#simons gremlins

[queerlordsimon]

I created a twisted wonderland quiz a few months back, and I figured I'd share it.

I got: deuce spade https://www.quotev.com/quiz/15269605/which-twisted-wonderland-character-are-you

Here's my result.

Tagging:

@cupids-chamber @corvids-treasure-box @eatcandlewax @vtoriacore @v-anrouge @kirans-wonderland @love-thanatopsis @gloomurai-ontheedgee @merotwst @spade-spam +anyone else

[queerlordsimon]

Passing it on

@hotchocolatefairy @v-anrouge @vtoriacore @cupids-chamber @spadecentral @love-thanatopsis @eatcandlewax @merotwst @gloomurai-ontheedgee @kirans-wonderland

This is the Nugget of Friendship.

It is not given lightly. Yet I give it to you.

Yes. I mean YOU.

Now shoo.

Pass on the Nugget of Friendship.

[lxvvie]

König who always uses his height to his full advantage.

Especially when teasing you. Especially when it comes to kissing him.

Whenever you'd crane your neck up to kiss him, perhaps even stand on the tips of your toes or the balls of your feet, König, thoroughly amused, would either lift his head enough to where you'd be lucky to catch his chin or he'd offer his cheek.

You'd get your reward soon enough. The cat-and-mouse of it all was entertaining and endearing to him, however.

But when you finally had enough, when you found yourself standing on König's feet for leverage, and you craned your neck up and pulled him down to meet you halfway, your tall lover could do naught but smirk in the embrace.

And sure enough, you got your reward.

It was worth every moment of his teasing you.

[ghostlysoaps]

Inspiration - @ghcstao3

There's something to be said about the way John "Soap" MacTavish, notorious for his fleeting fancy of any given subject when off an op, hasn't been able to get Simon Riley out of his head. Granted, even before "The Incident" his lieutenant occupied his thoughts frequently. But now, oh, not a minute goes by where his attention doesn't stray, where his eyes aren't drawn to Ghost’s hulking figure, and he wishes they'd been stationed literally anywhere else but the monotone grey of autumnal England.

His sketchbook is filled with pages upon pages of studies. Greens and browns and gold – the myriad of colours hazel can be – despite how none of them feel right. Too saturated, too dark, too light. Too much or too little. Then again... it is near impossible to recreate a work of art after a mere fleeting second of studying the original. La Gioconda del Prado wasn't made with a peripheral glance at Da Vinci's subject – so how is Johnny to do the impossible?

-

"Spar with me."

Ghost pauses with his fork mid-way to his mouth. A mouth Johnny would gladly analyze at length, or map with his own one day, if not for the unhealthy obsession he's taken with Ghost's eyes.

One thing at a time.

His irises are shadowed by the tilt of his head and the presence of eyeblack but there is a subtle difference between them. Johnny is fool enough to think he can see it no matter how shit the lighting. Deluded, even, if his long-suffering best friend is to be believed. They're also dark with question, narrowed with thoughts and opinions kept close at heart.

"Alright," Ghost says and pushes the rest of his dinner away, pausing briefly as if to say something before ultimately deciding against it.

Johnny follows him with a pronounced bounce in his step and speeds through stretching and warming up. It'll be a killer tomorrow but that's a problem for future Johnny. Sore muscles are a small price to pay if it means settling a mystery.

They take their places, circling each other lazily. Johnny, ever the impatient one, lunges first and ends up with Ghost's heavy weight straddling the small of his back a couple minutes later. He grinds his teeth and heaves himself back to his feet. Sweat beads at his temples, his neck, trickling down his spine. Alight with purpose, he throws himself back in the fray.

He sways out of Ghost’s reach, blocking and evading, bouncing on the tips of his toes, throwing punches when it's fitting while he awaits the perfect time to strike. They're both grinning. It's plain as day on his own face, more subtle on Ghost's. The way the corners of his eyes crease gives him away, the shift of his plain balaclava as his lips twitch.

Johnny is focused on them like a bloodhound on a scent and when Ghost tosses his head, tilting it up with a roll of his shoulders, the florescent lights catching them just so.

