#my wrt

[from-vuka]

So... this is a drabble (do ppl still use that word?) for a future idea i have of Ghoap x reader.... lol (i think reader is gender neutral but i could be wrong ;;) not all of it is planned out so there may be gaps but imma rewrite into a whole piece maybe????

Listen idk im still getting used to putting myself out there LMAO

cw: implied cheating towards the end, neglectful relationship (not simon), married! reader, "the one that got away" mentality (idk if this is a cw but i put here)

‧₊*: ⋅ଳ⋅˚₊‧𖦹₊⊹⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

When they parked, the first question was where to go.

The mission has been a bust. Intel was incorrect or outright wrong, gaps missing in reports that they knew would be a problem later--and they were always right. When shit hit the fan, they knew exactly what to do: collect their people and dip before Laswell had anything to say about shooting at Russian military.

The little SUV they stole was hot, the AC blasting but doing little to quelch the need for water or how sweaty they had gotten running despite the possibility of snow. Price had long since left the car, pacing back and forth as he tried to call Kate. Gaz tinkered on the laptop, seeing if any of the files they were able to download or code ripped from its program could indicate a next step, a lead in the right direction.

Soap and Ghost sat in the trunk; its overhead door open to let in the late autumn breeze.

“Fuck, another night on the fuckin’ ground,” Soap moaned, leaning back against the inner side of the SUV. ���Gonna be a rough fu--”

“I know a place,” Simon said quickly, almost too quick. His thumbs, looking too big for the little cracked screen of the iPhone 8 the military gave him (since he refused a smartphone for as long as possible) hit the virtual keyboard. He sent two messages before the machine was buzzing and flashing. He got up, rolled his shoulders, and answered.

Johnny whistled, pulling Gaz from the blue light of his laptop to Simon. His feet paced like John’s but quicker; too much energy for such a short call. His eyes didn’t seem so harsh as he explained the situation, describing his irritation at the whole thing. When he hung up, his body relaxed only a fraction before turning to the car.

“Got us a place to lay low,” He murmured. “Don’t see us getting a hotel from Laswell,” He commented as John cursed and gripped his phone, containing the growing rage for another short while. “Reception out here isn’t gonna happen ‘til the clouds fuck off.”

“The fuck you mean you know a place?” Soap asked, and Simon tugged his arm to pull him out of the trunk.

He closed the trunk door and shoved Soap into the back seat, he himself taking the driver’s seat. John didn’t question their new set-up, sitting in the passenger’s side and pointing the vents at his sweaty skin.

“We’re stayin’ with a friend. Lives remote, no neighbors, little to no internet,” Ghost hummed, pulling off the side of the road and heading to where his GPS blinked in retaliation for the lack of connection.

The team didn’t ask any more questions, too tired from the run to get this shitty little SUV, and instead reflected on the mission and their faults, as if they could have done anything to change the outcome. Bad intel is bad intel—there isn’t a way to fix it or better training to prepare for it. Still, the loss burned their skin like fire ant bites.

At a certain point, the phone stopped giving directions. Gaz questioned it, and Simon’s response made sense: when you live as remote as his friend did, GPS could only take you so far. The rest was muscle memory.

Soap asked him how often he came here. Simon said every time he had to leave the base, get away from the shitty flat he rents only for when he’s off deployments. Most of his possessions, he said, live here. There wasn’t anyone he trusted more than this person.

As they pulled down a dirt road, the first they saw was you.

You stood outside the two-floor cabin, standing on a wrap-around porch, your hands on your hips as you watched the shitty, sad SUV park on the dirt driveway. Simon was the first to pop out despite being the driver, taking big steps up to you and the front door. His body was tense only for a moment before you hugged him hello, silent otherwise, and let him trail mud, dirt, and blood into your home.

The rest watched from the car until you waved them up, turning and heading inside. On edge, they headed into the cabin and found it homey. It wasn’t what they were imagining from previous safe houses: dirty floors with stains and dust; broken or bare furniture, maybe none at all; thick spider webs and old cooking pots.

No, it was homey-homey. The furniture was worn but comfortable, soft blankets and thick pillows over any cushioned surface available. Rugs lined the wooden floors, making pathways for your socked feet. The windows had stained glass art pieces hanging to let the light shine in rainbows, and the few lights that were on at this point in the evening were small table lamps and a candle burning in the renovated and cozy kitchen. They could smell stew cooking on the stovetop and bread baking in the fire oven.

