#scar moto

[727moto]

Comprehensive Guide to Metric Bolt Kits: Essential for Every Mechanic

In the realm of mechanics, precision and efficiency are paramount. Whether you're a seasoned professional or a DIY enthusiast, having the right tools at your disposal can make all the difference. One such indispensable tool is the metric bolt kit, a comprehensive collection of bolts and fasteners designed to tackle a multitude of projects with ease. In this guide, we'll delve into what a metric bolt kit is, why it's essential, and how it can benefit you in your automotive or mechanical endeavors.

Understanding Metric Bolt Kits

A metric bolt kit is a meticulously curated assortment of bolts, nuts, washers, and other fasteners, all standardized according to metric measurements. Unlike traditional bolt assortments, which may contain a mix of metric and imperial (inch-based) hardware, metric bolt kits exclusively feature metric-sized components. This uniformity ensures compatibility and simplifies the selection process, eliminating the need to rummage through multiple sets to find the right fit.

Why Metric Bolt Kits Are Essential

Universal Applicability: Metric bolts are widely used in automotive, machinery, and construction industries, both domestically and internationally. Having a metric bolt kit on hand ensures you're equipped to handle repairs, maintenance, and assembly tasks across various platforms.

Accuracy and Precision: Metric bolt kits adhere to standardized measurements, guaranteeing precise fits and reliable performance. Whether you're replacing worn-out hardware or constructing a new project, you can trust that each bolt will fit seamlessly, minimizing the risk of errors and malfunctions.

Time and Cost Efficiency: Searching for individual bolts can be time-consuming and often leads to frustration. With a metric bolt kit, you have immediate access to a diverse range of fasteners, streamlining your workflow and reducing downtime. Moreover, investing in a comprehensive kit upfront can prove more cost-effective than purchasing individual bolts as needed.

Organization and Accessibility: Metric bolt kits typically come in durable storage cases or trays, featuring labeled compartments for easy organization. This ensures that your bolts remain neatly arranged and readily accessible whenever you need them, saving you precious time and effort in the long run.

Benefits of Investing in a Metric Bolt Kit

Versatility: From small household repairs to large-scale construction projects, a metric bolt kit caters to a wide spectrum of applications. Whether you're working on cars, motorcycles, bicycles, or household appliances, having a diverse selection of metric bolts at your disposal grants you unparalleled versatility and adaptability.

Reliability: Metric bolts are engineered to withstand substantial loads and resist deformation under pressure. By investing in a high-quality metric bolt kit, you're not only acquiring a comprehensive range of fasteners but also ensuring the durability and longevity of your projects.

Peace of Mind: With a metric bolt kit at your fingertips, you can approach any task with confidence, knowing that you have the right tools for the job. Whether you're performing routine maintenance or tackling unforeseen repairs, the peace of mind that comes with being well-prepared is invaluable.

Conclusion

As you embark on your journey of mechanical excellence, trust 727 Moto Company to provide you with premium-quality metric bolt kits and an array of other essential tools and accessories. Committed to delivering exceptional products and unparalleled customer service, 727 Moto Company stands as a beacon of reliability and innovation in the automotive and motorcycle industries.

From our meticulously curated metric bolt kits to our extensive selection of motorcycle parts and accessories, we strive to empower mechanics and enthusiasts alike with the tools they need to fuel their passion for craftsmanship. Explore our catalog today and experience the difference that quality and precision can make in your next project. Trust 727 Moto Company—where excellence meets innovation.

[asnowperson]

An essay on the theme of children-parent relationships in Hagio Moto's works by Murakami Tomohiko

For years, I avoided reading the essays that were included at the end of bunkoban volumes. Reading Japanese prose felt like a chore to me, to be honest. A too high of a hurdle. And most of the time, the contents went over my head.

That being said, since I started reading them, I've come across some pretty interesting ones. The analysis written by Murakami Tomohiko, manga critic, at the end of Mesh's vol. 3 (Hakusensha Bunko, 1994) was particularly interesting for me. So, I tried my hand at translating butchering it. The author compares the boys in Hagio's manga and their family issues. You can find it below the cut.

If anyone wants to read the original, I can send pics/scans!

Province of children 

Murakami Tomohiko  (Manga critic) 

For a child, what does it feel like to be neglected by their parents? 

Mesh is the protagonist of this story. His mother, elopes with a man when he was young. His father, doubting whether he’s Mesh’s real father or not, drives him away from himself, and places him in a boarding school in the faraway Switzerland. For 12 years of his life, he believes that his mother abandoned him, and his father hates him. It’s not hard to imagine how deep the scars such feelings left in Mesh’s heart are.  

Mesh’s mother gave him a girl’s name, “Françoise-Marie.” We do not know if she wanted to have a daughter that bad, but as Mesh was separated from his mother when he was 2, he never knew the truth. But how much of a deciding factor that name became for him, and how it kept bearing heavy on him in his later years, are beyond any doubt.

When Mesh was 12, silver locks started to appear on both sides of his blond hair. After seeing a proof of genetics at work, his father finally recognized him as his own son. But that wasn’t the salvation the he was looking for. When his father shifted the blame on Mesh’s mother’s licentious behavior  for doubting his paternity, a new wound was opened on the young boy's heart.  

“I won’t say that my mother was a saint. But for a child who lives in a dormitory... a mother something that he needs.” 

Thus, in chapter 1, "Mesh,” our protagonist runs away from his paternal home. He is picked up from the streets of Paris by Millon, a young art forger. In the final chapter, “Sure Love and  Real Death,” he is reunited with his mother, now living in her homeland of Lorraine. She is mentally instable and still running after the image of her "daughter" who never existed. Mesh is an abandoned child who hates his father so much that he wants to kill him, and who is struggling to break free from her mother’s chains. This manga chronicles his story of breaking free from his parents.  

Children discarded by their parents. Children separated from their parents. Such children fumbling their way in their quest to find their personal salvation had been recurring motif in Hagio Moto’s works before Mesh. It is also is the principal theme of this work.

If we look back, in "Bianca (ビアンカ)," she drew a girl who danced away the stress the divorce of her parents caused in a forest. In “Girl on Porch with Puppy (ポーチで少女が小犬と),” she shows us another girl who sees the world through rose-colored glasses. Grown-ups who lost their dreams point their fingers at her, and shoot her with death rays. Or take Emil Bruckhardt from “Snow Child (雪の子).”  He was taken in by his grandfather after his parents’ death, who anly accepted for taking the child in if it was a "boy." 12 years of Emil's life was spent by his side, pretending to be a boy. Young Tim from “Poor Mama (かわいそうなママ)” pushes his mother out of the window. He could no longer bear witnessing her misery, as she spent her days sitting at the window sill, gazing off in the distance, and sighing. The free-spirited and brave Eru of the Nobe family in “Red-haired Cousin (赤ッ毛のいとこ)" shows no sign that would make you think that she is an orphan.  

They were all children torn apart from their parents.They had to find somewhere to belong, and find it themselves.  

The Poe Clan has two boys who were taken away from their biological human parents and turned into vampires, destined to live until eternity. If we think about under the same light, we can say it's their story of trying their hardest to create a pseudo-family for themselves time and time again on their endless journey. The beautiful Poe instalment, "Birds’ Nest (小鳥の巣)," and works like "Heart of Thoma (トーマの心臓)" that followed it, all take place in worlds that have nothing but boys torn apart from their families. It is no coincidence that dormitories were chosen as their settings.  

Mesh was published in Shogakukan’s Petit Flower magazine between the 1980 summer issue and 1984 June issue. Mesh was preceded by "The Visitor (訪問者)" in the 1980 Spring issue.  

In "The Visitor," we follow a central character from "The Heart of Thomas," Oskar Reiser, during his childhood, before he starts to live at the dormitory. Its main theme is directly connected to that of Mesh. Young Oskar’s parents quarrel over his birth. One day, a single gunshot steals that little boy’s mother from him forever. The one who fired the shot was his father. The boy covers up for his father, and the two set out on journey with no destination. However, Oskar’s father leaves him at the school, of which the principal is an old friend of his and Oskar's real father, and leaves for Southern America alone.  

Oskar kept yearning for his father, the father who stole his mother away from him, without begrudging him. He did so, because he had nothing else in life to cling onto. As his father and mother argued about his paternity, the child lost that household as the place he belonged. Young Oskar’s only wish was to be forgiven by his parents, and to believe that he would be acknowledged as the son of that family. To make his wish come true, to beg for his father’s forgiveness, Oskar covers up for his father, the murderer of his mother, and sticks even closer to him.

Our protagonist Mesh is a direct continuation of the image of boyhood we see in  "The Visitor"s Oskar Reiser. This link continues until Hagio’s current serialization, "A Cruel God Reigns", and shapes the main plot of her stories. “Children abandoned by their parents” has been present as a principal theme since Hagio Moto's early works. The turning point which made this theme even deeper, might be just this period that connects "The Visitor" to "Mesh."

