#never again drawing the mask in this angle

[angelmichelangelo]

Heyyy! Saw you had more prompts up on your page, sooo thought I’d stop by and send one to you! :)

I would love to see number 16 with 2012 Leo and Donnie!!

Maybe one of them just got their arm dislocated- and the other has to pop it back into place- but they’re super nervous cause they’ve never done a joint re-location before. It doesn’t help that their brother is in a terrible amount of pain- groaning and even whimpering as they press tightly on their dislocated limb. And somehow the injured brother is the one comforting the medic, telling them “it’ll be fine just do —“

Have fun! 😁✨

~ Melissa

thank you for the prompt! this is set during very early season one !! pre traumatised babies !! 🥹

x

When Leo moves to stand on his feet, faltering slightly from the hit he’d taken from Snakeweed, it only takes Donnie a small, brief moment to note what was wrong with the sight before him.

“Oh my god,” he says with a breath, grip tightening around the middle of his bō staff as he winces. “Leo, your arm.”

It causes all pairs of turtle eyes to turn and glance at where their eldest brother stood, haunched over just slightly at the weight of his exhaustion, eyes pinched and mouth set in a firm, straight line.

But what stood out the most about him was the way his left arm hung low at his side, limp and dragging just slightly at the unusual and unnatural angle.

Leonardo tenderly tries to rub at his shoulder as his gaze falls forwards towards it to asses the damage. But immediate contact has him hissing, recoiling away from his own touch, and his face screws up as an insight to his pain.

“Oh, dude,” Mikey’s voice springs up, the sound of rolling chains loud in the sudden quiet as he tucks his chucks away into his belt. “That looks gnarly.”

Raph is also stepping forward now, face drawn tight with his concern as he approaches their leader.

“Leo. You good?”

His other hand pulled away now, clearly not wanting to invite the feeling again by touching at it too much, Donnie could tell from just a simple glance and a very quick intake of all the information here that Leo had dislocated his shoulder pretty badly when he’d been thrown.

“M’fine,” he rasps, voice hoarse and registered a lot lower than how it usually sounded. An indicator that was clearly lying here through his teeth. “It’s fine.”

Donnie swiftly stashes his staff away in the same breath he closes the gap between them. He feels his brow wrinkle from beneath his mask, concern threading through his pulse as he watches the scales of his brothers shoulder already starting to show a mottled purpley blue color rising above the green.

“You’ve dislocated it,” he speaks, matter of factly.

Mikey hisses through his teeth at the statement.

Leo looks plainly at his arm and then back to Donnie. “I— yeah. Okay, that makes sense.”

Pain had clearly started to override whatever pride Leo was trying to ride this thing out on, and with another quick glance down towards it, he frowns, watching it as it remained limp and long at his side at the odd, unnatural angle.

“We should—” whatever Raph was about to say next is interrupted by the faint sound of oncoming sirens, no doubt drawing closer to them as a result of their earlier scuffle with the rogue mutant.

Without much word, the brothers book it out of the open streets, darting into the shadows of a quiet alleyway where one by one they begin their ascent up onto rickety fire escapes and thin window ledges towards rooftops that easily conceal them.

Leo lags behind slightly, but still quick enough even with injury to evade being spotted as cop cars roll up to the scene.

Up on the roof, hiding out behind a rattling air conditioning, Leo slumps down with a groan, resting his shell heavily against warping metal with a sag of his body.

He’s looking a shade paler than usual, like Mikey when he’d maybe overestimate how much stuffed cheese dough balls he could digest in a sitting,

Raph and Mikey watch on wordlessly, their worry written loud across each of their facial expression.

Donnie crouches before him, tapping his knee just three times until his eyes lift upwards to find his.

“Wanna get this out of the way now?” He asks.

Leo’s mouth presses into a small line. He looks like he desperately wants to say no, but he’s nodding anyway, the twin tails of his bandana sweeping over his good shoulder before the slight breeze of the wind carries them back again over his shell.

“Alright,” Donnie says, catching the inside of his cheek with his teeth as he shuffles in closer and tries to figure out the best way to approach this.

Thing was, this was Leo’s kind of expertise.

Donnie could fix old heaters up and rewire the VHS machine to play subtitles on their favourite anime’s, and he could put together a toaster after it’d been blown up like sixty million times already.

And he had the basic knowledge on how to spot shell rot and could basically make ibuprofen from scratch if push really came to shove during the winter months when Mikey and Raph would get hit with pretty bad bouts of the flu.

But the first aid, hands on type stuff was really kind of Leo’s thing. He could do butterfly stitches with his eyes closed. Could tell the difference between a rolled ankle and a broken one. Could fix a dislocated shoulder without breaking a sweat, unlike Donnie here.

“Uh, Dee?”

Leo’s warbled voice fixes him back onto the rooftop where he’s knelt, jarring him out of his spiral of thought with a sudden blink.

He wipes his palms down his thighs, hoping to dispel any of the moisture gathered there from his brief spell of panic.

He feels a finger tap three times against his knee this time, eyes skating upwards to find blue.

“Hey. It’s alright.” He’s telling him. “You can do this, just like I showed you, right?”

Because whilst this was Leo’s job on top of a million and one other responsibilities he was fielding, he’d also made it clear that it would do them good to have a second in command, for situations just like this.

And Donnie was starting to slowly regret putting himself forward for such a task.

“O-okay,” Donnie says, hoping to not showcase too much of his nerves as he lifts his hands upwards, hovering them by the limp shoulder. “Uh. Do you think you should lie down?”

Leo answers him by slowly and awkwardly shuffling away from the unit until it’s just his head propped up against it. Having a shell and all doesn’t really lend itself to be the most helpful of positions like they’d read on the internet together, but he supposed that this will simply have to do.

Leo, already one step ahead, gingerly stretches his injuried arm away from his body, face all screwed up and tight as it slowly retracts until it’s out straight.

He’s huffing and puffing through his pain, and this wasn’t even the worse of it yet.

Donnie slides his palm against Leo’s interlocking their fingers when Leo yelps slightly at the weight of his palm against his.

Heart leaping up into his mouth, Donnie chases it down with a sharp breath, voice wobbling slightly with his unease as he attempts to soothe him.

“God, I’m so sorry,” he apologizes in advance. Mikey has already made his way to sit on the other side of Leo, offering up his hand for him to take with his good side to squeeze for comfort.

Raph has turned away, pretending to look busy at the lip of the roof to watch the cops down on the street as they start to disperse, simply to satisfy his queasy tummy at such a sight happening.

Without further hesitation for all of their sakes, Donnie starts to carefully pull.

As soon as there’s tension tugging at his socket, Leo grits out a sob through tightly clenched teeth, his eyes pinched hard enough for tears to gather up beneath them and his throat to bob as he supresses what Donnie would wager was perhaps a scream of agony.

“It’ll be over soon,” Donnie tells him as he continues to pull, firm against the arm that was trying to pull away from him. “I promise.”

Leo chokes out another cry, letting it die out in the back of his throat as he swallows it up with a hum, either to acknowledge Donnie’s word or maybe just to save himself the embarrassment of crying.

He yelps loudly when there’s a sudden pop and his whole arm seems to jerk upwards in one short movement.

“Shit,” Leo hissed, and Donnie’s hand comes away with ease as Mikey and then Raph assist him to sit back up again.

Upon a brief inspection, it would seem like the trick had worked; Leo’s arm no longer looked out of place and freakishly long, yet the bruising and swelling was still evident, as were the tears gleaming in his eyes and the set look of his pain across his face.

“Thanks, Donnie,” Leo says in a small voice. He’s able to rub at his shoulder now, no longer like the touch of his own skin against skin was scalding. “Nice work.”

There’s an instant rush of his gratification that lifts Donnie to his feet, just as Leo does, aided by Raphael who then insists they head home to get Leo tended to further in an environment no means perfect but in their standards, above the state of random rooftops.

“You’ll need a sling,” Donnie muses as he looks at his arm, now hovering slightly where Leo kept it cradled to his plastron almost protectively.

Mikey cheers gently, tempering his usual highly energised attitude for his injured brother's sake, pumping a fist into open air.

“Aw, awesome! Can I sign it?” He asks.

Raph snorts as he allows the others to clamber down the ladder first beyond Raph and Leo.

“That’s for casts, dummy,” he corrects him, no real heat detected in his tone whatsoever when Donnie looks for it.

“Either way,” Mikey says rather nonchalantly as he climbs downwards, his voice still managing to carry the same volume it does down there as it does when they’re standing side by side. “You’re about to have the prettiest sling in all of Manhattan.”

Leo laughs, but it’s all tired and half baked sounding. Raph helps him down the ladder as Donnie stands at the bottom, waiting for him to slowly and carefully tip toe from rung to rung.

“I don’t care what it looks like,” their eldest brother huffs, just as Mikey is the one to pry the manhole cover up out of its spot, the sound of dense metal scraping against concrete loud and abrupt. “Just as long as it works.”

Raphael chuckles, a warm and bemused sound coming from the back of his throat, he pats his brother's good arm.

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get home and get some meds into you, hm, buddy?”

Mikey goes down first, as custom, and then Raph is chasing him down it, and Donnie watches as Leo carefully and precisely lowers himself down one handedly, keeping the other tucked close to his plastron.

Before he dips away out of sight entirely, head tipped back to catch Donnie’s watchful gaze where he stands topside still, he smiles.

“But you can call first dibs on signing it, Dee,” he tells him sincere and grateful.

And Donnie might not be a doctor or a surgeon or anything that they can’t have, but he can try. And for his brothers, no matter how scary, he would always try.

[unma]

The Sketchbook so far, as I promised.

A lot of this is really just me messing around, so I didn't mind a blatant mistake or two if it wasn't important to what I was trying to do.

I love drawing Unma. He has two modes most of the time I draw him: completely neutral or having his last thread of sanity snapped. Both are fun to think up. His mask stays smiling most of the time, and while it can morph and change to show more expression, I prefer taking it off when showing Unma's expressions.

Most of his mask's expressions are faked anyway.

Oh yeah, I should probably say that despite being my sona, Unma, does in fact have a whole story behind him and reasons for his design. Ten-year-old me started this, and I will continue to salvage it as I get better at writing.

Closeups below

[bi-writes]

ghost always gets what he wants. (18+, blood kink, dark)

right now, what he wants is sitting across the pub from him. she's smiling, swinging her legs a little as she talks to the bloke next to her. he's leaning into her space, making her laugh, buying her drinks and keeping her smiling and a little drunk. he's putting it on heavy, ghost can tell--actively listening to her, engaging in the conversation, never letting her add her drink to any tab but his own.

ghost tilts his head to the side, running his tongue over his teeth under the mask. that man wouldn't know what to do with that kind of a girl. she's all woman, soft skin, wide hips, a pair of tits he knows would feel like welcome weights between the palms of his gloved hands, pouty lips that deserved to be kissed and bitten and sliding along the length of a cock that can fill her up and choke her from the inside out.

that's what pretty girls like her deserve--to be fucked spineless, to be reduced to nothing but a teary, whimpering mess. a muppet like that would never know what to do with her, how to touch her, how to make her sing.

she's a soft thing. a pretty thing. and he wants her, so he will have her.

you exit the bathroom, a skip in your step as you shuffle outside. he said he would get a car, take you home, and you bounce on your toes as you wait by the curb, looking around the empty parking lot for your ride. but after a few minutes, you turn your head each way, and you realize no one is here, and there is no car coming.

you fully spin around when a dark figure comes out from behind the alleyway. big boots crunch the gravel underneath, and when he comes under the light of the streetlamp, you take a small step back.

the light cuts an angle over his face. you swallow, taking in the breadth of him, tilting your head to look up at him as he steps closer. his mask covers most of his face, and the eyeblack clouds his skin, but you can see the determination in his eyes. it is in the rigidness of his shoulders, the way he stands--and it is the pass of a tactical knife over his chest that you understand the danger that one person can impose.

he wipes one side of it over his dark jacket, stepping closer, until he's in your space, hovering over you. your lips part as he brings the knife down, pressing the other side of it against your throat. you tense a little as he meets your eyes, passing it over until the blood against the sharp edge wipes off, staining the skin of your neck.

he pauses when he sees the hint of a smile on your face. he narrows his eyes, expecting fear, expecting something other than the interest that sparkles in your eyes. like you are all-knowing. like you see everything he is, everything he is not, and like you know what it is he wants.

"i see you," you whisper. "all the time."

ghost sniffs, glaring, and you keep your eyes on his as he drags the knife down your chest, the tip of it moving down between your breasts.

"you're not very subtle," you finish. "quite obvious, what it is that you do...why you do it."

ghost tilts his head to the side, clicking his tongue, and you almost giggle.

"is tha' right, swee'eart?"

you nod.

"been waiting," you say softly.

"for wot?"

you smile.

"for you to make your move," you murmur. your eyes flicker down, eyeing the blood on the front of his jacket. you look up into his eyes again, pursing your lips, and ghost bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. fuck, the same thing he sees in his dreams, it's in your fucking eyes. you're not afraid, and it angers him, repulses him, and fulfills him all the same. "hmm...you didn't approve of him?"

ghost growls, "was a right muppet. cried like a baby."

your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and ghost follows the drag of your tongue hungrily. you are not the screaming, soft, doe-eyed little thing he thought he might like to have.

you are silent, deadly, a wolf in sheep's clothing, and he does not just want to have you. he needs you. he needs you to live under his skin. he needs to taste you, to have you flood his mouth, to chew and eat and swallow and breathe.

he would say you are his match made in heaven, but he knows this does not exist, because if it did, he wouldn't be real. and neither would you.