Simon didn’t seem to feel any of the intrusion that they did. His shoes were left by the door, a couple pairs that looked eerily similar lined up on a shoe rack. The coat rack had a mix of grey, Simon-sized hoodies and jackets with fluffy, colorful, graphic jackets that seemed to fit you.

Even as Simon wandered into the kitchen, checking on the stew and bread, he looked like he fit in the small space. He opened the fridge and pulled out a case of ale and a little bottle of wine while you grabbed beer mugs and a few wine glasses. You handed him the bottle openers as he handed you oven mitts for the bread. It was synchronized—Simon had been here enough before to know how you lived and worked.

“Who’s this?” Price asked, breaking the spell between you two. Simon glances at you then at Price.

Simon explained, grinning a little as he did, that you were his best friend of nearly 10 years; that you were the person on his emergency contact and his address when he was deployed. He watched as you started serving the stew and he said that you gave him permission to keep a low profile in your home until Laswell could tell them what to do next. There weren’t any other options available that wouldn’t bring attention to them, unless they wanted to sleep in the woods. Until then, Simon saw no reason to leave this place.

Price wanted to be the one to speak the truth—that Laswell would probably get back to them by morning—but as he watched Simon place full bowls on the kitchen table in the next room over while he mumbled to you about grabbing spoons and butter knives, he couldn’t. Instead, he nodded and led the rest to the table, enjoying the quiet moments of delicious and hot food that were far better than any MRE they had in their backpacks.

The rest of the night was calm. Johhny was eager to ask questions (and John and Kyle ready to listen), but the time never came. After dinner, you showed them where the two bathrooms were and where the guest shower was located. You took them into the basement where several couches and chairs sat around a stove heating the space and a flatscreen with VHS and DVD players. A few retro gaming consoles sat displayed on the TV stand. Pointing out the blankets, comforters, and pillows on one of the couches, you said that the laundry room was in the little space off to the side in case they wanted fresh clothes. Afterwards, you thanked them for keeping the place clean and headed up to the master bedroom.

It didn’t shock any of them when Simon trailed behind you.

Clean, fed, and exhausted, the interrogations began the next morning when you wandered downstairs in one of Simon’s shirts, putting sausage in a cast iron skillet for breakfast. Johnny, now awake and ready to annoy, sat in the kitchen and asked you question after question as you answered honestly.

“Why do you live out here?”

“It’s private.”

“Do you like it here?”

“Yes. Otherwise, I would move.”

“Where do you work?”

“Don’t need to.”

“Why don’t you need to work?”

“I have money.”

“How’d you get it?”

“...Si, usually.”

Johnny smirked like a fox when he thought he caught you, but you just giggle at his obsessive nature and finish up cooking. Simon comes down nearly 30 minutes later, settling beside you in the kitchen as he brews tea and coffee. His hands wandered every now and again to your arms, your side, a hand on your lower back as he moves around the kitchen—which makes Johnny’s eyes boggle. How could Simon be keeping such a sweet thing so hidden? Why is he lying by saying a ‘friend’?

It wasn’t until later, when the morning blurred into afternoon, that they understood why.

When he arrived, Simon’s mood soured while yours grew sweeter, if only for a moment. You kissed the mystery man at the door and told him the situation, to which he didn’t seem to mind. He headed upstairs, practically ignoring your silent requests for tender affection to shower. You sulked a little, trying to put on a brave face as you started on lunch. Simon was there, then, chatting with you more than he did anyone as you prepared subs and fries. They could hear your angelic rings of laughter as he calmed you into your previously happy self.

When the man came back down, he ordered you to grab him a beer, and you did so without a second thought. He demanded you grab the remote, whined when it wasn’t working (“As always,” Simon later grumbled), and took out his frustration on you. He berated your meal with backhanded compliments. He ignored your requests for napkins or salt to finish his food and leave for the shed outside, dirty plate and crumbs left on the table.

You sighed as he left, frowning and watching him disappear into the wooden shed. Then Simon was there again, taking up his seat beside you and set up to finish eating there. His eyes glanced at you, cracking piss-poor dad jokes to get your little voice to chuckle as you finished eating—maybe not as much as Simon thought you should, as he later shoved cut-up plum and cheese squares into your face while the two of you sat on the wrap-around porch and caught up over tea.

John wasn’t sure what to do; Gaz and Soap were even more lost. It was so clear, then it was so confusing. It wasn’t until dinner was over and the team was sitting by a little bonfire, you and your apparent husband off to bed for the night, that they asked Simon.

“Who is that, really?” John asked.

“...I dunno. Thought we were somethin’, then we weren’t. I knew the world wouldn’t wait for me forever. Now... now I have this.”