How did Mesh rationalize his mother giving him a girl’s name? He mostly introduces himself using his alias, “Mesh,” to new acquaintances, and he is very adamant about it. Those who are unaware of the circumstances are left perplexed by that name, and mistake Mesh for a girl. He seems to find that amusing deep down. He crossdresses and appears on stage, and he is approached by homosexual men. Both makes him feel uncomfortable. Yet, he doesn’t seem to have a the willpower to resist.

Actually, I have also experienced something similar. So I believe I understand how Mesh feels a little.  

When I was roughly Mesh’s age, I was a child who liked to act like a girl. In high school, I put a tablecloth on my desk in class, made flower arrangements with artificial flowers in an empty wine bottle instead of a proper vase, and listened to lectures while holding a stuffed doll. Mine was quite a free-minded school, and it was an age when all kinds of rebellious acts were "in." But still, when I think back upon it, what I did seems outrageous to me. Maybe I was just too eccentric, which is why my teachers never said anything to me.  

I was jealous of my mother’s colorful outfits. I often borrowed and wore them. Her sleek green trench coat and tank top with pink and white borders from Kamoi Youko’s underwear brand, Tunic, were my favorites. I once even made a dress for myself. I chose the fabric with my girlfriend, did the basting at her place, and she sewed it for me. She tagged along because she found it to be fun, but I’m certain that she was weirded out.  

I am still a sucker for stationary and fancy items girls would like. If I go to Sony Plaza or American Pharmacy, I am confident that I can spend half a day there. There aren’t many fathers who would go to buy picture books and plushies for their kid, but get carried out and just buy whatever they want. 

Putting it like that makes me sound like a man with perverse hobbies, but sadly, I am not such inclined. I have never felt attracted to men, and never have I ever wanted to be a woman. My interest in crossdressing had something different in it. But I am interested in feminine, rather, “girlish” things, but it only means that I am slightly different than your average, common man.  

That being said, my mother’s influence on me cannot be ignored. When I finished my dress, it was her who was the happiest and told me to wear it and take a little tour outside. During my freshman year in university, she was the one who lamented the most when I cut my hair that was reaching my butt, and made a hairpiece with my hair for me. When I was in grade school, I once trimmed my eyelashes with a pair of scissors because they were getting in the way when I was using the microscope. I remember her being frustrated to the point of bursting into tears, and getting so angry with me.  

I believe it was my mother who slowly created my very particular aesthetic sense by praising things like long eyelashes, lustrous, straight hair, a slender physique which becomes female school uniforms. All things that would be the charm points of budding young girls, and she did it at every chance. I am an only child, and have no siblings. When I was a child, my mother once asked me if I wanted to have little brothers or sisters. I told her that I would like to have an older brother, which seemed to perplex her. Maybe my mother wanted to have a daughter. She could be looking for the shadow of the daughter she never had in me.  

I don’t really know the truth of it. Maybe she just said that I looked like a girl just to express how cute her son was, without putting much thought into it. But the words she said, words I have no recollection of, very likely had a huge impact on me and awakened something deep inside my soul. My personal preferences took shape around that idea, and before I knew it, it seeped into my entire being.  

My mother was a beautician, and was often away from home on business. After she opened her own store, she was always busy with work. But that was all there was to it, and it was not like she had left me, or we were separated by death.  And it never became a reason for my parents to hurt or to oppress me. I can say that overall, I grew up in a your rather ordinary, warm household. I still started to shape my very own personality, alongside the one my parents took part in creating. Then how about a child who feels hated, or abandoned by his parents? How would he feel? To heal the wounds he got from his parents and to ail himself, would he acknowledge it all, and accept everything? Or would complete denial be his only choice? 

That's why Mesh wanted to kill his father and break free from his mother’s curse. While he wanted to be freed from his mother’s desire to have a daughter, in some corner of his mind, he was curious about what would happen if he complied. Maybe that’s what made him stand on the stage as a woman, and occasionally enjoy being photographed as one. Maybe that’s why he sometimes shut up and endured it when men treated him like a girl.  

Maybe fulfilling his mother’s wish meant securing a place in her heart for him. It might have been a self-defense mechanism — a feeling that only children abandoned by their parents know. That’s why when he faced her, and saw that his mentally ailing mother would never accept him, a boy, Mesh said: “Just what does Marché want? How can I get close to what she wants? What should I become? Marché’s dreams, and my dreams... If only I knew...” 

“A thousand pairs of scissors. Scissors that cut and mince. I could have become a flower, a bird, a daughter... I could have become anything you wanted. I could have died a thousand deaths if you wished for it.” 

We do not know the reasons why she wanted to have a daughter. No matter what they might be, accepting them as they are, that complete subordination, is an expression of his willingness to bend to his mother's will. What does it feel like to hear “I hate this child” from a mother who can’t even tell his son apart? But Mesh even accepts his mother trying to stab him with shears without saying a single word.  

Where does Mesh’s determination, which is almost commendable, come from? What steeled his resolve so? I think it was something closer to despair, rather than a wish to be delivered. Mesh’s hatred and his murderous thoughts towards his father are the two sides of the same coin. Killing his father, who hated both him and his mother, and accepting death by the hands of the mother who forgot her own son: They are actually one and the same. Thus, the child abandoned by his parents try to erase his ties to them. By resetting everything, he tries to make it as if he never existed.  

There is probably just one thing he’s trying to say with his behavior.  

"I’m sorry.  

"I couldn’t be the child you wanted.  

"I couldn’t meet your expectations.  

"I’m sorry that I was born..." 

In “The Visitor”, in the middle of his endless journey with his father, Oskar says these words time and time again: "I will be a good child. I won’t talk about my mom anymore. I’m sorry." Then he obliges his father by starting to live in a dormitory, and waits for his father to be back from South America. This must have been no different than choosing death for Oskar, a child who wanted to be the son of a warm household. 

When he doesn’t resist his mother’s attempt to kill him, something inside of Mesh shattered to pieces. He arrives at Paris train station with his broken hopes as his baggage, and he catches a glimpse of his father boarding a train. His father, who acknowledged him as “his son who shares the same blood as him” without so much as a thought about how that made Mesh feel. All Mesh can do is to stand there, motionless. Even if that's the only place he can come back to now.

All children need a place they belong. A place where they feel they can just “be.” Children do not belong to their parents, or other adults. No one shall undermine their right to self-determination. Mesh shows us how much hardship children have to endure, and the sacrifices they have to make when grown-ups forget this fact.   

[quartz-eye]

10th Season has messed up Grians understanding and sense of day and night period, meaning he no longer follows his "early bird" moto, but rather "all over the place bird".

You will see Scar drag him to bed more often than not at late night hours, Grian won't bat an eye as long as he can still reach the waters with the rod.

He can be picked up as a lego piece by how long hours has he just stood in place.

Here's a doodle LMAO

[xojoules]

i lied one more post. here r horny pinup dykes ideas im gonna draw eventually

motorcycle dyke w an open moto jacket ft. top surgery scars. also a helmet. bc helmets are sexy

werewolf butch ft. a thick happy trail bc we love happy trails in this household. if anyone here likes girl groups i might reference XG’s Woke Up wolf costumes

roller derby dyke with a lot of sweat on their knees bc whew. maybe ill gift it to my local derby team thaf my friend is on. hot stuff

for the fans of classics… white t shirt + black leather jacket combo butch. bc u cant go wrong with that

[motocorsas]

Later, when they're waiting for a post-podium ride back to the hotel and the humiliation of not even having a motorhome is boiling high under her skin, Ana breaks.

"How come you don't talk to me?" She asks, facing the near-empty parking lot.

Maria is silent beside her. Ana hears her slow, consistent breathing, like a fucking Zen master and it makes her want to set the world upside down and see if that will crack Maria's veneer.

"We were in the same paddock," Ana says, "For years."

"I guess I never got the chance," Maria says, finally, and she sounds a little tentative to speak. It feels like victory.

"Bullshit," Ana scoffs.

"We were in different classes, MotoE has a shorter calendar–"

"Ten fucking years," Ana says. "Moto3 and Supersport," She knows she's gotten under Maria's skin, feels her shoulders harden, and doesn't turn to look. 

Maria huffs, "I was a kid,"

"You were the only other woman. It was you and me and an entire fucking paddock of men, multiple paddocks of men,"

"Why are you asking me this now?" Maria says, and she steps in front of Ana, blocks out the setting sun. Ana suddenly doesn't know where to put her hands. Maria is too tall like this, those couple extra centimeters an impassable barrier, her face angled down, stern. There's still sweat-slick hair pressed to her forehead, loose from her ponytail.

It doesn't matter. Maria continues, "You had a championship. You got what you wanted, and I was still fighting to earn single points. Why can't you just let me work in peace,"

"That's all it is? Work?"

"I don't need to defend myself to you,"

"Really? 'Cause on track–"

"Is that what this is about?" Maria shouts, incredulous, and it feels like Ana's finally found a gap in her armor. She watches Maria collect herself, gathering the kind of meditative deep breath that puffs out her chest and makes Ana want to knock it out of her. Her face tightens and relaxes. "We're racers. We race. That's our job. None of it is personal until you start taking it personal."

“Everything is personal! It’s all personal! They called us bitches, dykes, said we were only there to fill quotas, said we never had a fucking chance. How does that not mean something to you?”

