#skull grinder

[kgustin87]

Finished the first box of my Corpse Grinder Cult for necromunda

[doubleslashkarma]

flamefrags saying he'd just refuse to fight zam and zam saying he's going to have to at some point is a CRAZY role reversal from the beginning of the season

[warhammer-fantasy-muses]

🍷- How do they feel about alcohol?

"A FINE PAIRING TO A FRESH CUT OF MEAT OR A BOWL OF GUTS. EVEN MORE-SO IF IT IS A FRESHLY-MADE SKULL BREW, MADE OF ONLY THE PUREST BLOOD AND THE FINEST HERBS AND SPICES OF THE REALM. MY PERSONAL FAVORITE IS, WITH NO SURPRISE, MIXING BLOOD WITH SPICES OF GRAND CATHAY. NOTHING BETTER THAN TAKING FROM THE COUNTRY THAT TRIED TO KILL YOU! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA~!"

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Just Giving In

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, truth curses (with a silly twist!), light fluff, angst, smut (fingering, p in v sex, creampie), love confessions, no use of y/n

Summary/Warnings: You're under a very annoying truth curse. The kind of truth curse that will kill you if one very specific, Dean-related truth isn't told. But apparently no one's allowed to just die in peace anymore.

Author's Note: It's amazing how I'm able to delude myself into truly believing that I'll actually write something short and only horny. No. We must write 3k of story and 5k of emotional smut. Enjoy!

Title from Never Let Me Go by Florence + the Machine

Word Count: 8.6k

It’s past midnight when you get back to the bunker.��

You were supposed to be back that afternoon, but certain complications arose, and you’re back now. You’ll have a long, sleepless night to come up with an excuse for why exactly you were five hours late, didn’t text Sam and Dean that you were going to be five hours late, where exactly you were in the first place, and why the car looks like that. Scraped and dented and wrecked, like it had been put through a meat grinder and spat out in a hunk of metal that somehow didn’t explode when you drove it. 

You’re glad you didn’t take the Impala. If Dean yelled at you right now, you might start crying on the spot. Thankfully—in what should be a rare stroke of luck, but feels like a dagger right into your stomach—Sam and Dean seem to have given up on trying to wait for you to come home, so you’re free to retreat to your room and cry in private, like any reasonable adult who’s probably going to die within the week would-

“You’re back.” 

A light behind you flicks on as Dean snaps from across the room, and you grimace as everything inverts. Dean did wait up for you, and that’s tiny and electric high that goes right up your spine. You’re also not lucky, but that just feels like a given at this point. 

You will not cry in front of Dean. You have spent the whole night repeating to yourself that, no matter what happens here, you will not cry in front of Dean. He either think nothing of this week, and it will fade into the distance as you figure this out yourself and he never knows, or he’ll look back on it with nothing but simple grief and anger, remember you fondly and furiously instead of as a weak, emotional, manipulative bitch. Remembers you as the person you’ve spent so long proving yourself to be, instead of the feral girl they’d found you as. 

It doesn’t make turning around to face him any easier. He’s sitting in his usual chair, glaring at you with his arms crossed, and there are bags under his eyes that you put there. A tight line to his lips that’s your responsibility, because you’d fucked up and he knows it. He always knows it. 

Because you fuck up a lot.

“Hey, Dean, what’s up-“

“What’s up?” He snaps, and you have to force your body not to flinch. “You’re crawling back here at one in the goddamn morning without ever, I don’t know, thinking to fucking call when you realized you’d be late, and you’re saying what’s up?”

You swallow. “I lost my phone.”

“You, fuck-“ Dean rubs his jaw with a hand, giving you a look of pure disbelief. “You could’ve borrow someone’s, or prayed to Cas, or just, goddamnit-“ he mutters your name, looking at you with an exhaustion that makes your gut flail. “Where the hell even were you?”

“Um,” you glance down at your hands. “Hunt?”

“Hunt.” His voice is flat, and you wince. “That’s all you’re going to say.”

You nod. “Rowena called me. Needed help with something.”

“And you just fucking went with her, without telling anyone-“

“I didn’t just go with her, I brought a gun. I was careful.” you try to stand a little taller, looking back up to Dean, because you need to sell your half-truth of a story and get out of here. Out of where Dean’s just right there, and it’s making your skin crawl and your blood cold and your eyes push out of your skull the longer you lie to him. “And I did tell Cas-“

“Son of a bitch, that’s not enough.” Dean groans, pushing out of the chair to glower down at you. It’s an intimidation tactic you’ve seen him use before, where he makes himself large and furious, almost beast like. Sometimes it makes him look bigger than Sam, and he only pulls it out when he’s furious, and demanding answers. You don’t think he knows that, when he uses it on you, it does not have the intended effect.  

“Dean-“

“Cas didn’t tell us.” Dean hisses your name, stalking across the room and getting far too close for your brain to function properly. “You need to tell us, because we were, I was-“ Dean cuts himself off with a grunt, his whole body rigid as he scans over your face. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumble, and it’s the truth, so it’s like clear, fresh water over your head and down your throat. “I didn’t mean to freak you guys out. I didn’t think it would be that big of a deal.”

“You didn’t-” Dean’s jaw is clenched, and his words seem pushed through his teeth. “Just go to bed,” he mutters your name, and you feel something in your chest snap. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

You nod weakly, and almost run away from him. But not to bed. You’ve already blown this up way too much to just go to bed. 

You go right to Sam’s room and bang on the door, keeping a careful eye over your shoulder for Dean to walk into the hall.

It takes a very long, tense minute, but eventually you hear a groan from the other side of the door, tired words muffled through the wood.

“Dean, she’ll be back, and you’re not helping anything-“ The door swings open to reveal a messy haired, bleary-eyed Sam, and he blinks at you with a frown. “Oh, you’re back. You should go tell Dean-“

“He knows.”

“Cool, that’s good.” Sam scans over you—bouncing slightly on your feet, every movement and breath feeling frantic and borrowed—and frowns. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

“Oh, uh, you need to talk about it-“

You don’t bother to answer, pushing past Sam into his room and dropping on the end of his mattress, watching him blink at you, his frown deepening every second.

“Yeah, you can come in-“

“Can you please close the door?” You whisper, like Dean might somehow hear from wherever he’d gone after your fight. 

Sam nods slowly, and the movement you hear the click of the doorknob, the words start to fall out of you like vomit. 

“I fucked up, Sam. I really, really fucked up, it’s bad, I’m fucking fucked-“

“Woah, slow down.” Sam moves across the room, running a hand through his hair. “Just, start from the top. Where were you-“

“Rowena called me for help. Some sort of coven drama, she said she needed some backup because her magic was weakened.” You take a long, shaky breath, unable to look anywhere but the corner of Sam’s carpet. “I told Cas, just in case it was a trap, and left. I owed her a favor-“

“Wait, since when did you owe Rowena a favor-“

“Mark of Cain.” You mumble. “I told her I’d owe her if she helped Dean. One favor, cashable on anything.”

Sam says your name slowly. “You didn’t need to do that, we would have figured it out. I mean, Dean wouldn’t want you to-“

“I know, I don’t need you to-“ You sigh, squeezing your eyes shut. “Can we focus on one stupid choice at a time, please?”

“Yeah, sorry, keep going. Why are you fucked.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, and decide to skip most of the details. Sam did not need to know about how the case was indeed at trap, or how you’d known it was a trap, but the favor had been a blood oath, so you weren’t able to run or call them. He didn’t need to know how you’d mowed down about five witches with the car—the sickening crunch still rattling around your skull—or how it wasn’t just blood and sweat on your brow, but something from an animal you’d really hoped you’d mistranslated from Latin. 

He just needs to know the reason you hadn’t killed Rowena when you’d escaped and taken out the rest of the coven. 

He just needs to know about the problem.

“It went to shit. Really big shit, Sam. I’m kind of… cursed.”

There’s a long moment of silence, and when you finally gather the confidence to look at Sam, he’s gaping at you, frozen in place.

“What do you mean,” his voice is low, every word slow and deliberate. “Kind of cursed.”

“I mean very cursed.” You mumble. “Really fucking cursed.”

“Shit.” He mutters, shaking his head. “I said you were probably fine, Dean’s gonna kill me-“

“No!” You stand up frantically, your voice almost a squeak. “Don’t tell Dean!”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I tell Dean?!” Sam snaps, looking at you like you’ve gone insane. “If you’re really cursed, we need all hands, and Dean-“

“He can’t know, Sam, please.” You might start crying, every word choked in your throat. “Don’t tell him.”

“I…” Sam trials off, his face dropping into a deep frown that seems to be mostly made of worry as he says your name. “What, exactly, is the curse?”

You sigh, hugging yourself as you speak. “If I don’t resolve my deepest secret, I’ll die.”

Sam blinks. “Like, die die? Death die?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” His eyes widen as the situation fully sinks in, his whole body going slack as he pulls the pieces together. “Fuck.”

You hum a soft agreement. “Fuck.”

“And why can’t I tell Dean? I mean, he’ll want to help-“

“You know why.” You whisper. “Please don’t make me say it.”

“Fuck.” Sam groans. “And you’d rather die than-“

“Yes.” You lower yourself down to the floor, hugging your knees to your chest as you stare ahead at nothing. “I’m sorry, Sam, I just. I can’t. I don’t-“ You taste the sting of metal as you bite through your cheek. “I don’t know what to do. I’m going to d-“ You cut yourself off with a choked sound, and hear the bed shift as Sam drops at your side and pulls you into a gentle hug.

“We’ll figure it out.” He mutters your name, and you make another weak, strangled noise. “I promise. You’re going to be okay.”

Over your first, weak sob, you don’t hear the door open. You only know it opens because Dean clears his throat, and your blood turns white-hot in your body, caught between embarrassment and nerves and a deep, soft and starved piece of your heart that’s trying to climb into your limbs and rip your body away from Sam’s to fly to Dean’s.

“Sammy, she-“ He cuts himself off as he sees you, and you die a little at how he says your name. Like he hates it. “You’re in here.”

You nod, keeping your face angled down, and you hear Dean shift slightly in the doorway. 

“Why are you in Sam’s room.”

There’s no good answer for that, and Sam doesn’t seem to have one either. There’s no plausible lie for why you’re on the floor on Sam’s room, why you’re sniffling, and why he’s hugging you that doesn’t sound insane. Even the truth wouldn’t exactly be an easy sell.

And it hurts. When Dean just sighs and grunts that he doesn’t want to know—that you and Sam can go back to fucking braiding each other’s hair or whatever—and stomps out of the room, it’s like a knife to your gut. But you can’t tell him. Not the truth. Not any of it.

So this will only be the first knife. And you’d worry about what you would be telling him when this was over—how you could possibly explain yourself—if you had any faith you were going to get out of this. 

But you don’t. The week crawls on, and it all only gets so much worse. Vague illness starts to feel like you’re being mauled from inside, and Dean’s anger turns to bullets.

You spend most of your days in the library with Sam, combing through book after book, looking for anything about how you can fix this, and every time Dean walks in, he looks like he wants to punch someone. Like he’s disgusted by your very presence where he can see you, like you’re a spider that’s crawled into his house and he can’t even stand the sight of you. 

“I’m getting dinner.” He snaps on the third night, and when you look up from your book—Sam standing behind you, having hunched over your body to read the passage you’d been pointing to—Dean’s jaw is clenched, his fists curled at his side. “Neither of you got groceries, so I’m ordering. What do you want.”

His voice is flat. It makes your chest feel like it’s being run over by a train.

“I’ll take whatever you get.” You offer him a small smile, because you can’t help yourself, and it just makes him glare more. “But can I please have a milkshake as well?”

Dean narrows his eyes at you. “You don’t know where the hell I’m going.”

“You’re going to the diner, Dean.” You shrug. “You always go to the diner.”

He grunts, something hot flashing over his face that you don’t understand. “Fine. Milkshake.”

He doesn’t bother to ask any follow-up questions. He doesn’t bother to wait for Sam to say what he wants. Dean just marches up to the garage, vanishes for an hour—the diner is ten minutes away, and you start to feel your stomach and heart twist the longer he’s gone—and returns with a slam of the door, throwing a salad at Sam and placing a burger and milkshake in front of you before stomping out of the library.

Dean got your favorite flavor. You hadn’t told him to, but he had.

It tastes like chalk. And you’ve never hated yourself more.

After that, he barely speaks to you. Just low grunts and glowers at you whenever you cross paths, his presence in the bunked suddenly scares. He’d usually sit with you and Sam while you read, cracking unhelpful jokes that make Sam roll his eyes and you giggle, but he’s just gone. Locked in the Dean Cave or the garage, shuffling around the kitchen with a sullen expression, swallowing his dinner whole and refusing to really even look at you.

It hurts more than any anger could. It’s lonely and cancerous the longer it goes on, because you’re still talking to and hanging out with Sam, but he doesn’t count. Your whole heart isn’t orbiting around Sam. The curse is completely indifferent to Sam. The curse doesn’t care when Sam grumbles or frowns at you. It cares when Dean hates you. You think it can feel that this won’t be resolved—because it won’t be, you grow more and more certain with every passing day that this is how you will die—and takes the opportunity to root deeper into your body. Every sneer or glare Dean gives you sits under your nails to claw at your skin. It covers you in sweat in the dead of night, and chokes you when you’re in the shower and the water’s burning your skin.

Sam keeps trying to convince you to just do it, just say the thing to Dean because the worst that can happen is that you’re heartbroken but alive.

