to you I might as well be," you retort.

"Jesus." He chuffs out an exhale, eyes flickering down for a moment before returning up to yours, narrowing. "Let's not change the subject here." 

"Fine. Take this stupid Halloween mask off," you lift the hand on his chest up to the hem of his balaclava, feeling how weighted the fabric is with sweat. "And I will tell you all about it."

His jaw flexes before he gently guides your hand away. "Tempting offer, but I'll pass."

You refuse to acknowledge the tinge of embarrassment at his dismissal and inch back as far as the hand on your hair will allow. The close proximity, or harsh sun, is making it hard to breathe. "Well, it's not fair for you to ask me shit about my life when you don't even let me see your face."

"I never claimed to be fair." 

"I promise I won't vomit no matter how ugly you are. I've seen worse things out here."

His hand tightens. "I think I miss when you were scared of me. Less mouthy back then."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

"No?" He flips you around so your back is against him, one hand settling on the toned curve of your hip. His voice lowers to your ear. "Maybe I need to fix that."

An unwelcomed shiver courses through you. He lets go. A wristbone nudges against your spine, shoving you forward. Irritation simmers in your veins when his remark finally registers, and you whirl around, readying your stance. 

"If you even think about threatening me after I explicitly asked you not to, then I would suggest sleeping with a knife tonight."

"Who's threatening who, Twix?" He gives a low chuckle. "Relax. I'm sure I could handle you in my sleep, anyway."

He's egging you on; you know it. And yet, you stubbornly take the bait. His knee— the right one. That's where you got him last time that made him falter. Maybe an old injury. But when you swing a boot at it, he expects your attempt, knocking you away by the ankle. 

"Ah. Eager to get me beneath you again?"

Pink sears your cheeks as you wipe a trickle of sweat from your forehead. "I'm eager to humble you for once."

"Might need to keep your dinner down to do that."

You grit your teeth. So maybe he did allow it last time. The realization darts your eyes to his wide stance, searching for an idea. Without second-guessing yourself, you kick at the other knee. He must find your second attempt amusing because he easily predicts it, but before he can catch your leg, you snap it back and drop yourself to the ground.

The brief distraction allows the second of time needed to fit yourself between his legs. You're slim enough to push through, kicking at the inside of both knees once you're on the other side. His legs buckle, and you reach up to pull his arm, finishing the job.

Once he's down, you scramble to get on top, not caring if your boot kicks his face in the process. You grab both of his wrists and bring them above his head, but it's impossible to wrap your fingers all the way around them. Instead, you lace them through his fingers, breathing hard in his face as your breasts meld against the solid heat of him.

"Did you allow that?" 

His voice is rougher than you've ever heard it. "No."

Your lips furl. "Good."

A dark gleam passes through his dilated pupils that makes your head fuzzy. You let go of his hands. Immediately, they gravitate to your hips again, thumbs fiercely pressing into the sliver of skin exposed from where your shirt rides up. You don't move even an inch, frozen in place as you stare down at where he grips you against him. That feeling in your gut deepens and spreads. It is hard to pinpoint—so insane and foreign yet familiar at the same time—but one thing is certain: it begins and ends where his rough skin touches yours.

Before you can figure anything else out, a scream shatters the air, and Ghost rips you off of him in one swift movement. 

[bluegiragi]

I'm not sure how I found your account but I have loved all of your creations. They have fueled my hyper-fixation for Call of Duty.

When it comes to your Monster au, are there any characteristics from the team that you see them having that you haven't been able to draw out in a storyline?

that's such a good question omg...it'd probably be all the ways that the 141 grew up.

(warning - lots of reading under the cut)

Price is a dragon hybrid, which means that historically his kind has not had amazing relationships with humans or each other. Close-knit dragon communities are still really rare, since instinctively they're extremely territorial and require space to themselves and a way to assert their own strength and hoard. But, sort of by government mandate, dragons need to keep within designated areas in case they accidentally torch a human city y'know. So he did grow up in a colony, but all the families there tended to keep to themselves, exempting mating season and the occasional territory fight. He left to join the military when he was pretty young, all things considered, and I think he did it mainly out of boredom. They were happy to have him of course - dragons are massive powerhouses with long lifespans, and very rare in their ranks (they dislike being ordered around). Price would like to think he's destined for a quiet life, but his job really let him wreak havoc and he took pleasure in indulging that primal urge of his. He grew out of that destructive phase though - nowadays, his priorities consist of taking care of his team.

--

Soap is a werewolf, which is a monster that subscribes to the 'it-takes-a-village' kind of mentality for raising a child. The Mactavishes are an average werewolf pack, with Soap, his parents, his grandparents, and his two sisters (one older, and one younger). Wolves are social creatures, but the older generation likes to stay within their own kind, if only for safety reasons. Soap's always been a go-getter though, so joining the military for a chance to see more of the world just made sense to him. Full-blooded werewolves are pretty sought after in the ranks, but they're a relatively newblood kind of monster. Superiors will often do their best to tame wolves and bring them to heel, with differing levels of success. If you win their loyalty, they're yours for life, but do them wrong and the pack will turn on you. Because of that danger of mutiny, officials will tend to keep it to one werewolf a team, despite them being stronger together.

--

Harpies are typically solitary and aren't very present parents, since they'll raise their children until they're 16 then dump them somewhere and tell them to survive. It sounds ruthless to most, but it's just how their culture is and it's how Gaz grew up. He's a resourceful type, and joined the military as soon as he could. Harpies are actually one of the more common monsters used in the forces, since their eyesight and wings make for pretty amazing scouting forces/snipers. In saying that though, there's no automatic comradery to be found between two harpies on the same team - in fact, they'll usually be combative at worst and cold/distant at best. Historically, harpies have found pride in their own independence, so being forced to interact/work together can be seen as an insult. Gaz himself is pretty charismatic and cool-headed, but even he'd get irritated if he was forced to share space with another harpy. He was shipped around between teams a lot as a lead sniper before he got promoted and met Price.

--

Simon is a wraith, but before that he was a normal human, if a bit freakishly strong. His time in the military was an escape from his home life, and after he became a wraith, that distance between himself and the human world only grew. Not a lot is known about wraiths, because the only way you'd be able to study one is if they let you and wraiths are inherently extremely private creatures with a tendency for extreme bursts of violence. They're also almost impossible to catch/imprison, so Simon's an asset the military is determined to hold onto.

[metalatias5]

AU Summary for my Memory Restoration AU (MR AU)

This is MRSimon (Memory Restoration) aka SantaSimon

His head is inhabited by all the wearers of the crown: Simon, Santa, Sveinn and Gunther.

How did this happen, you wonder?

While trying to find a way to fix her Simon, this world's Magic Betty came upon a spell that supposedly restored any locked away memories.

When she cast the spell on him while he wore his crown though she didn't just unlock Simon's memories, she unknowingly tore down the labyrinth inside the crown, releasing all the past wearers into Ice King's head.

The sudden influx of memories of not only the past 1000 years, but also four separate lifetimes and personalities was overwhelming and incredibly difficult to adjust to, both for MRSimon and for his Magic Betty.

But with time and lots of patience, they eventually managed to find some semblance of normalcy and happiness.

Sure, MRSimon's new condition's still far from perfect and he totally needs therapy, but he finally remembers Betty and can be with her.

And thanks to Santa and Sveinn he's found new distractions in knitting, baking and woodworking.