“I had to keep it out of my head. Why can’t you see that? It was the only way to survive!”

“But you didn’t have to do it alone,”

“How else?” Maria laughs, darkly, mean. “There was no one on my side, nobody cared about me!”

“I did!” Ana shouts, and feels the scar tissue in her back stretch and contract as she tightens her shoulders. Maria’s gone completely still, her face blank, frozen. 

“I needed you,” Ana murmurs.

The car pulls up.

[mmughll]

IᑎTᖇO !! ヾ(＾-＾)ノ

My name is Miguel, I'm 14 years old. I follow a small series of problems, drawing is usually a type of therapy for me, it helps a lot.. Especially putting what I feel in the drawings.

★

You may have noticed two fandons that I am if you took a look at my profile recently, but if not, I'm here to let you know all the fandons I am ^_^

Fandons :

Tcc,one wheat mark, stranger things, lacey flash games, okegom,ranfren, afraid of monsters, cry of fear, William hellfire films in general, hello kitty, project sekai,bandori,d4dj, minecraft,evangelion, nyan cat, roblox,you and me and her, ddlc, etc.. (There are actually a lot, when I have more things I will edit them )

My favorite games:

Cry of fear, Minecraft and skullgirls:3

Favorite bands :

(Megadeth is in my heart and blood ok

In the first place: Megadeth.

Other favorite bands:

Slayer, kreator, Metallica, system of down, enforcer, sap, Evanescence, Kiss , Queen,babymetal , guns n roses, nirvana

Favorite artists (in general:

Ado, Alex g, mitski, Link do Zap, os Paralamas do Sucesso, Melanie Martinez, ken ashcorp ,kikuo,maretu,lemon demon, kmfdm, luckhaos, Rita lee , will wood,rebzyyx,yung lixo, mc vv, pepoyo ,ayesha erotica, kleberiano and Chicho Buarque.

★

ꩇׁׅ֪݊ ᨵׁׅׅꭈׁׅꫀׁׅܻ݊ ɑׁׅ֮ϐׁᨵׁׅׅυׁׅtׁׅ:

English is not my first language, I am Brazilian, but I know Norwegian, Spanish and English. I'm transmasc and bisexual, currently in a relationship with a handsome man :3

When I was little I would hurt myself all the time (not on purpose), this resulted in a LOT of weird scars mainly on my knees and legs.

My favorite animals are: cats, birds, seals and snow foxes.

I have ADHD and anger issues. I don't know if these are the only ones, at least I've been diagnosed with these for now (I hope they're the only ones).

I'm a metalhead :D

Goodbye:3

[tofautisawa]

I hope sahara isnt biting him that hard because hes gonna look like marty from madagascar after this. Also that video sjshsjshs

On the bright side, if Moto ever comes across any of his brothers that might look exactly like him, you can use the butt scars to tell them apart like Alex did with Marty!

And that bite looks a lot worse than it actually is, Sahara is holding back. lol

[froggos-chaos-corner]

Another Splatoon OC!

This is Moto. They’ve also experienced The Horrors™️.

[Picrew] [They/it]

They wear a gas mask because it covers it’s entire face, which has this giant scar from when they ended up in the Deep-sea Metro on the right side of their face.

They speak Octarian, which helped Crowns out with lots of stuff when she first showed up.

Moto & Crowns are the closest members of Team Dynamite.

Oooo! Cool!!!

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x reader) - part 3/3

Note: I’m sorry this took 1 million years. ENJOY!  This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic.

Fic warnings: blood, injuries, canon-typical violence, guns, protective!Ghost, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending, cigarette smoking, angst.

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used. Reader is AFAB, but no gendered terms are used in this part. 

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪  

~~~~~~~~~

You gag, spitting blood onto truck bed, your face pressed firmly into the divided ridges. You track the truck turns and estimate your distance from the haven. After the soldiers noticed a guard and Kaja was missing they went into a panic. For a moment, you thought they’d kill you and flee. But the leader of this little rag-tag group of assholes said he wanted to wait. And they listened to him.

Your gamble he was a hot head with something to prove paid off. You hope it’ll buy you enough time to escape before enemy forces discover you. A worst-case scenario is the forces of your home government finding you. They will imprison you for faking your death and abandoning your country. You spit more blood out of your mouth.

If that happens, then Lukas will be alone. Your biggest fear finally realized like some tragic Greek prophecy. They’ve striped you of your equipment, but they didn’t check your shoes.

You press the toe of your left boot against the heel of the right. You wiggle your ankle back and forth until your boot loosens and you can slip your foot out. You squirm, reminiscent of a wild worm, and use your knees to push your boot toward your chest. You curl into a fetal position and bite your teeth onto the hidden stitched pocket on the boot’s tongue near the laces.

The truck drives over a hole and your body lifts, then slams back onto the hard plastic truck bed.  You blink away the stars and your ears clang with a resonating chime. You swallow a wave of acidic nausea and clench your teeth around the razor blade.

It takes several, uncomfortable and straining minutes, before you manage to wrangle the razor blade into your fingers. You start working the blade into the hewn rope. You think of nothing but the loosening tension around your wrists. You cannot afford to lose focus or fall into despair. Your fingers cramp. You blink back tears and keep going.

Beyond the noise of the truck’s engine, you faintly hear a dirt bike gaining speed along the bumpy road. The soldiers arrived in two trucks. There wasn’t a motorbike among them. In rural Noreth, the odds of a civilian driving this late and this fast are slim. Your heart leaps inside your chest. It can’t be…can it?

You tighten yourself into a ball as gunfire ricochets above your head. The truck swerves and it forces your shoulder into the protruding, sloped wheel-well. The pain is dull and throbbing. Your cramped fingers begin to chew through the ropes again with the razor blade. You don’t know if the motorcycle is friendly. You can hope, but you won’t shove all your ducks into a single basket.

You need to escape. The chaffing, burning rope bites at your skin with sharp, gnawing pain. The men are shouting over the gunfire. A bullet sharply pings against the side mirror near the truck cabin.

The sound of crunching metal punches through your eardrums. You gasp, muscles tensing, and expect your body to eject from the truck and into the air.

A second passes. You exhale and realize it was the second truck. It crashed.  

The motorcycle is closer. The truck veers off-road, the terrain bumpy and treacherous, and you wedge yourself into the corner with your feet braced into the side. You twist one of your arms and ignore the protests of your muscles as pain ripples through your skin.

The motorcycle revs, passing the end of the truck, and—if you’re estimating correctly—it pulls up in front of the driver-side door. The two men inside are screaming, firing their guns, and bullets hit the dry earth and ding off metal. Your wrist thankfully wrenches free of the bindings. You gasp in relief. Neural sensation flows back into your limb with prickly, sharp tenderness.

The trucks’ windshield shatters. Someone yells before a wet and punctured sound like a hammer hitting a melon overwhelms the sound. Your eyes roll back to see the truck cabin is covered in dark, dripping viscera.

A dark, hulking shape jumps onto the driver side doorway and yanks the door open. The driver screams—horrified—before he’s tossed from the seat like he weighs no more than a child. You want to believe it’s Ghost. You want to believe you’d know him, even in darkness, yet you cannot gamble Lukas’ safety. You finish untying the rope around your other hand.

The driver who’s hijacked the truck slams the acceleration to an unceremonious and abrupt stop. You catch yourself with both hands before you topple and faceplant onto the truck bed again. The door swings open and the stranger hoists themselves into the flatbed. You lift your razor blade. You’ll carve out their eyes before they take you again. You won’t go down without a fight. His headlamp glows red and casts a devilish, eerie glow as if you are two sinners awaiting retribution.  

“Oh, thank god.” Simon’s rough burr is the sweetest music you’ve ever heard.

“You alright, love?” He lowers himself to kneel in front of you.

“The house? Kaja?” You croak, tasting dried blood on your lips, in your throat, and salt burns your eyes.

He nods. “Safe and secure.”

You bow your head, relieved and sanctified, swallowing the bitter depths of emotion that surge whenever Ghost is in proximity. Oh, you are a fool to believe you stopped loving him. An outrageous, weak fool. In his presence, you want nothing more than to press your lips to his pulse and memorize his heartrate. You want to kiss the palms of his dangerous, calloused hands and offer him every inch of your tattered, tarnished soul. For him, only and always, you are humble and suppliant.

“Let’s have a look at you.” Says Ghost.

“’m alright.”

You need to leave. You need to return home before another patrol arrives. You hope the motorbike isn’t wrecked. Otherwise, you’ll have to drive the truck with a bloodied dashboard. Not that you haven’t driven in worse situations but removing the truck will risk an investigation.

“Fuck off.” His fingertips tenderly touch your jaw, “I saw you at the barn.”

You allow Ghost to lift your face toward the reddish light. You can’t fathom looking into his eyes. So, you glance to the left, then to the right, checking for threats. You are alone in a field. Moonlight spills white ribbons across rows of vegetation and ripples across the fluffy, gray clouds.

“Those were some creative insults you threw at him.” He tilts your face side to side and your bruises pulse beneath his evaluation, “I think some of ‘em have the potential to make Soap blush.”

Your lips twitch and the cut on your lower lip bristles with stiff, crackling pain. He gently touches your lower lip with his thumb. Your eyes flick to his, but he’s not looking at you. He’s looking at your mouth.

“thought I’d never see that smile again.” He murmurs to himself then shakes his head slowly. “We ought to go before more patrols come this way.”

“Is the bike salvageable?”

“Should be,” he says gruffly, “if we’re lucky.”