“And I really don’t think it would even come to that.” He tells you from across the table at 2am, because you’re running out of time and sleep isn’t something you can even remember how to do anymore. “I mean, it’s Dean-“

“That’s the problem, Samuel.” You hiss. The curse has started to make you mean, and if you make it out alive, you’ll have to buy Sam a million bottles of hair gel to make up for what you’re putting him through. “It’s Dean. He already doesn’t like me-“

Sam frowns. “Why would you think that-“

“Because I’m a responsibility.” You’re spitting, and it tastes like venom. “I’m your kid shadow, I’m Dean’s kid shadow, I’m a burden-“

“You’re not a burden,” Sam says your name slowly. “To either of us. I mean, if what you said about Rowena is true, you saved Dean from the Mark-“

“That doesn’t count. That was just a deal I made-“

“A deal you made for Dean.” Sam’s pushing back. You wish he’d stop. “Most people in our lives wouldn’t have done that for us. And Dean doesn’t think you’re his kid shadow, by the way. I mean, I’ve only ever-“

“Sam.” Your voice is flat. A little broken. “Please don’t. Even if he doesn’t hate me, I- I just can’t-“

“But Dean-“

“Please.” You’re going to cry again. “You won’t convince me.”

Sam sighs, shaking his head. “Well, we need to try something. I’m not just going to let you die.”

You don’t think that’s up to Sam. You don’t think it’s up to anyone anymore. You won’t tell Dean, because you’ve scanned over book after book about spell phrasing, and decided that telling Dean wouldn’t even help. You had to resolve your deepest secret. Rejection that burns your heart to ash, that clouds your lungs and makes you cower and falter won’t be resolving anything, and then you’ll just die in more pain.

You let Sam convince you to try something. More for him than for you. You lock yourself in the bathroom and stare at your hideous reflection in the mirror—your skin a little sunken, your eyes lined with red, your lips raw from being chewed until they bled—and start speaking a whisper, because you can’t stand the sound of your own voice.

“I love Dean Winchester.” You tell yourself, as if you’re not so deeply aware of how your love is tattooed onto your every breath and heartbeat. “I love him. I am going to die, and I love him, and I am very-“ You choke slightly, your eyes stinging as the world blurs. “I am very, very sorry. Not for loving him, but for forcing him to be loved by me. I’m sorry I don’t know how to stop loving him. I’m sorry I’m leaving him. But I am not sorry for loving him. I… I spent a lifetime surrounded by cruel animals who called themselves angels, and he’s the only person I’ve ever- I could believe- I just-“ You drop your head, turning up the faucet to drown out every weak sob and apology. “I love him. And he… he’s too good be obligated to love me. So I think I’ll just…”

You trail off, and crumble onto the tile floor. When you dry your tears and yank yourself back together, Sam’s waiting for you a little down the hall. You shake your head, his shoulders slump, and that’s it. For Sam it’s not—he turns around and marches right back to the library—but for you, it is. You’re done. 

You’ll hole up in your room and die alone. Like how’d you’d been meant to all along, lent only a little bit of extra time by Dean saving you to begin with.

And that time had run out. So you’ll just go die alone.

lay flat on your bed as your vision starts to dance with spots, and spend your time trying to image what a heaven you’re not allowed into will look like. Cas has told you every person gets their own, but you don’t really want that. It sounds like more of your life, and it’s pointless to worry about because you’re headed nowhere but down, but you’d still rather spend eternity with someone.

One person. You’d like to spend eternity with one person. 

The same person who had somehow gotten into your locked room, and is snapping your name as he stands at the foot of your bed. You’d be angrier he’d just barged in if you could remember how to be anything but in pain. You’d snap back if your mouth knew how to be anything but numb. 

“Dean-“

“What the fuck are you doing.” Dean hisses, and you close your eyes, the light suddenly painfully bright. “What the hell is wrong with you.”

“Nothing.” You whisper, and he scoffs. 

“Nice shot, sweetheart. I’m not an idiot.”

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Dean, I just don’t feel well.”

“That’s fucking bullshit-“

You sigh. “It’s not. I’m sick.” 

There’s a moment of silence, then, “how sick.”

“Fever.” You mumble. “Stomach bug. Maybe the flu. You should probably leave-“

“No,” he grunts, and you hear his steps. He’s coming closer, and your skin might be boiling off your body. “I’m not leaving you-“

“It’s not leaving if I ask you to go.” You mumble, and you can feel the heat of his body off to the side, can hear his breathing—maybe even his heartbeat—and it’s making everything worse-

“I’m not going.”

“Dean, just, please-“

“No, I’m sick of you fucking ignoring me, and I- I don’t even care what’s going on with you and Sam-“

You frown. “Nothing’s going on with me and Sam-“

“I have eyes,” Dean sneers your name, and there’s a tone in his voice that’s almost wounded. “You were hugging in his room, you’re always fucking whispering and hanging out-“

“That’s not-“ You swallow, dragging your eyes open to find him glaring down at you. He looks wounded too. “It’s for a case.”

“What case? A case that I’m not allowed to know about? Because that’s not a case, sweetheart, that’s a secret-“

You almost throw up, just from that word. “It’s- I’m not keep any secrets, Dean, just please go-“

“No!” He’s almost shouting, and the sound is like a cannon into your gut. “I don’t know what the hell is up with you, but you’re suddenly putting yourself in danger, and stuck to my brother, and you’re not talking to me anymore-“

“You’re not talking to me, Dean.” You whisper, his gaze burning you right down to the cavity of your chest. “I’m always in the library-“

“Yeah, I know, with Sam.” Dean scowls, and you’re too tired to think almost anything, but that’s strange. Dean never says Sam like that. Like it’s a horrible word. 

“It’s not a big deal,” you say, watching Dean carefully. “He’s helping me with something-“

“Something I can’t help you with?”

You blink, ready to lie and say no, but your mush of a brain doesn’t appear to be up to that task. “No.”

Dean’s brow furrows slightly. “So I could help you.”

“I-“ You feel a stab in your intestine, and your voice grows hoarse. “Please don’t ask me that.”

“Why-“

“Because I- Just go away, Dean-“

He shakes his head, saying your name in a stern, unwavering voice. “Could I help you-“

“N-“ You swallow a groan as your lungs contract, and this is dangerous. You’re too far gone to lie anymore, and that’s the only chance you have. If Dean keeps poking at you, you’ll tell the truth. You can’t tell the truth. “Please just leave me alone-“

“I’m not leaving you alone.” He snaps, dropping onto the side of your bed to prove his point. “You never left me alone, with the Mark-“

“That’s not-“ You can’t swallow your next sound of pain, or the whine that leaves your throat when Dean’s hand grabs your thigh. “Dean, please go-“

“Do you want me to go.”

“No.” You say it before you can think, and hate that the pain over your muscles lessens when Dean stays, and when his hand starts to rub slow circles. “But you- you have to-“

“I said I’m staying.” He grunts. “And you’re not changing my mind, sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong with you.”

“I did.” You whisper, closing your eyes again. Looking at his handsome, annoyingly determined face isn’t helping anyone. “I’m sick.”

“Fine. What’s making you sick.”

“Curse.”

Fuck.

Dean’s silent for a long moment, then-

“What the fuck do you mean, curse.”

“Me.” You mumble. “Curse on me.”

“And how did a curse get on you-“

“Rowena.”

“That fucking bitch.” He mutters, and you feel his grip on you tighten slightly. Almost protectively. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me-“

That was probably a rhetorical question. Your sudden truth-telling streak doesn’t seem to care at all. “I was worried you’d hate me.”

“I- what?”

“I was worried-“

“I heard you,” he grunts. “I just, why the hell would you ever think I’d hate you-“

“Because I suck.” You whisper. “And I can’t- I don’t deserve you.”

Dean’s silent again. You wish he’d stop doing that. “You think you don’t deserve me?”

You nod, barely a movement at all, and Dean groans. You’re still not strong enough to look at him.

“Sweetheart, you- I’m not-“ He cuts himself off, his hand resuming his circles, you’re not sure he knows he’s doing it. “I’m going to ask you something, and you need to tell me the truth. Got it?”

You hum. Like you’d even have a choice.

“What will cure the curse.”

“I need to,” you try to fight down the words, but you’re light-headed and faint and Dean’s hand is really warm, so you fail. “I need to resolve my deepest secret.”

“Oh.” He pauses. “What’s your deepest secret?”

You’re going to bite off your tongue. And when Dean says your name again, his voice a little rougher, it drags your eyes open to stare at him. Watching you with a focus you can feel in your bones, that’s prying the truth out of you, and he’s just looking at you and you can’t do this-

“Dean, I-“ You digs your nails into your skin, something flashes in his eyes, and you can’t look away. But you can’t stop yourself either, and if you have to watch Dean’s disgust, that might kill you right here. “Please turn around.”

He frowns. “What?”

“I need you to turn around.” You whisper. “Please.”

He nods slowly, twisting away from you, and it’s like a green light to your stupid, traitorous mouth. The words fall out of you like vomit, and if this is the end, at least it might be fast. 

“I love you. I’ve loved you for years, and I’m sorry, but I can’t stop, and I don’t want to stop, and I love you. Only you. Just you. Can’t remember how to love anyone else, because I love you. I love your jokes and your grumpiness and how protective you are because you make me feel safe, and I love that you’re kind of a dork and a loser but you’re also so hot, I love your voice and your face and your hands, and I and I want you in a, um-“ You squeeze your thighs together, staring at the suddenly rapid rise and fall of Dean’s back. “A way that I shouldn’t talk about-“

“How do you want me.” He grunts, his voice low and a little gruff, and you can feel the heat in your cheeks.

“On me.” You whisper. “In me. I want you on my face and in my hands and fuck, I want your inside of me. But I also want to wake up next to you and hold your hand and fall asleep in your lap, and fuck-“

You cut yourself off with a whine as something sharp hits your right in the heart, and Dean’s silent. He’s not turning around, or leaving, or doing anything but sitting and breathing for so long, for too long-

“You-“ He shakes his head slightly, and you could swear he’s leaning slightly backward. “You want me.”

“Yeah, I- yes.”

“You love me.”

“Yes.” Too late to go back now. “I love you, Dean.”

“Why- why didn’t you tell me?”

He sounds broken. He sounds sad.

You’re so confused. It’s almost enough to distract from the pain racking your whole body.

“I- I didn’t think you’d-“ Not care. Dean couldn’t not care. He cares too much. “I wasn’t sure what-“

“What I’d say?”

“What you’d do.”

“What would you-“ He’s definitely leaning back. He’s closer, too. “What would you want me to do?”

“What would I want?” 

Dean nods.

“I- it doesn’t matter-“

“Yes it-“ He sighs, twisting around to face you. You can’t read the expression on his face. It’s lost and it’s afraid and it’s… hopeful. There’s this small light that’s so deep in his eyes that seems like real, true hope. “Please,” he mutters your name, and you might be melting. “Just, entertain me. What would you want me to do?”

“I’d want to tell me you love me.” You whisper, and if this curse is going to kill you, you hope it does it now, right before you lose all your dignity forever. “Like I love you.”

Dean shakes his head slightly, and your heart might be splitting in half. “But I- I tried to kill you-“

“The demon tried to kill me. That wasn’t really you-“

“Yes, it was-“

“No.” Your voice gains a little strength, and you push up on your elbows. “You saved me, Dean. You rescued me from the angels-“

“Anyone would’ve done that-“

“But they didn’t.” You snap. “You did. And I don’t love anyone, I love you.”

“That’s-“ He groans, his voice growing hoarse. “You- why?”

“What do you mean, why-“

“Why would you love me? I mean, unless this is some sick, fucked up prank-“

“It’s not a prank-“

“Well why?” He shouts your name, and he looks distressed. Like this is shredding him apart. “Why the hell would you love me-“

“Because I like loving you.” You grab his hand, his own panic starting to set into your own body, making this all the worse. “It feels right. And I- I know you don’t love me-“

You’re not sure what’s happening. Dean’s hands are cupping your face, and his mouth is on yours, and he tastes like whiskey and coffee and pecan, and you feel okay. You really feel okay. All the pain and sickness is dissolving from your body, and Dean is kissing you. Kissing you with an unforgiving, demanding desperation, his tongue down your throat and his body lowering down over yours, pinning you to the bed as he groans against your lips.

The sound jumpstarts something in you. Your arms wrap around Dean’s neck right before he can pull away or hesitate, and you throw everything he’s silently offering you back to him. Biting on his lower lip and wrapping your legs around his torso, grinding up into him as he makes a deep, satisfied noise and moves one hand to wrap around you waist, holding you steady against him as he rises up, moving you to stay in his lap.

“You’re, shit.” Dean lets out a low chuckle, pressing a small, gentler kiss to the tip of your nose as you breathe in ragged time. “You’re such a fucking idiot, sweetheart.”

You lean back to frown at him. “No I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are. But I am too.” He sighs, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and speaking against your skin. “Seems like we’re made for each other, huh.”

“Dean, I-“

“Wait, just-“ Dean kisses up the column of your throat, ending right behind your ear, and his voice a low sound that falls right down into your core. “Gimme a second.”

“Dean-“

“Please,” he mutters, and when you pull back he looks nervous. It’s strange, but adorable, and you nod. He needs a second, you’ll give him a million. Anything to keep him here a little longer, to keep the ebb of the sickness going. 

“Okay.” You whisper, and—taking the biggest gamble of your life—lean forward to kiss him again. Just a light, almost innocent press of your lips to his. He tenses, his arms around you tightening, and you’d have panicked if it didn’t seem like he was clinging to you. Like he was afraid you were going to vanish. 

“I- uh,” Dean says your name slowly, and it’s odd. You’ve heard him say it exactly like that a million, but this feels deeper. Like a prayer. “I lo-“ He cuts himself off, his brow drawing tightly together, and you can feel your heart in your throat. Set to either explode or move into Dean as you hold your breath. “You. I- you- it’s- fuck.” He scowls, and you offer him your gentler smile, running a hand over the soft stubble on his jaw, even as you feel your blood start to go cold again.

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“Yeah. I do, I-“ He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles and speaking against them as if he’s trying to tell your body more than your mind. “I love you. A lot. So stop being cursed.”