"ooof," you scrunch your nose. "i hate cry babies."

you almost make him laugh.

he steps closer, sliding the knife lower until it rests at the curve of your waist.

"you don't need that, you know," you whisper, and he leans in, the front of his mask brushing against your lips.

"no?"

"no," you echo, smiling wider. "if you wanna feel up my skirt, all you gotta do is ask. it'd be nice to have your name first though."

"ghost."

you giggle, "your real name, baby."

"'s ghost."

"that what you want me to say when i'm in your bed tonight?"

"who said you'll be in m'bed?"

you reach up with one hand, dragging the tip of your finger down the strong line of his jaw. he towers over you, shadows you, and the knife is sharp against your skin, but all you want is to be a little closer.

you close your eyes when you feel his hand. the tips of his gloved fingers graze the skin of your upper thighs, and you suck in a soft breath when he drags that hand up under your skirt. you put both hands on his chest as you tremble slightly, holding onto him for support as his big hand fondles one side of your ass. his fingers creep lower, and he groans audibly.

"no knickers, swee'eart?" he mutters, and you just giggle breathlessly. "how long 'av y'been waitin' for me, huh?"

you open your eyes, tilting your head back and holding back a whine when you feel his thick fingers prodding at your folds, soaking up the slick there and teasing your cunt. it's sick--you must be sick, you must be awful, you must be so dead inside, you have to be, but it's so hard to care.

you gasp when he grips your throat, forcing your eyes on his, and you hold him there.

"answer me. how long 'av y'been waitin' for me?"

you soften, smile, bare your teeth for him.

"my whole life, baby."

[charliemwrites]

Part 11!!

Sorry this took so long (and that it’s a bit short) I have trouble with scene switching sometimes, and it makes me cut up the story into pieces.

No Content Warnings For This Chapter

Somewhere between your pride and the numbing passage of time lies the way you really feel about the 141. It's undeniable that you're still deeply hurt by what transpired; a chronic ache like a mended bone, only noticeable in the cold, or when you sleep on it wrong. For them, it was easy to reach inside your chest to extract your heart, sternum soft and malleable. It was harder with SpecGru, the bone grew back harder, thicker. You had to crack your ribs open and scraped the chambers on bone shards, but at least they stopped the bleeding.

You don’t miss the 141, not really. It wasn’t just those final, brutal days spent lying alone in a hospital bed that filled those transfer papers. The culprit had been the time that isolation had afforded, to think more deeply, to analyze your position through a less-optimistic lense. Those last conversations had just been your signature on the line.

You don’t blame the gun for firing, you blame whoever pulled the trigger.

Bitterness seeps onto your tongue sometimes. Masochistically, you let it linger. It has no purpose but to raise your hackles and press on that knitted spot until it bruises. It’s your pride, that’s all, lamenting the blood you chose to spill in sacrifice only to have it wasted.

The present is a much sweeter wash for the taste of the past, sticking to your lips and curling your tongue. Honey-balm for resentment, syrup cutting through salt. You focus on the flavor as you stride into the briefing room.

Your captain is already there, a sly smirk for the flush to your faces as Nova follows you in. He’s speaking to Laswell, arms crossed but shoulders relaxed.

Nikto is leaned up against the wall, a shadow without anyone to cast it. He comes to you and Nova as you take seats, angled to face the only exit. He knee presses to yours as you settle in, eyes flicking around.

Nostalgia is a complicated tide rising and ebbing around your ankles. Memories of your time with the 141 in this very room, planning and strategizing, learning where to support your teammates and where they would support you. Jokes made with Soap and Gaz, loaded glances between you and Ghost, a reassuring nod or shoulder squeeze from Price.

That, you think, is where the ache is. Not in missing those moments; you have them with SpecGru now, and without that lingering sense that you don’t quite belong. But in those rose-tinted relationships you’ll never get back (and know you don’t really want again.)

It was never as good as it is with your team now; they were still the team you thought you belonged with. You’ve learned better since but that doesn’t appease the naive 141 operative that put everything into those four.

Your captain has taken the seat you used to have, and he belongs there, a buffer between his team and theirs. You press your thumb to one of the bruises he left on your thigh and settle in.

“Sunshine,” Keegan greets, brushing his knuckles over Nova’s cheek. “Sweets.”

You tilt your chin welcomingly as he nuzzles his nose against your temple, fabric of his mask itching along your jaw.

“Smell good,” he rumbles, low. Just for you and Nova.

“That’s what happens when you shower,” you answer, playing dismissive.

“You should try it sometime,” Nova adds, smirking.

“Only if you join me,” Keegan coos, drawing a spare chair up close. For as tough and distant as he is towards others, he’s long opened his ribs for you and the rest of SpecGru to crawl inside. You admire it now for as much as you distrusted it then.

“Too late,” you say, sharing a look with Nova, “already helped her wash up for the day.”

She whacks you in the knee, startling a laugh out of you. Keegan scoffs, throwing an arm across the back of your chair.

“Nothin’ says we can’t take another,” he drawls, “if I get you dirty enough.”

Beside you, Nikto snorts. Keegan shoots him a teasing look, arching his eyebrows invitingly. The captain is watching, as always, pride and affection smoldering in coal-dark eyes.

And you’re right where you’re meant to be. With them, always with them.

At the front of the room, Laswell politely clears her throat. All eyes turn to her - though you only just notice that the 141 has filed in, perched on the other end of the briefing table, a collective storm cloud.

Laswell kicks off the meeting with a recap of the ongoing mission - basics that all of you read in the docket before shipping out. It’s a big operation, delicate due to hostages. The 141 needed manpower with comparable skills; enter SpecGru.

“One of our best specialists has patched in to explain the parameters in greater detail.”

The big screen at the front of the room lights up. A familiar puff of curly blond hair and green eyes blink into view.

“Gooooood mornin’! Or is it evening? Either way, I hope it’s good.”

Your captain lets out a long breath, trying (and mostly failing) to hide his amusement.

“This is Duke,” Laswell says for the 141’s benefit. “She’s one of our best technicians. I put her on this assignment when I reached out to SoecGru.”

“And you should be glad she did!” Duke chimes in. Her tongue flashes blue as she speaks, and it’s not just the light of the computers surrounding her. Her love of raspberry candies is practically a calling card. “They’re actually pretty decent at keeping communications to a minimum, but porn bots always get ‘em.”

The captain sighs, running a hand down his face. Nova pats his arm sympathetically. Poor guy.

“Anyway! I have their plans for the hostages all drawn up - check this out.”

One loud click of her mouse and the screen flicks to a map with colored circles and wiggly lines. Locations and routes, with little time stamps above each.

“They plan on taking the hostages in waves. If one transport goes down going in or out, they can cut their losses. Lucky for us, they’re super dumb, so I’ve found a 12 minute window where all their teams are out in the open.”

Another image, the transport routes now sporting little icons of angry faces with their tongues sticking out. They're all at various distances along their colored paths, but none of them have made it to whatever the destination is.

“If they’re hit all at once, no group will have time to warn the others,” Duke explains. “Hostages safe, bad guys caught, we all go home and pet our dogs.”

She babbles through the rest of the plan in that controlled chaos way she has, concise and insightful around a casual tone more fitting a high school presentation. The building where the hostages will be taken, every route, down to the vehicles and guns the terrorists will have.

Eventually, she runs out of pertinent information, there are no questions because she’s covered just about everything short of the humidity. Her face pops up on screen again, eyes always a bit glassy from staring at screens too long without blinking. “Lastly, don’t get shot, or I’m telling ma.”

Your captain huffs, that grin finally cracking across his solemn face.

“Do that ‘n I’ll tell her you drop f-bombs like it’s your job,” he replies.

Her mouth drops open in outrage. “It is my job!”

“Yeah? How about that stipend, huh? How much’a that ‘s going to your candy habit?”

Duke’s face flushes, but she’s got that wide smile beamed up to eleven. “Your girlfriend likes me better,” she sing-songs.

He snorts. “Which one?”

“Both,” you and Nova answer at the same time.

Her eyes narrow smugly before she signs off with a little finger wave and a “toodaloo!”

“Your sister, I take it?” Price drawls in the characteristic silence of Duke’s absence.

Your captain shoots him a sideways look. “What, you can’t see the resemblance?” he replies, dry as desert.

You cough into your arm to hide your giggles but Nova isn’t nearly as polite.

As you’re filing out with the rest of the team, you’re surprised that there aren’t calls from your former team. No overtures to justify themselves or half-assed apologies that still somehow make it sound like everything was your fault. You’re almost tempted to check over your shoulder, but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeming interested. You just don’t trust the sudden silence, even if the captain alluded that there’s some sort of ceasefire in place. You’ve never known the 141 to bend knee to anyone but their own.

A glance at your captain and he’s noticed it too, satisfaction flicking across his face before he catches your eye. He jerks his head. You follow him back to his room, leaning your shoulder in the doorway as he loosens his belt.

“Talked to Price,” he begins.

You arch your brows. “And?”

He blows out a sigh, hands on his hips. “And he wants to talk to you. Him and the rest of the team.”

You groan. “About what?”

He shrugs. “Hell if I know, it wasn’t exactly circle time, doll.”

You roll your eyes. Those useless, cryptic…

“Hey.”

You blink, face going hot when you see the stern look on your captain’s face. Whoops.

“Sorry, sir,” you say. “That wasn’t meant to be at you, I’m just so fucking… ugh.”

“Look, I got ‘em off your back during working hours, but anytime after is outta my hands.”

You puff up, annoyed all over again with the whole situation. It couldn’t be enough for them to ostracize you back then, or try to distract you on-duty now, derailing drills. No, they want your free time too.

“I’m not gonna tell you how to handle this, alright? But maybe getting some of this shit off your chest will do you some good. Let ‘em blow smoke, say whatever you gotta say, and put all this to rest.”

You deflate, giving him a weary scowl that does nothing to deter him from closing the distance. (Not that you wanted it to.)

“Isn’t that telling me what to do?” you mumble, letting your forehead thunk against his broad chest.

“Nah, if I was tellin’ you what to do, you’d be doin’ it,” he chuckles. “If you don’t want nothin’ to do with ‘em, you can spend every night in here for all I care. Up to you.”

You’re only putting up resistance because you know he’s right, it’s just not what you want. It’s easier and simpler to be pissed off and short-tempered with the 141. Safer, in a way.

But there’s no getting any safer, in any sense of the word. Worst thing any of them can say is something you already know, or something that isn’t true. You’ve got your own team for support regardless.

“I hate when you’re right,” you grump.

He smooths a hand through your hair. “If that were true, you’d hate me all the time.”

You nip him in retaliation; he tugs a lock of hair for the trouble.

This is home, you think. Your captain. Nova, Nikto, Keegan. Doesn’t matter where in the world you are, they’re your present and your future. Knowing that, the pain and uncertainty of the past are just ghosts. It’s time to put them to rest like one.

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Masterlist

[orangechicken2299]

How they would eat you out | Yone & Sett

Theres no good Yone and Sett smut so ig i’ll have to do it myself 😤

F x M, explicit, minors Do Not Interact

Yone

With Yone, it’s soft, intimate, full of tension and burning desire. It would start out as sweet nothings whispered, his breath ticking the shell of your ear, so close that he could touch it. Saying, rambling really, on how much he misses, wants, needs you like the very air he breathes.

“My darling, all I could think about was you. I wanted to rip through the Azakana that kept me from you.”

His kisses are short and light like a butterfly traveling along the column of your neck steadily making his way downward as he gently pushes you to lay back. Strategically he undoes all the fabric that dares to keep you from him and gives a light, soft, kiss to the place that aches for his attention.

Deftly, he goes to kiss and lick and tease the inner parts of your thighs, not once breaking eye contact with you. His eyes are a deep color that’s so full of lust that you start to almost feel intimidated by it. By how his gaze never wavers, even if he just switched to the other thigh while giving the slightest brush to your clit. You whine.

He smirks. But only for a second while he gives attention to the other thigh.

For what feels like time has slowed, he finally, finally, gives attention to your aching clit. You can feel just how slick you are and you whine again about how much you need him.

With a practiced motion, he gives a lick to the underside of your clit, making you spas a little. With a knowing smile, he happily starts drawing shapes with his tongue around your clit, licking the underside to tug it upwards to really get you whining and reaching for his hair. He then dips his tongue inside, not deep inside, not yet. Just at the entrance is where he likes to tease you, just barely dipping in and only playing with it. Even with the tugging and pushing his head further in does he remain steadfast in keeping his warm tongue in the entrance. He licks back up to your clit to start sucking.

All of a sudden your back is arching up, your hips are angled more down, and your legs have enclosed around his head. He thinks about how the face-framing sections of his mask are no doubt digging into you but you don’t seem to even notice. Especially with how his tongue is playing with you like he does his own instrument. He knows exactly what strings to pull to get the sweetest music out of you.

He brings his fingers from holding your hip to your slick entrance. His long, slender, calloused fingertips feel rough at first. In all honesty, it’s the only thing rough about him. Yone has clearly put a lot of work in his swordsmanship for years upon years as well as playing that stringed instrument of his for who knows how long. Two of the tips of his fingers are rough but only for a moment, the wetness of you quickly coats his fingers as they slowly go deep inside of you. Whines of his name are practically sung out of your throat.

“That’s it.” He whispers, his gaze not once leaving yours, no matter how much your eyes squint in pleasure. It’s almost like he has committed every part of you to memory that if he was blind that he would have no issues pleasing you like this.

His fingers slowly come in and out of you, making sure to press on that spot you like. Just one pass is enough to completely coat his fingers, so much so that it’s practically dripping off of him. His fingers come in and out of you like waves on the shore. Time seems to go by rapidly and slowly at the same time.