They're pretty much the happiest a couple suffering from Magic, Madness and Sadness can be.

[glossysoap]

saudade ; preview

saudade : (n.) a nostalgic longing to be near again to something or someone that is distant, or that has been loved and then lost; “the love that remains”.

featuring; future poly ghoap x reader!!!!, american! reader referred to as “you”, childhood best friends to lovers, penpal au!, lanyard references at the bottom.

OBVIOUSLY NO MATURE CONTENT UNTIL THEY REUNITE WELL INTO ADULTHOOD (nearing the game timeline). don’t be weird with my AU.

notes: pls note that all of my “preview” stuff are ramblings!! and the actual fic will always be longer, more detailed, and so on! this is just a little treat! 🫶🏻

ok so i know it’s a stretch but imagine that you had 2 penpals when you were a kid and they ended up being kid Simon and kid Johnny?

You tried hard to befriend the two boys, asking them what their favorite colors were, what kinds of food they liked, what did they want to be when they grew up.

When Johnny told you his favorite colors were blue and green, you knit him his own little lanyard and sent it to him with the next letter! Johnny’s little blue eyes lit up when he pulled the blue and green lanyard out of the envelope, immediately running to show his Ma what his new friend made him.

Simon told you that his favorite colors were black and red, and when he carefully pulled out a black and red lanyard from the next letter he received, the corners of his lips pulled up into a rare grin. He treasured that small handmade gift from his best friend, making sure to hide it from his father. Making sure to keep it safe.

You had shared American traditions with the two boys, telling stories about road-trips you went on and your favorite foods. When you went on road-trips to your state capital, your mom had bought you two postcards for you to send to Simon and Johnny.

In your letter to the boys, you included polaroids from the road-trip. From sunsets with hues of orange and purple that you knew Simon would find peace in, to photos you snapped of national parks that you knew Johnny would enjoy.

“I think you would enjoy it here, Simon!” “You would have fun here, Johnny!” You had written in near perfect cursive on the postcards to the boys. You had signed the postcards with a smiley face.

When Simon received your letter for that week, he nearly tore the envelope to shreds trying to open it, he was so excited. He also noticed that the envelope was thicker than usual, like it held something more than just the typical letter. When he opened it, he saw that along with your letter, you had sent a couple of polaroids and a postcard! Simon felt warmth flood his chest as he stared at the pictures that you sent.

One polaroid that stood out to him was the sunset. Somehow you just knew that the warmth of the sunset and the gradient from purple to orange would bring him joy. Maybe you figured that since his home was already so dark, literally and figuratively, that any bit of color would feel nice. His lips quirked up at the gesture.

Johnny was so excited to read your letter, he nearly tripped over his own feet running to his mailbox. Once he opened the envelope, he rifled through the content of it before landing on a few polaroids. You had snapped a few shots of a lush, green forest. Another one was a photo of a vibrant blue lake. You knew that he loved hiking in forests with his large family, taking in the nature and wildlife. You also knew that he loved swimming in lakes as well as fishing. You remembered what he enjoyed so you went out of your way to photograph those same things. His face split into a grin at that realization.

When you received their letters back, you were excited to read that they loved the polaroids you sent them, as well as the postcards. Simon told you that he enjoyed the serenity of the sunset and that he hopes to share it with you one day. Johnny wrote that he was touched you’d remembered those small details of his life, let alone that you would capture photos to honor those hobbies of his. He wrote to you that he hopes to hike the trails of Scotland with you someday, when both of you are grown up.

Over the next few years, you kept in touch with the boys as best you could — still sending letters twice a month with the occasional picture, postcard or trinket.

The three of you had moved up in grades. Simon and Johnny had progressed to year 13, their version of senior year in high school. You on the other hand, had progressed faster than the boys. You had progressed traditionally to sophomore year, before skipping junior year due to your great grades, and landing in senior year.

When graduation approached, you decided to send a picture of yourself to the boys in one of your letters. You wanted them to have something to remember you by, just in case you lost touch with them after graduation. Especially after finding out their plans to enlist in their respective militaries.

Little did you know that across the world, Simon and Johnny were blushing as they admired that polaroid of you. They couldn’t believe that their penpal looked like this, this good, this whole time?

Their crushes for you only blossomed over time. Unfortunately though, just before you started med school, you were mugged in the busy city you had moved to, losing your phone and number along with it. It was years until they heard from you again.

As you pursued your career as a surgeon, attending med school and working impossible hours, they were attending basic training.

Years later, you were now a decorated surgeon with (specialty of your choice) at Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital in Seattle, Washington. You had garnered awards for medical miracles and articles written in your honor.

Simon was now a Lieutenant with loads more trauma than he had as a child, with a skull mask to match. Only Simon didn’t get to keep his lanyard that you made him, as his dad had found it one day and burned it.

Johnny was now a Sergeant, still doodling in his notebook and carrying around the blue and green lanyard that you made him.

Your fellow surgeon, Dr. Hunt, was a decorated trauma surgeon with a past as military surgeon. He had mentioned you in passing to an old friend of his, Captain John Price. Not too soon later, your phone was buzzing with calls from both Price and Laswell with proposals to become 141’s new surgeon. With promises of good money and living conditions on their own base.

You couldn’t help but accept, especially looking at all those zeroes on that contract.

Once you arrived on base, Price and Laswell thought it was necessary to introduce you to the team.

They all lined up in the conference room, waiting for Price and Laswell to arrive.

Simon and Johnny’s eyes instantly gravitated to you once you set foot in the conference room. You looked so familiar to their childhood friend —even if you seemed older, they just couldn’t shake it. The way you smiled shyly under all of the attention was so reminiscent of that polaroid you sent them all of those years ago.

“Boys, this is Doctor (First Name/Last Name), they will be our new surgeon. Effective immediately.” Price introduced.

Simon and Johnny’s eyes couldn’t have widened more.

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

lanyard example:

[bunnys-kisses]

"the bounties & death au" (a modern gods au)

a/n: 'sunlight' by hozier is burned into my brain

god of death!simon has been locked away for centuries, not able to return to the surface of the earth after being casted away into the shadows of the underworld. but once he finds himself free, in the countryside of england.

the world feels and looks different than what he remembered. it even smelled different. but the familiar grey sky of england loomed in a familiar way. the only thing in the distance was a small stone cottage with smoke coming out of the chimney. his legs felt weak, but he managed to make it to the cottage. it had been so long since he walked, after being chained on his knees. to walk again felt like being a newborn deer.

who was he to see on the other side of the door, was none other than you. you looked scared and quickly closed the door. you squeaked, "no one's home! please leave."

simon was a bit confused, his eyebrows knitted together as he knocked once more. he said in his low voice, "i know yer in there. please, let me in."