You stare at him, your voice barely a breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Did it work?”

It did. The curse seemed to vanish the moment Dean kissed you—like it knew that what he was trying to tell you before he even said it—but now the world is just color and light and Dean. It’s enchanting. He’s enchanting. He’s all genuine and powerful focus on you, and. worry that makes you feel warm, and love you can suddenly see everywhere on him. You don’t know how you missed it before, because it’s in his eyes and coating his lips and in every flex of his body around you. It would knock you down if he wasn’t holding you. 

“Yeah.” You smile at Dean, and his own mouth tugs up slightly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He shrugs. “Any time. I, uh, sorry about getting pissed about you and Sam.“

“It’s fine, I-“ You paused, frowning at him. “Were you jealous?”

He scowls, his cheeks turning a little red. “Obviously.”

“Of Sam-“

“You were really close with him all the time.” Dean snaps. “And I- you seemed pissed at me, and super stressed, and usually you’d come to me for that stuff, but you were hugging Sam and talking to him instead of me-“

“Because I don’t love Sam. I love you, that’s why I told you-”

“I didn’t fucking know that.” He grumbles. “I- Sam doesn’t know everything about how I feel about you, but he knew enough, and I- I thought you were choosing him- And I- You’re not my girl but you felt like my girl and I didn’t-“

“Your girl?” Your face splits into a wide smile, and some of the tension seems to leave Dean as he nods. 

“Yeah. If you want.”

“Yes.” You squeak, and Dean’s hand starts to run slowly down your thigh. “Yes, please.”

“You sure?” He raises his brows, and it’s really hard to think when he’s so close, and this is suddenly overwhelmingly real. He’s really broad and warm against you, and he’s really touching you, and he said the thing but that doesn’t mean-

“Yeah, but are, are you sure-“

“Baby, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He drawls, and you swallow as he leans in closer, his nose bumping yours. “And I’d be very happy to prove that.”

“Prove it?” You whisper, your eyes trapped onto his glimmering, darkened ones. “I, um, that, how-“

“However you’d like,” he says your name with a smirk, and it’s amazing how any all insecurity he had only a minute ago seems to have vanished. “You wanna tell me how’d you want me to prove it? Or do you need some suggestions?”

You might be drooling. “Suggestions, please.”

Dean hums, holding you carefully as he rises on his knees, bends you down onto the mattress, and starts to trace slow, taunting hands over your body.

“We could start slow,” he mutters, playing with the hem of your shorts, broad fingers brushing over your skin. “I could take my time with you, sweetheart. Do the proper thing, take you out to dinner and movie, wait until the third date to give you everything-“

“No!” You yelp. “Not slow-“

Dean’s hand slides under your shorts, his palm resting right over your already sore pussy, and he chuckles at your high gasp. 

“Alright, baby, not slow.” He leans down to pull you into a long, slow kiss, smirking against your lips as you start to grind into his hand. “But we’re going on a date. I’ve had years to plan it, wouldn’t want all my hard work to go to waste.”

You nod a little stupidly, your nails digging into his arm braced near your head. “How- what do you mean years-“

“You’re not the only one who had that at first sight thing.” Dean mutters, shaking his head slightly. “I’ve lost sleep over you, baby girl. We’re going to do this right, no witches involved, but,” he drops his head to kiss right behind your ear, humming as a high moan escapes your lips. “I’ve got a million things I want to do you, and fuck me if I’m going waste time not doing them.”

“Yeah, good, do that-“ You gasp as Dean’s thumb finds your clothed clit, starting to draw firm, fast circles around it. “Shit, Dean-“

“That’s my name.” He growls in your ear, flicking against you and smirking at your high whine. “C’mon, sweetheart gotta get you ready for me-“

“I, I’m ready-“

He chuckles. “No, you’re not. Wanna make you feel good, not break you.”

“What if, fuck-“ You feel a brief, sharp moment of cold air as Dean pulls your shorts and panties down, shoving two fingers into your cunt. He’s watching you so carefully, like he’s studying your every hitched breath and blurred gaze, smirking as he begins to slowly move inside of you, scissoring and crooking and pushing in deeper every time-

“What if what, pretty girl?” He teases, his pace increasing slightly. “Use your words.”

Your back arches off the bed as Dean re-angles his hand, pressing his palm to your clit and starting to rub strong, sharp circles as his fingers reach a blissful, almost painfully good pace, but remain too shallow to hit that sensitive spot deep your cunt and send you over the edge. “What if I want you to break me?” You gasp, your arm wrapping around his neck as he groans, dropping his brow against yours. “Please, Dean-“

“You, fuck-“ He grunts your name, and you feel something prodding at your inner thigh. “Not now, baby, need to be gentle-“

“No you don’t-“

“Yeah, I do.” Dean’s movements still as he rises on his knees over you, and you’re pretty certain the authoritative thing is supposed to be stern and intimidating, but it’s mostly just making you grind on his hand and reach up for him pathetically.

“Dean-“

“Listen to me.” He snaps, grabbing your wrist and pinning it to the mattress, sighing as you moan again, squeezing around his fingers, still in your cunt. “Fuck, you nearly just died-“

“I’m okay now.” You whisper. “I feel great. I feel, fuck Dean, I feel so good-“

He hisses as you spread your legs, writhing on the bed for anything, at this point you’ll take anything Dean offers you-

“Fuck yeah, you do.” He mutters, his fingers starting to pump slowly again, scanning over your body with an almost awestruck expression. “Bet you feel like heaven, baby girl, but we need to go slow. I promise I can wreck you later, but today-“

“Slow.” You sigh, and he nods.

“Slow. But,” Dean’s free hand starts to trail under your shirt, palming at your breasts, rolling your nipples between calloused, strong fingers. “Doesn’t mean we can’t take care of you, sweetheart. I’m going to fuck this tight little pussy, still going to get you fucking cockdrunk. Okay?”

You nod, your eyes slightly glazed over, and Dean bends his fingers deep inside you, right one that spot, letting out a low gasp as you whine.

“Say okay, sweetheart.” He grunts, his hand moving from your breast, over your neck, to your mouth, pressing his thumb on your lower lip until it parts. You moan against him, your eyes fluttering slightly, and you’re already too high, too needy, to do anything but listen.

“Okay.”

“Good girl.” He coos, slowly pushing his thumb between your lips, his nostrils flaring when you start to suck on him with an abandon. “Fuck, so good, I can’t wait to ruin you, baby, you’re never gonna even think about another cock-“

You haven’t thought about another cock in years, and you haven’t even seen it yet. But Dean’s thumb is bumping the back of your throat, so all you can do is moan, give him your best pleading look, and let your head fall back as Dean’s fingers finally move inside of you, pushing and playing on the spot until your orgasm washes over you in bright waves of good. So good. Just, fuck, he’s good-

Dean’s thumb pulls out of your mouth with a pop, and he wipes a little bit of spit off on your upper lip before lowering his mouth to yours, this kiss far too soft and gentle for how you think you might die if he doesn’t fuck you now.

“Look so pretty, cumming on my hand.” Dean moves to the shell of your ear, his growling promise sending a shiver up your spine. “Bet you’ll look prettier fucking squeezing my cock.”

You barely have time to whimper when Dean yanks his fingers out of your cunt, rolls you over so you’re straddling his torso, and raises you up by your hips before pushing you right down onto his dick. You don’t even remember when he took off his pants, or where your shirt went, but those are worries for someone who isn’t being split open on Dean’s cock. Who doesn’t have him drawing small circles on their inner thigh, or isn’t being held up by his hand on their waist.

But you do. You have Dean everywhere, real and warm under your hands as you grip his shoulders, bumping deep against your cervix as he lets you adjust to the size of him, one broad finger reaching down to press—light and taunting—on your clit, and groaning as you squeeze around him.

“Shit,” Dean grunts your name, looking up at you under hooded eyes in a way you don’t think anyone’s ever looked at you before. As if you’re somewhere they’d always expected to be, and they’re still in awe that you’re there. “Gotta be careful, want this to-“

Dean cuts himself off with a hiss as you grind on him experientially, clenching again as he hits that electric spot deep inside you. He grabs you firm by your hips, stilling your every movement as he gives you a stern glower. 

“You need to listen.” His voice is gravely and lower than you’ve ever heard it, and you’d do whatever he told you to, but that doesn’t mean you can’t whine and scratch lightly at his chest. 

“Dean, move-“

“You gonna listen?”

“Yes, just, fuck-“ You gasp as he pulls you up with barely a grunt, slamming your right back down with a roll of your hips. 

“Want you to feel good, baby girl, but you need to be careful,” Dean drags one had down to squeeze your ass, his hand still on your waist drawing light circles around your clit. “Or next time might be more than wrecking.”

Your moan is vulgar and shameless, and you’re more than ready to devote sleep to figuring out what more than wrecking will look like, but right now you just fucking need this. 

“Need more, Dean,” you whisper. “Need it so bad-“

“I know, sweetheart.” He mutters, trailing his hand up your stomach to squeeze your breast, groaning when you squirm around him. “Think you’re ready to ride this cock? Think you can handle, shit-“

You’d stared to move the movement he’d said ride, rolling your body and arching your back, dragging every bit of confidence you have to grind down onto Dean’s cock, your nails sinking into his abdomen.

“Fuck, yeah.” Dean’s voice is a breath under you, and when you scan over him, he lookslike he’sa little wrecked himself.His eyes on yours are hooded and low, his voice dripping with that same dominating confidence, but something more delicate in the way he’s touching you. Not as if he’s afraid to break you, but afraid you’ll shatter him. 

And you did that. You wrecked Dean. And that lights a wildfire in your gut, running through your nerves until they’re sensitive and bare, and into your brain until it’s all just Dean.

You start to move. Slowly at first to test the waters, but—when Dean just groans and ruts up into you—quickly picking up pace until you’re bouncing on Dean’s cock, your thighs squeezing his torso and your clit rubbing on his abdomen, his ever grunt and hiss and bruising grip just making your need grow bigger as you slam him onto that deep spot-

“Shit, I’m- Slow down-“ 

Dean’s hiss is low, and you immediately obey, changing to long, slow movements as Dean hums. 

“There you go baby, such a good girl.” His hand moves from your ass to your lower back, rubbing soothing patterns as he praises you. “You’re so hot baby, fucking ruined on my cock-“

You make a high, breathless sound you don’t recognize, moving your hips in a circle to try and chase more friction, and Dean chuckles.

“You alright up there-“

“Good,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut to try and focus your all on Dean beneath you. “So good, Dean, feels so good-“

“Need a little more?”

“Yes-“

“More descriptive than that, sweet girl.” He teases, and when this is done, you’re going to kill him. “Tell me who this pussy belongs to-“

“You,” the word falls out without thought, because most of you belongs to Dean. “Just you, only need you-“

“You love me?” Dean’s voice is low, and when you open your eyes to look at him, there’s a small chink in his armor. You don’t know if you pried it open, or if you’ve just never noticed, but you can see right into him, and he still doesn’t really believe that you love him.

And that’s the only thing you’ve ever really know. You loving Dean has been the only truly certain thing in your life, because Dean’s a given and loving him feels like breathing.

So you smile at him, reaching forward to cup his face, and tell him with everything you have, hoping he can hear how the words are in time with your heart.

“I love you,” you whisper. “And I’m yours.”

He blinks at you, shaking his head slightly even as his dick twitches inside you. “You don’t need to be, it’s- you know, dirty talk-“

“I know.” You shrug. “I’m still yours.”

Dean’s nostrils flare, and you know you’re not getting control back from him for the rest of the night.

You’re fine with that. Dean starts to rock you back and forth around him, letting you just fall into and around him, and your lost to any world that isn’t Dean. Isn’t his hand splayed on your lower back or his fingers digging into the skin of your hips and ass. Anything that isn’t his cock hitting part of you that you didn’t know existed and filling you up so much you’re not sure how you’re ever going to manage being empty again.

You don’t think you will have to manage. Dean’s holding you like he’s trying to brand himself on your body, like he needs you feel him for the rest of your life. And you will. You’ll feel the bliss Dean’s drawing from your body that’s better than any heaven you could have imagined, rising slowing below the surface, ready to burst at any moment.

You’ll hear him too. Hear every deep noise of his own pleasure, hear the slapping of his skin on yours, hear his low praise echo around your head and ribs for the rest of your life.

“You’re mine, baby girl.” He growls, the sound rumbling in his chest and rolling right into your pussy, making you throw your head back with a breathy whimper. “Fuck, you’re so hot riding me, feel so good around me, tight and warm-“

Dean cuts himself off with a hiss as you reach behind your body, your hand finding his balls to squeeze lightly. 

“Goddamnit, sweetheart-“ He groans, jerking slightly inside of you. “Fuck, keep doing that, so fucking needy for me, fucking soaking this cock-“

You grind around him, and his pace starts to lose rhythm. Even after he swats your hand away you know he’s lost his own self-control, and fuck he looks hot without it. Starting to rut up into you in uncontrolled movements, pulling you to pieces with a lustful, ardorous gaze and brutal pace and strong hands, moving back to your clit and rolling it between his fingers-

Your mouth falls open in a silent, needy cry of pleasure as your orgasm bursts over you. It’s not sudden, but you couldn’t never anticipated the power of it—like someone had doused you in gasoline that smells like whiskey and fruit, lit a match, and turned to into a star—or how it rides on and on, never seeming to crest or crash as Dean slams home inside of you, warmth coating your pussy and running down your thighs as he moans your name. 

Dean helps you float down to earth, leaving careful, deliberate touches on your skin and humming as his knees rising up to support you. You watch his gaze rakes down your body, lingering on where he can see himself spill out of your pussy, and moves to slowly drag through the mess, gathering some on two fingers before rising them up to your mouth. You open without hesitation and his throat bobs, his cock twitching inside you as you lick his release off his hand, your eyes never leaving his wide, reverent one.