~~~~~~~~~

You drive the motorcycle without noticing any of the passing, dark scenery. Ghost keeps one strong, muscled arm around your waist, and he subtly shifts and turns, watching your back while you speed along the dark roads with only a single headlight to guide you. Out of paranoia, you take different roads to confuse the trail. You worry someone might notice the thin, grooved dirt bike tracks next to the larger, deeper imprints.

Your return to your safe haven. A sense of relief turns like a key inside a lock within your chest. You touch Ghosts’ arm before he dismounts from the bike.  

Ghost’s mask shines red from the lamp and drying blood. You stare unflinchingly at him.

In this moment, above all other moments, you feel fearless. You can’t say that you fear losing him. Not really. Because you’ve lost him once already. The pain is manageable. It’s tolerable. And although you don’t want to lose him a second time, you think it is inevitable, and he deserves the whole truth. You can’t claim to love him and not offer him the complete truth.

“I deserted the agency.” You say, “and faked my death in Al-Qunbar.”

Ghost is silently contemplative for a few seconds.

“How’d you manage that if you were in an operative-run infirmary?”

“At my request, Price registered my stay under a Jane Doe and claimed I died after succumbing to complications of my injuries.” You explain, “but before I left, as a gesture of goodwill, I gave him the coordinates to this safe house if he was ever in trouble.”

His shoulders stiffen slightly. You wonder if you’ve struck a nerve telling him that Price knew your location while he remained in the dark.

“I refused to raise Lukas while I was an operative in the field. And I knew…if I wanted to keep his parentage a secret…then the only option for us was to disappear, play dead, and wait until we had a chance for a permanent home.”

You lift your gaze to the house behind Ghost. Fondness swells inside your chest.

“It was almost Noreth until the conflict started.” You say thickly through tears, “Lukas loves to watch things grow. He deserves that, you know? He deserves…” You stop yourself.

In your heart, Lukas deserves the childhood you never received. He deserves warmth, and safety, and fulfilled promises and silly games and how to make friends without also learning how to manipulate them.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat, “I trust that you won’t reveal our existence to anyone stateside or internationally.”

Ghost responds and his voice is like shrapnel. “Understood.”

Samira embraces you the moment you cross the threshold. You grimace and smother your wince at the back of your throat. You must’ve been hit – somewhere – alongside the bruised or possibly broken ribs that their leader gifted you. She holds you for several seconds and then rests her forehead against yours affectionately.

“You cheat death too much,” she chides. “Eventually, I fear He will get pissed off and come looking for you.”

You tease, “and you worry too much.”

Samira rolls her eyes, then her dark gaze pins Ghost. “You were meant to recover Kaja and return. Kaja says you stole her motorcycle and vanished.”

Ghost shrugs his big, heavy shoulders. Samira shoots him another withering look, but then Soap wheels into the main living area, and she switches into Doctor-Mode. You catch her expression soften when she regards MacTavish.

You ask, “where’s Lukas?”

“Upstairs.”  

Lukas is awake, alert, and bouncing on his feet when you enter his bedroom. The injuries on your face throb with pain and dried blood cakes your clothes and hair. Lukas smiles when he sees you. You drop to your knees and open your arms.

“Hello, my sweet boy.”

“What’s on your face?” Lukas asks, touching your bloodied skin, and your throat tightens. “Boo-boos?”

You nod. Lukas’ expression morphs into grim seriousness. His little brow furrows. “I’ll help you, mommy.” He wiggles out of your grasp and drags a plastic box of band-aids from underneath his bed. He sticks band-aids to your face, your hands, your wrists, and arms. You stifle your tears. He kisses the band-aids.

Lukas exclaims, “All better!”

“All better.” The words are thick and clustered inside your throat. You don’t have the energy to move from the floor. You lie down and pat the spot next to you. Lukas doesn’t question it. He lays next to you, and you card your fingers through his hair. His brown eyes are watchful and sleepy. You hum quietly and stroke his forehead, his nose, and his small shoulders with tender, bloodied hands.

You are a killer. Would Lukas still love you if he knew? You hope so. Your heart and soul is shredded into tiny pieces, and they belong to your son. Although a few tattered pieces belong to Simon, too.

Lukas eventually falls asleep. You pull yourself upright with some difficulty and your body quakes in protest. You glance at your stomach and chest to see your shirt has bled through with wet, fresh blood. A swarm of dots blur in front of your vision. You wince and awkwardly push your hands beneath Lukas to lift him from the floor. A cold, clammy sweat breaks out across your neck and forehead.

Ghost enters your peripheral vision. “I’ve got him.”

He lifts Lukas into his arms and places him carefully onto his bed. Your head swims. You might pass out. You squeeze your eyes closed to stop the room from violently spinning. Your cottony mouth forms a few letters and strings them into a slurred sentence.

“How long were you hiding in the hallway?”

He ignores your question. “Where’s your kit?”

You manage to pull yourself onto your feet. You plant your hand against the wall for balance. You want to call out for Samira, but blood fills your mouth. You sway. Ghost is suddenly there. He grips your arm and your head lolls into his shoulder.

“Your kit.” He repeats sharply.

You swallow the copper-tasting blood and cough, “closet.”

Ghost half-drags, half-pulls you out of Lukas’ room and into yours. You lean against the wall while he opens your closet and pulls the medical bag hiding beneath a pile of clothes. You watch him through heavily lidded, blurry eyes.

He approaches with a pair of scissors and starts to cut away your shirt. The scissors make a crusty ‘schrrrp’ sound as he gnashes them across the blood-soaked fabric. Up close, you can hear his breathing. It’s ragged and low and reminds you of a pissed off horse. You bite your tongue to stop from laughing. The blood loss is making you delirious.

You flutter your eyelashes at him, “if you want me to get undressed, Ghost, you ought to buy me dinner first.” Your shirt falls to tatters on the floor. His fingers prod at your stomach and ribs. You wince, but don’t flinch away.

Ghost hisses. “I’m in no mood.”

“Do you hate me?” You mumble, blood dribbles from the corners of your mouth. You want to meet his gaze, but his focus is on your blood-covered body. You wish he’d look at you. You wish he’d touch you without such clinical coldness. You shut your eyes. You wish for a lot of things…

You mutter, “I wish we never said goodbye.”

“and I wish you would come with us.” You admit while fighting to stay conscious, “I wish you had the chance to know him – to really know him. He’s so good, Simon. He’s good.” Wet, hot tears scald down your cheeks. It’s a miracle that someone so innocent and good could come from someone like you. A goddamn miracle. You hiccup and are unable to stop the tears.

A cold, biting sensation ricochets across your skin. Your knees weaken and you topple forward into him. He smells like gun oil and exhaust fumes. The world is a dark, shifting, and ambiguous shape as Ghost lifts you and deposits you somewhere warm and soft.

You try to pry your eyes open but they’re too heavy.  

“Stay with us,” Ghost murmurs, “stay with me.”

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost inhales slowly and cigarette smoke bites at the back of his throat. It burns. It smolders. His mind is twisted with thoughts of you. You are upstairs, your lips ashen, Samira is by your side and her expression is pinched sour with worry. Dawn bleeds like an open wound across the horizon and all echoes of last night are burned away.

He hates the idea of staying here longer than necessary, but what can he do? He can’t abandon Johnny.

He can’t abandon you.

A fleck of ash drops from the burning ember and whisks away on the breeze.

He can’t abandon his child.

The little boy who felt so fragile, so small and innocent in his arms. The boy who’s got eyes like his only less shadowed, less haunted. Lukas. He overheard Agathi call him ‘little light’. Your moth charm still dangles around your throat. Lux. The call name he gifted you.

Follow the light.