"are you going to kill me?" "no." "are you sure?" "i need help, i have no interest in killing ya." he lit up when he saw you open the door and look up at him.

you took him in but told him that he had to sit at the chair in the kitchen and not move. you knew it was a risk but, there was something familiar about him that you couldn't quite put your finger on. (you'd later recall when you felt close to death after the death of your previous boyfriend).

but simon is kind, you find it comforting to speak to him. he was calm and didn't move from the chair. when he moved as he ate, his movements were slow as to not scare you. simon thought of you like a rabbit. small and delicate, easily nervous.

the first act of kindness he had received in a long time was you sharing a meal with him. the gods didn't need to eat, but the warmth of the stew you made had him feeling warm.

you were an author who had stayed out in the country for some time in order to get a break from the weight of being in the city. you remarked that london was beautiful, and while simon had no way of imagining a city that big, he knew it was nowhere as beautiful as you.

he wouldn't make a move until your last night in the cottage before you headed back to the city. you said you'd drive him wherever he needed to be, but he said he had no home.

you asked him why and he said, "the place i came from. i cannot go back to." and while he hunched his shoulders, you reached up to him and allowed him to stay with you. you had grown to feel affection towards the man, even if you had many more questions about him than answers.

but that night, you shared wine together. you were all over him, your smaller body up against him. when he held onto your ass so you wouldn't fall over, you moaned. you giggled and told him you hadn't been held like that in a long time.

and for the first time in eternity, as simon thrusted into you, he would worship you rather than people worshiping him. as he held your hands onto the bed while you made love, he wondered if it was possible to build a shrine to you. to allow others to worship you the way he wished to do to you.

"you make me feel alive." you whispered in his ear.

an exhale left simon's lips, he then kissed you deeply once more. as you moaned into the kiss and wrapped your legs around his waist, all simon could think about was that he understood why humans were so desperate to get into the heavens. because if it felt anywhere close to how he felt next to you, he would scramble to get through the gates.

his little human, his little fruitful bounty <3

[peachesofteal]

hi peach! as much as i love the dead disco omegaverse au and its angst, im desperately in need for just a gram of fluff with these boys 😔🙏

Ask and ye shall receive ✨

No warnings / no au / pre relationship

Johnny is trying really hard not to move. He’s practically holding his breath, steadying his chest on his exhales to not jostle where your head lays, ear just over his heart, asleep.

You hardly made it a half hour into the movie that won the vote, and now you’re cozied up, legs over Simon’s lap, face half buried in Johnny. You’re warm, and sweet, curled up like a kitten, content and sleepy between them.

He thinks he might explode. He’s glad you can’t actually hear the way his heart is pounding. You, or Simon. He wants to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pull you in closer and hold you. You’ve only been in their lives a short while, but he keeps wanting more and more, can’t stop himself from thinking about the way you look snuggled between them, how Simon’s smile tilts sideways when he watches you. He wants you to stay here, just like this, for as long as you can. Especially with how exhausted you seemed when you had showed up earlier, worn out from a long week of work.

You had practically collapsed on the couch when they suggested watching a film, and Johnny knew within a few minutes that all they’d be doing tonight was this; cuddling. Hanging out. Watching you sleep.

They didn’t mind. You looked so peaceful, so relaxed, and it brought them a lot of pleasure, if he’s being honest, that you feel comfortable enough to fall asleep here.

It’s like everything is starting to come together, starting to become something besides late night texts and pillow talk. It’s like dreams coming true.

Thick fingers trace the shell of his ear, bringing him back to reality.

“Maybe we should put her in bed.” Simon muses, but his voice pitches low enough that you hear it, shifting awake, blinking eyes wide open.

“‘m up.” You grumble, and Johnny rubs your shoulder.

“Want to come to bed?”

“The movie.” You offer a blind protest, still trying get your bearings as you yawn.

“We can watch it later, darling. You’re exhausted.” Simon responds, and you rub your eyes. You’re so fucking cute, Johnny can hardly stand it.

“Okay.” You sigh, and he expects you start moving, but instead you snuggle down further into the couch, and then turn, shifting your ass in Simon’s torso, and draping your arm over Johnny’s waist. “G’night.” You mumble, and Simon chuckles, lobbing one of the knit blankets that they have over your body.

“Need a bigger blanket.” Johnny hums, smoothing a palm over your forehead, and Simon replies with his eyes already closed.

“Or two.”

[siriusleee]

i. hidden caches

Zombie Apocalypse AU | SIMON RILEY x f!READER

↳ SUMMARY: The world is trying to knit itself back together after fracturing apart. You're trying to put yourself back together with it; Simon Riley is just trying to stay alive. ↳ WORD COUNT: 2.2K ↳ TAGS: mentions of cannibalism, mentions of shooting things, mentions of dying. smut to come. canon typical violence to come. additional tags to come as the story progresses. female reader. no mentions of "your name". reader is given a nickname later on. nc-17. ↳ AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to the lovely anon who asked for a scene from an apocalypse au, and this idea was born. If you'd like to donate to my Ko-Fi (my bed frame broke this week and a new one was $200 I didn't have), I would appreciate it. ↳ TAG LIST: There will not be a tag list for this story, as Tumblr has issues with letting me tag people. To get notifications of updates, please subscribe on AO3 or turn on notifications for my blog.

additional chapters | ao3

The ending had come quicker than anyone expected. The epidemics and endemics and pandemics of the years past had given false confidence to everyone. We survived the last thing, the news reporters had said, gray building beneath their eyes, and we can survive this. Behind them images of towns being devoured played. 

Bodies can decompose in as little as nine days. The first to go is the soft tissue: the eyes, the tongue, the soft flesh of the cheeks. When bacteria and insects are introduced, the flesh breaks down faster. Bones take longer - sometimes years to fully wear away into the dust that collects underfoot. But these things - whatever turned them kept them covered in a thin layer of adipocere to protect them from the elements. They kept shuffling along long past the time when they should have reverted back to a primordial soup where they lay.

But they still decomposed. The trick was to stay ahead of them, away from the gnashing teeth that transmitted the virus, away from the hands and feet that never seemed to tire. So few people could. Whole towns and cities were decimated, felled beneath the hordes of horror that ambled slowly past, swallowed up by the feet that didn’t stop moving until they wore themselves down to stubs, which were them pulled forward by hands and knees that never tired. 

But yours did. The familiar path towards the north was more overgrown this year than in the past. For a few years, there had been wary companions, eyes that lingered until the snow and frost rolled in to freeze the Biters where they stood. But as the years wanned on the crowd grew smaller and smaller until you only caught hints of others moving north: horse prints, trash left behind, the occasional Biter left decomposing in the bushes. 

This year there was nothing. Either you had moved too early or there was no one left. The latter is too terrifying, so you push it away and think about whatever groups may wander through here after you.

The woods loom tall above you, the snow that fell earlier in the morning just barely dusting the branches above your head. None of it had reached the leaves that are too waterlogged from recent rains to crunch beneath your feet. A blister is rubbing itself raw at your ankle; you know that if you don’t stop to treat it, it will be unbearable tomorrow, but you brush the thought off. You need to reach the marker before nightfall.

The markers had appeared between one trip north and your trip back down. 

West Village - 20km

The first year it had appeared left the group you were with in a tizzy. The group had fractured down the middle. If all of you found each other, how hard was it to think that a larger group had finally banned together? Civilization needed to rebuild eventually.

You didn’t trust the shaky scrawl that printed the words, so you had been with the group that refused to go. The next year there was another marker tacked to the first.

Body snatchers. Beware.

It was amazing to you: how well rumors could start and spread without phones or the internet. For months, every person you and your group came across would give the same warning, and ask you all the same questions. Have you seen the body snatchers? Are you the body snatchers?

Humans turned cannabolids. Farms where people were forced to reproduce. Spits with babies roasting above the fire. You wanted to think that it was the stuff of fiction.

In the third year, there was another argument. The group cleaved in half again when the promise of civilization reared its head. Your group had divided again at the markers, disappearing into the thick woods. 