Oh, is all he can think with the truth of him laid plain to see – how Johnny had been right all along. They differ subtly in darkness but when cast in either sunshine sepia or lightbulb white the contrast between them is stark. One is the deep, dark of pine, a forest green with too many hues to accurately count. It compliments the wooden brown of tree-trunk bark, flecks of whiskey-gold therein framed by pale lashes of nearly the same colour.

A modern day Medusa who stops him dead in his tracks, mesmerised, as Ghost's fist slams into the side of his face with the concentrated power of an eighteen-wheeler barreling into a concrete wall.

-

Ghost's face swims back into view an undetermined amount of time later. Worry etched into the tense way he carries himself. His hands are cupping Johnny’s cheeks, thumbs stroking once under his lower lids before they tilt his head back a fraction. He hovers close, peering into Johnny’s eyes as if they hold the secrets of the universe therein.

"Fuckin' hell Johnny. Anything broken?"

Johnny blinks at him, a dopey smile spreading over his lips like molasses.

Ghost, if anything, looks even more worried.

"Talk to me, Sergeant."

"You've beautiful eyes."

Ghost freezes in place. Gobsmacked, if Johnny were to put an expression to it. He murmurs a string of delightfully innovative curses under his breath, manoeuvring Johnny to sitting upright, and the change in vantage point only makes him a little bit dizzy. The dark spots dancing before his eyes is nothing new, honestly, but they are annoying when they're ruining his view.

"Knocked what little sense you had left right out of your head, huh?" Ghost sounds amused and Soap realises, belatedly, that he might've said all that out loud. "Price'll have a field day with this."

"Take some responsibility an' kiss it better then."

"You're concussed."

"Och aye, an' whose fault is tha'? You and yer bonnie eyes. Could get lost in 'em, y'ken?"

"You're off your head, mate."

"Ahm'nt! An' if you'd jus' stay still for a moment an' lemme look at ye, this wouldn't 'ave been an issue," Johnny grumbles indignantly. Grumbles, because whining is for children and it never works in getting him what he wants anyway. Ghost usually looks at him with the flattest stare imaginable whenever he tries. Horrid man. Johnny kind of wants to kiss him about it.

"Tell you what, Johnny. If you're good–" Ghost slings his arm over his shoulder, kindly ignoring the way his words leave him shivering, "–i'll let you look all you want."

Johnny leans against him when he's levered to his feet, swaying like a branch caught in the wind. "I can be good."

"Mmh. You're gonna listen to the nurses once I drop you off at medical?"

Soap groans and smushes his face deeper into Ghost’s surprisingly comfortable shoulder.

"I'll take that as a yes."

-

Ghost keeps his promises, it is an irrefutable fact, and Johnny can and will take advantage of that with shameless abandon.

Crawling into Ghost's lap with a shit-eating grin, paints and brushes well-within reach, wobbling precarious on his perch until Ghost takes pity and steadies him with scorching hands on his hips feels like a victory despite the dull throbbing in his temple and purpling bruises lapping up the side of his face. There are no protests when he guides Ghost's head this-way-and-that. No complaints are heard even when the warm glow of his bedside lamp shines at his eyes and their kaleidoscope of colours become present again. Ghost keeps his gaze unwavering focused when Johnny's hands rest on his face in a mirror of the day prior – though his eyelids droop down the fraction of an inch. It's intense and intimate and Johnny, no stranger to selfishness when he can get away with it, can't help but be greedy.

"Can you be good for me now, Simon?"

His lieutenant nods as far as Johnny’s hands allow and though him closing his eyes is the opposite of good, Johnny can't fault him when his own slide shut as he brings their faces together for the first time – a new obsession flaring to life in the wake of lips brushing fabric.

[moeblob]

[queerlordsimon]

No no no

I completely agree and have been saying it for a year

Yuu needs to overblot

From an accumulation of blot on a non magic person.

I've been making my main yuu overblot in every different house form being like, which ever dorm she hung out with the most Is the female protagonist she would take place off on those stories and it's a wonderful Idea and I need this to happen

WAIT OMG GUYS ABOUT RHE SUPPOSEDLY OVERBLOT GRIM

we all notice how riddle and vil seem to have minimal like influence over his design as opposed to the rest..so imagine if their influence is like in his powers? imagine how cool it would be if one his powers is releasing a poison that affects your magic (like riddle's magic) like that would honestly be so FUCKING cool😭

but also i just thought f this cuz i was imagining if yuu did overblot what their voice lines would be and k think them saying "who's magicless now" would be so cool

[brewed-pangolin]

A million thank you's to the amazing @temeyes for bringing the enthusiastic menace that is Gym Rat Soap to life.