“Yone… please. I need more of you.” Your hands are locked on to his hair, your knuckles are almost white. He lifts his head of your aching clit, fingers still working at you. He smiles.

“Alright, my love.” He gently takes his fingers out of you and gently frees your hands from his hair. He gives them each a soft kiss across the knuckles before softly laying them down on your chest.

“Anything for you.” He says while he sits up and starts taking off the thick red rope that keeps the masks around his hips.

Sett

With Sett, it’s fast, rough, and full of passion. It would start out the next instant he gets you alone after someone challenged him for the throne of the fighting ring and he won by a landslide. He’d come to you a little battered and bruised, maybe even a split lip, with a huge, proud grin across his face.

“Hey Doll. I need ya real bad sweetheart.”

He’s grabbing you by the waist and sitting you down on the closest surface he can get to and immediately starts tugging away all the fabric that is between him and his prize. While he’s doing that, he’s kissing you, albeit a bit sloppy but he’s so full of energy that its rubbing off on you. The feeling of his tongue in your mouth is making you feel hazy and tingly all over.

Tongues are clashing, teeth are knocking into one another. He’s biting your bottom lip to really start getting you worked up. He’s is rushing a bit but you understand. This is how it goes when someone challenges him and ultimately loses against him. Sett gets an adrenaline rush off the fight that he just has to release it with you. But you know that he just secretly wants the praise from you for defending his throne and title as ‘The Boss.’

As soon as he possibly can he is rubbing circles of your clit, helping you get wet for him. He parts from you so the both of you can breathe, and as he’s making eye contact with you he brings his fingers up to his mouth to get a taste of you. You notice his pupils get larger.

“You taste as good as you look, how ‘bout I just drink you up?”

He kneels on the floor and immediately takes your clit into his mouth sucking on it that it gets you to yelp in surprise. Your hands finds purchase in his hair behind his ears as they stand tall and towards you. The expression on Sett’s face is one of concentration, the bridge of his nose is scrunched up, his eyebrows are knitted together, and his eyes are closed. It’s like he’s putting in all of his effort into pleasing you. Like he would die on the spot if he didn’t.

All of a sudden he opens his eyes and locks them in a gaze with yours. He takes his tongue from you but gives it right back as he takes the flat of it and licks one big and long stripe from your entrance to your clit.

It is erotic to say the least.

In the next moment he’s shuffling off his jacket with the big clunky gold embellishments that decorate the fur on it so he can lift and spread your legs around his broad shoulders. The next moment he takes a finger and thrusts it inside you and you nearly fold on top of him from the sudden feeling of being full.

“Just gotta prepare you for what’s coming next Doll. Just gotta hang in there a little longer, i’ll get ya ready to take me.” He grins.

You nod along as you see him go back to sucking on your clit, his tongue poking out to lick it up and play with it. Time seems to fly by as Sett manages to fit a second finger in you. This time though, this devious man flashes his k9s at you and he gently nibbles and bites at your clit. It’s so much sensation that it nearly has you howling in pleasure.

“It’s too much Sett!! To much.” You say grasping tightly at his hair, your eyes scrunched closed.

“Hang in there sweetheart, you can take it like a good girl.” He says with your clit between his teeth. He gives another long, broad lick to you and you shiver. He speeds up his fingers and even curls them a little. You tighten up as all of a sudden you feel a knot in the pit of your stomach. You’re so close.

“Sett, I-I’m gonna-”

“Let me see you cum sweetheart.”

You tighten and spas on his fingers as you moan for him. All too quickly he takes his fingers out and shoves his tongue in, licking and drinking all that he can of you. Once he has had his fill he lets your legs down off his shoulders as he stands up before you.

“I told ya Doll, we were just gettin’ started.”

He smirks widely as he watches you look down from his face to his well built chest and abs down to the raging buldge that lies underneath his white pants.

[fanaticsnail]

i have to pick one? i have to pick one?!?!?!?!? -papers fly into the air and scatter down around me as i scramble to make a decision- asdlkjglkjgklfdsjgl oh. oh man. oh boy. oh boy howdy. oh man boy howdy. -begins pacing-

-comes back ten minutes later, a visible conspiracy-board-meme level of writing and string behind me- okay! a decision! has! probably! been made!! asldkjglkfdjg it totally didn't end up with carefully flipping a coin nine times between luffy, law, and kid. totally didn't involve. I 100% guarantee that no coins were not flipped in process >w> anyway

may i request. a luffy keese pls uwu (ALSO! CONGRATS ON THE MILESTONE!!! You well and truely deserve it; you bring such joy to the community with your presence and your writing just!!!!! Congrats!!! (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) ) - @remisloves

The Kissing Booth: Luffy for Remisloves

Word Count: 700+

Notes: Hi @remisloves It's so hard picking one blorbo to come and kiss us. He's so fun to kiss, and I'm glad he's kissing you! Thank you so much for your beautiful compliments. I've adored getting to know you. Without further adieu, your kisses from the Straw-Hat man himself.

Back stiffening firmly and upright, you grip onto the base of the barstool for support in response to the immediacy of the events occurring in front of you. All you have are your four other senses, the shroud covering your eyes prohibiting your ability to see the situation occurring on the vacant barstool. 

Straining to hear the circumstances sealing your fate, a fistful of berry flung itself deep into the glass jar beside you as the individual laughed enthusiastically. A high pitched voice called out in front of you, behind the individual who sat themselves down at your booth.

“You’re gonna spend your allowance here?” the angry, feminine voice called, “I thought you’d spend it on meat, Luffy!” Your guest laughed a playful snickered hiss through their teeth in response before gently reaching forward and clasping their hand around your wrist. 

"Robin said she's payin' for dinner tonight," the voice called out over their shoulder, "And I wanna have a kiss! How cool is this? It's like they're here just for me!" You were taken aback by their enthusiasm, but attempted to collect yourself to remain as professional as one can be sitting on a booth made for kissing.

Your brows sprung up to the middle of your forehead as your eyes attempted to widen behind the mask to no avail. Expecting your lips to be immediately ravished and tainted by the mouth belonging to your guest, their actions seemed to halt as they gently rub a circle on your wrist with their thumb.

“Can I kiss you now?” his voice gently coaxed you in closer, “I just wanna make sure before I do. Don’t wanna do somethin’ you’re not comfy with or nothin’.” You cocked your head inquisitively to the side, a slow smile drawing up your features in response to his inquisition of your consent.

“You paid your Berry?” you asked him, prompting him to hum a huffed "mhmm" in affirmation. You grinned wider, adding a soft humming, “Then, I’m all yours.” He chuckled again in response, scooting the stool in closer towards you.

“Oh, that’s great!” you felt his hand travel up to cup your neck and draw you in closer, “Right, I’m goin’ in!”

That was all the warning you had before his lips eagerly sought out your own. He hummed in glee, his smile physically plastered against each skillful oscillation he drew against your mouth. He angled his chin in a soft circle, parting his lips and tasting your mouth with his tongue. Brushing against your own, he swirled the morsel within your mouth and retracted it to deepen his sultry and hungry kisses. 

You were shocked at the intensity of his lips, but you kept up with every inch of his passion and matched his energy with ease. Gently reaching out your hands, he caught your wrist and drew it up to place against his shoulder while slipping closer towards you. His eagerness and enthusiasm never ceased with each passing moment. 

His lips were partially chapped, his mouth tasting a combination of sweet and savory from the last assuming barbequed meat he consumed. He snickered into the kiss, slowly hooking his arms around your neck and coaxing you to leave the stool and join him on his feet. 

“Luffy!” the voice again called behind him, “You can’t take them with you. They have to stay here!” 

The individual pouted against your lips before growling in agitation, eagerly consuming your lips with a hungrier desperation than moments prior. The voice behind him again called out to you both.

“Luffy,” she sounded irritated, her sigh falling from her lips the longer yours were attached to this so called ‘Luffy’, “Zoro is still missing. Can we go get him? You can come back if they’re still here?” The person growled into your mouth, prompting you to laugh into his lips. 

Finally breaking away, his hand gently caressed your cheek before his thumb caressed your bottom lip. Your lips parted in response, and you heard his breath exhale another soft snicker. 

“I’m Monkey D Luffy,” he uttered in a soft, husky voice, “I’m gonna be king of the pirates some day.” You nod in response, your grin again growing and revealing your teeth at him. He huffed out a soft growl in response.

“Come find us at the end of the pier when your shift is done,” he ordered softly at you, gently caressing your hand and giving your fingers a gentle squeeze, “I’m the one in the straw hat, red vest, and likely eating a piece of meat.” 

“I’ll find you, Monkey D Luffy,” you nod do him in confirmation, scrunching your nose playfully, and wave him off as he goes to find whoever ‘Zoro’ must be. He snickers at you in response, waving at you before looking between his hand and your eye covering: noticing you'd likely not see him do it.

[elmushterri]

I don’t have time to draw my ideas out but!

Been contemplating TKH stuff and GunnTech stuff, and I was wondering.

I’ve set up TKH as a spiritual/supernatural/guardian angel thing (that bit needs no introduction to be honest) where knights have their own realm, and magic and such.

Buuut, I’m exploring some other angles too and I wanna know your thoughts.

I was exploring the idea of knights being man-made, a huge science project kinda like GunnTech (btw, I’m only basing this off GunnTech cause the science-experiment-kids angle is more of my au than PJ masks? I’d be stealing from myself + PJ masks is not my property so I could never produce/do anything with GunnTech anyway😭). So here, it would probably be something like “The Knight Project” and such. More sci fi/across the spiderverse than She Ra. The rest of it is mainly the same, same weapon power thing, same handbook stuff, just different vibe and origins. Rather than only fighting normal criminals and night time villains like in PJ Masks/GunnTech AU, the main character knights are teens who get to fight giant monsters and whatnot.

What do you moons think? I’ll probably end up showing some concept art anyways.

‼️ This is sorta for people who like the GunnTech sciency / hero/trained kids growing up in a lab aspect, cause once again it’s still just an AU of a property that isn’t mine and I can legally do nothing with. I love the GunnTech story but I can do nothing with it in the future because it belongs to Disney. If you wanna see an ‘original’ GunnTech vibes story with a slight fantasy twinge to it, then this would be for you.

Here’s some ‘mood boards’— note that there would still be cool glowy stuff and true knight forms and all.

The project would probably keep its title, but if not, in this sci fi case it would probably be more like ‘Project Knight’ but till I’ve figured that out it stays.

[booksandchainmail]

When Baru joins the rebellion, before the ilykari priestess collects her secret, she shares the anonymous hopes and fears of the other rebels. I'm now wondering which hope and fear comes from which, rebel, and I think it's possible to get a pretty strong guess at it

I'm assuming that they are all coming from the people present: Xate Yawa, Xate Olake, Tain Hu, Unuxekome, Oathsfire, and Lyxaxu.

“I fear this Taranoki woman is an instrument of the Masquerade. I fear the people’s love for Baru Cormorant may outstrip their loyalty to us. I fear we will not have the strength to overcome the Masquerade, even with her. I fear we will fail to act, and that the opportunity will never come again. I fear her youth and rashness.”

"I fear this Taranoki woman is an instrument of the Masquerade." Unuxekome: This is a very impersonal way of referring to Baru, and Unuxekome is the only person who is just meeting her. It's also noted right after this that he still refers to her home as Taranoke, instead of Sousward.

"I fear the people’s love for Baru Cormorant may outstrip their loyalty to us." Either Oathsfire or Lyxaxu: Xate Yawa and Xate Olake don't have loyalty, and Tain Hu isn't insecure about it.

"I fear we will not have the strength to overcome the Masquerade, even with her." Either Lyxaxu or Oathsfire: I'm inclined to think Lyxaxu, who is more cautious and has a better grasp of the Masks' capabilities

"I fear we will fail to act, and that the opportunity will never come again." Tain Hu: it could really be any of the other dukes, but I think it best fits Tain Hu, who was the one who answered Baru's attempt to push the rebellion into motion

"I fear her youth and rashness." Xate Olake, or possibly Xate Yawa: they're the older conspirators, who wanted to wait for rebellion

Interestingly, there are only 5 fears listed for 6 people. I'm inclined to think that Xate Yawa left herself out?

“I hope for a free Aurdwynn for my daughters. I hope the Taranoki will be the spark we need. I hope—” The ilykari smiled gently, as if moved. “I hope for her hand and a throne. I hope for freedom, and no more. I hope for freedom. I hope for freedom.”

(I'm going to do these out of order)

"I hope the Taranoki will be the spark we need." Unuxekome: For the same reasons outlined above

"I hope for her hand and a throne." Oathsfire: It's tempting to think of Tain Hu, but leaving aside the marriage angle, Tain Hu is not aiming for a throne.

"I hope for a free Aurdwynn for my daughters." Lyxaxu: Aside from Oathsfire, he is the only one with daughters

"I hope for freedom. I hope for freedom." Xate Olake and Xate Yawa: I like the idea of the siblings matching! These hopes are also open-ended in a way that fits the two common-born members of this rebellion: it's not just the Masks they want freedom from.

"I hope for freedom, and no more." Tain Hu: and no more. We talk often of how repressed Baru is, and how Tain Hu is much more comfortable in her sexuality. And that's true, but she's also aware of where the limits lie, especially when it comes to Baru: flirtation, but later on a drawing-back when things become serious. I'm inclined to think of this as a mirror to when Baru finally chooses her in the end: I had dared to hope.