Almost no one survived the winter that year. You’d held the hands of all the dying and covered them under a thick blanket of snow before dividing their possessions up between the remainder of the group. In the end, there were just three of you. And when the winter rolled away you all broke apart, whatever ties that held you all together broken by the cold. 

The next year you were the only one in your camp. 

The markers had become a sort of prayer to you, that one day you’d meet someone else on the road - some scream and shout that there were others out there even if you were too wary to speak to them.

But it’s been two years - the crude paint of the West Village sign fading, the body snatchers warning falling to the earth unceremoniously. The wood started to rot. 

And you were utterly alone. Around you, the sound of nature getting ready for the winter fills in the ever-present silence that usually surrounds you. It’s been weeks since you’d last seen a person: a lone traveler moving in the opposite direction as you. And you’d hid from them, worried that they were the sort of feral people turned into when they were alone for too long - a body snatcher. Worried that you were that kind of feral. 

You know the markers when you approach them like your body’s memorized the number of steps it takes to reach them. Your chest thumps as you approach the spot where they should be nailed to a tree, growing taller into the air each year. Your boots falter against the wet leaves as you approach the place. 

The markers have been repainted. Or at least the West Village one has. This time it’s nailed to a post in the ground; you bend down to inspect the dirt around the post. It’s packed underneath a thick layer of loam - whoever put it up must have put it up much earlier in the year. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. You wonder if any members of your former group are still there. 

For half a second, you think about following the arrow, but before the thought can fully form in your head, you let your feet carry you forward on the path. Just ahead is the rest area you’ve always used. Your tree, one with branches high enough that the only things who can see you are the birds whose nests you disturb, erupts from the ground ahead of you.

You climb up like you were taught; throwing your rope onto the first branch you can physically reach and lash it to yourself. It’s more difficult to climb the tree with your pack and bow, but you don’t want to risk leaving it behind for anyone who may come through after you. When you reach the point where the rope reaches the tree, you pull yourself onto the branch. The blister on your ankle is screaming, but you don’t pause until your hammock is secure and your harness is wrapped around you. The cool wind cuts through the thin fabric of the hammock, but it’s not too cold as you peel back your socks to reveal an angry raw spot crawling across your ankle.

Too tired to do much more, you slide your other boot off, tying them together and then to your pack. The gentle sway of the trees makes your eyelids heavy, and you let yourself drift off into the first good night's sleep you’ve had in a while. 

The bitter cold wakes you up, the wind moving your hammock back and forth gently. The darkness spins above you, clouds backlit by the moon. Not for the first time you think about how easy it used to be, curled up with another warm body beneath the thick blankets - how easy it was to switch on the percolator in the morning and wrap your hands around a warm cup of coffee, how easy -

You press the heel of your hands into your eyes and try to press away the thoughts that are racing through your brain. Remembering the before drives people crazy; you’ve seen how it can eat people up and you refuse to let it eat at you. So you pull your thermal blanket closer around yourself and try to get some sleep.

But the sun rises earlier than you expected and extra sleep never comes. 

It doesn’t take long for you to pack what little you have back in your pack and descend back down. At the bottom you dig out the little bit of jerky you still have saved from the summer months; it’s disgusting, but it’s enough to push you forward to the next place. 

You walk the entire time with your bow in your hand, waiting for some animal to run out in front of you and meet its mark, but the forest is silent today as you push towards the next stop in your journey north, a small nameless village secluded away from the rest of civilization - just good enough to sleep in for the night. 

The sun has just started to sink below the treeline when the village finally springs into view. The blister on your ankle has popped, and you think you can feel blood rushing into your sock, but you don’t dare stop and check; you don’t want the scent of fresh blood to attract any Biters that may be hidden away for now. Your fingers cramp around the bow and your stomach growls. You’d picked a smooth rock up from the ground hours earlier and popped it into your mouth to try and trick yourself into thinking you were eating something, but it hadn’t worked. If anything it made your hunger worse.

There was salvation coming - on your second year coming through here you’d snuck off from the group and buried a cache. Each year you did your best not to touch it unless it was to refill something inside of it, but this year you knew you’d have to empty it. 

You crunch over tire tracks that crisscross over each other on the main road into the village; they’re dry enough that you know whoever managed to scrape up enough gas to drive in and out was gone, but the thought of someone driving up on you made you nervous, and make your steps quicken. If people were driving through here then you needed to be gone before sunlight tomorrow. 

Weary, you push yourself towards the back half of the village to a little two-story you know well. It had been the same house your group, and then yourself, slept in each year on your way to the north camp; in the back, beneath an overturned chair that was slowly rotting with time, your little cache was stored. 

You shoulder your way through the half-rotted back gate and freeze. The chair is tossed to the side, rusted parts puzzle pieced across the ground. And directly where your cache had been buried is a hole, smoothed over from time and rain. 

You could cry if you had any water left in you to cry. So instead you walk numbly into the house - habit making you click the lock on the door even though it’s long since stopped working. The same thick dust that was here last year is still across the floor, so thick your steps don’t even disturb it. You pass through the living area and up the steps. On the landing, you don’t pause - to the left of you is the nursery that’s always been empty. The first few times you’d stopped here the sight of the broken-down white crib and sage walls made something ache inside of you, and you’d learned not to look. It’s better to just let things alone and try to stifle your imagination.

The attic ladder swings down with ease and you test your weight on the rungs before climbing up - any broken bones and you may as well just shoot yourself where you lay. It creaks ominously beneath you but keeps as you clamber through the hole. You let yourself collapse on the floor beside the ladder after pulling it up, and wrapping a rope around the ladder to keep anyone from pulling it down in the night. All at once, hunger and exhaustion pull you down towards the floor. 

You’ll have to shoot something tomorrow and check the well for fresh water. There are still to many miles before you make it north enough to be safe for the winter, and you won’t make it without water and food. 

You try to distract yourself from the cramping of hunger and how little water is left in your jug by peeling your boots off. As you’d thought, the blister had split and bled, but thankfully your sock had caught most of it. 

You clean up the best you can in the dusty light filtering in from the little window that looks out the back garden and wonder who could have known the cache was there. An old group member who spotted you checking it in the past? Or was it a lucky guess, someone who came through after you and spotted the freshly disturbed dirt and came to the right inference?

You try to tell yourself it doesn’t matter as you pull your thermal blanket from your pack and lay down, but you can’t quite convince yourself of that lie. 

[ghcstao3]

dunno if this is anything but i have in my head a ghostsoap persuasion au just rattling around…

i hope you mean the jane austen persuasion because if not i am so very sorry. here’s a little drabble but i’d love to hear your take

(period-typical homophobia is nonexistent here) (setting is also tweaked a little)

-

John stands frozen, feeling as if a bucket of cold water has just been poured over him as his eyes catch those that have continued to haunt his mind for nearly a decade.

Eight years. Eight years since he had broken off his engagement with Simon; eight years since John has seen the man last. And against all odds, eight years later, here Simon stands at a gathering in the very house where John had called things off after immense pressure from his family to do so.

Simon looks... good. He's always been handsome, but the years have lent him a certain ruggedness that adds to his charm—surely a cause of his time in the navy. Simon had only been enlisted for a short time before things ended between him and John, but John sees now that his uniform indicates he's climbed the ranks to Captain.