I can not begin to tell you how much I'm in absolute LOVE with this depiction of him.

I may let loose some very (VERY) NSFW Gym Rat Soap imagines/drabbles that embody Soap MacTavish from the game. But before he graces your screens and steals the spotlight of my inspiration, this is how he appears in my head.

Bouncing around like a madman while I'm trying to maintain some semblance of sanity.

And now he will forever be my snicker (attention) needing gremlin. Powerlifiting his way through the walls of my subconscious until I finally feed him and let him loose onto the unsuspecting Soap Squad.

So much love to you, Tim! 💛

[gremlinmodetweeker]

I don't know if you're taking request right now, so please excuse me if this is bad timing. The way you right Simon is so, so, so, well. Your Ghost Icks and that other one-shot of him buying a snake was chefs kiss. You capture him unlike the other writers here. My request is about relationships, how would a first kiss between Ghost and the reader would be? It can be in any scenario really. Like a fifth or sixth date (if they go on one). I apologize if this ask is not of your time.

Okay so I'm so so sorry for this taking so much time, but I think this little ficlet took a bit longer to put together than I expected. Sometimes I get a little mental block and for some reason I just kept getting stuck! However, I figured that this might be a good little story to work with, so enjoy this little drabble I wrote!

“Simon?”

“Yeah?”

“Why aren’t you inside?”

Your boyfriend shifted side to side as he tried to think of a reasonable answer. Anything would be ncier than the truth. Anything would be easier, but how could he tell you?

“I just like lookin’ at the stars,” Simon whispered as you stepped out to stand on the balcony with him.

“Didn’t take you for much of an astronomer,” you muttered as you carefully stood by his side.

“I’m not,” he chuffed.

You gave him a tight smile, “I know.”

Simon’s eyes crawled over your form before darting back to the warm light coming from indoors. A peel of laughter fluttered against the glass door, muffled by snow outside.

“You should go back in,” Simon said quietly.

“But I want to spend time with my boyfriend,” you said back, “that’s not a crime, is it?”

Simon shook his head silently.

You smiled and carefully leaned against the freezing metal railing, careful to not let the snow soak into your clothes.

“You know,” you started quietly, “you don’t have to pretend to be happy for me.”

Simon scowled, “I’m not pretending anything.”

You frowned, “Si, I’m not mad. It’s okay to not be okay.”

Simon rolled his eyes, “You’re going and giving me the therapy talk again?”

You huffed.

“I’m not giving you the ‘therapy talk’,” you looked out to the cold streets below, “I’m worried about you.”

“That’s a first,” Simon sniffed.

“I always care about you,” you retorted.

“You do,” Simon acquiesced, “not everybody else.”

“But what about all your squadmates? They really seem to like you,” you offered as you held out a hand for his.

Simon looked at your hand and glanced away, “I guess. But I don’t have much else. Not like you.”

You let your hand drop back to your side, “Is that what this is about?”

Simon hung his head down to his chest.

“They care about you too,” you offered, “just because they’re my family it doesn’t mean they don’t care about you too.”

“Seeing them all so happy…” Simon shook his head, “it’s different.”

“Different than your home?” you offered.

“Very,” Simon agreed.

A siren screamed by in the distance as a crowd of college students laughed below you. The warm city lights glowed like bright stars running along the streets, twinkling in the night with a friendly wink. Down the road you could see the traffic lights changing to red.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“Always,” Simon admitted.

You watched a woman push her baby stroller through the snow below you.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“You shouldn’t be sorry for being happy,” Simon grumbled.

“But what about-”

“Don’t care,” Simon grunted, “don’t be sorry for being happy.”

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest.

You looked out over the skyline with a faint smile, “I know it’s hard, but it means a lot that you came over. I don’t know if I could do this on my own.”

Simon looked at you quizzically, “It looks like you’re enjoying yourself in there.”