“Son of a bitch.” He mutters. “How the hell did I get so lucky?”

You let out a soft laugh. “You stole my line.”

“Nah.” He shrugs, tracing a hand over your cheek. “You could have anyone you want, baby, but you’re here, with an asshole like me-“

“You’re not an asshole.”

“Yeah, I am.” He shrugs, like you can’t see how his own words pierce him through that chink. “Shit, I just accused you of sleeping with Sam-“

“And I’ve been lying to you for years.” You lean down, resting your chin on his chest, giving him your widest smile. “Neither of us are saints, Dean. And I happen to be the right kind of fucked up to let possessiveness hot.” You pause, giving him your best stern glare. “To a degree. I will slap you the next time you accuse me of fucking Sam.” 

Dean laughs, his around wrapped—gentle and relaxed—around you. “Yes, ma’am.”

You hum, resting your head to the side, and you might be here for a hundred years. Time blurs and slows until it’s just Dean’s heartbeat near your ear, his thumb tracing a pattern on your arm, and his face buried in your hair. The end of the world might have already come to pass when his hand moves to your chin and he angles your gaze to his, and you wouldn’t really care. You’re still where you need to be.

“Would you,” he lets out a slow breath, all his cocky arrogance gone, his eyes on yours nervous. The hope is back, but it’s wrapped in soft fear. “I’m not good at- shit-“

He’s going to hurt himself, and you take pity on him. You lean does to press a sweet kiss to his mouth, letting your tongue trail over his lips, and rising back up with a small smile.

“Can we go on a date, Dean?” 

He chuckles, nodding. “Yeah. Whatever you want, baby girl.”

Your smile strains at your cheeks, because you only want Dean. 

And you’ll have to write Rowena a thank you note, because you finally have him.

End Note: Me make a story with no prior lore challenge: impossible

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

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@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007

[leviathanleva]

Caffè Crema

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!FemReader]

Excitement for your morning coffee turns to panic when you bump into a mountainous stranger in a grey hoodie, sporting a skull mask. Sputtered apologies become a conversation in a corner of the café. And he’s so beat up, battered and bruised and scarred that you can’t help the words that leave your lips:

“Do you want to come home with me?”

[5k words ]

Chapter 1 "Caffeine Rush"

Airpods in your ears, music vibrating through your soul, you were ready for the world outside.

Sweet Saturday morning, after a week of work and barely any time for yourself, you’d decided on a treat to start off the weekend. You’d slept in late, phone alarm turned off and sleeping mask tugged on, new sheets prepared the night before because it was so comforting to wake up to the subtle smell of detergent. And once you were finally up, you’d decided fuck it, go out and get a nice steaming hot coffee in a cute paper cup from the local café, listen to Lofi or Lana Del Rey or whatever Spotify had prepared for your daily suggestions on the way, cozy up in a warm winter jacket and a thick scarf. Bless the crisp December air, it nipped at your cheeks and filled your lungs with sharp frosty air. It numbed your nose too and made your eyes water, but those weren’t as positive as the previous two affixes.

The streets were buzzing, a rare sight of the sun peeking through a blanket of grey clouds was shining down on you.

All in all, it was going to be a good day.

You waited impatiently for the light to turn green before crossing the street with a horde of nameless individuals, keeping in tandem with them.

Snow was still a no-show, you could only hope for its appearance at least on Christmas. The holidays without a fluffy coat of white powdering over everything from trees to rooftops just didn’t sit well with you, but at the end of the day, it was up to Mother Nature, not you. Anything but the ice rain you’d had the week prior; you weren’t ready to skate to the store again.

The bell above the café door shakes to life, signaling your entrance. You tuck one airpod in your pocket to listen in on the chatter in the comfy, coffee bean scented establishment, and also because you didn’t want to miss anything the cashier said. You were the anxious type after all, didn’t wanna miss a thing ever.

The heating system is blasting, cranked to the max, steam comes in large waves from behind the oak counter, be it from warm beverages or baked goods fresh from the oven, it lingers long enough for you to get a whiff before being diligently sucked away by the range hood. You unzip the top part of your jacket before getting too stuffy, loosen your scarf and take off your gloves. The staff, donned in their creamy yellow aprons, zip back and forth between tables like worker ants and you step into the line of waiting customers to keep out of their way.

The hardwood floor is licked spotless, looking down, you can almost see your reflection staring back at you. The hum of the large coffee grinder fills your exposed ear and you decide to turn off Spotify for the moment and bask in the café’s ambience instead.

The line moves, it’s almost your turn and you glance up at the display monitors listing off all the choices on the menu for today. Lattes, milkshakes, espressos, you decide on a large cappuccino, leave experimenting with unfamiliar drinks for another day when you’re feeling more courageous.

“Large cappuccino, please.” You say with a polite smile and fish out your wallet from your pocket.

Coffee is cheap here, cheaper than in most cafés and that’s one of the things that keeps you coming back to this place. It’s not easy to afford treats when you live on your own and have to pay the bills and groceries alone. However, you manage, and being able to afford a coffee or takeout once in a while is all the sweeter when knowing you owe nothing to nobody.

You take your cup and nudge your chin for the barista to keep the change before stepping away to the sidebar littered with plastic lids, sugar packets, and cheap wooden teaspoons for stirring your drink. After a brief consideration, you decide not to sweeten your coffee and only take a large lid, pop it over your cup and after zipping your jacket back up, you’re about to turn and walk out.

A walk through the park where you can sit down and enjoy your drink suggestively passes by your mind. Deciding that’s exactly what you will do, you palm through your pocket for your discarded airpods while nursing your paper cup to your chest.

And maybe it was your fault for not paying enough attention because you were buzzed to have a nice relaxing weekend. Or that you’d already achieved your first goal of the day and you were about to have a nice vibey stroll while hurrying to stuff your ears with music before you left the café. Maybe you’d jinxed your Saturday by confidently thinking it would be a swell time and nothing wrong would happen for once.

You should have known better. You should have suspected something would go wrong.

Something always goes wrong.

You whirl around with the intent of being on your way, expecting the glass doors to be in view, but they aren’t. A mountain of flesh and muscle stands before you. And your reaction time is too slow to save yourself or your coffee.

You jump, your hand flinches and the paper cup goes flying, a gasp upon your lips so loud it turns heads. You can only watch in horror as it makes contact with a wide chest clad in a grey hoodie, the lid pops off from the force of the impact and the hot contents inside go in every direction.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my freaking God.”

One hand goes up to cover your agape mouth while the other clutches at the zipper of your jacket as panic crawls up your neck and prickles your scalp.

The worst part is that your coffee wasn’t the only casualty. The poor guy had dropped his beverage to pull his hoodie off his chest the moment your scalding beverage had soaked it.

There was steam coming off it. It was boiling and you’d spilled it on him.

You wanted to die.

And he’s fucking terrifying too. Easily two heads over you and built like a truck. The intricate skull mask obscures the lower half of his face and you can’t discern if he’s absolutely pissed or just mildly uncomfortable with the large stain plastered on his top.

His eyes are sharp, trained on his ruined hoodie, crow’s feet crinkled, and you’re grateful they’re not directed at you because you were a step away from breaking down on the spot.

A stone lodged itself in your throat.

If he didn’t curse you to oblivion, he’d either break you in half, or worse, sue you.

You can’t get fucking sued. You don’t have the money to get sued.

So much for having a good day…

“Oh my God, I’m sorry.” You sputter out and grab a handful of paper towels from the counter. You’re glancing up at him every now and again for fear of his patience running out. “I’m so so sorry.”

Shaky hands are tapping away at his top, soaking in the liquid as best you can while trying to keep from breaking down. Your tongue is arrested between your teeth, bitten down on hard in a self-soothing attempt. Your fingertips are stained with coffee because there‘s so much of it that it’s turning the paper towels to mush. You couldn’t care less about that or that you were practically sweating bullets under your jacket.

All you hoped for was that you hadn’t caused the poor guy a burn.

“ ‘s okay.” He murmurs in a thick British accent while watching you fuss over him with growing anxiety. The jitter in your movements would be almost comical if not for you practically hyperventilating on him.

“Excuse me, are you alright?”

“No.” You whine, before you can stifle your voice to normalcy, and turn to the cashier peeking from behind the counter with watery eyes and a deeply carved frown. “No. I’m so sorry, we spilled our drinks. I mean, I spilled - ” You take in a breath to compose yourself and brush a hand over your forehead, shoulders slumping. You’re giving your best apologetic expression, practically mourning over the mess you’d made at your feet and of the man looming next to you.“ – I’m sorry. I can clean it up if you have a mop.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, miss. We’ll mop it up.” The cashier replies, bless her, and signals for one of the waiters to fetch the cleaning supplies. The friendly smile never wavers from her balmed lips; neither does the caffeinated twinkle in her eyes.

She’s most likely seen this sort of thing plenty of times, but for you, it’s a first and it’s your fault to top it off. It’s not an easy pill to swallow and despite the atmosphere being anything but hostile, you can’t help but still feel guilty.

Of course, this had to happen to you of all people. You weren’t allowed a single day of peace and tranquility.

With the main cause of disturbance taken care of, you turn back to your victim, who’s joined you in trying to dry off his hoodie. Your stomach churns at the sight, and you’re afraid to look around in case all eyes are on you two. You can’t bear the scrutiny, even though most people have probably resumed their dwellings by now.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? I’m so sorry, sir.” You ask and reach for more paper towels, pressing them against his chest more so to show you’re very apologetic and trying to fix the situation rather than actually fixing it because most of the coffee has already come out.

You glance up at him after mustering up the courage, curious as to what awaited you next. He returns your gaze with one of indifference or calmness, you can’t tell, blinks at you slowly, as if he’s just now taking your flustered form for the first time, then he speaks, more clearly this time.

“It’s fine.”

A server arrives with a mop in hand and you both step away from the mess to let them clean it up. You take the lead unintentionally and guide the stranger towards one of the vacant tables in the corner of the café, away from prying stares.

You pick the chair next to the wall that has a large ficus partially looming over the seat. Maybe with enough luck, you can disappear inside it.

Finally, unzipping your jacket because you’re about to faint from the stuffiness, you lay it on the cushioned backrest of the chair and pat it down to make sure you’d not accidentally dropped any of your belongings during the accident. You tug at your sweater to air out the thin sheen of nervous sweat that’s formed over your skin, brush off the strands of hair that have come to stick to your face and take off your scarf.

The stranger sits on the opposite chair, paper towel still to his chest and sucking out any leftover residue. The stain won’t leave your vision no matter how hard you try to rip the two separate. It’s the worry gnawing at your gut that keeps you rooted to your spot, wanting to approach but too afraid to do so.

But so far he’s been a nice guy, hasn’t said one single bad word to you.

Your mind reels with how red and irritated his skin must be, praying it hadn’t blistered up already. You have half a mind to ask him to take off his hoodie so you can take a look.

A fresh wave of panic wraps its dainty fingers around your neck in squeezes, sends needles to prick over random places on your body.

And all this time, you’ve been sputtering out apologies like a broken record, his dismissal of your regret not even reaching your ears let alone registering.

“Should I call an ambulance? Oh my God, I’ve never had to call an ambulance in my life…” You ask, mumbling the last part to yourself as the realization hits you square in the face. For a brief moment, you forget how to dial the emergency line because you’ve never had to use that number before. “I’m sorry, sir – I – I didn’t mean – ”

You continue to blabber while searching your jacket pocket for your phone. The guy might have said nothing at your suggestion, but you wanted to be safe and have your phone at the ready anyway. And you’re too preoccupied going ballistic with panic in your own little world to hear him repeatedly tell you that everything is fine and you’ve done no big deal, he doesn’t need an ambulance and that he’s fine.

“Hey!” He grabs the crux of your elbow and pulls you before him, a large knee on either side of your thighs. A startled noise crawls up your throat but you make no move to step away. You’re staring at him as your hands disappear inside his and he jerks them slightly, his voice lowering now that he’s caught your attention finally. “Relax. It’s alright. Happens.” His comfort is rough. His voice gruff and sounding more like a scold than anything. He shakes you a bit too hard, not used to handling something as delicate as you, and pulls you down enough to make solid eye contact. “Alright?”

You nod and avert your gaze away, soggy paper towels left in a pile on the table making your fingers twitch with the need to do more. Apologies simply aren’t enough, not when he’d probably need to apply ointment on his chest for a few days after your little fiasco.

Why did have to be such a hot mess all the time?

“At least…Let me buy you another drink. On me? It’ll make me feel better.” The frown is still tugging on your lips as you speak, shyly looking at him from under your lashes. “Please?”

He sighs softly at your relentlessness and shrugs before letting your hands slip from him, having kept them in his grasp for longer than he should.

“Sure.”

He leans back in his chair and readjusts both his hood and the cap poking beneath it before resting his elbows on the table.

“What did you order?” You question while fetching your wallet.

The innocent look you toss him has him forcing himself to stop staring at you like a creep. He clears his throat and rubs over his tired eyes tenderly before answering.

“Black tea with milk.”

And so you reorder your cappuccino, get him his tea and decide that a simple butter croissant as an apology is enough for the moment. Every time you turn around to glance at him, nervous that he’d simply slip away from your overbearing presence, he catches your stare without fail. Heat gathers around your ears and your lips purse unintentionally every single time and you quickly turn back to the cashier, pretending you hadn’t just been discovered ogling him.

The chair looks too small to encompass his hulking frame comfortably, the table is no different, but you guess he’s used to it by now. A man of his stature isn’t a common occurrence here. Poor thing probably has to bow to enter through most doorways and have his shirts custom-made with how wide his shoulders were. If he wore shirts at all that is.