“You give ‘em money?” Johnny, now, asked.

“Have to. Stupid fucker blows it all at casinos or fucking hides it. He’ll make it a problem if things aren’t paid on time when he’s the jackass ruining the credit score. Don’t know for sure, but I think the fucker might get close to physical when I’m not here. Thinkin’ bought putting cameras around just to make sure.”

“So... what? Is this just how you’ll spend the rest of your life? Don’t think you’ll need to do much convincing, that bastard doesn’t care,” Kyle said, leaning back in his seat.

“He doesn’t. Our jobs are similar, he’s just in construction. Leave for a while, come back for a little bit, and then leave again. The only difference between that bloke and me is that I like being here. But...”

He thinks to you: how happy you were to date the jackass, playing with your hair nervously; how you glowed with something primal and sensual after he showed you “the best night of your life,” even if you’d go back on your words later when the love-bomb spell wore off; how he proposed so sloppily yet you ate it up like candy because no one had ever treated you so sweetly. It didn’t matter that he got so drunk at the wedding he puked on your dress or that Simon swore he saw the moron kissing another girl at a party but couldn’t be the one to ruin you by telling the truth. Your husband was romantic, you said, but all Simon saw were red flags and a growing need to rearrange the fucker’s teeth.

“But I can’t destroy happiness I don’t understand.”

“I don’t think what’s going on is ‘happiness’...” Johnny said, opening another bottle. “More like... I dunno, a lack of respect? Not knowing what happiness really is?” He bit his lip before clicking his tongue in triumph. “No, no, it’s complacency. Nothing bad can happen if nothin’ changes.”

Simon hums, smoking a cigarette and watching the flames of the fire.

Kyle glanced at Price, who cleared his throat for a second. “Simon, I’m not usually one for this kind of thing, but--”

“I know, need to get over it,” Simon snapped, smoking down the cigarette into a nub before throwing it into the firepit.

Price frowned. “I think it might be the opposite.”

“I’m not destroying a family.”

“There isn’t a family, Ghost, just two people who are married and don’t do shit together,” Johnny said. “He doesn’t seem to be in the picture. How often is this place empty? There’re no photos of them on the wall. He didn’t seem happy to see his own partner. They don’t even have kids.”

Simon frowns. “I know. It’s the main complaint... lyin’ ‘bout what he wants.”

“So then... take ‘em,” Johnny said, Kyle rolling his eyes. “It doesn’t seem like anyone’s holding on too tight.”

Simon didn’t speak again that night. He headed upstairs when the rest departed for the basement. The next day, the man was kissing you good-bye as the team came upstairs. You looked sad, miserable even, and followed him outside. The two of you spoke, but he snapped at you before heading to the car, ignoring your whines for a last kiss. He drove off and you came back inside, starting breakfast in silence again.

When Simon came down, he knew. He pushed John, Kyle, and Johnny to the basement so he could hold you and comfort you. You cried hard into his chest, hiccupping and sobbing as you whined about his disregard for your comfort—that he didn’t care enough to kiss you goodbye again when you asked him if this was the last time he’d leave you.

Simon hated it because himself in your lover. He imagined it before: leaving for a deployment and seeing your round teary eyes as he packed. He’d stop, instead picking you up to kiss you and lay you on the bed, proving that he loved you so much more than you knew. Maybe he wouldn’t even be able to leave if you cried like you had in the past.

No, he wouldn’t. He’d see your face and feel the fear you have of losing him. He’d leave his bags in the bedroom to pull you close to the couch, feeling over your skin like he’s been dying to do since he met you in that dirty dive bar when you both were in your early 20s. He’d ignore phone calls from Price or Laswell or any other CO to take you out for dinner and fuck you in the back of his truck like you always giggled about. He’d shower with you when you came home, wash your hair and realize your scent is all around him, not just the quick perfume he gets every time you pass by.

Would he mourn the death of his career? Probably not—not if you were pressed to his side, lips kissing his jaw and chin as he held your legs in his lap. (If he was lucky, maybe even pregnant.) Every metal, award, trophy... it’d dull the moment you stood beside it, the moment his brain conjured up your image in lieu of polished gold. He’d put on his crisp, shiny-adorned uniform one last time for your wedding. You always said the fabric made him look so regal.

It wasn’t a surprise when the next morning you seemed gloomy. You tried to play it off, smiling when talking to someone before retreating back into yourself, and John could tell how much it hurt Simon. He trailed behind you like a kitten, watching from doorways to make sure the waterworks hadn’t started. When they did, he tugged you to the master bedroom and let you curl up into the blankets and sob. Simon rubbed your back, a silent yet strong barrier between you and loneliness.