[dreamsteddie]

steddie fic idea (in any form you'd like; drabble, short story, etc) if you take requests 😁💚:

Rockstar Eddie x Steve (whatever profession you think fits/is necessary to mention) where someone has a social media account called "Eyes on Eddie" and it's one of those accounts who posts when Eddie is spotted somewhere in public. it turns out to be Steve in disguise because he wants to posts the pretty "paparazzi" pictures he's taken of his boyfriend. all fun and games, nothing super personal or invasive, just him in a subway and Steve making some excuse to leave and snap a pic from outside before coming back in to enjoy lunch with his bf

It starts as a joke.

Steve and Eddie have had their home base here in Chicago for about 14 years, but now that Eddie and the CC boys have had their fun touring around the world had decided to venture into the wild world of both creating and producing music through their own, relatively small, music lable.

When he's home, Eddie spends a lot of time on the Blue Line going back and forth between their recording studio, their house, and the various other places that demand his attention as a rock star/record label owner. Since the boys have decided to focus more of their time on the label, slowing their own music production from one album a year to one every two or three, him and Steve have slipped into easy, well-worn routines that bring comfort to their everyday lives.

That being said, they don't always have tabs on each other, so when Steve wakes up half an hour late for work, already hearing Robin chewing him out in his head for making her open the store on her own, he's not expecting to spot his husband.

Eddie is leaning up on a post, looking every bit like the rock star he is with tastefully ripped jeans, a heavy leather jacket, and the same rings he's worn for as long as they've known each other (plus the one Steve put there himself four years ago). Without thinking, Steve pulls out his phone and aims it at his unsuspecting partner.

Steve has always enjoyed photography, or at least iPhone photography. He takes a second to get the right angle, trying not to draw too much attention to himself as he makes sure the little bit of sun shining from the windows behind Eddie hits him just right. He means to send it to Eddie right away. Means to send him a cryptic message saying something like "I'm watching you" along with the picture and watch for his reaction.

But then the train announces itself and he's rushing for the platform to get on the Pink Line while Eddie stays to wait for the Blue and then he's too focused on finding a place to stand, getting off at the right stop, and getting chewed out by Robin and it all slips his mind.

That is until it happens again...and again...and one more time. Opportunities he just can't pass up to take pictures of his perfect, handsome, oblivious partner. One at the park, another on the L, and one not far outside the studio.

He never means to do anything with them, but he also can't stop pulling out his phone to scroll through his slowly growing album of candid Eddie photos, even when he knows Robin is lurking about waiting to make fun of him at any moment.

Which is exactly what happens. It's their monthly Boy's Night Out where they go to the sports bar that plays women's soccer and have a pitcher of cheap beer and end the night with greasy takeout on Robin's couch. They stay up all night painting their nails, doing face masks, and talking about their partners even though it always ends up with both of them feeling weepy about how in love they are and how happy they are for each other.

It's at that point in the night that he pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through his small collection of now-familiar photos. Robin, heavily leaning into his shoulder as she is, immediately sees what he's doing and starts cooing at him and ribbing him in equal measure. Somewhere along the line, she convinces him that they need to make an account right now immediately. She insists that it should be a thirst account, but Steve is quick to shut that down. He's always become particularly stroppy when anyone besides himself lusts after his husband, even if he knows his status as a high-profile rock star means it happens every day. He insists he won't be "that guy" to which Robin rolls her eyes and calls him dramatic.

In the end, they decide on an "appreciation" account. To their surprise, the handle EyesonEddie isn't already in use and they take it as a sign that it was meant to be. They giggle as they put the whole thing together, making their first post with a simple 👀 emoji as the caption which, in the moment, feels like the funniest thing anyone has ever done.

In the morning, he wakes up sore and hungover, unable to deny that he's no longer in his 20s to find over 200 likes on his post already. He groans, waking up Robin in the process, and contemplates taking it all down. In the end, he leaves it be, content to let it all fade into obscurity on its own.

Only it doesn't.

He doesn't want to stop taking his pictures. It's fun and he likes trying to find ways to sneak them in without Eddie knowing. It's like a fun little game he plays with himself. That first picture does moderately well, but it's the comments that keep him going. It's fun, somehow, to talk to people who appreciate his husband even a fraction of the amount that he does. As jealous as he can feel when Eddie is away on tour, there's a certain joy in sharing his love for his husband in this silly little way.

So, a couple times a month he posts a picture of his husband. The most flattering, in public pictures he has and watches as the love floods in. He tries not to post too often, doesn't want anyone to think he's a stalker, and every now and then he puts one up with a comment about an "anonymous submission" which really means Robin taking pictures of Eddie and Steve at the grocery store or on the way to the studio.

It builds and builds and before he knows it he has one of the top Eddie Munson fan accounts on the internet. Robin thinks it's the funniest thing in the world, especially the first time Eddie shows him a picture he took of Eddie on the train telling him he didn't even notice his shoe was untied that day. She delights in reading the most outlandish comments in her Miss Piggy voice whenever there's downtime at the store, which is always good for a few laughs.

There's a part of him that feels a little guilty. They've struggled with invasive people in the past. People who try to get too close, take too many pictures, try to hunt down Eddie at bars after shows trying to get their taste of fame. It's not as bad as with major celebrities since the guys don't go out of their way to be public figures. No brand deals or movies or TV cameos, but they're still members of an extremely successful band with a number of die-hard fans.

He thinks it's probably going to be time to tell Eddie what he's been up to soon. Not only to squash whatever minor feelings of guilt have bloomed with the account's success but also because it's getting harder to get original pictures of Eddie the more time goes on. For a rockstar, he sure doesn't lead a predictable life.

God, Steve loves him so much.

Little does Steve know, Eddie has been well aware of who has been running the infamous EyesonEddie account since that very first post. What Steve doesn't know about that first picture is that Eddie saw him that day at the train station too. He'd looked up at the announcement, making sure it wasn't his own, and caught sight of Steve's favorite yellow knit sweater and leather messenger bag disappearing into the sea of people clamoring into the train car. He would recognize that famous head of hair from 100 yards with one eye closed.

He forgot to mention it when he got home that night, lost in the chaos of his everyday life until Gareth forwarded him that picture. He thinks about telling Steve right away, but ultimately it's funnier to watch him squirm a little bit. He flips his phone around to show Steve the candid "some stranger" look of him on the train with his shoe untied, complaining that it's pretty much the same as being caught with his pants down in public. It's fun putting his drama skills to good use, lamenting about his "uncouth appearance" with over-the-top theatrics to stop himself from laughing at the way Steve avoids his eyes and his ears turn pink while Robin tries her best not to bust out laughing.

He'll tell Steve eventually, put him out of his misery, but for now he's going to try and time this sneeze just right so Steve has to come up with a really good excuse for why he's 15 minutes late for their lunch date. He must get it right because he can see Steve curse a little from the reflection of him in the restaurant window.

God, Eddie loves him so much.

------

LMAO I was not expecting anyone to send me prompts but it was a lot of fun to bring this to life. Thanks @lumoschildextra for sending it to me 😊

As you can see I made them husbands instead of boyfriends. I just couldn't help it!

Also, not explicitly stated but Steve works with Robin at her bookstore. She opened it a couple years after she graduated. She went through a really difficult breakup after supporting her girlfriend through the last half of college and the first two years after graduation. When they broke up she felt like she's wasted years focusing on someone else's dreams. She stayed with Steve and Eddie for a while, and during that time Eddie offered to help her financially if she wanted to start building something of her own. At first, Robin refused. She didn't want to be that friend that uses their famous friend for their own gain. It became the source of their biggest argument but in the end, Eddie got her to accept the money as a loan that she could pay back, with no interest, when she started making money. She decided to open a small, specialty bookstore focusing on international literature and rare books. Steve works the cash register after three years of being a stay-at-home boyfriend/husband when Eddie started making bank since he was starting to get bored. He's mostly there to look pretty, draw in customers, and keep Robin sane.

[fcthots]

Getting mad at Jason, so he can't touch you, he's gotta watch while you touch yourself and maaaaaybe if he's lucky, you'll let him have your soaked undies after you're done. (If you don't he'll prolly just wait till you leave and lick the wet spot on the bed while taking care of himself)

I HAVE CLASS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES. HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FOCUS WHEN I’LL BE THINKING AB YOUR ASK???

Jason had a shitty day. He was pacing around the kitchen, on the phone with Oracle because Black Mask had found a way to smuggle in drugs laced with all kinds of shit under everyone’s noses. They’d been going back and forth for while before he heard your voice from the living room.

“What should I order for dinner?”

He didn’t respond, Babs was saying something about financial records and where Black mask may have gone to. He heard your voice overlapping hers again.

“If you don’t answer, I’m just gonna order BatBurger.”

He didn’t mean to snap. He didn’t. He was just stressed and too much was going on. He didn’t mean to snap, but you could hear his voice from the living room. “I don’t care!”

He didn’t hear you respond. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed as he started walking towards the living room. “Babs, I gotta go. Talk later. Bye.” He steps into the room and sees you laying on the couch. You’re staring at him, face unreadable. “I’m sorry love. I didn’t mean to snap. BatBurger is fine.”

Your face becomes gentle. “‘S okay, darlin. I didn’t know you were on the phone.”

“But it’s not okay. I yelled at you!”

“It’s fine, baby. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not fine-”

“You’re stressed, right?” He watches the gears turn behind your eyes.

“Yes but that’s not an excuse-”

“You wanna feel like we’re even?”

He raises an eyebrow and nods his head, unsure of where this is going. He opens his mouth but you cut him off again.

“Come with me.” You get up and grab his hand as you lead him to the bedroom. You push him so he’s leaning against the wall looking at the bed.

You walk toward the bed and climb onto it, taking your shirt off as you lay back against the pillows. “Wanna know what your punishment is?” He nods his head, eyes still looking at you skeptically. You smile. “I’m gonna touch myself and you’re gonna watch me. You can’t talk and no touching me or yourself until after I’m done. And who knows, if you’re good I might give you my underwear after, but only if you’re good.”

He looks promptly horrified. You ignore it as you slip your bra and pants off and begin to make a show of playing with your tits. Soon enough, you trail one hand down and use it to begin massaging your clit over your underwear. You lock eyes with him as you moan and a visible wet spot slacks through your panties. He’s already straining against his pants.

He lays his hands flat against the wall as if to stop himself from reaching out. You push your panties to the side and begin making a show of slowly circling your clit, whining and gasping until his eyes are boring into you. You’re beginning to get lost in your own pleasure.

You make sure he has a good angle as you spread your lower lips and sink two fingers in, trying you gather your slick. You watch him move away from the wall and approach where you are on the bed. You think about stopping him, but you’re too lost in the moment and, technically, you never said he couldn’t get closer.

He gently grabs the hand that’s fingers were buried in your pussy. He draws the fingers out and brings them to his lips. He moans as he puts your fingers in his mouth and swirls his tongue around them.

You remove your hand, despite the way it turned you on. “Ah ah ah. I said no touching. Against the wall.”

“But-”

“No talking either. Looks like someone won’t be getting these when I’m done.” You take off your underwear and continue to massage your clit, your slick dripping onto the bed.

The way his gaze is locked on your writhing form begins to throw you over the edge. Your hand speeds up and you whine his name. His breathing becomes heavier and your movements become erratic as you see his hands clench into fists before you close your eyes.

After you come, you watch him through half-lidded eyes.

He finally speaks. “Can I talk now?” You nod your head and get up. He continues. “Please. Wanna taste you. Let me put my face between your thighs, please-”

“Nope.” You pick up your underwear off the floor, making sure he can’t get it. You smile. “Now we’re even. Have fun, Jay.” You walk out the door and into the bathroom to clean yourself up.

And if you see him fucking himself after while he licks your slick off the bed, well, who doesn’t enjoy a good show?

[ottpopfic]

Leo wakes up to Jason licking him

Or really he wakes lazy and slow, wrapped as the little spoon in strong arms against a broad chest. They are both naked, not abnormal after a night like last night, and Jason has them wound close and tangled. He's also mouthing at Leo’s shoulders and neck, doing that puppy nuzzle thing where he rubs and bunts his nose and chin on things, plastering a speckling of lazy kisses every so often.

And then as Leo starts to come out of slumber, Jason licks him again. Slow, careful, with purpose. It's not part of the mouthing that's become the norm for their intimate life, it's a little different. It takes Leo a while to notest how much, sleep addled and slow, to busy floating all warm in his man's safe arms

Leo hums and groans as he is brought the rest of the way into the world of the waking. He doesn't really want to go, he's just so comfy, but the little happy coo and snuffle Jason gives as he starts to stir makes it worth it. He can't help but smile as his man gives him a little squeeze before smattering a bunch of fairy light kisses across the back of his shoulder. It's such a nice way to start the day

But then Jason licks him again, in the same spot in the same way, and his interest peaked

“Jase” he started, sleep-slurred and sluggish

“Hmmm?”

“Why am I being licked?”

Jason freezes, going stiff for half a second before starting to pull away with an apology. Leo shoots a hand behind himself to tangle in his man's hair, his other arm coming from where its under the pillow to hold Jason’s arms around his waist, trying to keep him where he is

“Hey hey,” Leo says, worried about the perceived rejection “I didn't say stop”

“But you-”

“I don't mind” he peeks over his shoulder “I'm just curious”

From what Leo can see Jason looks apprehensive, but with some tugging and being unwavering he slowly relaxes back into him. His mouth returns to where he was licking at Leo before, just a press of lips as he softens again

“What's up?” Leo prompts, gentler than before

“I got you bad last night” Jason says into his skin “Was making it better”

“Huh,” Jason’s mouth had been glued to one place on the back of his shoulder for a good chunk of him plowing Leo into the bed “That makes sense”

“Really?”