Ghost snubs the cigarette out against the wooden fence post.

~~~~~~~~~

Samira demanded you to take it easy during your recovery. You lost a lot of blood. Your lower two ribs were broken. Your household chores are reduced to washing dishes and prepping food. It drives you a little crazy, if you’re being honest, but at least you don’t suffer alone. Johnny makes for good company. You swap jokes, and play cards, and read together in silence during bed rest.

Agathi and her boys left yesterday morning. Their papers cleared. Their transportation confirmed. The house is quieter without them. And Lukas misses them terribly. You miss them too, but you hope they are safer and happier wherever they are. Their departure means Noreth is stabilizing. It means extraction is nearby. It means you and Lukas will leave soon.

The kitchen buzzes with the sound of the battery-operated camping lamp. You scrub the soapy and cold sponge across a sticky plate. Everyone is asleep. Ghost is in the barn keeping watch as he always does.

He hasn’t spoken to you since you passed out in his arms.

You endeavor to not take it personally. If he hates you for your secrets then he hates you. There is nothing you can change about that. You cannot – and will not –  beg him to go with you. You will not trick, or convince, or manipulate your way into a ‘happy’ outcome. Ghost always saw this haven as temporary. A place for Johnny to recover. Nothing more, nothing less.

He might hold affection for you, he might even care about you or Lukas, but that doesn’t change the reality of your roles.

You are a deserter. You have enemies that would happily tear you apart. You are dangerous. You would burn the world if it meant keeping Lukas safe. And Ghost? He’s a man who doesn’t let anyone see his face. A killer that shares the same soul as you. A solider with enemies. A past and childhood you’ve barely glimpsed into.

You are devoted to your son, to your family, to the hopeful future without bloodshed.

Ghost is devoted to his country, his place within the ranks, his duty as a solider.

The front door swings open. You glance over your shoulder to see Ghost enter. The harsh light of the lamp illuminates his shiny, brown eyes.

Your heart aches. He will do the same thing he’s always done. He will see you, say nothing, and walk toward his shared room with Johnny. You turn away.

“We’ve got to talk, Lux.” He says quietly.

You scrub the sponge harshly and the plate nearly slips from your fingers. “Do we?”

“We do.” His footsteps thump behind you. “Noreth entered peace talks. It’ll be safe to travel soon.”

You nod absentmindedly. Why is he bringing this up now?

You say, “I know.”

Ghost twists the knob to the camping lamp. The buzzing stops. The kitchen falls to complete, silent darkness. Your hands drip with chilly water. Together, in the dark, you are two hearts, four lungs, and timid, unspoken dreams. You hear the barest suggestion of fabric moving and you assume he’s closer to you.

He says, “give me your hands.”

You extend them and his fingers trap your wrists. The pads of your thumbs touch rough, scratchy stubble. Your breath quivers in your throat. You feel his pulse, deep and steady, like waves crashing into the shore.

“Go on then.” He urges.

His hands slide down your forearms and hook loosely at the bend of your elbow. Your index swipes across the scar on his upper lip. It’s familiar. You’ve memorized this scar. You see it in your dreams. You trace the shape of his plush, dry mouth with your fingertip. His hot breath exhaling slowly through his nostrils tickles your skin.

Your heart stammers at the absence of fabric near his cheekbones. You caress his nose along the bridge and tentatively stroke his brow. His fine, thin eyebrows are feathery soft beneath your fingers. You touch a weathered notch between his brows, a wrinkle carved through years of worry and stress and extreme focus. You smile to yourself. His skin is faintly tacky around the eyes from his black-camo paint.

You’ll carry him in the blackened whorls and spirals of your fingerprints.

His hair is short and glides silkily through your fingers. You trace the shell of his ear, his cartilage thin and delicate. You are pulled closer by a magnetic force, by gravity, by fate. You are a planet, and he is a comet blazing through your sky ever-so-often and painting your world in sparkling, white-hot streaks of brilliance.

When you return to his pulse, it thunders beneath your touch, and his jaw flexes under your hands. He has given you an enormous and precious gift. You piece him together like a ceramic mosaic. You aren’t greedy when it comes to Simon. You will take what he can give. And you know he functions much the same.

You say, “my eyes are going to adjust soon.” You lick your lips. “I can shut them if you like.”

“You’re entirely too good-hearted.” He grouses.

His nose skims along yours. The skin-to-skin contact, along with the pleasant rough accent of his voice, makes your toes curl. Stagnant shadows and blotches of darkness move like bruises across your vision. Simon smells like gun oil and smoke and sweat. Lethal. Dangerous. Heavy. It should be abrasive, but it’s an aphrodisiac to you. You tilt your neck back and sigh languidly. You are predators in a dark room. Yet you roll on your bellies for each other, you offer the supple skin of your throats and press knives into each other’s palms. Kill me, kiss me, be done with it.

“Have you forgiven me?”

His large hand envelops your throat, “‘m getting there.” Your heartbeat is in your ears, saliva thickens on your tongue, and your core throbs with acute longing.

“Shall I get on my knees?” You tease knowingly.

His chest vibrates like a strummed guitar string. The tip of his tongue flicks across the seam of your lips. Your lower back bumps into the counter. You open for him. You taste his ragged breath on your tongue. He must’ve shared a smoke with Johnny recently.

Ghost pinches your jaw in his hand, fingers digging into your skin, and he kisses you like its punishment. He kisses you like he’s claiming you (as if you didn’t already belong to him after he dragged you from the ice).

His large hand splays across your back and you feel each individual digit. He wants to meld into you. He wants to fuse your bodies together so nothing - and no one - can rip you apart lest they face the calamitous wrath of a nuclear explosion.

You tug at the root of his hair, pleased, and he grumbles lowly at the back of his throat. Something hot and sharp twists like barbed wire through the spaces of your ribcage.

Ghost says, “you kept secrets in order to protect him.” His breath fans across your wet lips. “I could never hate you for that, Lux.”

He pinches your jaw harder. In the low-light, you see him through your half-lidded eyes. You see the shape of his brow, his nose, his jaw. All of him. Simon Riley. The man you love.

“Never.” He declares before kissing you again. He shoves his tongue into your mouth, wet and suckling, and drool pools at the corners of your lips as you attempt to devour him. You pull his hair, his clothes, your fingers twisting and grasping and yanking. You want to drown. You want to burn. Simon’s affection and attention is all-consuming. It pulls you apart like a natural disaster.

He lifts you effortlessly into his arms and instinctively you wrap your legs around his wide hips. His hands come to rest at the swell of your bottom, and he squeezes you close. Your noses squish together. You feel the tacky, black paint on his skin smearing against your cheeks. You feel your spine hit the wall and he pins you there, all his weight and strength, his breath fills your lungs, his hands burn like a tattoo against your skin.

“Ask me,” he rasps desperately, “to come with you, love.”

“W-what?” The world knocks off its axis.

“Ask me.” He repeats. Your eyes scan his face—his beautiful, weathered, war-torn face—and seek any trace of deception. His brown eyes are framed prettily by his blonde lashes, and they regard you with open, tender affection. His mouth is softly open. His pink tongue glides across his lower lip and it glistens with saliva. He is willing to give it up. His life. His career. For a life with you.

“Simon,” You cradle his face between your hands. Your throat tightens. “If you come with us…you’ll lose everything.”

His big, calloused hand strokes the side of your face, “nothing compares to losing you twice.”

You lean your forehead against his. You can figure out logistics and details later.  Simon could technically find work in a private sector. You could try and arrange to live somewhere cold so he could wear the mask—or at least keep his face hidden. As long as you’re together, you can figure it out.

“Simon Riley…” You begin, your heart beating wildly in your chest, “once MacTavish is secure and returned safely to Price…”

Ghost snorts, “I hadn’t forgotten about Johnny.”

You roll your eyes and smile. “Regardless, once that’s done, will you…will you leave with Lukas and I?”

~~~~~~~~~

The briny air fills your lungs and your hands slip along the wet, metal railing of the small boat. Your face is damp from the spray that lifts in foamy, white splashes alongside the boat’s edge. The boat lurches and jolts across each tiny, cresting wave. The sky is beautifully gray like spun dark wool. The clouds stretch in long, languid brush strokes.

A lone seagull calls out before swooping near the water. You turn away from the scenery and twist your body toward your companions.

Lukas is bundled up with a thick scarf and heavy hat and big, navy coat. His gloved fingers form tiny fists near his cheeks. He barely stirs despite the bouncing motion of the boat. Simon has wrapped both arms protectively around his son and holds him close to his warm chest.

His eyes—bereft of the usual shadow of dark paint—lift from Lukas and meet yours. They crinkle softly at the edges. His mouth is hidden by his black balaclava, but you suspect he’s smiling. You tilt toward him and rest your cheek on his damp shoulder. An overwhelming sense of peace blankets over you.

Sunlight breaks free from the clouds and the world glimmers and sparkles like a freshly cut diamond. The light suffuses the air and encases you within a bubble of brilliance. Simon sighs. You peek upward and discover his eyes are closed and his face is angled toward the sunlight. You glide your fingertips across his knuckles and rest your palm over his hand.

Together, you hold your son and each other, and face the bright future with hope in your hearts.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

TAGLIST: @iwantmethgivememeth​  @levisbebe  @solidly-indulgent​  @alastorhazbin​   @crocsclub  @isimpforfictionalppl  ?? @sanfransolomitatm​

@hypernovaxx​

(tag list from earlier parts that im just including lol:  @anonymousmay22 //   @urisu //  @sodbos //  @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL)

[beepen]

Love Something With you

Been a while since I posted on this blog but ghostsoap has me exhuming it from its grave.

I will probably add to this because I have an idea what kind of pet they should get....but this is what I was able to finish before the Benadryl kicked in.

Anyway, here is domestic ghostsoap. Go hog wild.

**********

Relationships meant compromise. This is a moto Soap repeats to himself often, like a mantra. He repeats it to Simon as well, a subtle knock to the head saying “work with me here”. It is probably brought up an abnormal amount of times compared to normal couples, but nothing about this—their relationship—is normal. Things have to be slow; things have to be repeated and thought about. It helps them heal. Not the bad parts, but some parts. The smaller cracks encircling holes in a wall, like streams protruding from a lake. 