He must've recently come home.

John still can't bring himself to move, so it's Simon who ends up approaching him.

"John," Simon greets, and how it stings, "it's been some time, hasn't it?"

"It has." John tries not to wince at the words catching in his throat. "How—how have you been? I—"

"Well enough,” Simon says. Then he ducks his head, lowering his voice so as to not allow others to eavesdrop, “What are you doing here, Johnny?”

John swallows thickly. Though Simon's words are terse, his tone isn't at all resentful like John might've imagined it would be. No, no it's—it's almost... pained.

If John revels in the warmth of their closeness for just a moment, then he should just hope that Simon is none the wiser.

"Was visiting my sister,” John says. “And I was asked to check on the house. My parents, they—“

“They’re renting to my brother and his wife,” Simon finishes. He shrinks back, shoulders relaxing with a mix of relief and realization and... something else. Something John can't quite place.

A terrible silence falls over them, in spite of the low hum of chatter from those all around the gathering.

"...I'm sorry," John blurts. Simon's brows immediately knit together, but he says nothing to dismiss the sudden apology. The slight curve of Simon's frown, the new scars that adorn his skin—they all spur John on to continue. So John's words all tumble out at once: "I'm sorry for how things ended, Si—Simon. I never should have—if you can't forgive me, then I can't blame you."

John braces himself for a scoff, for a response marked by disdain, but it isn't either of these reactions that he receives. Instead, all Simon does is offer a sad, subdued smile.

“I could never fault you,” says Simon. “As much as I’ve missed you. But we’re different people now, Johnny. And—“

“But do we have to be?” John pleads.

Taken aback by the response, Simon wets his lips before pulling them into a thin line. He sighs and glances around, a certain hollowness weighing on his expression that hadn’t existed in all the time John had known him prior.

Ultimately, Simon hangs his head a moment before those dark eyes return to John’s, far too earnest and hurt.

“I’m afraid we do.”

John opens his mouth to argue, but eventually his jaw can only snap shut with nothing to say. Numbly, he nods, and makes no move to stop Simon from returning to a conversation with a group of guests.

And now with no more reason to stay, John takes his leave with his spirits dampened.

[orange-peony]

Thank you for tagging me @monbons and @leithillustration!

I've been working on one of my collabs for the CORBB. Here's a snippet (Simon's POV):

“Snow,” he says, as if in shock. As if my existence on a bus was something surprising. “Baz,” I reply. “Hi. Hello. Ho—how are you doing? Fancy seeing you here.” His eyes are so beautiful from up close. His eyelashes are ridiculously long. They even curl up at the end. “You mean on public transport in general or on this specific bus?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. “No, I-I-I…” I stutter, calling myself an idiot for not thinking about what I should have said should this occasion ever happen. I feel my face catching fire. I watch both of his eyebrows go up. “Do you often take this bus?” he asks, sounding nonchalant. “I—er…” “Every day,” Betty supplies, turning around and smiling at Baz. “He even helps me carry my bags, since we’re heading the same way. Simon is such a nice lad. I am Betty, by the way.” “How do you do, Betty,” Baz says, forever the gentleman (unless he’s talking to me). “I shall return to my knitting and leave you boys to talk,” she says pleasantly. Baz turns around and seems to study me for a long moment. My palms start sweating, and my breathing accelerates. Is he going to say something? Is he going to stop taking this bus?   “You smell like cinnamon,” he says instead. “And freshly baked bread.”

Tags under the cut, but before I cut, please send us prompts for the @carry-on-au-fest !

@pato-roldnart , @bubble-gumhead , @cutestkilla , @thewholelemon , @artsyunderstudy , @iamamythologicalcreature , @mooncello , @hushed-chorus , @larkral , @letraspal , @you-remind-me-of-the-babe , @facewithoutheart , @emeryhall , @imagineacoolusername , @alexalexinii , @fatalfangirl , @wellbelesbian , @shrekgogurt , @skeedelvee , @blackberrysummerblog , @rimeswithpurple and anyone who fancies sharing a WIP of any kind

[lxvvie]

Imagine knitting!Simon finding out that you’re pregnant. You’d knit a pair of little socks and a hat.

“I’ve got something for you, Simon.”, you grin as you give him the present.

“Did you wash them too hot or why are they so sma—…oh.” He’s got tears in his eyes after the realisation hit him.

It came out as an "oh..." but in his mind, Simon was all:

"shite shite shite bloodyfuckinhell—"

He has a kid on the way. Him. A kid.

Simon's gonna be a dad.

And it hits him that his kid'll never know the love of his uncle, aunt, cousin, and, granny.

[mushroomnoodles]

What’s the petrigrof family dynamic like once they return to Ooo and as Morrigan gets older in the WizardBetty Au

after they take the portal back to ooo, simon is welcomed with open arms by marceline, who hes been keeping tabs with using the phone that has service through universes. betty, however, quickly gets overwhelmed and uncomfortable- she hasn't been around this many people in... well, an extremely long time, and it doesn't help that marceline is clearly the little girl she failed to save.

this world is absolutely nothing like the one betty left, either- she's gotten so used to wastelands and being hunted by oozers and wild animals that being completely domestic in a world where she's reasonably safe feels... wrong.

her wizard status is confirmed, and after a few extra tests on her run by pb (due to the fact she fell in the Lich's well) she and simon settle back into the human city with morri.

but even after settling, betty feels the waves of her sadness rise. she's been surviving for so long.. she used to be an extrovert, she used to be so fun loving and free and she was a university student, a budding archeologist.. she's so different now. and she feels alienated doubly by the modern humans. she and simon have a lot of discussions about reopening simon's exhibit in a bigger place; it's good money but they worry for morrigan's safety.

but betty isn't really feeling great. it's her turn to get into a depressive funk.

she gets therapy on simon's suggestion, and it was a lot to get used to, but minerva is helping with her MMS and learning to properly grieve her simon and the world and self she lost.

two years or so after returning to Ooo, simon and betty open up a small museum- a live-in museum house combo dedicated to pre-war humanity, where the front is the museum and the back is the private living space. betty prefers to hang in the back and take care of morri and stuff while simon runs the exhibitation and gives tours- she's still getting used to people, and she's been taking up gardening, knitting, crocheting.. stuff to keep her hands busy.

she also really enjoys trying out new recipes! in the "current" time (where simon is pregnant with baby #2) she's looking forward to growing some actual food that she can cook with this year. she's grown some herbs before but this is the first time she's given veggies a try!

although morri is getting to be a handful.. they're dreadfully curious about everything and betty's really starting to see herself in the little guy.. they're very hands on and intelligent and they surprise her every day with how well articulated and versed they are.

[snurtsnurtcreations]

The Fisherwoman Pt 2

Call of duty pirate au outline part 2 (links: part 1, part 3, part 4)

Pirate captain Soap x Former navy officer now pirate first mate Ghost x fisherwoman reader

Welcome to my most recent brainworm :D Enjoy!

Warnings: torture scene, slightly suggestive scene

One day, the boys tell you not to wait up for them, they’ll have a meeting with their crew members at a nearby pub. You encourage them to have a little fun and enjoy themselves. They promise to be home before morrow. They leave with a tender kiss on the cheek at the door. You deny yourself a flush, and squash the flutter in your stomach. You have to busy yourself with something before you remind gets away from you with worries, fantasies, anxieties.