He looks like he’s brooding when you return with the order, fingers linked together and thumbs dancing around each other.

You set the tea by his side, note the callouses and scarring around his knuckles, the roughness of his skin. Your first thought is that he’s a construction worker, it would explain his size, the biceps that are as big as your head and straining against the stitches of his hoodie, the casual clothes, and the dark circles under his eyes that make it easy for anyone to guess that he doesn’t rest enough. But then he pulls his mask down and lets it rest under his chin as he takes a prolonged sip from his drink. You note the crookedly mended nose after a trauma so potent it made your eyes water at the thought of what pain he’d endured. There’s a gash running along his thin lips, multiple ones that stand out from the light stubble peppering the lower part of his face, deep ones, ones that you guessed had needed stitches and took forever to properly heal.

Now you’re not so sure he’s a construction worker.

“So what do you do for a living?” It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it. You laugh nervously and raise a hand in a soothing motion before he even has a chance to answer. “You don’t have to tell if you’re not comfortable. I’m just curious.”

The mug of tea pauses before his lips and he gives you a skeptical look.

“Military.”

“Oh.” You blurt out and awkwardly take a sip from your coffee, nearly choking at how hot it is.

And that’s precisely the answer Ghost expected. It was a big turnoff for many people when they learned his career path, mostly because the news only displayed the bad outcomes of his work and never the good. He might have saved this entire city a week ago from a bombing and nobody would know.

It came with the territory and he half expected you to think up some lousy explanation as to why you suddenly had to go.

But you aren’t like that at all because of course, you aren’t. Why would it be made easy for him to forget you and move on with his day when you could be sweet and open and give him more reason to burn you into the crevices of his conscience instead? Why would you make an excuse and leave when you could stay and kindle the embers of his humanity and make yourself space to be a permanent memory?

That’s just his typical luck.

“Must be tough.” You muse, absentmindedly taking a napkin and wiping off the milk and tea mustache staining his upper lip, as if tending to a messy toddler. It comes instinctively and you don’t fight it until your fingers are already being poked by his stubble. “But thanks for keeping us normal folk safe.” You give his wide-eyed stare a warm smile, and tilt your head slightly to one side.

You notice the subtle way in which he moves his chin towards your hand, apprehensive of you pulling away. As if he’s fighting his demons to lean into your touch, to rest his cheek against your palm and close his eyes because he hasn’t been offered softness in so long that he doesn’t remember what it feels like anymore.

You don’t mind that his large hand reaches to try and still your wrist, aching for more delicate touches, but stops before coming in contact with your flesh, pulled back by self-deprecating restrain. You almost want to encourage him, he looks visibly altered by your simple gesture, like a dog who’d been beaten all his life and was given a treat for the first time.

“What happened to you, old soldier?” You want to ask gently, pry a little while you cup his face and let him rest on the softness of your palm, close his eyes for a brief moment of respite.

Your heart aches for him.

But then you remember he’s a stranger and the moment shatters.

The smile vanishes from your face, the warmth dissipates and you flinch back.

“Sorry.” You rush to say and crumble up the napkin in your hand before tossing it on the table and trying to brush off the suffocating awkwardness. “You had something there.” You motion to your upper lip before drowning in more coffee, hoping it will ease the discomfort.

Just what the hell had you been thinking?

And he’s not far behind you on that note. The flicker of softness dies in his chocolate browns and the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth stills and dips into neutrality. The exhaustion returns to his features and his gaze flits away from you as he gathers himself back together.

“You should eat tha’ ‘fore it gets cold.”

Your eyes trail to where he’d nudged his chin and you see the butter croissant you’d purchased along with your drinks. You giggle, it turns into a light laugh when his head cocks to the side in confusion because he’s yet to realize you’d gotten it for him.

Because why would he? He’s a soldier, he gets bullets and grenades, not tea and croissants.

Poor creature, sweet scarred sufferer, with so much weight on his shoulders you couldn’t imagine bearing.

“It’s for you.” You push the small plate closer to him and flick your hand for him to dig in, treat himself on your behalf if he won’t do it on his own accord.

“What?” He reels back in his seat slightly at your words, sets down his drink and tenses up. There’s so much disbelief there that it’s almost comical.

It’s like he’d never been treated before.

Maybe he hadn’t been.

Jesus Christ, what if he actually hadn’t been?

“I mean it’s the least I can do after drenching you in coffee.” You say and press the lid of your cup to your lips, hiding the sympathetic smile from view lest he takes it as pity.

You didn’t pity the man, not in the slightest, but from the tired eyes to the worn clothes, sunk-in shoulders and need for anonymity, you guessed he’d not seen much kindness.

It was easily discernable that he wasn’t used to taking care of himself. Coming to a café to get a drink was probably the maximum self-indulgence he’d permit himself.

“Didn’t ‘ave to.” He grumbles out, voice hoarse and cutting off at the end.

“I wanted to.” You say and wave off his meager comment.

Gods, you wanted to bathe him in sugar and softness.

He tugs the plate before him hesitantly, looking over the croissant as if not trusting it or you, then he picks it up. A small bite at first, one of apprehension before the treat melts on his tongue and awakens his taste buds. He finishes it in two mouthfuls, barely chews and you’re inclined to ask if he wants another, you’re ready to feed him the whole bakery stand if he so wishes. But he declines, whether from embarrassment or mistrust, you didn’t know.

You just know he’s hungry.

You give him your name while he’s washing down the croissant with his leftover tea, just throw it out there in the hopes that he’ll give you his. And he does after heaving a sigh.

“Simon.”

“Pretty name.” You note, toss him a friendly smile that’s a silent invitation for him to say more. “Nice to meet you then, Simon.”

But your friendliness doesn’t breach his defenses a second time. He eyes you with an unreadable expression, watches you slurp your coffee while you’re left to wonder if your compliment had been a mistake.

You might have been coming off as too friendly, trying to suck up to him after ruining his top and that was the reason why you were so nice. Or maybe he thought that there was a hidden agenda behind your acts, that you’d want something in return for your kindness and that’s why he kept his guard up.

Action without a need for reciprocation didn’t exist in his world. Nobody was stupidly selfless enough to just give and not want anything in return. But you were right there, proving him wrong and he wasn’t sure that fact was a fact anymore.

Throughout his internal debate, you’re doing your best to remain casual but it’s difficult with those dark orbs boring into your soul. It’s even more difficult when the silence settles, so you decide to ramble and keep the spirits up until he feels comfortable enough to join.

It might come off as annoying, but you’re sure he’ll stop you if you’re becoming too much to handle.

You tell him about your job, a brief summary of how rough your week had been that that was the reason why you’d come here this morning to treat yourself. You tell him you’re clumsier than you’d like to admit, that you can’t imagine drinking tea first thing in the morning. You tell him that you’d love to have a pet one day, but your landlord doesn’t permit any, ask him if he has pets or would want any. Then you ask if he’s more a cat or a dog person.

And throughout the entire time, he’s staring at you with this undigestible look and you have no idea what to make of it.

The caffeine pumping in your veins helps keep your monologue going until finally he speaks up.

“Bothering you?”

“What?” You spit out, cease your rambling and scrunch your brows at him in confusion.

“The face.” He says, motioning towards his partly obscured face like it’s so obvious. “Ain’t a pretty mug to look at.”

You blink at him silently, at a loss for words at his not-so-kind statement. Your mouth parts, struggling to form a coherent reply because you’re absolutely thunderstruck that he thinks so lowly of you as to believe you’d be affected by such a thing.

Then again, he doesn’t know you, and neither do you him.

But the fact that he’s polite enough to ask while already anticipating the answer tells you that he might have had this conversation one too many times already. Or maybe he hadn’t, maybe the mean comments and ugly remarks were all in his head and he hid his face to stifle those rather than hide from other people.

You don’t know which alternative is sadder.

“No! Not at all.” You say slowly, accenting every word that comes out of your mouth, with eyes trained on his and refusing to blink in case you missed anything. “You’re handsome, really.” You dare to reach out for him and rest your hand atop his, gentle and ready to pull back in case his features portrayed any hint of discomfort with your actions. “Plus your scars mean you put yourself before me to keep me safe, right? Can’t judge you for that.”

Now he’s the one left speechless.

Wordlessly, he twists his wrist, rolls his hand around and slowly unclenches his fingers to let yours through. And your hand is so soft and warm when it slips over his mauled palm, even the skin is a stark contrast because yours is so smooth, spotless, perfect, compared to his.

He runs his large thumb over your knuckles, relishes the tingly feeling it gives him, watches intently because he’s sure that as soon as his eyes move to somewhere else, you’ll vanish and it’ll all be over. Your fingers fall against his wrist where his pulse leisurely beats, only quickening when you shift in your seat because he thinks you’ll pull away.

Manicured nails trace over the scars poking from beneath the sleeve of his hoodie and he shivers, the hairs on his arms rising. He lets you tug the sleeve back, wanting to know how far the violent marks go. Soon enough black and grey ink peeks from under the fabric and a ghost of a smile tugs at his lips at how delighted you seem.

“Oh, I love tattoos…” You hum while tracing the tips of your fingers over it.

“Got any?” He asks absentmindedly, almost mechanically as all his attention is focused on the little hand exploring his own.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out.” You giggle, eyes closing briefly in delight as you bask in the fuzzy atmosphere.

He bites his tongue at that, decides now isn’t the time for flirty remarks, bids you too esteemed to fall for a sleazy comeback that might result in him naked in your bed. No, you were made to be courted, won over with effort and flowers and all the things he hasn’t bothered with in the past.

You were the type of woman that he avoided for fear of messing things up, someone who deserved better than him and he wasn’t ashamed of admitting that. Yet here you were, practically thrust in his arms by chance.

“Do you want another tea?” You ask because his drink is gone and what’s left at the bottom of your cup is two sips at most. And you don’t end this to end, you don’t want him to leave just yet.

“I’m good.” He answers and retracts his arm before standing. “Gonna ‘ave a smoke outside. Cheers for the tea.”

It’s not a goodbye, but it still makes your heart ache and your mind switches to turbo mode to try and think of something.

Your next question doesn’t come from a place of desire or lust. You’ve no intent of trying to get the battered soldier into your bed and use him for selfish pleasure. You’d never let yourself be so cruel.

“Do you want to come home with me?”

You ask because to you, he’s a stray in need of a home, someone to take care of him a little and nurse him back into a better shape before his next big military mission. It’s naïve, stupid really, to think a grown man such as himself can’t take care of himself.

But the way he looks tells you a sad story and you’d spoken before thinking. Now you’re left with a hot face and a fluttering stomach as he stares at you over his shoulder with something akin to surprise.

“I mean…for lunch, sometime. My treat of course.” You say next, trying to salvage the moment before it got too awkward and you were forced to go to the toilets and hyperventilate while beating yourself up internally. “You don’t have to – ”

“ – Yeah.”

And you swear you saw his eyes squint with a smile hidden somewhere behind the bulk of his shoulder.

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[thefleetingflashofa-sword623]

I just think every human over the age of like 50 would look a lot better with hydraulic limbs and black iron shell on all their skin and claws and guns and missiles equipped all over and sort of skull type metal masks affixed to their faces and we put them all in a big ring dome structure made of dense black bricks and the floor is ash and sand and we make them fight til they die and maybe theres a bracket or something but id prefer free for all and we just keep tossing more in there as they die so its a sort of consyant elderly warrior meat grinder I think this could really change things and give the elderly more purpose in their lives

[contemptible-scoundrel]

my buddy gore grinder gary will help you with your bags [a short, frail, effete old man stumbles into the room and waves at you] [I turn to look at him, smiling warmly, but my expression changes to confusion and disdain when I see him] you're not gary. get the fuck out of here man [waving him on getting more aggressive as he shakes his head, frightened] get the FUCK out of here dude I swear to god. this is gonna get real ugly if you don't fuck off man. youre really starting to piss me off [as if on cue, a massive, meaty fist comes out of the darkness behind the old man and palms his entire skull. he's pulled screaming into the dark, followed by a series of crunching and tearing sounds as his picked-clean bones are spat back into the room one by one [my expression softens and I warmly greet my friend again] heyyyy triple-G! the G-man! how are you doing bud

[hatsbuckets]

Part 2 of this Ghoap post

Better than doing schoolwork :) silly fluff at the end. tw: not medically sound. not proofread

Soap barely registered the way Nik hauled him into the chopper.

His body gave out the second his boots hit the metal floor, the weight of everything catching up to him all at once. His legs buckled, and he went down hard, his back hitting the cabin wall, his head tipping back against the cold steel.

Didn’t matter. None of it mattered. What mattered was Ghost.

Through the haze creeping into the edges of his vision, he saw Price and Gaz lowering Ghost down, getting him flat on the stretcher already strapped in at the side of the bird.

Ghost barely reacted, his body limp, his head slack against the metal.

Soap’s chest squeezed. He hadn’t seen Ghost this still before. Didn’t like it.

Didn’t want to see it again.

Nik barked something from the cockpit, and then the whole damn helicopter jolted, lifting off fast, banking hard and sharp. The wind outside howled as they pulled away from the ruined town, from the hellhole of a mission gone wrong.

Soap barely felt it. His eyes were locked on Ghost, the way Price was kneeling beside him, hands pressing down firm on his bandages, his jaw tight.

Gaz was talking, his words quick, clipped, too urgent. Soap didn’t hear them.

Didn’t hear anything, really, past the roaring in his own head.

Ghost’s chest rose and fell in uneven, shaky breaths. His hands twitched once, fingers curling weakly like he was trying to grab something that wasn’t there.

Soap swallowed against the dry, aching knot in his throat.

"How bad?" His voice barely worked. Didn’t sound like his own.

Price didn’t look away from Ghost. "He’s holdin' on."

Soap knew deflection when he heard it.