Emotional vulnerability is another one, but that’s slow-going, on Simon’s part at least. He’s trying, Soap can tell by the way he doesn’t stiffen when he is hugged from behind at the kitchen counter, or how he doesn’t jerk his hand back when Soap reaches to hold it. He can communicate when he doesn’t like something, when something irritates him. When it comes to feeling upset in other ways, not so much, but the attempt is there in his body language. 

It is that same body language that Soap has to go off of when he asks Simon about adopting a dog. 

The morning was a blue one, too early to be orange and sunny but late enough that when Soap opened his eyes, he could see the corners of their room just fine. No shadows. Simon was sleeping soundly beside him, the scarred expanse of his back facing him as he was curled on his side. The devil sleeping like an angel. Soap wanted to reach out and touch him, smooth his hand across those wide ribs and wrap an arm around that chest. He rolled out of bed instead, quietly walked out of the room, and made breakfast while Simon slept on. He was rewarded by a sleepy Simon joining him 40 minutes later, hair tousled and bleary eyes half open. 

“What do you think of dogs?” Soap asked once Simon had a cup of tea in his hands. The man shrugged his big shoulders, sipping his drink. He had been rather mute since waking up, typical after a night of intense love-making. Something about processing his feelings, about Soap being too much—not in a bad way, but just. Overwhelming. Too much love, is what Simon managed to grumble out one day. Soap would be lying if he said it didn’t boost his ego, that he could fuck the Ghost into quietude. Quite literally render him speechless for a night and half a day. 

The consequence is coaxing him back out into a normal human being again. A Ghost kind of normal. 

“I was thinking,” Soap continued, finishing off his own coffee, “that we could adopt one.” 

And that was when Simon’s body language changed. Soap watched as everything about him just…tightened. His hands, the muscles of his arms and shoulders. A tick in his jaw, like he was clenching his teeth. The change was so sudden it had Soap scrambling to figure out what was so wrong about the question. 

“Or not,” he quickly added. “Just a thought.”

It was a thought Simon clearly did not want to think about. He was still so tense despite the backpedaling, silent and brooding, but not in the typical endearing way that first caught Soap’s attention all those years ago, and still does. 

Soap reached forward, recognizing the disturbed, restrained horror on Simon’s face for what it was, and held his hand out with his palms facing upward. Not taking anything, not forcing anything, but leaving the space between them open and questioning. After a long, long few seconds, Simon placed his own hand over Soap’s. 

Soap only squeezed back when Simon did so first, warmth spreading up his arm, like the sun was nestled between their entwined hands.

“Sorry,” Soap started, but stopped when Simon squeezed harder. 

“No,” Simon said, voice quiet and raspy, whether from last night or the sudden stress. Maybe both. “You want a dog?” 

Soap didn’t answer at first, only waited for Simon to look up from where he was staring at their hands. When he did, they locked eyes, and Soap saw the struggle in a swirl of dark brown. A slight twinge between Simon’s eyebrows. Compromise, compromise, compromise. Simon was trying so hard. 

Finally, Soap said, “Only if you want one,” and that seemed to alleviate whatever kind of stress that had Simon bound so tight. 

“I don’t.” A simple two-word sentence, but an effort to get out. 

Soap smiled. “Then we won’t.”

He reached with his other hand so Simon’s was snug between both of his own. No hard feelings. No big deal. And, thank you. For not just saying no, but for thinking about it, for almost saying yes if Soap had really, really wanted one.

Simon exhaled and took another sip of his tea. 

Later, Soap drew from his memory a portrait of a very groggy and sleepy Simon. 

**********

Now, two nights after that conversation, Simon is turning in bed to face him, something intense in his eyes. Soap feels the electricity immediately and closes his sketchbook, all eyes and ears. 

“You want a pet.” Simon says, matter of fact. Like he’s just realized. Soap can’t help the laugh, can’t help that he shuffles closer until they are almost nose to nose, giving Simon his biggest grin. 

“Already have one,” he whispers, and he knows it’s silly, worthy of Ghost’s famous eye-roll. Simon surprises him by throwing him a glare instead, a soft one. 

“Fuck off,” he almost growls. “Do you want one or not.” 

Soap hums, staring and staring into those brown, almost-black eyes, taking in the rumble lying deep within them like he is taking a huge gulp of air. Like he needs those eyes on him always, or else he’ll stop breathing. 

“Dinnae have to be so rude about it,” he says, voice still a low whisper. His fingers move on their own volition, sliding up Simon’s side. Would have made it to that divine chest if a hand didn’t wrap around his wrist and stop him. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap pouts at the warning, almost whines, but retreats anyway. Not too far, though. He still wants to be close—so close. Wants to crawl inside his ribcage and stay there forever. This will do—this warm space between them, breath mingling together. 

“Like I said before,” he starts, smiles when Simon’s gaze darts to his lips then back up again, “Only if you want one.” 

Simon grunts, like he’s displeased with that answer. “That was a dog. What about a pet, in general?” 

Soap shrugs with one shoulder. “Meant it the same. Dog, pet. Dinnae want one unless you do.” 

Simon is quiet then, eyes still locked on Soap’s, searching. He moves from one eye to the other, once, twice, three times, like he isn’t satisfied with what he sees in either of them. Soap feels he should be offended, but Simon doesn’t give him much time to dwell under the scrutiny. He moves, slow and soft and hushed, in a way Soap has only seen a handful of times, maybe less. The bed doesn’t make a sound, there is only a slight rustle of clothes and sheets. And then Simon is on top of him.

The Ghost is looming over him. It is so quick and quiet that if Soap were asleep, Ghost could slit his throat and he’d be none the wiser. 

A hand rests on his jaw, and Soap’s breath hitches in time with a skip in his heartbeat. He keens when lips press against his, an embarrassing whine expelling from his throat. Simon swallows it, swallows all of him until Soap is dizzy. 

“Tell me the truth,” Simon mumbles against his lips. Do you want a pet?

God yes, did Soap want a pet. Something to take care of with Simon. To see Simon take care of something.

It’s funny; he adores Simon so much, with everything he’s got, that it shouldn’t be possible to have any more love left to give. But loving Simon has, somehow, awakened his ability to love even more. He has so much to share, and he wants to share it with Simon. He wants to love Simon, and love with him. 

But he doesn’t say any of that. Instead, he says, “I want a pet. Really bad.” He hopes Simon can read between the lines. 

“Okay,” is all Simon says before he kisses him again. And again. And again and again and again until he’s kissing streaks of fire all the way down his cheek and jaw and burying his face in Soap’s neck. Soap is in the clouds, feeling like he has to scream but bottles it up and chucks it far, far away. This moment has to be silent. He doesn’t want to scare away this rare gift Simon is giving him.

He manages a soft, “But no dogs?”, quite a feat when Simon’s hands are on his hips now and his lips hot on his skin. He is everywhere, their bodies pressed so close. 

“No dogs.”

“Will you tell me why?”

Simon pauses, mouth still pressed wetly against Soap’s neck. No kisses, just a touch. Then he mumbles against his skin, and the vibrations travel everywhere, “Maybe one day.”

Soap is okay with that. 

[727moto]

Exploring Precision Riding with Scar Triple Clamps from 727 Moto

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The 727 Moto Difference:

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Conclusion:

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[mielmoto]

Aqua for the heart meme even tho they barely interacted sdfsdfs

Drop me a character name and I’ll reveal my muse’s heart... | (accepting)

💔 Non-existent || 💗 Very low || 💗💗 A little || 💗💗💗 Hopeful || 💗💗💗💗 High || 💗💗💗💗💗 Maximum

eehehehe.... you got it, boss lady.

VISUAL ATTRACTIVENESS: 💗💗💗💗½ (purely aesthetic appreciation of looks)

Okay, no, but, in all seriousness: Honey doesn't meet many people that are so excruciatingly gorgeous that she is actually intimidated by their beauty, but Aqua certainly teeters on that cusp. The way that everything comes together in Aqua's appearance feels like a masterwork, a harmony of color, symmetry, and angles which one usually only finds in paintings. Surreal, almost. And that's not for nothing from a fae. That near-perfect composition would probably come in a touch lower in terms of rating, (for feeling untouchable. distant), but then the memory of battles hard-won map her skin in scars of varying size, shape, and hue, and other little details which tether her somewhere more tangible, and suddenly she's a real and touchable babe-of-all-babes... and this is getting a little heady now, isn't it. TL;DR: the narrative's favorite little bluenette is so pretty it probably made Honey hard reset on first sight and she will continue to enter brief paralysis catching her in different lights, at different angles, and in different outfits. Also also, because it wasn't said: dancer... body ody ody.... 👍 (CRUSH! ME! CRUSH ME!)