So you settle into a rhythm with the neighbor girl, teaching her how to sew and mend clothing. The whole neighborhood is a tight knit community, so of course everyone knew when two strangers made their appearance in the fisherwoman’s home. Some had even guessed as to the legality of their being here, but after Simon had jumped in the sea to save a child and Johnny had charmed the elderly by helping them home whilst carrying their loaded baskets, everyone in the community had welcomed them and quickly become protective of them

Nobody told Graves about the two residing (and, the old wives gossiped mischievously, possibly in a relationship with) the young fisherwoman.

A knock at the door interrupts the sewing lesson. You tell the young girl to keep at it while you check who’s at the door.

When you swing it open and Graves’ smug face meets you, pistol at the ready, you are only quick enough to shout “Run!” before you’re pistol whipped into unconsciousness.

The neighbor girl makes it out of the house  safely and absolutely books it to the pub she heard Simon and Johnny would be at. She bursts into the pub sobbing and blubbering. Simon catches her and tries to calm her down. Johnny offers her some water. She chugs eagerly, and as soon as she’s downed it, gasps for breath and blurts out “They’ve got her! The bad shadow men, they got her! They broke into her house!”

The two are already out the door, passing the crying girl to a crewman to take care of.

During the time it takes the girl to get to the city oub and the boys to get back, the shadow pirates have done a fair bit of damage. Cuts carved up and down all over your body, not enough to make you bleed out, but enough to hurt badly. And likely even scar.

Graves had asked a few questions at the beginning, but soon handed you off to a man called Trent and left, telling his group he’d be back later.

Now Trent was doing all the talking.

“Look, miss, we already know the two were here. We know you’ve been harboring criminals. This would all be much easier on you if you’d simply tell us what we want to know.”

You blink up blearily from where they’ve got you tied to a chair, maintaining a glare as best as you can as you watch one of the men scour through your kitchen cabinets. Rage sparks in your chest when he swipes all your dishes out and steals some of the candies Simon had brought you from the city.

You grit your teeth to ward off a yelp when Trent yanks your head up by the hair, stroking the delicate skin of your throat with a dagger.

Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be. I’ll ask one more time.” he tilts the dagger just so, just barely slicing into your skin. “Where’re Soap and Ghost?”

“Closer than ye’d expect.” Johnny’s voice, low with anger, cuts through the air, right along with a bullet to the head of the man guarding the door.

Johnny slips through the window, easily taking out two more men, while Ghost gets through the now unguarded door, shooting Trent in the shoulder. Complete chaos breaks out.

Seeing the pirates dropping like flies, Trent resorts to his last hope and yanks you up out of the chair with a dagger pressed up against your throat.

“Let’s not do anything too rash now, hm gentleman?” Trent says, backing up a little away from the two men that were positively steaming with anger atm. You stumble a bit as he moves, one hand grasping nervously at his wrist, and the other settles on the counter in an attempt to stabilize your balance.

“Let. Her. Go.” Simon commands, pistol poised and ready.

“No, no I don’t think I will. Not until you both drop those guns, yeah?” The dagger bites into your skin and you can’t help the gasp that escapes you. Your hand on the counter clenches into a fist, and you flinch doubly at the sharp pain in your hand.

You had touched the broken glass that used to be your plates.

Johnny glares at Trent, but sets his pistol on the table. Simon’s jaw flexes as he grinds his teeth, scowl making it clear he’d rip Trent’s head off the first chance he got, but still he lowered his gun.

“Nah, all the way, Ghost. Right on the ground.”

Simon crouched, eyes digging venomously into Trent’s skull as he set his pistol down.

With feather-light touches over the counter, you carefully, carefully found the largest piece of glass you could.

Johnny looked ready to pounce on the man, eyes bouncing back and forth between your face, your throat, and Trent.

You clench the piece of glass in your fist, ignoring the slice of pain that shot up your arm.

Ghost straightened back up.

“Good, good.” Trent smirked, easing up the dagger’s pressure. “Now-”

You yanked his wrist out and away from yourself, getting the dagger just far enough away to maneuver the shard of glass in your first and stab it into Trent’s side.

Simultaneously, Johnny snatched the pistol right back up off the table and shot Trent as soon as you’d made some distance between you two. The dagger fell to the ground and Trent’s body followed soon after, gurgling around the wound in his neck.

You stumbled away from the body, collapsing onto your knees as you clutched your neck, your arms, trying so hard to hold yourself together.

Simon was quick to reach you, remorseful eyes darting over your form, hitching on every wound. You curl into him, allowing your tears to escape once you’re secure in his embrace.

You gasp and tremble with each sob that rips out of you.

“Hurts, Si. It hurts.” You warble

“I know. I know, love. I’m so sorry.”

Johnny had gone around to the other rooms and more sure the place was secure, checked that each body was really dead, before he allowed himself to kneel down next to you two.

A hand on Simon’s shoulder, to ground him, and the gentlest of brushes with the back of his fingers over your cheek. You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch and letting out a shaky breath.

“S’alright noow, luv, we’ve gotcha. Yoo’re safe. We’ve gotcha.”

They patch you up best they can on their own, and then Simon goes to get the nearby doctor to check on you just in case. Johnny stays with you, even though by then you’re unconscious. The doctor, a well known figure in the neighborhood, is outraged to hear what has happened to you, and soon many folks of the neighborhood had rallied together to help dispose of the criminals who dared hurt the sweet fisherwoman.

The burial of the bodies had little reverence to it, with many a spat curse word. Some teenage boys help scrub and clean away and trace of blood in your house. The women who are notorious gossipers put their heads and hands togethers and make you a great big quilt (“we know she’s going ot hate resting so might as well make it as difficult as possible for her to get out of bed!”). The elderly folks put together a food basket to keep you well fed while you’re recovering (“and don’t let her take a single step towards work, y’hear?”)

Simon and Johnny are nearly overwhelmed by the fierce loyalty of the community, but they’re glad you’ve got such a widespread support system

The road to recovery for you is long and arduous. You wake the morning after, stumbling out of bed on shaky legs, nearly feverish as you claim you need to get work done. SImon tigs you back to bed with gentle words and gentler hands, reminds you that you need to rest, that your wounds need to heal.

You sit on the edge of the bed, look down at the bandages crisscrossed up and down your arms and abdomen. “...oh.”

Your fist clenches in the sheets as your breath hitches. And then you just. Sit there. Staring blearily at the bandages.

Simon settles beside you, lightly wrapping an arm around your shoulder. After a moment, you lean into him. His heart breaks as he feels tears soak into his shirt, silent, silent tears. He can’t help but feel guilty for what happened to you. He’d never wanted something like this to happen, for you to suffer for his crimes. Perhaps this whole thing had been a bad idea. Perhaps you’d have been safer if you’d never met them. He rests his cheek atop your head and squeezes you closer.

A shuffle behind the two alerts you both to Johnny waking up. He presses a kiss to your cheek and rifles a hadn through Simon’s hair.

“Come back t’ bed, luv.” He says, voice raspy. “Let’s rest a lil longer, aye?”

You nod hesitantly, brushing a kiss to Simon’s cheek with a whispered thank you as you start to turn.

He catches your face with his hands, thumbs gently wiping the tear tracks away, then brings you in for a soft kiss. The moment draws out a little. He helps you crawl back under the covers, into Johnny’s waiting arms, then shuffles in himself, chest pressed to your back.