“Yeah” Leo starts to scratch where he can reach of Jason’s hair, clumsy with the angle “You always lick at things when your hurt”

“Oh” Jason sounds a little embarrassed, its kinda cute “I didn't know you saw”

Leo leans back farther into his man's arms “Your not the only one who watches Superman”

“Oh” Jason buries his face into Leo, squeezing him tight “oh”

“Is that okay?”

“Yeah, its okay”

They lay like that for a little, the close squeeze starting to put Leo back to sleep. He never thought he would be able to rest so sound with another person in his bed, but Jason is something else altogether

“Can I?” Jason eventually asks into the still

“Hmm?”

He plants a kiss on the gnarly hickey on Leos���s shoulder, it must be pretty bad as the firm press of lips akes “Please?”

“Oh yeah, go ahead”

Jason doesn't go right back to licking him, but it's still the doteing mouthing that Leo has come to expect from his man. Wet open-mouthed kisses, the slight press of teeth, the nuzzling drag of lips and face. It's just Jason being sweet on him, the carefully constructed Roman mask laid bare to reveal the wolfish man underneath.

Then there it is, the slow drag of tongue once again. It doesn't feel like much, but knowing it's Jason trying to ‘make it better’ draws a content hum out of Leo. It would be cat-like if Leo hadn't seen Jason do this to himself so many times, licking at his own bruises and cuts after spars when he thinks no one is looking.

But Leo is always looking

[wisecura]

Honey

mitsukuni haninozuka x reader

an: a request from not too long ago that sounded ✨perfect.✨. am thinking of an extended one-depending if people like it, but this scratches my itch for today

summary: you never understood what they saw in the overly, obnoxious 'cutie' known as Honey-senpai. he always seemed a little off to you...

warnings: yandere themes, suggestive content, forced kissing, implied stalking,

Were you the only one who saw it? 

The Host Club was buzzing with activity, the usual squeals and “oohs” and “ahhs” filling the lavishly decorated music room. Your friend had dragged you along once again, insisting that it would be “fun,” as if you hadn’t spent the last few visits awkwardly sitting at the table while they fawned over their favorite hosts.

Today was no different.

Across from you sat two other girls—probably friends of your friend—chatting animatedly about Tamaki-senpai’s latest antics.

You didn’t necessarily hate being here. But your friend—she definitely had her favorites. You’d even come to appreciate the moments spent with Mori-senpai, whose calm and stoic presence was a welcome contrast to the vibrant chaos that was the Host Club. Whether it was a quiet remark, a rare joke, or even just the simplicity of his company, there was a sense of comfort in those interactions.

But her favorite—Haninozuka, or Honey-senpai—was a different story.

It wasn’t that you disliked him. At least, not entirely. It was just...the way he acted. The cutesy, exaggerated persona, dripping with syrupy sweetness, felt far too calculated. Every giggle, every offer of cake, every affectionate mention of his beloved Usa-chan seemed so meticulously crafted, so blatantly designed to draw attention, that it set your nerves on edge.

No one else seemed to notice. To everyone around you, he was simply adorable, the perfect embodiment of charm and innocence. But to you, something about it felt... off.

You had been dazing off, thinking about the mountain of assignments waiting for you tonight. Across the table, the other girls giggled, their attention turning as Haninozuka approached with his ever-present bunny plushie tucked under one arm. His high-pitched voice floated above the hum of conversation, cheerful and bright, effortlessly drawing the room’s focus. Faces lit up around you, enchanted by his arrival as though he carried the light of the room with him.

You weren’t as enchanted.

The sound of your name broke through the chatter, jolting you from your thoughts. “I brought you something special today!” Haninozuka all but declared, his tone as dramatic as ever, yet still maintaining an edge of sweetness that felt so rehearsed...so practiced.

In his hand, he held a small plate of cake, a picture-perfect dessert adorned with pastel swirls of frosting and tiny, meticulously placed edible flowers. It was the kind of detail that would have drawn gasps of delight from anyone else at the table. Anyone else.

“Isn’t it the cutest?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his honey-brown eyes locking onto yours with an almost disarming intensity. The angle of his gaze, wide and expectant, felt like a silent demand for approval. Just what did this dude want from you?

Caught off guard, you forced a polite smile, nodding as you tried to mask the discomfort creeping into your expression. “T-thank you, Haninozuka-senpai,” you replied, the words stiff and formal in comparison to the casual, intimate tone he used.

Senpai. The word felt heavier than usual, a subtle reminder that despite his childlike demeanor, he was older than you.

He placed the plate carefully in front of you, lingering just a moment too long. His gaze stayed fixed on yours, expectant, his head tilting slightly as if to dissect every flicker of your reaction. When you didn’t respond the way he seemed to want, his head tilted further, a faint pout crossing his lips. “You don’t look very excited,” he said, his tone still candied and overly sweet, likely just as painfully aware of the eyes on you both. “You don’t look very excited,” he pouted.

Around you, the other girls giggled and leaned closer, completely enraptured by his charm, while even Mori shifted slightly to glance in your direction. The attention only brought a pink flush to your cheeks.

“Do you not like it?” Haninozuka’s words were innocent enough, but the way he asked them made your skin prickle. His fingers clutched Usa-chan a little tighter, the fabric straining under his grip, a small but unmistakable sign of tension. His wide, childlike smile seemed to stretch just a fraction too far, and an uneasiness spread in your stomach.

The question lingered awkwardly in the air, and the buzz of the room seemed to dim as you scrambled for a way to let him down gently without coming off as rude. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a polite smile, your words light but to the point. "It's beautiful, really. I just don't eat a lot of sweets."

For a moment, everything paused. His cheerful expression stayed put, but his eyes sharpened, a glint of something not quite right flickering behind the sugary facade. Then he giggled—a light, airy sound that somehow felt hollow.

“That’s okay,” he said, his voice as bright as ever, though his gaze didn’t soften. “I’ll just make something even better next time. Something you’ll have to like.”

He straightened and turned away, bouncing off to another group with his usual exuberance. The giggles and swooning around him resumed instantly, the moment passing as though it had never happened. But your unease remained. The way he had looked at you, as though studying something under a magnifying glass, replayed in your mind.

No one else seemed to notice the edge beneath his sweetness. His syrupy charm worked its magic on everyone else in the room, leaving you alone with the chilling suspicion that you were the only one who saw the cracks in his perfect mask.

And he couldn't understand it. 

He had done everything right, hadn’t he? The bright smile, the sweet voice, the perfectly crafted plate of cake adorned with delicate frosting swirls and tiny edible flowers. It was flawless—he was flawless. Everyone adored him. Everyone always adored him.

But you didn’t.

He noticed it, even if you thought you were being subtle. The way your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes when he approached. The slight stiffness in your posture when he placed the plate in front of you. You weren’t like the others, who leaned in with starry eyes and breathless giggles. You didn’t react the way you were supposed to—the way you should have.

It ate away at him.

As he walked away, the giggles of the other girls surrounded him like a cloud of adoration. Yet, his mind wasn’t on them. It wasn’t on the praises they showered him with or the way they clung to his every word. No, his thoughts were with you.

There you were, sitting at that table, your expression carefully polite but utterly unconvincing.

Why? Why didn’t you light up when he smiled at you? Why didn’t you melt when he offered you his perfectly crafted cake? Why didn’t you look at him the way everyone else did? He couldn’t stop the questions from swirling in his mind, each more frenzied than the last.

You didn’t dislike him.

He had watched you closely, carefully, reading the subtle cues in your posture, the polite smile you offered when he spoke to you, even during class times, or when he'd see you passing him in the hall. Sometimes, he'd subtly follow you, observing how naturally your interactions with everyone else seemed to flow.

No, he concluded, you didn’t dislike him. He was sure of that.

But you didn’t adore him either, and that was the problem. That was the part he couldn’t accept.

He tilted his head, feigning interest in another guest’s chatter, nodding in all the right places. But his attention wasn’t on them. His gaze kept darting back to you, like a moth drawn to a flame. There you were, sitting at the table, now fully engaged with Mori. You were talking to him, your expression lighter, more relaxed, your smile genuine in a way it never seemed to be when directed at Haninozuka.

And that smile—it ignited something sharp and bitter inside him. Jealousy. He recognized the feeling instantly, even as he tried to suppress it. It twisted in his chest, coiling tightly, growing stronger with every laugh you shared with Mori. Why was it so easy for you to smile like that with someone else? Why wasn’t it him who could draw that kind of warmth from you?

You were different, that much was clear. You weren’t swayed by the thick charm or the carefully crafted persona he had perfected over the years. His sweetness didn’t disarm you, his innocence didn’t lull you. It worked on everyone else—everyone but you.

His grip on Usa-chan tightened, his fingers digging into the soft fabric. The familiar texture grounded him as his thoughts threatened to spiral. He needed to fix this. He needed to understand.

Why didn’t you look at him the way everyone else did? What was missing? What did Mori have that he didn’t? The questions swirled in his mind, each one sharper than the last.

He couldn’t let it stay this way. If his usual appeal wasn’t enough to break down your walls, then he would find another way. There was always a way. He just needed to figure out what would work. What would make you look at him the way you looked at Mori. What would make you adore him, the way you were supposed to.

He watched you again, his gaze lingering as you leaned slightly toward Mori, laughing softly at something he said. It wasn’t fair. That smile, that warmth—it should have been his. You should have been his.

You didn’t adore him. Yet.

But you would. He would make sure of it. No matter what it took.

The day started innocently enough. Classes passed without incident, and the plan was to spend the afternoon catching up on assignments in the library.

But as the building’s doors swung open, the heavy clouds that had been gathering all morning burst open in a torrential downpour. Groaning, the only choice was to pull your cardigan over your head and sprint for the nearest cover.

The garden gazebo provided a quick refuge—ornate, quiet, and usually deserted. Ducking inside, the rain’s relentless hammering against the roof drowned out the world beyond. Alone at last, or so it seemed.

“Hiding from the rain too?” The bright voice startled you. Turning quickly, there was Haninozuka, sitting on a stone stool, completely dry. It was as though he had been waiting there, untouched by the storm. “I didn’t think I’d see anyone here. Are you okay?”

A quick nod followed, brushing off the rain as much as the question. “Just trying to stay dry.”

His gaze lingered, eyes scanning your soaked cardigan and dampened shirt. You blushed a bit, realizing the fabric might be a bit see-through. Concern laced his tone as he stood, removing his blazer in one fluid motion. “You’ll catch a cold like that.” Before you could protest, he stepped closer, draping it over your shoulders.

It might have seemed like a kind gesture—thoughtful and considerate—but the way his hands stayed on the fabric just a moment too long made your skin crawl.

His fingers brushed your shoulders lightly, lingering as if testing your reaction. His gaze held yours with an intensity that was impossible to ignore, unsettling in its focus. The smile that followed, soft and unassuming, didn’t match the tension thickening in the air.

Your breath hitched. “I—I’m fine,” you stammered, stepping back slightly, though the weight of his presence left little room to breathe. “I was going to try running home—”

Before you could finish, his hand gently but firmly gripped your arm, stopping you in place. His expression didn’t falter, his smile still in place, but there was something biting beneath it now. Something unfaltering and grim.

“Running? In this storm?” his voice still light but carrying an undertone of something far less...innocent. “You’ll get hurt.”

“It’s not that bad,” your voice faltering as you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened ever so slightly, keeping you rooted where you stood. Damn he sure was strong.

“I can’t let you do that,” softly, his eyes boring into yours. “What kind of person would I be if I let you get soaked—or worse, slip and fall?” His other hand rose to adjust the blazer draped over your shoulders, his movements slow and deliberate, as though claiming the space around you.

“Really, I’ll be fine,” you tried again, your heart pounding against your ribs. But he took a step closer, closing the distance between you with alarming ease, his presence overwhelming in the confined space of the gazebo.

“What’s your problem with me?” His voice cut through the pounding of the rain, sharper than you’d ever heard it. The sugary sweetness, gone, replaced by something darker, and much colder. “You don’t seem to like me very much, and I’m wondering if it’s something I did.”

The shift in his tone sent a chill down your spine. His eyes locked onto yours, unblinking, as if daring you to deny his words. This wasn't the senpai you knew-

“N-no, that’s not it,” you stammered, stepping back instinctively, only for your back to meet the edge of the gazebo. The rain continued to hammer against the roof, trapping you both in an atmosphere that felt suffocating.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “Really?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less cutting. “Because it sure feels like you don’t.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but no words came out. His gaze pinned you in place, the weight of it making it impossible to look away. He took another step closer, and the space between you shrank until there was nowhere left to retreat.

“I try to be nice,” his tone measured, deliberate. “I go out of my way to make you feel welcome, to make things easier for you. But you don’t even smile at me like you do with the others. Like you do with Mori.”

The mention of Mori sent another spike of unease through you, but before you could respond, his hand reached out, brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. The gesture might have seemed gentle if not for the possessive edge in his eyes. The giddy look at having you this close to him.

“What is it?” his voice softening, not comforting you in the slightest. It was low, almost a whisper, drawing your focus solely on him, all consuming. “What am I doing wrong?”

“You’re not doing anything wrong,” you managed, your voice matching his whisper, though your heart was screaming otherwise. “I just—”

“Just what?” he interrupted, his hand lingering at the side of your face, his fingers brushing your jaw. His smile returned, faint and strained, more a show of teeth than warmth. “You can tell me. I want to understand.”

The rain was deafening, the sound pressing down on you as he leaned closer, his eyes narrowing slightly. His proximity left no room for escape, his hand still resting lightly against your face. The tension in the air was suffocating, every nerve in your body screaming for you to move, to do something, but you couldn’t.