FRIENDSHIP LEVEL: 💗💗½ (how close a friend they consider them)

They've like KIND OF met and it has mostly consisted of Honey hitting on her, ogling (respectfulness level unclear), and teasing her about being more affectionate w/people slash not being so stuffy. So. Par for the course, things are going great. She likes her. ...and, given her tropes and general overall nature, I can easily conceive of that original estimation holding true, likely to deepen. You fiercely-devoted, self-sacrificial & self-punitive types will almost certainly be the death of her, but Honey Moto is drawn to that burning-too-bright light like the little moth she is.

SEXUAL DESIRE: 💗💗💗💗 (...you know ( ͡°ᴥ ͡°) )

honey vc ma'am I am not saying I deserve it but I am begging you for just ONE chance

ROMANTIC INTENT: 💔 (hoping for a romantic relationship)

I mean, she'd probably lose her mind over stereotypically "romantic" gestures offered by someone like Aqua, but it would all feel more like a play than anything. They simply Do Not Know Each Other like that, so, it's not there at the mo.

[minijenn]

Jen Tortures Herself With Every Dreamworks Animated Movie Ever: Madagascar: Escape 2 Africa

So I believe I've already mentioned the reoccuring trend with Dreamworks franchises where the second movie of any given franchise of theirs is usually on par with quality of the first movie or even better, and I would say that certainly rings true for good ol Madagascar 2 here. In that it's on par with the first movie, though I'm not sure I'd call it better... Let's get into it.

We pick up with our squad of lovable animals leaving Madagascar, only to crash land in the African Savannah. There, Alex reunites with his parents, Marty finds a whole flock of zebras just like him, and Melman and Gloria start to realize they have feelings for each other. Meanwhile we have the Penguins trying to fix up their plane and King Julian being, well King Julian. There are a lot of subplots floating around here, but I think they're all pretty engaging! Alex is clearly the focus this time around, while the first movie focused more on Marty, and the arc Alex goes through here is actually really engaging (and wow, another Dreamworks protagonist with some daddy issues, another trend we really get in this era of Dreamworks imo)

All of our favorites from last time around are back and just as funny as they were in the first movie. There aren't too many new characters, though the ones who are here are pretty fun, such as Alex's parents. Unlike the last movie, this one actually has a genuine antagonist in Makunga, and well, he's just Scar. Like, there's a lot of elements from this movie lifted from Lion King and Makunga is really just a lamer version of Scar. He's ok. Nowhere near as based as our other standout "antagonist" here, the crazy old lady from the first movie.

The comedy is once again exceptionally on point. Lots of fast-paced physical humor mixed with whitty jokes and humor that comes naturally out of the characters strong personalities and how they interact with each other. I would say that the emotions ring a little stronger in this movie than the first one actually, with the heavy focus on Alex reconnecting with his family and on Gloria and Melman's surprisingly well done romance. Marty has the weakest arc out of our main four, but we still get some decent moments of friendship between him and Alex, which is a nice way to harken back to the first movie.

The animation here is also very smooth, again focused on that fast-paced brand of humor this series is known for, with a solid score that works to carry both the emotions and comedy through very nicely. Dreamworks has really hit their stride in this era of their existance, and this movie, despite its status as a sequel, is a pretty good testament to that.

So yeah, Escape 2 Africa is pretty great! I had a blast watching it again after all these years, and I really do enjoy watching this zany band of characters and their wacky adventures. Granted, I've never seen the third installment of this franchise, so I guess we'll have to wait and see if it maintains that level of quality moving forward. But as for this one, it's well worth watching.

Overall Rating: 8/10

Verdict: Moto Moto is comin' for you

Previous Review (Kung Fu Panda)

Next Review (Monsters vs Aliens)

[kats-kradle]

Hey! Journeying over from rereading your fics to ask you some Poirot questions! : ) Had you already liked Poirot prior to 2017’s Murder on the Orient Express? And did you immediately fall in love with Bouc in the first film or did it take until Death on the Nile?

Hi!! I love talking about Poirot!! Buckle up😂😂

First off I would like to say that it made my day to see that not only did you read my fics but you reread them!! And then you actually came here to talk to me!! You’re the first person who’s actually done that so it really made my day. 

Also: I apologize in advance. When I start talking about Poirot I tend to launch into rants and I… may have done that here so I will say now in case you don’t make it to the end that I would love to hear your thoughts about the movies or anything else Poirot related! Did you know about Poirot before the movie? What are your thoughts about Bouc?

To answer your questions, I guess I could say that technically I liked Poirot before watching the movie. I actually had never heard about Poirot until the movie came out, and one of my sister’s friends took her to see it and then leant her the book. I stole it and read it in almost one night and ever since then have been absolutely enthralled by Agatha Christie! I own almost all of the Poirot books and have been trying to branch out and sample her other writings, but I keep coming back to Poirot. 

By the time Death on the Nile came out I forgot the Bouc was a character who existed because I hadn’t seen MotOE since it came out in 2017. When I saw him, I did remember that he’d been in the last movie, and was absolutely delighted that they were going to turn him into the Hastings of the movies (especially because he was so happy and full of life😭) which of course we all know what happened with that and now that I’ve recovered from my shock and denial I can take a step back and acknowledge it was a FANTASTIC choice to kill him, and to do it in such a shocking way—but also, I’m also not a a fan of how much Kenneth Branagh deviated from the source material by doing that. 

Adding Bouc to the movie was a choice that made sense, if Kenneth Branagh is going for a Poirot Cinematic Universe. People expect a sidekick, and in stories where the cast has to change every movie, it’s nice for the audience to have a familiar face other than the main detective. However, I also think Kenneth Branagh shot himself in the foot by shooting Bouc in the neck, because he went out of his way to add and establish Bouc as a reoccurring character, just to kill him off in the second movie. I think the audience will now have more difficulty connecting with the side characters in the future since they’ve had two movies with the same character, as a opposed to already being used to the characters changing every movie. But then again, I’m still in denial. Along with this, it’s setting up the next movie to have a distinctly dark tone.

Well, now I’ve gotten started on the topic of Poirot and I can’t stop😂😂😂 Enjoy my decent into madness.

Another way that dear Kenny boy shot himself in the foot is with the iconic mustache. His mustaches in MotOE were luscious and beautiful, despite the critic they received. Branagh understood that Poirot has impressive mustaches that are quite a spectacle to behold, even if the rest of the world can only picture the measly little mustache that David Suchet displays in his version of Poirot (don’t get me wrong I love those adaptations but just… the mustache is all wrong. And David Suchet Poirot is a subject for a different time or we’ll be here forever😂😂). In DotN, for some reason he felt the need to give the mustaches a tragic backstory????? Narratively, I guess it’s a nice bookend and theme to the movie as a whole. BUT HE FELT THE NEED TO GIVE THE MUSTACHES A TRAGIC BACKSTORY????????????? Despite the fact that in DotN the mustaches aren’t actually long enough anymore to cover up the scaring shown at the beginning, HAIR DOESNT GROW ON SCAR TISSUE!!!! It just doesn’t make sense😭 Along with that, now he’s destroyed the main characteristic of Poirot, his trademark. Poirot is quite vain about his mustaches and even when he wears a fake one in Curtain (for reasons that I won’t spoil but if you know you know) Hastings only finds out at the end of the book, and Poirot’s manservant treats the subject with delicacy since the mustaches were such a sensitive subject to Poirot. 

While I’m STILL talking about Poirot (forgive my rant I can’t stop) I’m going to take the opportunity to mention the stark difference in quality between MotOE and DotN. I’ve now seen both of these movies multiple times and back to back. Overall, I think MotOE is much better. DotN uses a lot of green screen, and it’s pretty obvious and creates for some flat feeling backgrounds. For MotOE, they took shots of the mountains and overlayed the train on, instead of all CGI. Now, I don’t know for sure how much of each movie and which parts use CGI; it could be that MotOE uses more CGI and I just have a bad eye for spotting it. It was just my impression that the backgrounds in DotN were severely lacking. 

And let’s talk about the music. MotOE delivers and excellent score that makes you feel a wide variety of emotions, and they use the theme of repetition well in The Armstrong Case. For me, it had just reached the point in the movie where the theme could have started to be annoying; but the. they used it magnificently when Poirot was explaining the murder, and the simple and relentless, already melancholy melody turned into something truly heartbreaking, turning a scene of twelve people stabbing a man to death into something poetic. 10/10 one of the best uses of music and one of the best scenes ever, in my opinion. DotN, besides the songs sung by the talented Sophie Okonedo as Salome Otterbourne, has no notable music to take away from the movie, besides the absolutely grating (I don’t know what it’s called but it goes like. DUN DUN. DUUUN! DUN DUN. DUUUN! I think if you search Death on the Nile on YouTube you’ll find the song titled the same by Patrick Doyle). I got tired of hearing that by the third time it played, and my annoyance with it was one of the main things that I took away from the movie. 

AND ANOTHER THING both movies took creative liberties with the stories, but one of the creative liberties I did not like about DotN was how explicit they made it. Between that dance floor scene and the scene at the tomb… when I go to see a movie that’s rated PG-13 I like to feel comfortable seeing it with my father and not feel the need to slam my hands over my little sister’s ears. Especially when I want to slam them over my ears instead😭

All this being said I’m 100% going to go see a Haunting in Venice, but not because I’m expecting it to be good. I’d just like more fuel for my rants. I didn’t even get touch upon what an amazing actor Tom Bateman is and how I’m mad that he only plays serial killer roles outside of Bouc. 