You asked him what you should do—how could you keep loving a man who won’t treat you like a person? Who won’t see you as anything but a hole to fuck when he comes home before leaving again? He wasn’t soft like Simon, you said, and Simon felt conflicted.

He wasn’t soft. No one else got to see the affection he rarely used, felt his hands doing anything other than breaking and taking. He towered over men far weaker than him. He didn’t feel remorseful for the pain he caused to those who deserved it and maybe even the ones who didn’t. He made himself built for war, yet you cried into his lap and called him a softie.

Maybe he was—but only for you. You were just an exception.

He couldn’t tell if it was the conversation from the previous night or your red cheeks and puffy eyes that did it for him. He couldn’t bare letting you fall apart over an ugly motherfucker like your husband. He calmed you, pulling your limp body into his lap. His arms around you felt more like a strait jacket than a hug, but you took it readily. Your fingers gripped his shirt, and he truly realized the effect you had on him. Tilting your chin up, he hummed a soft apology before pressing his lips to yours, keeping his hand on your jaw.

Maybe, after that, it was a good thing the bedroom door was locked. Maybe it took a few days for you to completely move forward, legal papers signed and delivered at the little post office in town, 25 minutes from your cabin. Maybe Simon was there, his hands and lips unable to leave your skin for longer than a minute. Maybe, as he left with Laswell’s next instructions, he took you upstairs one last time and promised to be back later, when he was done—that he’d come back and take you to the courthouse that same evening, paying a stranger to watch you exchange vows if Johnny didn’t tag along like he figured he would, and you’d never feel lonely again.

Imagine your surprise when he showed up three months later and he kept his word—with a certain loud Scot in tow, too.

[proudfreakmetarusonikku]

The Parkour Villain

[pretzlforpresident]

I made a sonic oc! Her name is phoebe and she’s a pangolin

@professor-gayass the cycle continues

[skunkes]

the restrained sniffer

[onlinegirl420]

"IN/OUT" Three layer lithograph, 12x17, 2023

[the-woman-upstairs]

Really fucked up that, when they’re young, Patrick and Art are SO tactile with each other, so comfortable sharing the same space. Art lets Patrick touch him and move him and physically overwhelm him and easily acquiesces to it, if not outright enjoys it.

Then in the present, they’ve been so far out of each other’s orbit for so long, held such animosity that when they have their moment alone in the sauna, Art physically recoils from Patrick’s close proximity! It’s so painful to watch because even as Patrick’s goading him, it’s so obvious he wants to be able to get back into Art’s space. But Art has erected all these walls around himself, he refuses to give Patrick an inch or even admit to missing how close they used to be!

AND THEN we see Art and Tashi later and he wants her to hold him, to be gentle with him, and just TOUCH him. Like, he does miss that kind of close physical contact! He either doesn’t know how to ask for it or is uncomfortable being that openly vulnerable. Worth noting that he pretty much always defers to Tashi in regard to initiating physical intimacy (with their first kiss, though he does state his desire, SHE has to be the one to make the first move). And it seems pretty obvious that Tashi herself isn’t comfortable providing that intimacy, whereas Patrick actively seeks to provide it (the hug/forehead kiss after their win together in the early years, dragging the stool closer to him).

Art has tried very hard to act like he doesn’t need physical affection and even though his discipline and devotion to Tashi has made him a stronger tennis player, it’s made him a hollow person, which, in turn, has kept him from becoming a GREAT tennis player.

All of this, of course, is why the ending hits so damn hard.

[lemonadeslice]

siblings in horror: ride-or-die edition

the strangers: prey at night | nope | house of wax | the lost boys

codependent | blood-soaked | haunted | damned | dumb-ass

[uncanny-tranny]

Once you stop thinking about queer people's labels as strict indications of what's in their pants and who they do/don't bed and instead view queer people's labels as how they interact with the world, you'll find that you'll get along with queer people better and treat them better, I think.

[maesonc-artistic-adventures]

“If there is anyone here, who were to finish the job—put me down….i remember thinking: I hope it’s Seedling. I hope it’s Orym.”

[ruushes]

not dead not alive but a secret third thing

[beefcakekinard]

top 5 times tommy kinard was husband-shaped

turns out i've got opinions about this.

5. attending a cowboy funeral (8x05)

you don't watch your beboiled boyfriend give a eulogy to a 200-year-old cowboy mummy in a full suit if you're not in it for the long haul. this is a show of commitment on the same level as promise rings.