Johnny tighten his arms around you, careful of your wounds. Here, enclosed within their loving arms, you’re safe, safe and secure and loved

As the days go by, you become more and more determined to get up and out and do something. Johnny and Simon are more and more determined to keep you in bed and let you rest and recuperate properly. You become antsy and irritated the longer you’re made to sit and do nothing as the two go about cooking meals and doing chores for you.

The neighbor girl comes to visit, breaking into tears at the sight of you, apologizing for not staying, for not being fast enough, for letting those men hurt you. You gather the girl up in your arms with a motherly smile and assure her she’d done the right thing, that it was her quick thinking and quick stride that had saved you from a worse fate. “Now I am safe and healing, see? If only someone would let me get out of bed once in a while, then I’d also not be going insane, but that’s neither here nor there”

The girl lights up as she exclaims that’s the other reason she came to visit, everyone knows you’re a workaholic so she brought a basket of yarn so you can keep your hands busy!

Slightly perturbed that the neighborhood knows you so well, but entirely grateful, you thank the girl for the fit and set to work

The two watch the exchange from the doorway, awfully smug at your workaholic tendencies being caught in 4k (and their hearts are close to bursting at the motherly behavior you displayed… but that’s neither here nor there)

A week later and you’re up and going around the house some, even if just to move to your father’s armchair to knit there while the boys waffle about the kitchen.

You’re healing just fine, thank you very much, don’t you dare exchange a worried look when you stumble a bit through the doorway. You’re fine. (Thank god they got rid of the chair you were tortured in, you notice it’s absence immediately) You’re fine. (Your fist clenches anxiously against the cut across your palm when you spot the new dishes. When had they gotten new ones?) You’re fine! (Oh god. Oh god, is that spot a blood stain on the floor. Did that not wash out. Is your home forever going to be sullied by this. Oh god.)

Nightmares become a fairly common occurrence. Usually you gasp awake, waking Simon in turn, light sleeper that he is. He coaxes you back to sleep with whispered assurances and promises of protection. You fall asleep with an ear pressed to his chest, your breaths syncing with his heartbeat. On bad days, you wake up screaming, panicked and desperate to get away. Even Johnny jolts awake at that, sitting up and blearily watching as you scramble off the bed and into the corner of the room, curling up into a ball.

He glances at Simon (and tries hard to ignore the heartbroken look in those eyes) then shuffles out of bed, crouching low beside you. You grip yur arms tightly, face buried in your knees, trembling. He asks lowly if he can touch you. You tremble for a moment longer, breath shuddering through your lungs as you finally jerk your head up and down. Johnny slowly slots himself against your side, carefully running a hand down your back.

“Breath wit’ me, aye?” He leads you through a couple breathes, eyes darting up when Simon quietly shuffles out to make a cup of tea.

Eventually your breathing evens out as you lean heavily into Johnny’s side. You eagerly accept the cup Simon offers, but don’t budge from the floor. Simon grabs the blankets off the bed (and the heavy quilt) and starts fluffing them out in a sort of nest around the two on the ground. You huff out a laugh, and their hearts immediately lift at the sight of your half smile.

“We can’t stay on the floor, Si.” Even as you say so, you make no move to get up.

“Why not?” He quirks an eyebrow teasingly. “Isn’t that much different from your rock of a bed.”

You gasp in mock offense and swear the bed would be far more comfortable, but  you snuggle deeper into Johnny’s hold all the same and scooch a bit to make room for Simon to settle down next to you, a blanket over everyone’s lap.

As the days go on, you heal faster, and soon even the bandages come off. The boys are always nearby as you carefully pick up your work again, and soon ferry on at your usual pace.

The guys start visiting the city every once in a while again to take care of business, but only one at a time, so one is always with you.

More often than not Johnny tags along with you when you row out to go fishing. He naps in the row boat, blissfully peaceful as it rocks to and fro. You tease him for not being much help and he remarks that he simply has faith you know what you’re doing. He always insists on being the one to row back though, and you’re not about to argue when you get to see those prominent back muscles of his get put to work.

Simon goes along with you when you head out to the McMillan residence, the one with the most children in the whole neighborhood. At the insistence of your neighbor, you’d agreed to go try and teach the children how to mend their own clothing, and to spin some tall tales while you’re at it. Essentially: babysitting duty. Simon turns out to be an absolute wonder with the kids, and they listen with rapt attention as he regales a story of sailing during a storm. Then when it’s time to sit still and listen to you teach, they all pay attention because “Mr. Simon said so!”

One sleepless night, you confess your fears that they’d leave you, that all of this is for naught. SImon sucks in a sharp breath and Johnny breaths out a curse word.

“No, no, love, never.” SImon assures hurriedly, “You mean the world to us.”

They admit they would need to leave for a little while, to find out who sent Graves and his men, to make sure they never come for you again, to make sure that when the two come back to stay for good it will be safe and everything will be taken care of.

“The t’ree of us? We’re one noow, always and forever. Where e’er we go you’ll be in our hearts.” Johnny states, no room for argument, “Hell, we’d marry yoo right noow if yoo’d ‘ave us.”

And oh, how very badly you want that to be the case. You breathlessly agree to the proposal (because what else could that have been). There may be no church offcial that would marry the three of you, but that’s not what matters to you. Not when a couple days later Simon comes home from the city and slips a ring on your finger, and you put one on Johnny’s, and Johnny one on Simon’s.

They confess that they’d like to take your surname for themselves once their pirating is over, since Simon Riley is legally a dead man, and the MacTavish name could paint a target on your backs. 

You three spend that night in each other’s arms with passionate love. A confession over and over again that you are one, that even when separated you will spend every day loving each other.

The following morning you wake before Simon for once, and you lie there in pure ecstasy, tracing the scars on Simon’s arm around your waist, grazing your fingertips against the lines of Johnny’s face. Yours, they are all yours. You chuckle briefly, breathlessly.

“What is it, love?” Simon’s sleep laden voice ghosts over the shell of your ear. Hm, maybe he wasn’t as asleep as you’d thought.

“Just… thinking.” You answer lightly, intertwining your fingers with his and peppering feather light kisses over Johnny’s chest, up his neck, over his face.

Johnny huffs once, a half laugh at waking to such ministrations, his eyelashes fluttering as he wakes.

“Mischievous today, are we?” You feel his rough voice rumble through his chest as he sets a hand on your hip.

You lift Simon’s hand to your lips, peppering kisses there, then giggle again.

“What?” The warmth of Simon’s breath prickles your skin.

“It’s just…” You chuckle softly, lining up your arm with his, “we match now.”

And indeed you do, his scar littered arm, all sharp angles and roiling muscle, next to your soft, smooth arm, covered in scars all the same.

When he sees what you’re saying, he melts against your back, pressing kisses to your shoulder, your neck. You shriek with laughter in response to the sudden attack, whine that it tickles.

“Silly hen.” Johnny chuckles next to you, tilting your head up with a finger. “Yeh cannae say things like that ‘nd not expect a reaction.”

Eventually, and of course far too soon for your liking, they get word that the ship repairs are complete and it’s ready for the sea.

You all trade heartfelt goodbyes. The two promise to be back in 3 months time, give or take a week or two. They kiss you adoringly and linger as long as they can. When you depart, you wave them off and watch them go, not leaving until you don’t see the ship over the horizon anymore

[witch-oftheflowers]

Lost Souls

AN: hello enjoy this full story for the monster AU! I love @/bluegiragi au and all this steams back to their universe. I justed wanted to put a twist on it in my way heheh enjoy!