He forced himself to sit up, muscles screaming in protest, dragging himself closer. He could see the blood still leaking sluggishly through the gauze, the way Ghost’s whole body was trembling from shock.

"Shit, Simon—" Soap reached out, his hands hovering, unsure of what to do because he’d already done everything he could.

Gaz clamped a hand on Soap’s shoulder, firm.

"He’s not dyin’ on us," he said, voice steady, like he believed it. "Price’s got ‘im."

Soap nodded, but the movement was jerky, hollow.

Price’s hands never stopped moving, never eased up, pressing onto the wound with the ease of a man who's done it too many times before, his face a storm of something unreadable.

Soap watched. Listened to the rattling hum of the helicopter. To the faint, wheezing breaths Ghost let out. To the way Price muttered something under his breath, too low for anyone to hear.

And Soap sat there, bleeding, exhausted, his head resting against the cold metal and waited. Because there was nothing else he could do.

...

The second the chopper hit the ground, the doors slammed open, and the medics were there, rushing in like a flood.

Soap barely had the strength to stand, but that didn’t stop him. Didn’t even slow him down.

Ghost was lifted onto a stretcher, and Soap followed, his legs screaming, his skull pounding with every step. His whole body felt like it had been through a meat grinder, but he didn’t stop moving. Couldn’t.

He felt Gaz’s arm slip around him, holding him upright when his balance nearly gave out.

"Easy, Tav," Gaz muttered, but there was no stopping him now.

Price was right next to them, his stride solid, steady, his eyes never leaving the stretcher ahead of them. Soap barely even registered where they were—some military base, medical ward, floodlights overhead casting everything in stark, sterile white.

The medics moved fast, too fast, hauling Ghost inside, their hands everywhere, barking orders to one another in clipped, medical jargon that Soap barely understood.

Then one of them reached for Ghost’s mask. Soap saw it before Price did.

The medic’s fingers barely touched the edge of the fabric under neath Ghost's head before Soap’s hand snapped out, grabbing his wrist in a vice grip.

The medic startled, eyes snapping up. "We need to check his airways," he started, half-annoyed, half-rattled.

Soap’s jaw clenched. "Not like that," he said, voice like gravel.

The medic hesitated, eyes flicking between Soap and Ghost before Soap finally let go, his fingers twitching from exhaustion. He moved in, hands shaking as he reached for Ghost’s mask himself.

He didn’t lift it all the way. Didn’t pull it off. Didn’t expose him.

Instead, Soap dragged it up just enough from his chin—just over Ghost’s mouth and nose, leaving the top half of his face covered.

A small, unspoken line in the sand. Soap's knuckles grazed the uncovered skin of Ghosts cheek, just for a moment.

The medic stared for a beat, then exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he muttered. "Just let us do our damn jobs."

Soap stepped back, his legs nearly giving out again, but Gaz’s grip tightened at his side, holding him upright.

The three of them—Soap, Gaz, and Price—stood there like a damn honor guard, watching as Ghost was rushed further inside, the medics working over him like a hive of movement.

They didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Not until someone stepped right in front of them.

A woman, barely five foot five, dressed in military scrubs, her dark hair pulled tight into a bun. She had no rank, no weapons, nothing that should have made three armed, disheveled military men stop in their tracks.

And yet.

She planted her feet, arms crossed, eyes blazing, and said, "Sit."

Soap blinked. "Wha—"

"You." She jabbed a finger into his chest. "Are concussed."

Soap’s jaw tightened. "I’m—"

She stepped in closer, her presence an immovable force. "Sit. Down. Now."

Gaz snorted, half a laugh, half surprised at the sheer audacity of it. Price arched a brow but said nothing, probably amused at someone other than him barking orders at them.

Soap grumbled, but his body was too fucking done to argue.

With all the grace of a sack of bricks, he let himself drop onto the nearest gurney, his head throbbing in protest.

The medic gave a sharp nod. "Good. Now stay there." She turned on Gaz, giving him the same look. "You—you're next."

Gaz held up his hands, grinning. "Hey, I’m just the one carrying this idiot around."

She gave him a once-over, eyes sharp, then pointed a finger at Price. "And you. You’re next if I find so much as a scratch on you."

Price just gave her a dry smirk, arms crossed over his chest. "Wouldn’t dream of it, love."

She let out a long-suffering sigh, muttering something under her breath before storming off.

Soap let his head tip back against the wall, exhaling hard. His eyes flicked toward the doors where they’d taken Ghost.

Still working on him. Still moving. Still alive.

...

It was over an hour before they let them in.

Soap had lost track of time—not that he’d ever had a grip on it in the first place. Between the exhaustion, the concussion, and the adrenaline crash that had hit him like a sledgehammer, everything felt blurry, stretched too thin.

But he’d waited. All of them had.

Gaz, arms crossed, pacing like a caged animal. Price, sitting stiff-backed in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, watching the hallway like a hawk, waiting. Soap himself had tried to rest... tried... but every time he closed his eyes; he saw Ghost bleeding out in the dirt.

So, he stayed awake. Waited.

And finally, the door cracked open, and a nurse poked her head out.

"You can go in now," she said, voice clipped but not unkind.

Soap was on his feet before she finished speaking, head still pounding, vision still a little too bright at the edges, but fuck that, he was going in.

Gaz and Price were right behind him, filing into the dimly lit room. The sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air, the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor the only sound besides the quiet hum of the ventilation system.

And there, in the hospital bed, looking pale as death but alive, was Ghost.

Soap barely got a second to process that before Ghost moved. His hand dragged at the oxygen mask strapped over his face, fingers curling under the plastic, tugging—

"Oh, for fuck’s sake."

Soap moved on instinct, crossing the room fast, grabbing Ghost’s wrist before he could rip the damn thing off his face.

"Would you quit it?" Soap snapped, his voice sharper than he meant. "Jesus Christ, Lt., you’ve got more tubes in you than a bloody science experiment—leave them be!"

Ghost barely reacted, blinking up at Soap with that too-glazed, too drugged-up look that said he wasn’t fully aware of what was happening.

Didn’t matter. Soap wasn’t having it.

Ghost’s other hand moved next, fingers grasping weakly at the IV in his arm—

"I swear to God—" Soap muttered, pressing both hands down against Ghost’s shoulders, keeping him firmly in place.

Ghost’s breathing hitched, his body tense under Soap’s grip.

"Simon," Price’s voice was calm but firm from the doorway. "You’re in a hospital bed for a reason. Don’t make ‘em tie you down, son."

Ghost huffed weakly, but his body relaxed just slightly, just enough for Soap to loosen his hold a fraction.

But Ghost’s fingers still twitched, his hands still restless, still itching to pull everything off.

Soap shook his head, sighing hard. "Fucking. Stop."

Ghost blinked sluggishly, his gaze slowly drifting over Soap’s face. His mask was still up—not all the way off, just barely pulled past his nose, his jawline visible beneath the dim overhead lights. His lips parted slightly, like he was about to say something, but then he squinted.

"You look like shit, Johnny," he muttered, hand coming up to pat against Soap's face, voice rough as sandpaper.

Soap barked out a surprised laugh, caught between relief and pure exhaustion. "Yeah? Well, you look worse."

Ghost’s mouth twitched, just a little, before his eyes fluttered shut again.

Soap didn’t let go until he was sure Ghost wasn’t gonna start ripping things out again. Didn’t move until the steady beep-beep-beep of the monitor settled into something normal, something even.

...

Soap had been waiting for it.

The second Ghost was conscious enough to be stubborn, he’d start acting like he wasn’t damn near dead on arrival just a few hours ago. And sure enough.

"You don't 'ave t' stay," Ghost muttered, voice still hoarse from whatever nightmare cocktail of pain meds and exhaustion was running through his system. "’m fine."

Soap stopped mid-pour, the plastic cup of water in his hand hovering as he turned to look at him.

Ghost had propped himself up—barely—struggling to sit upright, clearly fighting through the ache in his ribs, acting like the IV in his arm wasn’t literally keeping him alive.

Soap blinked. Then, slowly, deliberately, he set the cup down on the table beside the bed. He crossed his arms.

And then he just stared beams into Ghost. Not a teasing smirk, not the playful jab, but the full you’re a fucking idiot and I will physically restrain you if I have to, Simon stare.

Ghost blinked at him. "What?"

Soap tilted his head, just slightly, a muscle in his jaw ticking. "You just say your fine?"

Ghost hesitated. "I—"

Soap stepped closer, his arms still crossed. "You can’t even sit up alone, you fuckin' idiot."

Ghost froze, his fingers twitching slightly where they had been gripping the blankets, like he was debating his next move.

Soap lifted his brows. Go on. I dare you. Say some dumb shit.

Ghost slowly, carefully, lowered himself back down, his arms relaxing against the mattress.

"That’s what I thought," Soap muttered, reaching for the water again and shoving it toward him. "Drink."

Ghost just stared at him.

Soap’s eyes narrowed. "Simon."

Ghost took the cup. He didn’t drink it right away, just held it, fingers curled loosely around the plastic, like he was mulling over whether or not he was actually going to argue.

Soap sat down on the edge of the chair beside the bed, watching him with mild but very present threat energy.

Ghost huffed a small breath of amusement. "You gonna sit there and watch me drink, Johnny?"

Soap shrugged. "Until I know you’re not gonna pass out mid-sip? Aye."

Ghost rolled his eyes, but he drank.

Soap nodded, satisfied, and leaned back in his chair.

Ghost sighed, shifting slightly under the blankets, blinking slow and tired.

"…knew you'd get me out," he muttered after a beat, voice quieter.

Soap blinked. "Course I did."

Ghost didn’t respond.

Didn’t say thank you, didn’t acknowledge it outright, but the tension in his shoulders eased just a little, like the fact that Soap was still there, still watching, was enough.

Soap sighed. "Go to sleep, ya stubborn bastard."

Ghost exhaled, barely there, and closed his eyes.

...

Soap had one job.

One.

Price had told him. One. Keep an eye on Ghost, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid before they rolled out for medical transport back home.

Should’ve been easy, right? Fucking wrong.

Because the second Soap stepped out of the damn room—just for a minute, literally sixty goddamn seconds—he came back to find Ghost doing exactly what he shouldn’t be doing.

Standing.

Or, well—trying to.

The idiot had dragged himself upright, one hand gripping the side of the bed, the other reaching for the chair next to it, moving slow like he thought that would make it less obvious.

Soap froze in the doorway, staring. Ghost did not see him.

Didn’t even have the fucking awareness to look up, too busy gritting his teeth and trying to pull his IV right the fuck out of his arm.

Soap’s jaw ticked. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped inside and shut the door.

Hard.

Ghost flinched, his head snapping up, mask slightly askew, eyes wide like a kid caught sneaking out after curfew.

Soap just stood there, arms crossed.

Ghost blinked.

"Sergeant," he started, voice raspy, like he was going to argue, going to order Soap out.

Soap took two very deliberate steps forward.

Ghost sat back down immediately.

Soap didn’t stop.

Ghost tried to fix his mask, adjust his posture, look less like someone who had just been caught committing a crime. "Johnny—"

Soap got right up in his space and put both hands on Ghost’s shoulders, shoving him back against the bed.

Ghost let out a soft grunt as his back hit the mattress, his hands grabbing at Soap’s wrists, but not pushing him away.

Soap leaned down, staring him dead in the eyes.

"Are you out of your fucking mind?"

Ghost huffed, half a laugh, but Soap could see it—the exhaustion deep in his posture, the way his fingers trembled slightly at his wrist.

"I’m fine, Johnny," Ghost muttered.

Soap’s grip tightened.

"You—" Soap exhaled sharply, visibly restraining himself from shaking him. "You are quite literally the opposite of fine, you absolute muppet."

Ghost tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, looking so smug it made Soap’s blood pressure spike.

"You callin’ me a muppet now, Johnny?"

Soap growled, pressing down harder, making sure Ghost stayed put.

"I swear to Christ, Simon, if you try that again, I am gonna have the nurses tie you to the fucking bed."

Ghost sighed, long and slow, shifting slightly like he was getting comfortable.

Soap was not comforted.

He leaned in closer. "And before you get any bright ideas—I will tell Price, and he'll make you take a long ass fucking leave."

Ghost froze. His smug expression faltered.

Soap narrowed his eyes. "Aye. Thought so."

He started to lean away, still hovering, watching as Ghost finally let himself relax against the mattress again, still holding Soap's wrist, still looking like he wanted to argue but wasn’t quite willing to risk Price’s wrath.

Soap huffed. "Now please stay the fuck down, Simon."

Ghost huffed back, but this time, instead of listening like a normal human being, he moved his head forward.

Before Soap could even process it, Ghost leaned up, pulled Soap's arm just a bit, just enough to catch him off guard—

And kissed him.

Soap froze.

The kiss was lazy, slow, the kind of self-satisfied, smug bastard kiss. A see? I’m fine kiss. A you’re cute when you’re mad kiss.

Ghost pulled back just a fraction, his face close, his lips barely parted. And Soap finally breathed again.

"Jesus fuck, Simon," Soap gritted out, his hands still fisted at Ghost’s shoulders, glaring at him. "Are you actually trying to give me a fucking stroke?"

Ghost’s eyes were heavy, still drugged-up, still half-lidded, and worse—smirking.

"Just provin’ a point," he murmured, his voice rough as hell but smug as sin. "'m fine."

Soap stared at him.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he shoved Ghost back against the mattress, not gently.

Ghost let out a soft oof, the smirk faltering for just a second before it came back in full force.

Soap pulled back, pointed at him like he was scolding a dog. "Lie the fuck down."

Ghost tilted his head, lips quirking just slightly.

Soap exhaled hard, dragging his hands down his face. "I swear to God—"

But Ghost was already closing his eyes again, settling deeper against the bed, looking too satisfied with himself for someone who had nearly died yesterday.

Soap sat back in his chair and kept an eye on him.