4. getting that coffee (7x05)

who but a future husband would look at buck like this after being caught in the blast radius of his self-destruction on a first date?

3. bringing buck breakfast 'in bed' (8x05)

8x05 gave and gave and gave with acts of service tommy. you just know he set his alarm early enough so he knew he'd be up before buck, and he set his phone to vibrate so buck wouldn't hear it. he spoils his man and i love to see it.

2. taking care of buck (8x05)

fluffing his pillow (not a euphemism). changing his ice pack. sleeping on the couch with the smallest blanket in the world just so he'd be right there in case buck needed something in the middle of the night. related to the last entry, but disinct enough to deserve its own mention.

1. the loft dinner (7x10)

look. this is it for me. this is the moment that made me go oh. he is husband-shaped. i think this moment in particular gets overlooked because it immediately precedes tommy giving buck the green light to call him daddy, but look how soft he is! how concerned and caring - how attentive, to notice that buck was feeling off! this moment is unbeatable to me, but if the writers want to take that as a challenge, well, i certainly won't stop them.

[rendevok]

“Take my hand” pages 5-11

1 - day 2 - truth - 3

[eyrri]

little Kitten Burst doodles because i love it and think about it a lot

pspspspspspspsps play kitten burst

[crtastrophe]

Kidpix commission for @facelessoldgargoyle! (character belongs to me)

[hedonistbyheart]

Phew! This was an endeavour! But I’ve wanted to draw the twins talking to all the force ghosts we know of for a while now, so here they are.

[fvsm4x]

Loser gf reader x fratboy Gojo Satoru

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬. I‘m such a sucker for loser gf reader and fratboy gojo

You always wondered what Gojo saw in you. He was the life of every party, the guy everyone wanted to be or be with. You, on the other hand, were more comfortable in the quiet corners of the library, nose buried in a book. Your worlds couldn't have been more different, yet here you were, his hand intertwined with yours as he led you into another one of his infamous frat parties.

"Stick with me, alright?" Gojo grinned down at you, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. "I won't let any of these idiots bother you."

You nodded, trying to ignore the glances and whispers from the crowd. It was always the same—people wondering why the most popular guy on campus was with someone like you. But Gojo never seemed to care about their opinions. He was always unabashedly himself, and somehow, that included being with you.

As the night wore on, you found yourself on the couch, sipping on a soda while Gojo mingled. He'd check on you every few minutes, his smile never faltering. But even in a room full of people, you felt alone.

"Hey, you're Gojo's girlfriend, right?" A girl with long, blonde hair and a tight dress sat down next to you, her gaze appraising. "I'm Mina. I've heard a lot about you."

"Hi," you replied, feeling a bit wary. Mina's smile didn't quite reach her eyes.

"You're so lucky," she said, leaning closer. "I mean, Gojo is such a catch. I can't believe he’s dating someone like you."

Before you could respond, Mina stood up and sauntered over to Gojo, placing a hand on his arm. You watched as she leaned in, whispering something in his ear. Gojo laughed, but when he saw the look on your face, his expression changed.

"Excuse me," he said to Mina, brushing her hand off and making his way back to you. "You okay?"

You nodded, trying to hide your discomfort. "Yeah, just not really my scene, you know?"

He chuckled, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "I know. But I like having you here with me. Makes it more fun."

"Really?" You raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious. "You don't think I'm...I don't know, bringing you down?"

Gojo's expression softened. "Never. You keep me grounded, you know that? Besides, I like showing off my amazing girlfriend to everyone."

A blush crept up your cheeks. "I'm not amazing, Satoru."

"Yeah, you are," he said firmly, pulling you closer. "You put up with my crazy ass. That's pretty amazing to me."

As if on cue, another girl approached, giggling and twirling her hair. "Gojo! Come dance with me!" she insisted, grabbing his hand.

He gently but firmly removed her hand from his. "Sorry, I'm with my girlfriend," he said, nodding toward you. The girl's smile faltered, and she walked away, pouting.

You laughed, feeling the tension melt away. Maybe you didn't quite fit into Gojo's world, but he made you feel like you belonged. And that was enough.

"Come on," Gojo said, standing up and pulling you with him. "Let's get out of here. I know a place where we can actually talk without shouting."

You smiled, letting him lead the way. As long as you were with Gojo, you knew you'd be okay. And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to see what he saw in you.

© fvsm4x 2023/4 : do not translate, plagiarise or steal my work.