“Y’know, I’ve always liked you,” he said suddenly, catching you off guard. You suppose you felt flustered by his confession, but the nerves from his proximity took over. His voice was softer now, less controlled, as if letting something slip he’d been holding back. His eyes darted down to your lips, and you held your breath, refusing to visibly react much more than that.

“I watch you, you know,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, intimate and unsettling. “You’re not like everyone else. I really, really like you.”

His hand tilted your chin slightly, forcing you to lock his gaze. The intensity in his eyes was overwhelming. “But you’re so hard to reach,” he murmured, his thumb circling your cheek. “And it’s driving me insane.”

“Haninozuka-senpai,” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling—whether from fear or disbelief, you couldn’t tell. His eyes were close to deranged now, and you swear you caught a flicker of something akin to hunger as his gaze dropped briefly to your lips.

“Call me Mitsukuni,” his voice dripping with an almost disarming charm, but the tension in his grip betrayed him. His eyes held yours, making escape feel impossible. “We’re closer than that now, don’t you think?”

You tried to pull back, but his hold shifted, slotting in right up against your pinned body. Rain tickled your back, ricocheting off the stone below, battering the gazebo as the world beyond blurred into gray. You couldn't focus on anything but his warmth, the way his eyes flicked down to your lips again, and his smile twitched, as if he was barely restraining himself from crossing a line right then and there.

“You’ll see,” leaning in now, almost threateningly, “You’re going to like me as much as I like you. I’ll make sure of it.”

Before you could move, before you could even think, his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was forceful, teeth clashing, as his hands gripped you tightly, almost painfully. His hold didn’t just restrict-it bruised, pressing you back against the cold, wet wood.

When he finally pulled back, a long string of saliva trailed from your mouth to his, his breath panting, mingled with yours. His eyes were delirious, locked on your face, absorbing every flicker of emotion. His smile returned, soft and unsettling, as you trembled against him. “See?” he whispered. “You don’t have to run. You’re safe with me.”

The rain continued to fall, but it felt like nothing compared to the weight of his presence. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from the storm outside, but from the storm he had stirred up inside you.

Leaving you feeling anything but safe.

come home

[petermorwood]

@nimblermortal sent me this last week:

A second blade weapon became increasingly common in the later Viking Age. It does not have a formal name, being often referred to as a fighting-knife or battle-knife, and it was essentially a development of the one-handed, long seax knife of the Migration Period. A single-edged blade with a thick back that added weight to a short, stabbing blow, it seems to have been intended as a back-up weapon. By the tenth century, battle-knives had elaborate scabbards that were worn horizontally along the belt, allowing them to be drawn across the body from behind a shield if the sword was gone; a variant hung down at an angle from an elaborate harness. It seems they may also have been worn on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw. Children of Ash and Elm by Neil Price @petermorwood (Mr Morwood! Mr Morwood!) I found an archaeologist claiming people were doing over-the-shoulder draws! Would you care to weigh in?

*****

Would I ever! That's a button well pushed. But things got odd when I tried, because as soon as I'd written even the smallest reply and saved to Draft, this happened:

Letting it stand would have seemed like I was trying to avoid comments, corrections or criticism, but despite poking around in Settings there was no way to turn things on. It was only by cut-and-pasting @nimblermortal's entire original as a Quote starting a new post that the problem was resolved.

Anyone else encountered this?

Anyway, on with the lecture response. :->

*****

As regards Back-Carry / Back-Draw of "battle-knives", I'm not convinced.

("Battle-knife" is a term I've never seen in connection with any Viking Age weapon. What's the Old Norse for it? German "Kriegsmesser" (war-knife) refers to something much bigger from 500 years later, also not back-carried or back-drawn - which from here on will be BD / BC.)

To get where he is now, a full professor, Neil Price will have defended his PhD, and should know such a statement as "It seems they may..." will need evidence to support it.

That phrase is easy to write, as is "According to legend..." and "It is said..." However these are IMO default History Channel phrases, with all the authenticity that implies. None of them actually PROVE what they're speculating.

"Experiments conducted by museum staff wearing authentic armour reveal that IT SEEMS medieval knights could use smartphones."

But does it prove medieval knights USED smartphones? See what I mean?

*****

I first asked if anyone had actual proof of BC / BD on Netsword almost 30 years ago, and to date there's been nothing. I've also posted about it quite a lot on Tumblr, so being poked with this particular stick is no surprise. :->

The quotation from "Children of Ash and Elm" is the first time I've heard of a trained archaeologist making a claim for BC / BD, and the odd part is that Prof. Price also states the weapon was intended for "...a short, stabbing blow" - which means wearing it horizontally in front makes far more sense. From that position it can be drawn far faster and with less telegraphed intent than "...on the back - again for a swift, over-the-shoulder draw."

Reaching up for any weapon carried across the back, whether long or short, is a bigger movement - and thus less "swift" - than snatching out the same weapon worn at the hip or across the front at waist level, especially if - as he suggests - that move is masked behind a shield (or for that matter a cloak, a door, or a half-turned torso...)

Try both moves in front of a mirror with a ruler or even a length of dowel, and you'll understand.

With a weapon-hilt visible behind one shoulder or just a cross-belt suggesting something slung out of sight, what's a Norse warrior going to think when his potential opponent reaches up there? At a moment of hot words and high tension, will he wait while an itchy back gets scratched or until an attack happens?

The explosive violence described in sagas suggests not.

If Prof. Price has solid proof for his BC / BD notion in the form of artefacts or art - and it'll need more than a one-off example - I'll be very pleased to finally see some "show me" evidence.

(It won't do anything for longswords of 500 years later, of course, though I bet the uncritical back-carry brigade would leap on it regardless.)

But without that evidence, I'm taking "it seems" with a wary pinch of salt.

*****

There's a weird internet fixation about BC / BD (which are NOT the same thing) and an equally weird need to show that back-draw "works", whether with hooks under the guard and a leather condom at the point...

... or by being open most of the way down one side.

Neither are real-world historical, so let's see how they work in fantasy.

IMO they're not appropriate there either, because the designers are so eager to provide working BC / BD that they ignore the main function of a scabbard, which is to carry the weapon in something which protects people from the weapon's edges, and the weapon from the elements.

Real scabbards for real swords went to some trouble over that. They protected people, including the wearer, with a completely enclosed wooden, leather and / or metal case, and protected the blades by having them fit into their case well enough that inclement weather stayed out.

This fitting could involve metal collars (Japanese habaki), or tight-gripping lanolin-rich fleece linings, or leather flaps, caps and rain-guards mounted on hilt or scabbard-throat. Real scabbards didn't have exposed metal and weren't open-sided rainfall buckets, because the priorities of actual sword users were very different to those of back-carry fans.

Given the number of posts I've seen about the technical side of fantasy world-building - history, geography, even geology and meteorology - I think this difference is worth noting.

*****

The first time I recall seeing back-carry mentioned in a historical-not-fantasy context was in "Growing Up in the Thirteenth Century", © Alfred Duggan 1962. Here's the extract in question:

Unfortunately Duggan - though according to his Wikipedia entry "His novels are known for meticulous historical research" - doesn't give any cited source for this; his introduction to the book says:

I know the feeling! :->

I'd still trust him more than some modern historical writers who seem over-willing to add a touch of fantasy speculation / interpretation if it rounds out something inconclusive, makes the history more interesting or chimes with a personal agenda.

"Accurate" is better than "interesting", and "I don't know" is better than making stuff up.

*****

To repeat: I've yet to see any museum-exhibit or manuscript-illumination examples of BC / BD ever done For Historically Real with Western European swords, especially the hand-and-a-half longswords on which modern back-draw fans seem fixated.

A seax, scramasax or just plan sax is shorter, but yet again, this is the first time I've read anything even remotely scholarly about them or their later Viking-age version (saxes were associated more with Saxons than Vikings, guess why?) being BC / BD.

By contrast, there are at least three art instances of saxes worn horizontally, on 10th century crosses at Middleton Church, Yorkshire:

The art is backed up by surviving examples with scabbard-fittings still in place, indicating how they were worn. Here's one example, from the Metropolitan Museum, New York which makes that very obvious.

The little decorative masks (originally part of the top of the scabbard, now corroded onto the blade) are clearly meant to be This Side Up, and also show that this scabbard was This Side Out for a right-handed draw, since there's no detail on the back.

There's a similar fancy-front / plain-back / right-hand-use leather sax scabbard at the Jorvik Centre in York.

There's only a single photograph of this bigger one - 54cm (21.5 in) overall - from the Cleveland Museum of Art, with no way to see if the L-shaped scabbard mount is decorated on just one or both sides. However it does indicate the weapon was meant for horizontal wear.

I've also flipped the website photo to show right-hand use, because "It seems..." (hah!) more probable. Here's why I did it:

For most of history being left-handed was unusual, a disapproved-of aberration and the origin of the word sinister.

Left-handers were useless in any formation from Ancient Greece through Ancient Rome to the Saxon and Viking period where the shields of a phalanx, testudo or shield-wall had to overlap for mutual support.

In the Middle Ages, both the specialised armour and the layout of jousting courses were almost 100% right-hand only.

Most surviving swords with asymmetrical hilts, such as swept-hilt rapiers, are made to for right hands not left.

Even nowadays many weapons - including the current British Army rifle (SA-80 / L85/A2) - are set for right-handers only.

*****

The longest saxes are called Langseax (surprise) though this may be a modern-ish term. Here's one from the British Museum, the so-called "Seax of Beagnoth"...

...which is 72 cm (28.5 in) total / 55cm (22 in) blade.

That's about the same as a Roman gladius (another sword never back-worn despite its convenient size) and is a good 25-30cm (10-12 in) shorter than the average "proper" sword of the same period, which means it could be drawn over-shoulder...

However the layout of its runic engraving shows it was almost certainly meant to be worn horizontally As Per Usual.

*****

And now we've come all the way back around to Prof. Price's claim that Vikings did BC / BD with their battle-knives.

Such a claim needs proof.

Please, show me some.

[greyspirehollow]

Prepare for trouble - Make it double

Pairing : Quaestor Valdemar x (demon) Reader Fandom : The Arcana visual novel Warnings : science (I'm not good with warnings) ; discussion of experiments ; probably inaccurate depiction of said science (like it's probably not how it works, I ain't no scientist, I'm an artist)

Summary : To make sure you live as long as your beloved, you went our of your way to make a deal with the Devil. The downsides? You have the same morbid curiosities and fascinations as your dearest, though you specialize in another field...

It had been a few months since you made your deal. Things had changed, of course, but you felt as if the sacrifices you made were little in comparison to spending eternity by Valdemar's side. And you couldn't have possibly done that without giving up your humanity... But you knew you had done the right thing. Everything had become more tender with the Quaestor, it seemed they'd finally allowed themselves to feel for you, to love you ; They were spending more time by your side, they held you more often, at times you could swear you could see a spark of love and adoration in their eyes when they looked at you... And honestly? It's all you could've asked for. Everything else was a bonus.

Spending more time together undeniably meant you picked up on some quirks from each other's behavior. Even though you had a much more theatrical side to you (which seemed to be easier to indulge into, since you weren't so afraid anymore since your deal ; although you do know how to control it. People often perceive you as rather calm and composed, actually), you had caught yourself standing like them a few times. Once, you two had tilted your heads at the same time during a conversation, drawing a few laughs out of both of you. It seemed like Valdemar had picked up on some of your behaviors as well, which... You hadn't expected. You remember loosing your shit at one of the few jokes they cracked around you from time to time. Sure, they were still very much themselves, but you feel like their time with you warmed them up somewhat. A few days after you came back from your deal, they'd offered to wrap your horns in bandages, just like they did with their own, and you couldn't refuse (it was just so cute). Your horn shape was more vertical, with a slight angle to them, but in the end, you had matching bandaged horns, and it just made you giddy every time you thought about it. You would tease each other at times, even though when other people were around, the Quaestor was much more reserved, a bit contrary to you. But you caught a smile behind their mask once or twice.

And of course, all those soft moments were worth everything you'd given up. Your humanity, and your moral compass. Regarding science, anyway...

You hadn't told them anything. When those strange thoughts came to you, it made you curious. Not only because you'd never thought of this before, but also because it was... Interesting, actually. You knew you probably shouldn't indulge in them. After all, you weren't human anymore, your thoughts weren't the same... And yet, you gave in. You had noticed how when Valdemar was really invested in an experiment, it seemed you could go anywhere you wanted and they wouldn't notice... Or they perhaps didn't mind. Of course you loved watching them work, and they didn't seem to mind your presence... But seeing them so fascinated by the corpses they were fiddling with inevitably awakened those thoughts in you again. So you'd taken advantage of those moments to wander the streets of Vesuvia, looking for a perfect hideout. You had found what looked like an abandoned tavern at the end of a narrow, dark alleyway. It took you a while to manage to pick the lock of the thick wooden door, but once you did, you couldn't help a wicked grin from spreading onto your face. This. Was. Perfect.

You entered what looked like an old cave, finding stacks of dusty wine bottles, a table or two and cobwebs. You couldn't help your heart from picking up in pace as you mentally drew a picture of your soon-to-be laboratory. This was exciting. You dedicated the following weeks to cleaning up the place. You'd deconstructed the wine stacks, gotten rid of the bottles (which you were sure weren't good for consumption anyway, and the idea of risking Valerius' life to make sure of that simply hadn't come to you) and moved the wooden tables. If you wanted this place to be as spotless as you could make it to be, you'd have to do a deep clean... And that's what you did. Back when you were human, you could've never thought of doing that, ever. But now? The excitement at the prospect of upcoming experiments gave you the energy to basically do anything.