Because clearly, if he left Ghost alone for even a second, the idiot would get himself killed again.

And apparently, he’d try to kiss his way out of consequences.

Unbelievable.

[imagine-darksiders]

Girl, I have a serious question I need to expertise on. What Christmas gift does one give the four Horsemen?

War: This one's tricky to buy for. But, if you get him an electric bench grinder, his eyes will light up when he realises how sharp he can get Chaoseater in less than half the time it takes for him to sharpen the sword with a whetstone. Also some chrome dumbbells, as heavy as you can get them, for training purposes. In War's opinion, presents have to have a purpose that will work towards his benefit. But the bamboo socks you got him with little skulls on them are a nice luxury, he supposes.

Death: A Fortnum and Mason's tea selection, 120 tea bags of all different flavours for him to try. Guaranteed there'll be flavours he's never tasted before, and for a being as ancient as Death, putting in the effort to give him something he's never experienced before will always leave an impression. He'd also respond well to a new chess set. Don't forget to give something to Dust too. Death will accuse you of trying to spoil the bird, but he'll be privately touched at your thoughtfulness.

Fury: Stroke her ego. Get her a mug that says 'World's Best Horseman' on it with a picture of her on the back. Or get her portrait painted. She'll insist you hang it in your living room where you can always bask in it when she isn't there. If you really want to get into her good books, buy a present for Rampage as well, something like a new pot of leather oil for his tack, or a bunch of the juiciest apples you can find.

Strife: The best Christmas present you could get this man is renovating one of the rooms in your house and showing it to him like, "So, I thought it'd be nice for you to have somewhere familiar to stay between your missions, and well... I wasn't really doing anything with this room, so I fitted it out to be a sort of... bedroom for you, y'know, if you ever needed a place to crash.... Here's a spare key to our home too. Oh, also, there are two Nerf guns hidden in here. Get to finding them so we can shoot each other without either of us getting hurt."

Strife doesn't trust himself to speak for a good five minutes because he's convinced he'll accidentally confess his love for you if he opens his mouth.

[bookofthegear]

There are times in life when you should hide, and times when you should run. The difficulty, as any adventurer will tell you, is telling which is which.

This was one of those times when you should have run.

You never get a look at the thing in the sunflower field, because the lantern’s off. But when it comes crashing through stalks toward you, you do try to skewer it with Grandma’s good stabbing knife. The point of the blade hits off something hard but oddly elastic, like bone, and slides along a surface full of bumps and hollows. Maybe it’s a skull. Maybe it’s something you’ve never even conceived of.

Whatever it is, it has…teeth? A grinder? Hard to say, since the excruciating pain is much more pressing than careful analysis of what has just seized hold of you.

“Jimmy, RUN!” you shout, which of course makes no sense—he’s going to fly, obviously—but given the circumstances, it seems rude to quibble. You feel the brush of feathers past your cheek as he takes to the air, and then there’s an explosion of light behind your eyes and you seem to be rushing down a dark tunnel toward it. What happens after that is Mystery, and not within the scope of this chronicle.

Probably, though, there are cabbages.

—YOU HAVE DIED—

[doeeyedmeanie]

Heaven Knows i’m Miserable now🍂

Part2!!! (hey guys so…uh…i’ve changed the format, decided i hated the use of Y/N and now just gonna use “you” and write it like that bc yeah..!! thank you )

PART 1

The pain from both the ground and shock of someone else being in the treehouse shocks you, shocks you so badly that your poor brain looses track of everything. The only thing it can focus on was the fact that someone had pushed you…sure they’d complimented you too but they’d pushed you, hurt you even. Caused your pretty little head to hit the floor, narrowly avoiding the tree roots..imagine if you had hit one..you’d have either died or maybe just passed out. You push yourself back up, head stinging and body tense, you’ll be sporting a couple of new bruises soon . You sigh, pushing yourself up before glaring up at the treehouse only to find…no one , nothing other than the stray autumn leaves blowing around the base of the wood.

You look around , standing up now and brushing everything off you , hands going through your hair before stopping at a now wet and..painful spot. You’d obviously hit your head and caused a minor bleed..? but did you know that? no. Were you now panicking and thinking your brain was going to leak out of your skull and you were inevitably going to die? yes. Yes you were. You rush up, hand gripping your head before you open the back door, watching it bounce back and almost hit you in the face before you open it again and step back into your..new home. You sigh out before the sound of humming hits your eyes, it’s soft and gentle..a nostalgic hum , the kind your mom would hum to either soothe your crying or maybe just to get you to sleep.

“Mom..? Mom..! Mom! Mom!” You call out , rolling your eyes once your mom stays humming in the kitchen , you shrug before following the humming . Finding what seems to be your mother..leaned over the counter, baking? Your mom had stopped baking once Alan moved him ; since he’d claimed he hated sweets or anything soft or chewy or even hard…What a freak.

Your mom turns to face you..only to be faced with someone who was not your mother . She stands there, smiling at you as she offered you a cookie . Maybe you failed to notice the cookie but you definitely noticed the blood dripping from her eye..was that a meat grinder stuck into her eye socket??? You gasp, covering your mouth in horror as you continue gasp for air. The women disappears just as quickly as she’d turned, leaving the tray of cookies in her wake..only now they were mold covered and blood soaked. You turn , gasping for air again as your eyes prick with fear and despair, the only proof of those emotions being the faintest of tears staining your face . You push away before slamming into something, screaming out as their hands grip your shoulders .

“Shit kid..are you good??” Your eyes snap up , shocked expression dropping once you stare at Alan, his hands soothing you as you debate telling him…he wouldn’t believe you, he’d just send you to church or maybe a shrink .

“no..i..i fell outside and then..uh…” You mumble out, watching Alan move away, he turns to hold an ice pack out , his eyes judgemental and almost sorrowful at you.

“Thanks…” You take the ice pack, holding it to the painful little blood bump formed on your skull, you definitely needed to let it heal before even washing your hair or else you’d just be in for the most painful shower ever.

“So..you climbed the treehouse..?” He asked , nodding towards the back door . The lump in the leaves from your fall, the broken off wooden block and..your phone still outside , next to your now snapped in half headphones. You gasp out , running outside as Alan follows like some annoying little excuse for a man. He stands there, watching you grab your phone and grabbing your headphones , pushing back inside to tape them up.

“uh yeah..yeah i did.” You hum out , taping your headphones together before holding one near your ear, hearing your music play along side some sort of whispering ??

“get out.!” the voice screams back , causing you to drop the headphones once again. Your ear now slightly deaf from how loud the voice had seemed.

“Yeah i’m thinking of tearing the treehouse down..i mean that boy killed his parents and ran up there and then fell..broke his neck and died…we can’t have that happen to you..” Alan hums out , unaware of literally anything that happened just then.

“right cause if i was gonna murder you and my mom..id definitely hid in the treehouse and not clean up..and then drive away.” You sarcastically nod, laughing before meeting Alan’s somewhat disgusted gaze. You gulp before rolling your eyes , “you can’t get rid of the treehouse .” You hum out , interest from the earlier events keeping your gaze back onto the wooden deck.

“Why not?” Alan scoffs out

“cause uh..i..want to keep it..yeah i want to keep it, it’s cool “ You nod, eyes flicking back to Alan as you smile , trying to seem like you actually want the treehouse and not like your actual desire was to know if the kid who’d almost murdered you stayed up there .

Alan rolls his eyes before turning around , grabbing one of the cookies , then taking a bite . You watch in horror as beetles, bugs and blood drips from the cookie , staining his face and crawling all around his features . Crawling up into his nose , into his beard and even into hair . You gulp before shaking your head , pushing..or rushing past him and bolting up into your room. Almost gagging in the process.

You shake your head before your eyes meet with…well..nothing . Everything seemed normal..somewhat normal..? What was normal anyways ? It definitely wasn’t this house and it definitely wasn’t alan and it definitely wasn’t you..either…was your mom normal?? No..definitely not.

You scoff out, moving around the room as you start to hang your own clothes up into the closet , taking note of the chalk scribbles and the…giant “get out” sign written in…blood? maybe it was just red paint..you shrug it off . You were way too tired to even care right now, the day was weird enough with your little hallucinations from your concussion and Alan.

Once you finish you sigh out , moving out of the room to the bathroom, flicking the shower on before noticing something moving behind the shower curtain, peeling it back to come face to face with a teenage boy. He laughs…this was the same guy from earlier . He winks at you, his hand moving to your chin, “shame you’re still alive…” he mumbles out , his face way too close to yours and his body oddly cold..the coolness of his skin against your warmth causing you to shiver .

He pushes past you, smirking , “you know…your little joke about killing your parents..? I loved it..! You should..” He laughs , his eyes darting over your features as he leans against the bathroom door before you blink and he disappears. Leaving you in the now freezing bathroom .

You turn and then turn back again, eyes scanning the bathroom before you calm yourself…you were just hallucinating…you’d hit your head and you were just…seeing things…or maybe going insane… You shake your head before slowly stripping and getting into the shower , hissing out against the water hitting your skull, causing a whine to leave your lips against the pain. You shower pretty quickly , not wanting to pain yourself anymore and…also wanting to just sleep. You sigh out , changing into a baggy t shirt and shorts . Eyes stuck on the words drawn into the steam on the mirror

“leave now. get out.”

You roll your eyes before opening the bathroom door , hair dripping down your skin and clothes stuck on your figure , you walk back into your room, noticing your puppy nuzzling into the air..what a weird dog. You sigh out before flopping onto your bed…scrambling to turn a light off before getting more comfortable into the bed , clicking your tongue for Buddy to jump in. The puppy jumps in, turning before laying down . You pull the covers over the both of you, yawning before your eyes flutter closed . Wanting the day to be over and..also wanting to sleep for the first time in hours.

You drift off to sleep..unaware of the boy now peeling your covers back..pushing himself up against you , his chest up against your back , arm lazily around your waist as he places the warm covers back over the two of you, “oh pretty girl…” he whispers against your ear,chuckling at your little movements, “come on..kill your parents…or just leave..leave the house..kill them…come join me..? hm? “ he whispers , nuzzling into your neck as you mumble something out under your sleep state .

[derww]

DEVOTIONS WEEK DAY 4: ANIMALS/OBJECTS

Okay, the thing is: Zam goes to the Kings SMP, spends several weeks in a bloody meat grinder, fights back to back with Minute and Mapicc and Jepexx against the world and somewhere in the process realizes herself to be a girl.

It's not bad: she swaps her crown for an elegant tiara, and her pretty kitty princess blade hits exactly on target and holds in her hand like a glove, and the dress turns out to be much more comfortable than an almost formal suit.

She spends the rest of the season so at ease with herself – even after losing her magic blade, she does not return to her former self, but rushes around the server, ready to destroy anything, and, in the end, reunited with the blade, counts it as her happy ending.

And then it's time to return to the Lifesteal, and she lowkey expects that her dress, like in the Cinderella, will turn into rags, but she, Minute, Mapicc and Jepexx activate the teleport, and Minute holds her gloved hand, making sure of a safe landing, and they appear on a flying an island in the center of the spawn, and... Nothing changes. Even her pretty blade, despite everything, remains hanging on her belt.

For a moment, while everyone is still recovering and looking around, she just stares into the sky, and then, experimentally, lightly stabs Minute into the side. He curses and lets go of her hand, and a cat falls at their feet with a long meeeeeow. She looks at it, running around and scratching Minute's feet, with mild amusement.

Oh. Oooh. Okay!

In the end, it is kinda nice: everyone, as it happens usually on the Lifesteal, just roll with it and she changes her dress for the black one with purple accents, and cats help her push players into the void, and in return she makes them a corner in the skull base and feeds them with fish washed up by the waves. Pangi is being heavily liked by one of them for some reason. He names him Cheeseburger.

(For some reason, cats don't like Jumper. She wonders if it's because of their experience on Kings)

Cat ears make her much more sensitive and observant, allowing her to detect enemies and hide from them just as successfully, and also – to lie at night on an icy bedrock and listen to the measured whisper of the Abyss. Sometimes Mapicc joins her, but he doesn't quite hear it, and she describes it to him.

It simultaneously changes everything significantly and really does not. Her dress is elegant but shorter than she would like, and she doesn't wear heels, and her scar – her pride – is not going anywhere, and she still kills people and herself, but everything seems to be half a tone better than it was.

Mapicc grumbles about the need to retrain for her movements changed under the new center of gravity, and also about her too–long hair getting in the way, and she eventually ties it into a high ponytail and it instantly shuts him up. They fit her blade into their normal formations – backstabs do great damage, and cats push and interfere with enemies, and they are forcing opponents to always think about one more thing.

One day she makes a mistake and falls into the void and dies, and it's hard, but she accepts it because she knows that one day it was bound happen. The Abyss demands all kinds of sacrifices, she tells herself, and I must always be ready to give her everything, including myself. Bacon gifts her an elegant rapier crowned with stars, and she continues to live because it was not the blade that defined her.

But one day, in the dead of night, walking through the void, with bare feet on the great nothingness, listening to the eternal whisper of absolute knowledge and dancing under the new moon, the Abyss speaks to her. And it's not like She's never talked to her before, but this is the first time she's been alone.

My child, the Abyss whispers, overwhelming her with an invisible pressure, I have something that belongs to you by the right.

As if enchanted, she pulls her hand forward, and intently, and slowly, as if with effort, squeezes her fingers until she feels the icy metal of the handle, and nothingness separates the blade from the ink.

This is her blade, absolutely it is, but it is darker, almost completely black, and only rare gaps in the folds reveal the familiar deep blue.

She smiles.

"Thank you, lady," she says from the bottom of her heart, and the tension around her evaporates with a dry click.