“Well,” you shrugged, “every family has its problems, and we have ours. It’s sometimes hard listening to my uncle saying some things, and I hate seeing how my aunt treats my other uncle. It’s hard, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Me being here helps that how?” Simon asked.

“Well, you got me out here, right?” you chuckled and took reached out your hand again.

Simon looked down at your hand and smiled. He took it into his and squeezed it lightly, “I guess I did.”

“You’re not all bad, you know,” you kissed the back of his hand before letting your hands drop down together.

“I hope not,” Simon let out a long breath through his nose.

“You’re not,” you affirmed and stepped close to his side, “I promise.”

Simon looked out at the skyline before looking back down at you. He smiled and brushed your hair to the side of your ear.

“You’re too good for me,” he whispered.

“I’m only as good as you are,” you replied with a small smile.

Simon rested his forehead against yours, warming your face with his tired breath. You reached up to run your hand through the back of his short-cropped hair and sighed.

“If we’re only as good as each other, then maybe both of us are damned,” Simon said under his breath.

“Then let’s be damned together,” you reached up and tugged him close.

His lips were hard, cracked, chapped with age and cigarettes and pain. You took all of it into your heart as you kissed him back. He wove a hand behind the back of your head and held you close, almost as though he was afraid of what would happen if he let go. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-closed and tired.

“You okay now?” you asked.

“Better,” Simon gruffed, “but only just a bit.”

“Do you wanna go back in yet?” you asked.

Simon glanced behind him before shaking his head, “Give me another ten.”

You traced a line of muscle down his neck to below his coat.

You looked up at him hopefully, “Can I kiss you again?”

Simon nodded and leaned in close, “As much as you like.”

[rimeswithpurple]

Carry On Countdown

Day 19: Fluff

Tali! Finally! I'm so happy to have finally drawn every member of the Salisbury-Pitch family from my fic with @thewholelemon, Infinity in a Teacup.

Fun facts: Tali's full name is Natalius Anchor Salisbury-Pitch (Natalius for a boy version of the name Natasha and Anchor for the butter brand)

Simon and Baz thought his nickname would be Nat. Then Lucy called him Tali and it stuck

Also on AO3!

[queerlordsimon]

I got jamil and that flipping fits he's the only one I truly have a problem with in twst like, ugg

Which twst character would be you sworn enemy

I'm laughing so hard truly Azul and Yume are enemies lol

I'd love to see others' results!

[thegnomelord]

PLEASEEEEE UR IDEA WITH MAGE M!READER AND MONSTER!COD MEN I'D LOVE THAT SO FICKING MUCH AND YES I AGREE THERE IS A LACK OF ALL THE VIOLENCE

Pov of how the world sees the reader Vs how TF141 reader :D. I'm in the middle of writing the first chapter of a fic with this idea, but guess who contracted TB like some coal miner 😞, me! So here's a sneak peak for the sort of vibe I'm going for while I'm trying to recover:

P.S: Ya'll are free to suggest/requests with this idea cause!

P.S.S: Check out bluegiragi who came up with this AU and give her some love!

Mages and Monsters

Mages are strange creatures.

In a world so full of monstrous hybrids and mythical creatures, mages sit on the proverbial line separating man from monster, stuck in both worlds without any hope of fitting in either one.

Because outwardly, they're average. No different from the billions of other humans. They're not born with the marks of monsterdom; they don't possess horns or leathery scales to shrug off small caliber bullets like dragons do, nor the claws and bone crushing jaws of werewolves, not feathered wings and razor sharp talons of harpies, nor the wraiths ghostly ability to become immaterial.

Outwardly, they're average. Ordinary. Mundane. Human...

Almost.

Because Price and Ghost are experienced enough to see the thing laying beneath the paper thin veneer of normality, are seasoned enough to quickly notice the one thing that puts an 'in' before a mage's 'human' description — Magic. Not the smoke and mirror kind magicians or charlatans use to swindle tourists out of money, but real magic.