Anyways I hope that answers your questions😅 thank you for your ask, and congratulations if you made it this far. It did truly make my day to see the phrase “rereading” in association with my fics, and I feel as if you were some curious passerby on the street who I started passionately and somewhat aggressively ranting at. I apologize. Also I took a break from ranting to check out your blog and you’ve got a great curation of posts. Good luck getting rid of me now. Prepare to see me in your notifications. Sorry for the essay.

[roppongi-division]

"The question isn't who's going to let me, it's who's going to stop me." - Ayn Rand

Introduction

Mireya Moto Quinlan is the second member of the Roppongi Division rap battle team, Private Party. She is known by her rap moniker, Gypsy. A former dancer and stripper known for working in just one of the many bars in Sin City, this was just a stepping-stone on the way to fulfilling this spicy and determined young woman's true ambitions. After working and building up her career, she's now determined to prove that her self-owned nightclub/casino is the best, not only in Roppongi, but in all of Japan.

Mireya, much like her husband, is a woman of many origins, mainly Japanese and Hispanic. She has tannish skin, which she attributes to her black background. She has dark-brownish curly hair that goes down to the top of her back. She has light green eyes that are slanted, giving her a somewhat-tired look. She also wears a lot of make-up, giving her a younger look than her age shows; she wears pink blush on her cheeks and matching-colored lipstick. She stands at 5'7" and weighs 124 pounds. She also has a D-sized chest. Finally, she has two kiss mark tattoos, one on her neck, and one above her left breast.

When she is at home or lounging around, she tends to dress comfortably. She wears a plain greenish-blue blouse with a black leather jacket over it, a silver black necklace with a moon and stars charm at the end of it around her neck, a pair of dark blue slim jeans, a pair of black stockings and a pair of black Mary Jane shoes.

When she is on the job, she dresses more fashionably. Her attire usually consists of a red and black cut-off shoulder dress with a black feather boa over her shoulders, a pair of black stockings, and a pair of black heels. She also changes her hair color to golden blonde, giving her a more youthful look. Also, she has her moon wedding ring displayed on her right ring finger to show that she is happily "taken".

When she is performing or dancing, she wears a Beledi dress, a type of Egyptian-style dress suited for belly dancing. It is adorned with many beautiful jewels.

Name Meaning

Mireya - A girls' name is of Spanish and Latin origin, and the meaning of Mireya is "admired". Variant of Miranda. Also form of Mira. Also form of Mireio.

Moto - A girl's name of Japanese origin meaning "mind, spirit, soul".

Quinlan - A name of Irish and Gaelic origin. It means "descendant of Caoinlean, slender" or "fit, shapely, strong." It is also a form of the name "Quinn".

Aliases:

"Gypsy Queen" - Her old stage name

"Mrs. Quinlan" - Her subordinates

Ma/Mom - Zakari

Love/Babe/Hun - Kai

Biographical Info

Gender - Female

Age - 34

Birthday - July 31st

Ethnicity - Half Japanese, Half Hispanic

Hair Color - Dark Brown

Eye Color - Light Green

Height - 170 cm (5'7")

Weight - 56 kg (124 lb.)

Star Sign - Leo

Piercings - A diamond stud earring in both of her ears.

Markings - Some permeant scarring on her arms due to track marks from her drug use. She also has a kiss mark tattoo on her neck, and above her left breast.

Family -

Mother

Father (Unknown)

Husband

Adopted Son

Voiced By - MoNa a.k.a Sad Girl (Rapping)

Fun Facts

MC Name - Gypsy

Occupation - Nightclub Owner/Belly Dancer

Position - Second Member

Favorite Food - Stuffed Peppers

Least Favorite Food - Mutton

Likes - Her nightclub, belly dancing, her family, partying, the nightlife, children, Roppongi, sunsets, good drinks, fashion, jewelry, sleeping in late, smoking after sex, heights, the city at night, and her current life.

Dislikes - Quitters, thinking about her past, drugs, hardship, black coffee, getting older, abuse, being used, her mother, being objectified, the fact she can't have children, and her son's suicidal tendencies.

Hypnosis Microphone

Mireya's Microphone takes the form of a gold handheld microphone adorned with amethyst jewels and diamonds, making it look expensive and extravagant. The name 'Gypsy' is also written on the mic.

Her Speaker takes the form of a large purple half-naked woman with long flowing orange-yellow hair. Her hair seems to morph, taking the form of an-octopus-like creature with one eye, where the speaker is located.

Her ability, Allure, allows her to hypnotize and charm one of her opponents, making them attack anyone but her. This ability also increases her defense each time she uses it. Though she can use this move frequently, the more she uses it, the more stamina she uses up.

Mireya's rap themes revolve around doing what you must, regardless of who or what opposes you. She raps that in order to get what you want out of life, you can't worry about who is against you; you just have to go and get it. Like her husband, she also raps about sensitive subjects like her past and the problems she had with her mother. She'll also rap about her love for her family and dancing. She'll also sometimes rap in Spanish.

Personality

Mireya is an attractive woman who knows she has looks and knows how to use them. Being blessed with a good appearance since she was young, she learned how to utilize her charms from the woman who took her in after she ran away from home to get away from her mother and her lifestyle. Though she doesn't have to do much in order to get what she wants, she finds that exerting a little "influence" goes a long way at times.

As her quote can tell you, Mireya is not one to worry when the odds are stacked against her. She doesn't care what she has to do in order to achieve her goals, or further her ambitions. As long as it doesn't bring harm to her friends, family, her city or her way of life, then she will gladly do it. This mindset has been adopted due to the amount of opposition that she has been forced to overcome in her 34-year-old life. Whether it was her mother, her enemies, or just her self-doubt, she has always been counted out or looked over. While this would normally deter others, this only helps to make Mireya more determined.

A natural and charismatic leader, Mireya is usually the one to take the reigns when no one else will. She has no problem being put in the forefront, as that is where people will mainly be looking. The limelight for this woman is where she feels she is meant to be, and only when she is dead and gone will she disappear from. This give her an air of arrogance, but only those in-the-know know that this is just Mireya's confident and certain personality.

This behavior, however, can sometimes come back to bite Mireya. As stated, she tends to be very confident and certain. And when she doesn't hear a voice that coincides with that, she ignores it, even when it is coming from a good place. Basically, if it doesn't match where Mireya is coming from, then it's not worthy.

What's more, Mireya has a very large ego, one that is very fragile. While she comes across as confident, she is incredibly sensitive to criticism, even if it is constructive. When she feels that isn't getting the attention she deserves, she tends to become very sulky and sad. This is especially bad if she is being outdone by someone much younger than her, since she is very, very sensitive about her age. She can tolerate a lot, but the one sorest point for her is fledgling upstarts in her thinking they can one-up her.

Despite that, Mireya does have a good head on her shoulders. A natural charismatic, many people are known to flock to her, whether she is trying to befriend them or not. She is very passionate, both in and out of work. When it comes to her family, she loves them all very much and considers them worth more than any treasure that she could possibly receive.

Background

*Coming soon*

Trivia

Like her husband, Kai, she also has a mixed ancestry; she is of Japanese, Hispanic, and African American heritage (The first two are on her mother's side, while the last one is on her father's).

Because of her mixed background, she is fluent in Japanese, English, and Spanish.

The name of her nightclub is called "Gypsy's Palace".

She was taught how to belly dance by a friend of hers who worked in the same bar as her. She laments that she still isn't as good as her friend.

Besides being a nightclub owner, she also co-owns and runs (alongside Reika Aichi of Shizuoka) a recreation center that's aimed at distancing young girls from crime and prostitution by teaching them education and dancing.

Her favorite brand of cigarettes is Maverick Gold 100s.

Though she knows how loyal her husband, is, she can't help but get a little jealous when he is approached by another attractive woman, especially if they are younger than she is.

Though she gets along with many of the residents of Minato, she has a dislike for Queen Card, due to the fact that the detective's "magic tricks" have, more than once, caused a disturbance within Gypsy's Palace (She also dislikes how she tries to get Zakari involved with her antics). As such, Mireya has made it clear that the masked woman is prohibited from coming within 10 feet of the building.

An excessive amount of hormones in her pituitary gland caused her to be diagnosed with hyperprolactinemia at the age of 26, which sadly made her infertile, meaning she and Kai could not have children. As such, she is very sensitive about the topic, and hates talking about it.

[spooky-cat-and-corgi-girl]

Splatoon OC’s !!!

I drew. Them so much.

Anyway here’s a few

[Under cut because there’s a couple]

[Moto in their vacation arc. It’s actually just them traveling to Splatsville for the first time.]

[Text over inkling: “My teammates realizing I have a terrible weapon.”] [Text over octoling: “Me with my Bamboozler”] [This was when I still drew myself as an Octo haha]

[Moto with their shirt unbuttoned and with their gas mask off. Mostly was just to show off some scars.]

[Rusty & Copper from Team Forge !! Their so silly r <3]