[tomssexdoll]

omgg write a fluff w tom/ bill where him and the reader are high outta their minds that would lowk be hilarious it could also be a little smutty in the end 👀

HAHAHA YESSS

Stoned

PAIRINGS: Tom 2007 x Female reader CONTENT: FLUFF + SMUT (just a bit) SYPNOSIS: Y/N and Tom are high as FUCK, they are friends and she comes over to his house to try this "new" thing he has. She assumes it's some sort of drug or weird guitar solo, they watch movies, cuddle and at the end get a lil bit freaky... A/N: haven't been high in over a year so don't bash me if i get the feeling wrong, it's from what i remember lmao WARNINGS: teasing, kissing, drug use (weed)

Me and Tom have been best friends for over 10 years, he has been my rock, supporting me through everything. He never changed, always hanging out with me, showing me off to new friends. He was amazing.

One day he called me and said he had something to show me, something "new" he wanted to try out with me. I immediately knew it was a drug or a weird guitar solo, he is full of surprises I guess.

I got into my car and started to drive to his house, wondering what stupid thing was going to consume my day.

I arrived eventually and greeted Tom, hugging him tightly and walking inside, sitting in his room. He came in with a little baggie of what looked like weed, he handed it to me and I sighed "Tom this is a lot of weed, do you plan to smoke it all tonight?" he chuckled "no of course not, if we like it we can try it again at the party next week" he rummaged through his draws, pulling out a small black bong, decorated with skulls.

"Wowww real edgy" I rolled my eyes playfully, he laughed and slapped my arm playfully "shut up it was on sale, i'm not spending 50 fucking dollars for a small bong."

I stood up and grabbed the grinder that went with is, putting the bud in there and grinding it down, once it was finished I grabbed the bong, packing some of the weed in there.

"Wow you really know how to do this huh?" he smirked, admiring what I did. "Well my brother smokes and it's not like I haven't done it before so.." I shrugged and grabbed the lighter, sparking it and hovering the flame over the bud, sucking in the smoke. (did i just give you guys a tutorial..)

I inhaled it, feeling it burn the back of my throat but in a nice way, a familiar feeling to when I smoked cigarettes. "Fuck..that's some good shit..where did you get it from" I blew the smoke out, starting to get the effects already.

My head a bit woozy, eyes drooping ever so slightly and everything becoming a bit more brighter. I looked back at Tom, finishing the rest of the cone, the way he threw his head back when inhaling was so sexy..the way his lips slightly parted and his eyes slowly shut.

"I got it from Greg, you know, Janes older brother" he looked back at me, blowing out the smoke as well. "Oh.." I said slowly "well it's not dodgy weed I'll tell you that" I giggled.

Everything was a bit slower, my talking, movements. It felt wonderful, like I was as light as a feather.

"Let's have some more, cmon" he scooted closer to me and we had 3 more cones each, it was hitting hard now, things were much more slower, I looked down at my hands and they were slightly out of focus, like I had 4 hands.

I got up from his bed and grabbed his hand, going towards the kitchen and raiding his pantry, grabbing all the snacks I could find and a few cans of soda. I sat down and dropped everything onto the coffee table, laying down next to him, resting my head on his lap, "should we order pizza.." he mumbled, I nodded slowly and grabbed my phone, dialing the store and ordering 2 large pizzas, one cheese and one meat lovers.

"Fuck..we are gonna feast" he chuckled, his eyes super red and droopy, I smiled and picked a movie to watch.

After 45 minutes our pizza FINALLY ARRIVED. I ran to the door and quickly gave the pizza guy the cash, slamming the door and almost tripping trying to get back to the couch, "fuck!" I yelped, Tom just laughed and grabbed one of the boxes, stuffing his face with pizza.

"Mmm...so good" he groaned, I grabbed a slice and ate it, savouring the taste "has pizza ever tasted this good?" I said, it was like they put magic into it, usually pizza was mid but this time it was amazing. Our movie was ending soon, we picked a horror, which was kinda dumb because we were so high.

I sat up and held him tightly at the suspense, screaming and hiding my face into his arm when the jumpscare popped up "jesus" he chuckled "it wasn't that bad" I rolled my eyes and softly shoved him "shut up..wasn't even scary.." I mumbled

By the time we had finished 3 movies everything was DEVOURED. We decided to chill for a bit, have a talk and enjoy each others company. I layed down on the couch and he spooned me from behind, holding me close.

Usually we'd always cuddle, it was never weird to us but this time, the tension was super high. Not even in a bad way, it's like the air was thicker...the way his arms were wrapped around me and his face pressed softly on the top of my head made me feel some kind of way.

I turned around and looked up at him, it's like in that moment, we were the only people alive. His eyes washed over with desire and love, surprising me. "You know, you are so beautiful y/n, you're the most beautiful girl i've ever seen" he smiled softly, brushing a hair away from my face.

"Yeah whatever, I'm sure you tell every girl you hook up with that.." I rolled my eyes, secretly enjoying the praise. "No, y/n..I mean it, you are so beautiful" he leaned closer, our lips basically inches away.

"Tom..." my breathing hitched slightly, searching his eyes for deciet but all I saw was sincerity, love and compassion, I smiled softly, blush creeping onto my cheeks.

"I want to kiss you.." he whispered, his breath hot on my lips.

"ok pizza breath.." I giggled and leaned in, kissing him gently. He kissed back, wrapping his hand around to the back of my head and pulling me closer, locking our lips into a passionate embrace. His kisses got more urgent, his erection becoming prominent in his pants, pressing up against my leg.

"See how you make me feel? You drive me crazy" he moaned against my lips, slipping his tongue in my mouth. I reached my hand down and softly palmed his clothed cock, making him groan softly.

His hands snaked down to my waist, then to my ass, squeezing it softly. Then, his hand came back up, slipping under my shirt and grabbing my breasts, rubbing his thumb over my nipple, sending shivers down my spine.

I had grabbed one of his shirts earlier, removing my bra since you weren't able to see much anyway, it was getting a bit hot so I changed my outfit.

"My shirt looks so good on you..might have to fuck you in it" he mumbled, grinning widely.

I chuckled "we'll see about that", I rolled us over, flipping me on top of him, deepening the kiss.

[friendlydungeonmanager]

Imperium of Man: "Are we the baddies?"

A "Brennan Lee Mulligan" styled "Rant"

Oh, you think the Imperium of Man are the good guys? You think the galaxy-spanning, boot-stomping, fascist theocracy that worships a half-dead corpse as a god and treats human life as an expendable resource are the heroes of the story? That these skull-covered, servitor-making, purge-happy lunatics are somehow the last bastion of hope in the grim darkness of the 41st millennium?

Well, strap the hell in, because I am about to drive a Baneblade straight through that miserable little delusion of yours.

The Imperium isn’t just bad. The Imperium is cartoonishly bad. The Imperium is so objectively, horrifically, unimaginably cruel that if you plucked literally any human being from our world and dropped them into its nightmarish bureaucratic hellscape, they would be begging for a xenos invasion within five minutes.

Let’s break this down:

1. They Worship a Rotting Corpse on a Chair – The Emperor, the so-called “savior of humanity,” is dead. Well, technically alive in the same way that a car battery with jumper cables clamped to a cadaver’s forehead is “alive.” But that doesn't stop the Imperium from running itself as a theocratic death cult that executes people for heresy if they so much as question whether their god-emperor might prefer a functioning government over an endless tide of skulls and fire.

2. Human Life is Worthless – The Imperium doesn’t see humans as people. It sees them as ammunition. You? Me? Your friends, your family, your sweet old grandma who just bakes cookies and watches her stories? We are all just cogs in the endless war machine. The Imperial Guard? That’s just sending waves of undertrained, under-equipped civilians into battle, armed with flashlights, in the hopes that the enemy will run out of bullets before they run out of bodies to throw into the meat grinder.

3. Xenophobia Taken to the Absolute Extreme – The Imperium doesn’t just hate aliens. It doesn’t just fear them. It actively refuses to consider diplomacy, peace, or any form of coexistence because “better dead than xenos.” Oh, you’ve got a friendly space empire that just wants to chill and vibe in the cosmos? Doesn’t matter. The Imperium will exterminate them, because the very concept of “not human” is a death sentence in their eyes.

4. Technology is Treated Like Magic – You ever try to troubleshoot your Wi-Fi and someone tells you to “turn it off and on again”? Imagine that, but with battle cruisers, and instead of an IT guy, it’s a robed weirdo chanting hymns to the machine spirits because understanding how technology works is heresy. The Imperium has tanks, guns, starships, and even AI—but they don’t actually know how any of it works, because progress is forbidden. They would rather die screaming in the dark than innovate in any way.

5. The Inquisition is Just Orwellian Terror Dialed to 11 – Imagine if the Spanish Inquisition had nuclear weapons and the legal authority to obliterate entire planets on a bad hunch. That’s the Inquisition. If they think—even for a second—that your world might have some Chaos corruption, they will Exterminatus your entire planet without blinking. That’s like nuking New York City because one guy in Queens might be possessed by a demon.

And here’s the kicker: It’s all by design. The Imperium knows it’s an unlivable hellscape. It thrives on suffering, because the moment people actually get a chance to think—to stop, breathe, and say, “Hey, maybe life shouldn’t be an endless nightmare of war and death”—the whole system crumbles. The Imperium is an empire of fear, and it only survives because it has convinced its people that the only alternative is worse.

But here’s the final, most gut-wrenching part: It doesn’t have to be this way.

The Imperium has the resources, the manpower, the intelligence to be better. To change. To actually protect humanity instead of just throwing it into the fire. But they won’t, because it’s easier to keep everyone afraid, ignorant, and obedient than it is to build something better.

And that? That is why the Imperium of Man is not just the bad guys. It’s why they are the most tragic, most horrifying villains in all of Warhammer 40K. Because the worst evil isn’t the kind that comes from demons or monsters. It’s the kind that comes from good intentions turned to ashes, from a dream of unity that became a nightmare of endless war.

So yeah, if you think the Imperium are the good guys? Think again.

[cario55555]

Gonna be taking a bit of a break from art and such and so, specifically cotl stuff mainly because i got abunch of wips in the backlog and others stuff to doodle but also i like this little freakshow im making too so have abunch of fun facts about the funny lamb universe i got goin on for now under the cut

⁍ The Lamb would canonically win in a fight against 4 Leshy's or 2 Heket's, but not 3 Shamura's or 2 Kallamar's. ⁍ The Goat literally just walked into the Cult and acted like he already knew everyone. This somehow worked for 3 years. ⁍ I have no idea if Narilamb is canon in this or not, but if it was then it would not end well for anyone ⁍ Plimbo is the best character, this is a fact and you cannot dispute it. I tried designing him like 8? times and I just couldn't get it in a satisfying way. this is because he is without flaw. ⁍ The Lamb was fully aware of the prophecy before the beheading. They were counting on it. There is blood on their hands. ⁍ Sozo is very dead. Whatever's walking around the Cult, that's not Dr. Sozonius. ⁍ Look at this thing I can do ☺ isn't that wild ⁍ It takes place in a permadeath save. This means that the Lamb's delusions of power definitely weren't helped by the fact that they BARELY even knew Narinder, and the fact they killed 5 gods without sleeping. ⁍ Also Lamb killed Narinder lol ⁍ Mystic Seller is named "That Which Takes" ⁍ Leshycat's canon but I'll never design them its just gonna be like in Tom and Jerry where they're just slightly offscreen at all times ⁍ Midas that rat fuck owes me 20$ ⁍ Surprisingly, Heket got the closest to killing The Lamb. She wears this as a badge of honor, or as a means to make fun of the other Bishops. I forget which. ⁍ I might make a fanfic one of these days based on cult of the sham but it'd literally just be an always sunny episode lol ⁍ Webber is literally the exact same as the one from Don't Starve. They had to put him down because he kept placing spider nests all over the Cult, and Pigs kept trying to throw down. ⁍ A little gnome just ran behind you when you weren't looking. ⁍ The Lamb is ambidextrous, this is because I keep forgetting which hand to have them hold stuff with. They also have no idea what this word means. ⁍ The gnome ran behind you again you gotta pay more attention to this stuff ⁍ ☺sorry i didn't mean to do it that time ⁍ Clauneck and Kudaai like switching clothes and acting like eachother to fuck with people, it works every time without fail. ⁍ Aym and Baal are hanging out with Forneus. The Lamb didn't let them do this, they literally just booked it as soon as they got the chance and Forneus totally could beat the shit out of The Lamb. ⁍ help its red now ⁍ nevermind we're good ⁍ Ratau was driven mad by the crown. He's had the knowledge of the gods ripped from his skull and delicately placed onto some psychopathic woolen beast. He's not all there. ⁍ Any time I'm working on COTL stuff I'm usually listening to King Gizzard and the Wizard Lizard. To get the general tone I try and set, listen to their album "I'm In Your Mind Fuzz". Good stuff. ⁍ The Industrial Meat Grinder incident was an inside job.

thank y'all for all the support, means the world that people actually like the delusional ramblings that come out of my brain at...

yeah that tracks.

also one more little mini preview for a drawing that might get finished one of these days idk

why is webber there i genuinely do not remember???

[aranov]

I saw an art nouveau drawing of a skull on the internet, and I said hey do you know what are two great tastes that taste great together? Art nouveau and lesbian necromancers. I have sketches for the other Houses, but I am still working on botanical symbolism for them! (Lilies for the Eighth?)

Second House: Oak, for strength and fortitude. Also a common military motif because of these references.

Third House: Morning glory, a showy flower that will latch onto anything vertical. Seems fitting for a particular Saint of Awe.

Fourth House: Poppy, a flower used to commemorate veterans especially of the First World War. A conflict that sent millions of young people into a meat grinder doesn't sound at all familiar, does it?

Seventh House: Rose, which is already in the House's design but fits very well. Roses mean love and beauty, as well as the transience of those things, but they also have sharp thorns for the unwary.