The ancient kind, the capricious kind, slumbering like a beast inside the hollowed out cavern of a heart until it awakens with a terrible bloodlust. Each of them can attest to this; Price sports gnarled patched of scar tissue on the scaleless parts of his arm from ice burns, his draconic breath having saved him from frostbite that had devoured more than a few good men. Though Ghost doesn't show much skin, one can sometimes catch sight of branching fern patterns on his neck where lightning magic had shot through him. Gaz's back is peppered with hundreds of little cuts where a glass mage's summoned elegant ornaments had shattered into millions of shards, aiming to take out his wings.

And now Soap sports a mark of his own, his side tender red and blistered with a second degree burn. It could have been much worse, your flames were hot enough to melt steel, the only thing having kept him from an early cremation being the two solid concrete walls your magic had had to travel through to hit him and the enhanced regeneration of his thick hide.

But such power demands a cost — one paid in blood. For magic is as fickle and capricious as a rabid dog, just as eager to lunge for your throat as it will at the enemies, leaving lasting wounds for all to see; rough and calloused palms, skin blackened from blazing heat and freezing cold or marked with fern patterns of electricity, fingers stiff and marred with cuts from thorns and crystals and rock and glass, bone deep cuts where the liquid mana had burst out from the skin, leaving faintly glowing scars that never heal right.

All mages are born with this grievous gift, though one never knows whether it will present itself with a pitiful flicker of embers in a man's dying breath, or with a maelstrom of an infant's first hiccup. That's why most mages are sealed, by choice or force, a process which puts chains on the magic, making it and the mage docile.

But you are unsealed. And you flaunt that fact readily by melting the tail of their APC helicopter with one spell, not even waiting for them to crash before flooding the terrain with suffocating ash, the lenses of their gas masks already fogging up from the heat as they get out of the cloud of heavy sediment before it bursts to flames.

Sometimes the magic becomes unsatisfied with the weakness of the body, demanding more than just its pound of flesh and molding the body like clay to better suit it— Mage Marks, they're called — the subtle glow of magic in your eyes, the mana visibly pulsing inside your chest, the skin of your arms slipping away like wet paper before growing anew, this time mimicking the surface of magma, or the rocky barnacle encrusted reef, the gnarled bark of a tree, the crystalline inside of a geode, the ice spiked ground of tundra, or any other form that suits the magic in your veins.

The process is excruciating, the mana burrowing and gnawing on every nerve like a parasite that replaces what it eats with itself. But to you, that's an acceptable loss, because marked mages far surpass their unmarked fellows, your magic stronger and wilder, feral and viscous like the primordial force of nature.

So it becomes concerning when you're laying on the floor, captured, battered and bruised and calm.

Ghost had been waterboarding you for a while now, your body tied to a chair that had been tipped back so you were parallel with the ground. With water pooling around your head, your top half would have been soaked to the bone had your magic not been simmering in your veins, the magic suppression momentarily reducing the raging inferno in your chest to a meager flicker of flames.

They can't kill you, but limiting your magic for even a second is death in and of itself.

Your breathing is harsh as Ghost pulls away the cloth over your mouth, asking you a question as steam rises from your skin. Most would give in long before this point, but you just grin, eyes glowing with a burning glow, and make a comment about how good his arse looks from your viewpoint.

You manage only one small note of laughter, pitiful embers sparking at the corners of your lip, before Ghost drops the rag back over your face and begins anew.

Price watches all of this, sharp draconic eyes noting how the mana glows in your chest, pulsing like a second heart (assuming you had one to begin with), noticing how the water turns to steam a little faster when it splashes over your skin.

And Price knows.

You... You are going to be trouble.

[queerlordsimon]

glad youre still alive dude!!

Fbdjrjnfb

I didn't think anyone was online-

Hi Eli!

[carryonthroughtheages]

Mona Baz would like to remind you that COTTA is happening.

Yup. That's what he's smiling about. Mystery solved.

Carry On Through the Ages is happening. November 3rd through the 9th, specifically.

(You can learn more about it through our handy-dandy FAQs.)

(Also there's a Discord server.)

[queerlordsimon]

Chaos, I'm teaching you apparently, you and ciel

Made this fun little quiz and thought I would share. Reblog and let me know what you get!

[gomzdrawfr]

they're acoustic, C major

[mamawasatesttube]

robin (1993) #58

head in my hands. tim you are the worst. i love you SO much