The sun shines down through the heavy clouds. Bright white eyes linger up as the pale woman stared in awe.

She rarely saw the morning sun rise. Not like she used to. When she was alive.

Well... Technically alive?

She tilted her head as she waved her transparent hands through. Sun beam shore through her

Soft mumbles of 'awe' or 'oo' left her lips.

But she was so distracted. She didn't noticed the crunch of leaves behind her. Nor the many crunches of several people approaching her.

Last minute she whipped her head around 360. Her hand still rose. Her hair whispy and floating behind her as she stared

Four men. All monsters. Slowly creeping towards her.

Her white eyes flicker back to her normal brown eyes. She stopped her floating, being transparent. Having a soft glow to her now. Her pale tan skin shined as she seemed 'normal'

Landing on her feet, her long skirt flowing under her as she started to approach towards them.

"Who goes there?"

Her curly hair covered her figure. Hiding parts of her face. She seemed so lost. Her clothes were tatter, faded of color, blood stains litter her attire. It seemed period attire even.

"Just a lad looking for a lass." A deep voice echoed. The scent of cigar? Her eyes adjusted as the fog grew back in.

She stopped as she held her skirt firm in her hands. Getting ready to blow as she noticed the wings.

A dragon?

Then she noticed the others...

A Harpy?

Werewolf?

And...

Her eyes landed to the skull masked man. Feeling her soul tug towards him. She flinched back as she sighs a bit.

"I... I'm no lass?" She said, her voice cracked in broken English. She heard the deep laugh from the dragon. Her eyes widen as she scoffed

"You're a woman yes?"

"Sí."

"You're a lass..." He chuckled as he stopped before her. His cigar illuminated his face as he crossed his large arms. Noticing one wing on him even.

"What do you... Want?" She hesitated as she glared to the others.

Each man keeping a distance. Seeming ready to assist their leader it appeared.

The woman stalked forward as they got a better view of her.

She looked so young...

"I heard a myth of these woods..."

Myth?...

Her eyes soften as she knew what he meant. It was about her...

"A banshee...a crying woman. One that hasn't been able to rest..." The dragon stopped as he guaged her reaction.

She seemed so sad. Her eyes glancing down as she let him continue the myth.

"How long you've been here?"

"...as long I known..." Her voice was somber as she sighs. Her chest heaved as she didn't wanna continue this conversation. Getting herself ready to scream for them to leave.

But the whoosh of black mass covered her mouth before she could try. Her eyes flutter to the skull masked man as she glared. Her eyebrows knit as he returned the same glare.

"Dear.. give me a chance to explain why I'm here." The dragon spoke up as he realized her reluctance towards them.

"My name is John Price..." He said as he inched closer. His one wing flutter as he noticed the fear in her eyes

"Simon! Let her go." Price stated as he shot the large man a stare.

"Sir that wouldn't be wise" He stated back as he met his leaders stare.

"She's scared, it makes sense."

"Sir we need to be careful. The lass could attack-" the Harpy spoke up as he met her gaze

Ximena was getting overwhelmed as they bickered with themselves. Her hair floated up as she started to panic, eyes flickering white as she let out a high pitch screech.

Breaking through Simon's black mass as her vocal range kicked them back. The sound wave broke through the silence as the monsters were flung back.

Well the werewolf and Harpy were. The skull man and Price stood strong. Clinging to their surroundings as they tried to fight back the blast wave.

"LEAVE ME ALONE!"

Her voice roared as she finished off the wave. Her hair a mess as it coated her face. Her breathing was labored as she felt a bit faint. Trying to stand strong as she watched Simon and Price getting back to their feet.

"Come on Lass... Hear us out." Price spoke up as he watched her sway. Her eyes flickering white to brown as she was enraged.

"No! I wanna...be alone." She spoke out as she tried to step back. But as she tried, her body succumbed as she went limp. Hair falling in spills around her as she fell

Price rushed over as he caught the woman. His cigar fell in the process as he cursed under his breath.

"Well we got the package.... Let's hope she'll adjust to whatever comes her way." He voiced as Ghost came behind him. His eyes glaring as he sighs

"What's so special about her anyways?"

"She killed multiple soldiers a month again half a team wiped out. Multiple generals wanted her capture... To test on her or convince her to join."

"What the fuck is wrong with them..."

"You know as much as I do. Everything."

Soap and Gaz huffed as they finally returned. Their eyes sore as they were tossed into the cold river behind the forest. A good few miles away.

"Sir can we leave now?" Gaz asked as his feathers flicker from water.

Soap whined as he shook off his fur. A bit panting as he stared to the woman.

"Wee thing tuckered out... Good for us right?"

"For how long...?"

"Let's hope a while." Ghost spoke up as he scooped the woman into his arm. Tossing her over his shoulder.

Ximena whined as she eased up finally. Her hair covering her face, her dainty hands clung to his shoulders.

Ghost froze as he didn't wanna give away the interaction as they started to trudge back through the misty forest. Well the mist vanished once she was knocked out.

The lads a bit impressed she was able to control so much at once.

She ended up being out for three days. And when she came to. Locked in a glass cell. Her eyes looking around as she missed something. A warmth.

"Hello...?" She called out as she pressed her hands against the glass. Not being able to look out.

But everyone could see in. The fear on her eyes. The way her hair was freaking out, smashing against the glass wanting to let her out.

And eventually. Just mist filled the cell. Blocking out their view in.

Who knew what else was in store for their team with this new element to their team.

[violsva]

October Reading

I've been having trouble sitting down to actually write this. It's almost as if I'm under a lot of stress right now. I wonder what uncontrollable near-future political event that could be about.

Recent: I reread a horror novel at the start of the month which will become evident after Trick or Treat author reveals.

Finished How To by Randall Munroe and Unmarriages by Ruth Mazo Karras. Also Biggles Buries a Hatchet, all basically good, discussed in last post.

Got a lot of knitting done while reading M. R. James on The Wanderings and Homes of Manuscripts, which was perhaps not the M. R. James I would expect to read in October, but nonfiction is easier right now. It's very affected by being written immediately post-WWI.

On which note, just now finished The Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal by K. J. Charles, right under the wire before it has to go back to the library. Enjoyed it and also very much appreciate the list of referenced Victorian ghost stories in the Acknowledgements.

Also lots of Kinktober.

Current: Still skimming through Painting Nature in Watercolour with Cathy Johnson, whose style I like. Writing style, I mean, but also the watercolors.

I read a third of The Silvered by Tanya Huff and liked it enough to put it on hold again even though my ability to focus on new long fiction isn't really there.

Rereading Steadfast by Mercedes Lackey. Mrs. Pollifax is still continuing slowly.

Have I made any progress on the paper books I have out from the library? No.

Oh, I skimmed the beginning of The Blue Castle recently because I had a fic idea, and I will need to read some Victorian medievalism to get a voice for that.

Future: The Halcyon Fairy Book by T. Kingfisher will probably come in soon. I also want to find another nonfiction book to read at North York Central library to distract from jobsearching. I have a giant list of options, which doesn't necessarily help.

Otherwise not sure whether I will be fine reading normally or want lots of comfort reading. I am looking forward to starting a long RWRB historical AU.