Eventually, after two week and a half of deep cleaning (mainly because you couldn't give it a 24/7 attention), the cave looked empty enough for you to start furnishing it. This only took you three days. You would sneak out the Palace at night into various physicians' offices and alchemist's shops to borrow equipment. Vials, petri dishes, syringes, candles, the strongest magnifying glasses you could find, more petri dishes, sample tubes, test tubes, goggles (though you doubted you would need them), gloves, tweezers, spatula, scoopula, glass bottles, erlenmeyer flasks, flasks, tongs, corks, beakers, pipets, petri dishes again YOU NAME IT- ahem.

This was thrilling. The more you brought equipment to your makeshift laboratory, the more excited you become. This would be fantastic. Phenomenal. Breakthrough after breakthrough, things scientists could only dream of achieving...

Then began your experiments. In the following months, your laboratory filled with them, test subjects and wet specimens, files thick as an encyclopedia as you wrote down report after report and protocol after protocol....

However, eventually, you knew you wouldn't be able to keep this to yourself. And you probably shouldn't. It didn't feel right to hide it all from your beloved... And so, after nearly ten months of your secret escapades to your lab, you decided to expose your discoveries and experiments to Valdemar. It was late, somewhere at the end of winter. As if time meant anything anyway. You found the surgeon in their dungeons, as usual. You stood afar for a moment, your heart thumping violently in your ribs out of both nervousness and excitement. You took a deep breath, and walked towards them, gently wrapping your arms around their waist from behind and resting your head on their shoulder. "Good evening" they said sweetly, briefly glancing at you. They could feel your tough heartbeat against their back, and wondered what could be the source of supposed distress. "Is something wrong?" they asked, their hands swiftly stitching up the corpse they had been working on. "...Can I show you something?" you inquired, though with a slight uncertainty. It seemed they sensed it. "Of course." Valdemar replied "I'm always happy to see what you've been up to." they said, putting their instruments aside and wiping their gloves hands on their apron. You couldn't help your grin and a spark of mischievous excitement from lighting up your eyes. The Quaestor knew that spark : they shared the same when they talked about their experiments. This only made them more intrigued. You took their hand and excitedly walked out of the dungeons into the streets of Vesuvia, guiding them to your hideout.

You found the key to the heavy wooden door and opened it, eagerly inviting them inside (even if you tried your best to keep your excitement level-headed). Their eyes widened as they slowly made their way inside : it really looked like a laboratory... only less professional. More made from scratch, though the equipment was there. Shelves lined the walls, on which laid all sorts of things : mainly jars, mostly wet rat and mice specimens, floating ominously in the liquid. but there were also tinier flasks, sealed shut, with a biohazard* symbol onto some. no, onto all of them. You didn't speak just yet, letting them take a look around while fidgeting with your hands. They approached one of the tables you worked on, seemingly analyzing the equipment. "So that's where all my petri dishes went" they teased, making you chuckle. Their gaze went back to the table "...Is this all your doing?" They asked, their eyes landing on the specimens again. You nodded, unable to stop a little proud and (morbidly) excited smile as you mentally prepared to ramble about your experiments. Valdemar's eyes scanned the equipment again, and finally asked "What did you do with all this?"

You grinned from ear to ear as you went to fetch the boxes where you kept all your reports, bringing them to the table while pushing aside some instruments (which thankfully you weren't currently using for an experiment - imagine the catastrophe if anything fell on the floor) "Alright, so-" you started, pulling out a file "I'll start with my simplest experiment : BH-012. It was my first successful one, actually uhm- are you familiar with pathology ?" your words seemed to tumble out of your mouth with uncontrollable enthusiasm, and Valdemar found themselves highly intrigued. "The science and study of diseases, yes, I've heard about it. Though as you know, it isn't my field of practice" you nodded frantically "Yes ! yes. Well... I got interested in that, suddenly, I don't exactly know why -maybe has to do with my deal- and well... I thought it would be a good idea to uhm... to try things out !" You had the Quaestor's absolute and undivided attention. Which was hard to do, let's be honest. You couldn't be more excited "I've played with dangerous things.." you admitted, flipping through the files. "So ! BH-012...."

And so your rambling started. You began with this first bacteria, which you had managed to successfully mutate, altering its initial effects. This is what you had done with all your experiments. You mutated and fiddled with everything : Bacteria. Viruses. Prions. Parasites... These held nearly no secrets to you anymore. You've nearly experimented on all. You had pushed the limits of the ethical and created biohazardous biological weapons, all contained in these tiny sealed-shut flasks and vials lined up on your shelves, which you had frozen* for safety. You explained to them in details some protocols of certain highly successful experiments, like the prion PA-003, or the virus VY-045... You explained how you studied how your diseases spread, contaminated, and destroyed their hosts on populations of rat and mice ; you showed them the second room, in which there was a tank similar to a terrarium full of plants, and another one full of fungi and mushrooms. You explained how you had managed to make a mutation of the BH-012 bacteria, BH-014, thanks to these fungi, allowing the bacteria to develop spores to spread, whereas before it was only transmitted by being consumed. You went on to explain how you used the tank of plants to develop cures for each of your diseases, making copies of the formula and protocols to follow in case one slippery little virus or fungi managed to make its way out of your laboratory.

The Quaestor was smitten. They loved your humanity, they always did (even if they'd denied it for a while), this part of you that had allowed them to be a little more themselves each day... And now this ? This was the cherry on top. This non-human side of you, devoted to science, willing to experiment, going beyond the biologically reasonable and push past what would be ethical until there were no cell to modify left in the world... And the last specimen you presented to them, with that wickedly excited grin and mad glint in your eyes just was the death of them. You proudly held up the wet specimen of an orange worm, with two long thin tendrils that spewed out of its mouth. "Just a lil' guy, huh? This is a type of brain tapeworm" you started "it's called a neuro-parasite. Some already exist in nature, but I've uhm... made it worse" you chuckled "It acts very progressively : they lodge themselves atop of the brain, slowly but surely planting their tendrils further and further until they reach the motor controls, basically... turning the host into a puppet. It's not actually hard to remove, a basic acidic solution does the job and dissolves it, but uhm... the delicate part is not damaging the brain while dissolving the worm." you were about to go on, but something suddenly popped in your mind, and you excitedly went back to your shelf. Valdemar's jaw hung slightly slack at everything. But they'd share their thoughts once you would be done. "Something funny happened to one of my worms, actually-" You retrieved another wet specimen of an orange worm, though this time, it had some sort of exoskeleton, and two little fangs "It mutated" you said, feeling all giddy. The Quaestor couldn't help but share your excitement, even if pathology wasn't their field of specialty "It mutated? This particular worm mutated, creating this unique structure and its small little fangs?" you nodded eagerly. You continued : "Not that it can resist the cure, no no- it's become practically cousins with a millipede. It still had the tendrils to lodge in the brain though. I have to admit, I ran out of inspiration and called it Fortis Vermis… but I secretly call it skitters" Valdemar chuckled "skitters?" you laughed as well and nodded. "yes, skitters... I like him a lot... It's my most beautiful specimen." You said, looking dreamily at your wet specimen before putting it back on the shelf with the others

After this very eventful night, you couldn't help but be a little apprehensive of Valdemar's reaction. What would they think...? They had not uttered a word since you both had left your makeshift laboratory. You suddenly felt very nervous. You looked at them and was about to say something, but you blinked in surprise. There was a new spark in their eyes : amazement and wonder... a certain lightness. You were... Confused. They seemed to notice your stare and looked at you, their red eyes meeting your golden own. They smiled. "Thank you for showing me all this" their tone was... surprisingly affectionate, and you couldn't help your cheeks from reddening slightly "ah- w-well... that's only natural, no?" you chuckled "You have no problem showing me your experiments, and it felt very... It just felt wrong not to show you." The smile didn't leave their face as they continued to walk with you. It seemed your earlier excitement had rubbed off on them, they looked to be in a particularly good mood. They looked ahead again and inhaled before speaking : "You and I will make a fine duo in scientific history" Your eyes widened slightly, your anxiousness suddenly evaporated. You felt warm. "really?" they nodded "absolutely. Say, do you want me to give you... Human specimens from time to time?" you gasped "you- you wouldn't !!" they chuckled at your excited reply "oh yes I would. I'd be delighted to see just what your diseases could do on a human corpse" You had to stifle a screech of excitement. It would help you make significant progress, even if you had one body every few months. You gripped their arm and brought them in an embrace, pampering their face with affectionate kisses. They chuckled and protested that it was nothing, but you thanked them nonetheless. That night, you spent your time discussing all sorts of experiments you could be conducting in the future...

*This may be inaccurate considering the time period The Arcana visual novel seems to take place in

Small Bonus !

It was two days later. You had just come back from dining with the countess and the other courtiers, closing the door of your quarters with a sigh, appreciating the calm. You spotted something on your bed, and raising an eyebrow, you went over it. It looked like a folded piece of clothing. You unwrapped it curiously, and your eyes widened as a lab-coat and apron unfolded before you. It was flawless, though you could tell it was sewn by hand. It matched your size perfectly. A note fluttered to the ground, which you picked up. It read :

"A mad scientist and an unhinged surgeon ; we're going to make quite the pair. I thought you might need this in the future - Val"

This time, you were unable to contain your screech of excitement.

[ineffable-suffering]

I'm back with another Good Omens meta in which I'm gonna scream about This Shot now because otherwise I might go insane:

Everything. Every single thing about this shot is so telling and painful and perfect. So, let's break it down before I loose my blessed mind.

LIGHTING

Notice the very obvious, massive ray of light shining in from the top right corner? At first glance, it might seem like it's coming from the window but really, the angle is completely off, the outside is way gloomier than the inside and it seems like it's actually coming from the skylight. The literal one and, mayhaps, also the metaphorical Heavenly one? *winks at you with both eyes*

PLACEMENT

In addition to the source of the Mysterious Ray Of Light being quite the obvious reference to Heaven: it also shines directly onto the heavenly array in the bookshop. The very array Aziraphale used to try and talk to God in S1. And who is standing in the dead middle of it? That's right. The fucking Metatron. Just like all the way back before the End of the World. Appearing to Aziraphale albeit not being called upon. Parallel much?

Aziraphale on the other hand, is not even close to being in the middle of it. Neither the array nor the ray of light. He's standing at the very edge of it, still distraught down to his angelic bones, completely cast into the shade. Despite being the one closer to the camera (= us, the audience), he still draws our eyes in less than the Metatron. It gives us a very clear image of which one of the two of them is currently dominating the shot and also the conversation.

The bookshop is Aziraphale's space, the most Aziraphale space there is. And yet, he's not the one currently owning it. The Metatron's presence is almost making this feel claustrophobic. If we were to draw a line right down the middle of the shot, both him and Aziraphale are crammed into the left side of the picture. Just like in so many shots with Aziraphale and the other (arch)angels, it feels like his space is being invaded, he's beeing crowded against a metaphorical wall, squeezed out of his own comfort zone.

Because that's exactly what the Metatron is doing here, isn't it? It's what Heaven has always done to Aziraphale. Get up all in his business when he leasts wants them to, with nothing but bad intentions and arrogant distain, masked under the hood of feigned corporate politeness. ("You.. you– bad angels!")

BONUS: CROWLEY'S ABSENCE PRESENCE

As we all know, Crowley has already left the bookshop after The K*ss. And he's clearly the missing half to this shot. The Metatron is crowding Aziraphale away from him, away from the door and the window that lead and look outside of the bookshop. Where Crowley is. Where freedom is. Just this once, the bookshop is actually not at all where Aziraphale wants to be. But he's being kept in there by the Metatron, because the choice was never his.

So, we have our clear image: The Metatron backing Aziraphale away from his freedom and what he wants – the metaphorical and literal "right" side (of the shot). And what do we see in the background, on that very right side? The horse statue Crowley always puts his sunglasses on. Look at her, there she is:

In S2E1, right when Crowley and Aziraphale get back from Nina's café to the bookshop (with the damn Eccles cakes), he puts his sunglasses very obviously atop the horse statue ...

... and then takes them again when leaving the bookshop.

It literally gets its own close up shot. It tells us: Crowley feels safe in the bookshop. Crowley feels safe with Aziraphale. This is his home just as much as it is the angel's. And I don't have to tell you about the metaphore of him putting the glasses back on once he realizes he has lost Aziraphale to Heaven. (In addition, I categorically refuse to talk about the way Aziraphale looks at him when he does it.)

So, the horse statue being on this side of the shot –– the side that Aziraphale actually so desperately wants to be on right now (their own side) but is being kept from –– is just beyond symbolical.

Because just like the statue representing him, Crowley is still there. He's waiting. Right outside the shop, by the Bentley. He's there. He'll always be there. He just can't come with this time. Not to Heaven. Not after how he just laid himself bare after 6000 years of wearing his bloody metaphorical sunglasses like a battle armour, and was left hanging just like his shades on the god damn horse statue.

Literally me right now:

[darkeraurora]

Admissions Chapter 2 - Opening Up

Fluffy filler, SFW. Rather short.

Ghost starts using his words.

This is kinda shit imo. But holidays are busy and I've been sick, I'll come back and spruce it up later. Also there's no masterlist here because I need to redo the entire thing. I'll get to it eventually.

The silent skull prowled the corridors in the dead of night.

Always watching. Listening.

His senses never shutting off.

Voices echoed from around the corner. Lights out was a few hours ago, the lieutenant decided to investigate.

And what’s going on here?

The little one sat close – uncomfortably close for Simon’s liking – to…

Who was this anyway?

Some guy.

What the fuck did this knobhead do to earn her attention?

Keeping to the shadows, the Brit stealthily drifted closer to the entryway to the common room. Oh right, the tall black-haired guy who had hugged her while she made coffee the other morning.

He’d kissed her too.

On the top of her head, but that didn’t make it any less painful to witness.

Ghost knew he should leave. Give them their privacy. He ordered himself to, but his body refused to obey and stayed stuck in place.

Whatever they were talking about, it was an animated discussion. Some Guy was gesturing, then touching somewhere Simon couldn’t see. A stupid fucking chair was blocking his line of sight, but he could tell it was in Sereza’s lap. From where he stood it looked like he was running his hand up and down her thigh. Then again, maybe he wasn’t – but the angle fit.

The couple looked down at something, then the little one rested her head against Some Guy’s shoulder. Her beautiful smile on full display as she laughed.

An uncomfortable feeling settled like lead in Simon’s stomach. No sooner than it appeared, a wave of misery snuffed it out when she smiled warmly at something Some Guy had said and he lifted his arm, putting it around her and pulling her close to his side. He then pressed a kiss to the side of her head. Sereza didn’t resist.

Simon turned away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Hours later, Ghost wandered back through the hallways.

He was a man on a mission— his target: the kettle in the common room’s kitchen area.

A Brit needs his tea after all, and the lieutenant had none. A catastrophe that required immediate action. Simon had half expected these Yanks to microwave water. A thought that was enough to make his teeth itch. But he’d been relieved to find a kettle.

Small miracles.

His hobbling pace slowed as he materialized out of the hallway’s darkness. A little one was still out of bed, curled up in the same spot she had been in earlier. Luckily Some Guy was gone.

At last, it was just the two of them once again. Alone.

“Hey Ghost! What brings you here at this hour?”

She sounded awfully wide awake and chipper for damn-near three in the goddamn morning, not that he had much room to talk. Awake he might be, Simon was categorically not chipper. He grunted. “Cuppa.”

Never had been good with words.

A small grin tugged at the corner of his masked mouth as the little one visibly tried to translate what ‘cuppa’ meant into American. “Ah. Please tell me you don’t put ice in yours.”

Ghost straightened to his full height as he shot her a look, dismayed at the very thought. No proper, self-respecting Brit would ever consider such a thing.

The tiny female giggled at his reaction, unknowingly settling the lieutenant's ever-present anxiety. “I’ll take that as a no. Good; we can be friends then.” The skull cocked his head to the side. “I asked Rafael for tea once and he put ice in it. He’s been grounded from making my tea ever since and that was three years ago,” she went on to explain.

Simon nodded in approval. Good girl.

He turned his back to her and set the kettle to boil.

‘We can be friends.’

Hm, well he supposed as… friends… it would only be polite of him to engage her in a bit of small talk. He wasn’t usually one for chitchat, but if he must- “What about you?”

Sereza blew eraser shavings from her drawing. “What about me?”

“It’s late, aren’t you tired?”

“Kinda, but I’m on call tonight so no sleeping for me. And I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Why?”

She was quiet a moment before answering this time. “My head gets really active at night sometimes and won’t let me.”

The skull hummed, understanding all too well. “What’re you drawing?” he changed the subject.

“A tattoo. Rafael was in here earlier and we were discussing the design for his new one.” She flipped her sketchbook around, showing him her work. Ghost nodded as he looked it over, genuinely impressed. “You have any tattoos?” He pulled back the sleeve of his black hoodie above his wrist, showing her the hidden ink. “May I?”

It felt absurd how much he appreciated her asking before touching him. He nodded again, albeit more slowly this time, and stepped closer. Sereza took his gloved hand, rotating his arm as she looked him over. Meanwhile, Simon’s eyes focused on Sereza’s hand. So small compared to his. Delicate, slender fingers. Pretty little pale pink nails. Smooth and cool skin… Such a contrast to him.

“That’s a really nice piece Ghost! You’ve got a good artist!” He said nothing in response. Yeah the artist was talented but he would rather it be her artwork covering his skin, but this woman made him weirdly tongue-tied so he settled for the next best option and only hummed in response to her compliment.

She tugged his sleeve back down for him. Simon had to take a moment to find his voice again. Fortunately the kettle was ready. Perfect timing.

Not until the bag was steeping in his mug did he feel able to speak again. “You draw for him often?”

“I draw for a lot of people around here and quite often.”

Oh. Okay, that was fine then.   …He guessed.

Are you together?

Is he kind to you?

…Are you happy with him?

So many things he wanted to know. While they were near the top of the list, those seemed a bit invasive so the Brit settled for something more general. “How long have you known him?”

“About, hm,” she paused and momentarily crinkled her nose as she thought. Simon wondered if she was even aware of it, or of how adorable she looked doing it. “Ten years or so.”

Oh shit, they were serious about each other then. “Command is alright with it?” Relationships were frowned upon if the couple was too far apart in rank, and definitely not allowed between officers and enlisted. Ghost has seen Some Guy a couple of times around base; he was a captain, but what rank was the peanut? He’d never picked it up nor had anyone addressed her by rank.

Hazel eyes blinked up at him, confused. “Huh?”

“You’re… dating, right?” he forced out the question. “You two were quite close earlier.”

Sereza’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead as she realized what he was getting at. “Oh! Nononono, Rafael is my brother,” she explained with a laugh.

Fucking dammit. Simon felt ridiculous. Equally relieved and ridiculous. “Sorry, uh… I saw you together earlier and assumed…” he trailed off.

“Don’t worry about it sweetie, you’re fine. You didn’t know.”

…Sweetie??

Ghost quietly cleared his throat. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Sereza addressing him like that. Not a bad feeling though, whatever it was.

But he wasn’t sweet though, goddammit.

“Rafael is my half-brother, to be more precise. He found me about ten years ago, then a few years after that he joined a unit up north and heard they wanted people. And that’s how I got here,” Sereza explained while applying the finishing touches to her drawing.

“I see.”

“Mhm, so it’s all his fault,” she softly giggled, concealing her surprise when a quiet laugh huffed out of the stoic lieutenant as well. “Can I ask about you now?” Since he appeared to be in a relaxed mood, she decided to test her luck just a bit. See how far he would let her go.

Simon felt himself instantly tensing up. “Like what?”

Though the balaclava hid it well, his expression changing from calm to guarded didn’t go entirely unnoticed. Her late-night visitor didn’t want to get into personal territory. Which was fine, she could understand and respect that. “Where in England are you from?” Sereza asked, deciding to start small.

“Manchester. My turn.”

Well that didn’t last long. Sereza suppressed a laugh at how quickly Ghost put a full and complete stop to that. “Ask away.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Argentina. Zárate if you meant where specifically.”

“What’s your rank?”

“None. I’m a civilian, contracted.” The Brit only murmured in acknowledgment. Sereza continued, “To be honest, they offered me rank when I signed on for this little vacation, but I declined.”

“Why?”

This is turning into something of an interrogation. Her shoulders casually shrugged, “Didn’t want to accept something I hadn’t earned.”

Ghost respected the hell out of that.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I’d murder for a whiskey.

Simon limped down the halls, mentally cursing the walking boot the whole way. His fractured foot felt much better but fucking hell having both his physical activity and movement limited like this was driving him mad. Up ahead, a reprieve - Price, just the man he was after, plus an unexpected treat.

The older Brit and the little one stood side by side. People-watching, from the look of it.

For a moment he simply took her in. Her hair was down today, a lush caramel sheet that draped over her shoulders. She wore leggings instead of the pants she’d normally had, which showed off her figure quite nicely, paired with a deep turquoise shirt and a loose black hoodie. Must be her day off. She was leaned back against the wall with one foot up, every few seconds she gestured in some direction and said something to John. The older man listened intently, eyes focused in the direction of whatever she was saying, clearly learning something important.

The little one noticed the Brit making his way over and shot him a bright smile. Simon had to look down at his feet a moment.

Fuck me, that smile.

“Having a chinwag Price?” The Brit cringed at his growly tone. Sometimes he wished he didn’t always sound so angry, especially around Sereza.

The captain grinned and indicated toward the female. “Getting intel.”

Ghost silently posted up alongside the pair. She pointed again, “That guy over there? Goes by Crash. Appropriately named; do not let that man drive you anywhere. And over there is Dice. He’s a sniper on my brother’s team. Good guy, great shot, but don’t play poker with him when he asks you, he’ll end up owning your house. At the very end of that hallway he’s turning down is supply, by the way. In case you guys need any stuff for soldier-ing you can get it there.”

“Mm,” Price hummed, sounding intrigued, “Quite like stuff.”

Ghost’s least favorite person in Westforge pranced by. “And that guy with the short lab coat is Donald Abrams,” Sereza grumbled. “Nicest thing I can say about him is he’s about as useful as a white crayon and nowhere near as sharp.”

“Ha!” Price snickered at her comment.

The skull on her opposite side rumbled discontentedly. ‘Donald.' Stupid fucking muppet would have a stupid fucking name like Donald.

“I take it they’ve met,” the captain guessed, still chortling. Sereza’s lips pressed tightly together as she rapidly nodded, making the captain chuckle again. “Did you make a new friend?” he asked, directing his attention to Ghost.

“No,” both Simon and Sereza answered in unison.

They continued to listen as Sereza pointed out more important people and places the 141 might need to know about. Simon leaned down, “Got intel on the gym, Peanut?”

Price burst into a fit of laughter so hard his face looked a little red.

“Peanut?!” Sereza whined.

He hadn't meant to use the nickname he'd given her, it just came out. Ghost shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “What of it? It fits. Grow bigger if you don’t like it.”

“Suppose you are pretty tiny next to him Darlin’,” Price continued to laugh, eyes squinting in his amusement.

She sighed, seeming to give up. “Yeahhhh. I feel like a toddler.”

Price laughed again at her self-deprecating joke. “Just takin’ the piss. He makes everyone look small,” he consoled with a sympathetic pat on her shoulder.

Simon reached over and lightly patted the top of her head.

As the people-watching resumed, Price snuck subtle glances in Simon’s direction every so often. If I didn’t know any better…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Goddamn this maze.

She’d said two lefts, a right, another left, go straight past three doors then two more lefts and a right.

Right??

After weeks of this fucking boot Simon was itching to get back in the gym, even if he'd have limited options. First though he’d have to locate the damn thing. Problem was Westforge was colossal and it seemed no one here believed in signs.

“Haunting the hallways?”

Ghost grumbled as he turned and peered down at the tiny female coming up from behind him. How did she manage to sneak up on him? Not that he minded exactly, but it was very unlike him to not be aware of someone approaching. Maybe it was her fault, for keeping him distracted all the fucking time.

That was probably it.

Sereza took note of his clothing. Casual, still clean… “Off to the gym?” Simon only stood silently in place. “Lost huh?” The Brit slowly blinked his black eyes and made another noise. He hated being obvious. “This way,” she gestured with a nod of her pretty little head. “Follow Peanut.”

But the stubborn lieutenant stayed put. “Not having you go outta your way for me.” His baritone voice made it sound like she’d thrown down a gauntlet he refused to pick up. Maybe she had in a sense; this would mean accepting help – a kindness – from someone. Not something he was entirely comfortable with. Or used to.

Sereza turned back, giving him a patient smile. “Not out of my way, not really. I had to head over there eventually regardless. And before you say something about troubling or inconveniencing me, you’re not. Promise.” He continued staring her down, unconvinced. “I have surgery in a bit and the gym is on the way there.” Sereza could visibly see the guarded expression shift beneath the balaclava into what she supposed was genuine concern. With such a small portion of his face visible so she could only speculate.

Internally, it felt like the floor he stood on suddenly dropped from beneath his feet. Simon’s chest felt tight and his pulse began to pick up.

Surgery?

Was it something bad? She seemed fine, but-

What if… she didn’t make it?

What if he lost her too?

The little one bit her lower lip and her eyes dropped to the floor, mistaking the skull’s silence for annoyance. “Or, I don’t have to if you don’t want, but um, they’re waiting on me, so... I’ll see you around Ghost.” With a whirl of honeyed curls, she turned and began quickly walking away.

“I do.”

Those tiny feet of hers stopped as she looked back at him. Ghost trudged closer, abyssal eyes peeking cautiously at the object of his vexation. She’d sounded sad - he’d hurt her - and then she began to leave and Ghost couldn’t stop himself. “I do-,” he repeated before awkwardly pausing, “want to walk with you.”

…Stay.

…. Don’t leave yet…

“You have surgery?”

She nodded, “Just an appendectomy. Not my usual kind of surgeries but I was already up. And this way they won’t have to wake someone else or tie up the surgeon on call."

Simon pondered a moment about just how dense he could be, how he hadn’t put two and two together before now. Normally he was quite astute; maybe he had actually hit his head at some point on that last mission. “Thought you were a medic.”

Just as she began to answer, her phone chimed. “Sorry, one sec,” she replied instead, but before answering the text she pulled her lanyard from her pocket, handing Ghost her ID.

Sereza Olivares, MD. Trauma Surgeon.

There weren’t words for how relieved he felt. The surgery wasn’t for her; she was doing it. Dark irises cut over to the woman walking by his shoulder, discreetly appraising her while they walked together and appreciating her in a whole new light. Sereza wasn’t just pretty and kind, but also successful. Accomplished. And extremely fucking intelligent evidently.

What would someone like him possibly have to offer her? Absolutely nothing.

She had no need of him.

He forced down a hard lump in his throat as he returned the badge. “Simon Riley.”