#walking with a ghost

[rocknrollflames]

Walking With a Ghost

- Tegan and Sara

[bringthebiggergun]

And old cover I found on a forgotten hard drive I recently found. As a long time fan of the ladies you can find an entire playlist of Covers I've done in the past here.

[skyrigel]

me: feels unloved *searches x reader tag*

[anythingneverythingnstuffs]

Imagine accidentally walking into a military dive bar by yourself, not knowing that the customer base was mainly military folk, and just kind of rolling with it

Imagine you dressed cute, your hair was done, and it had been a long week- you deserved a good ol' night on the town, damnit, and you didn't want to pay another Uber to go to another bar

Imagine you making your way up to the bar to order your first drink of the night and when you order a simple cocktail, the bar goes quiet for a split second because who orders a cocktail in this place?

Imagine not knowing that since the second you walked in that door, you've had eyes on you. Of course you've had eyes on you since you walked in, but one pair in particular stayed glued to your form as you walked through the bar

Imagine looking around after getting your drink from the bartender to see where you'd try to sit for a bit to sip on your drink

Imagine there being an empty table near the far end of the bar that you decide to claim as your own as you continued to scope out the bar patrons

Imagine finally locking eyes with the one man that has had his eye on you since the minute you walked in the door

Imagine freezing as you look into his eyes from across the bar, suddenly aware that this huge, masked military man had been looking right at you

Imagine deciding after a second fuck it and you just gave him a smile and a small wave before sipping your drink. After all, he had been looking at you first, right?

Imagine seeing him look away briefly after your wave and you finally turn to look around the bar again, idly sipping at your drink

Imagine not even a minute later, that very same man is now standing right next to you- how the hell did he get there so fast-? And so quietly-?

Imagine the silence that ensues, neither one of you wanting to say the first word (well, it was either not wanting or not knowing what to say)

Imagine the first thing you speak to Simon 'Ghost' Riley, unknowing who he is or what his reputation was, being, "So, uh... Come here often...?"

Imagine that really being your best line for this strange man

Imagine Ghost letting out a soft grunt as he nodded, "Often enough. Never seen you here before."

Imagine you giving him another smile, this one softer and more genuine as you reply, "I didn't realize this was so... Military oriented. Am I even allowed to be here?"

Imagine hearing a small huff from the man, his eyes indiscernible as he says, "Course you're allowed. I'd like to see them try to kick a bird like you out."

Imagine giggling softly, "A bird like me? What's that supposed to mean?"

Imagine all the while, Simon 'Ghost' Riley's teammates are still sitting at the bar, watching this all go down like it was a soap opera. It was, wasn't it? Their Lieutenant going out of his way to flirt with the little bird who accidentally wandered into a military-centric dive and still ordered the little cocktail you liked.

ugh just imagine

masterlist

[laurastudarus]

In chatting with Sara Quin of Tegan and Sara, it’s clear how much she loves talking about Shonda Rhimes’ incredible creative world. “Whenever people say, ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ or ‘Shonda Rhimes,’ I immediately see myself in a 15-passenger van traveling across the United States on tour,” Sara Quin recalls. “That’s where we had the first conversation.”

(via The Important Lesson That ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ Taught Tegan and Sara)

[louhinks]

And that's alright

[starsm00n]

Is he a scary man covered in blood? Or is he my baby girl? Spot the difference

[psychotic-star-girl]

[radiance1]

"You fight against a god!" Said the eldritch, nearly undecipherable being that's body twinkled with stars that the JL/YJ (Your choice) had found themselves fighting against after having been sucked into a world not their own. "Do you truly believe yourselves capable of-"

A green sticky note appeared in front of the figure's... Face? They honestly didn't know, seeing as they couldn't tell where exactly this being began and ended.

"Oh- Oh uh." The figure said as its voice lost that booming, echoing quality as it started to shrink. "I gotta, like. Uh." Said the boy that took the being's place, sticky note in hand as he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. "Sorry, can we, uh. Continue this later? I gotta walk my dog-"

A moment later, a loud bark broke the new atmosphere, and the child beamed. "Cujo!" He said, holding out his arms as the dog barreled into him. "Okay so I'll just, uh. I'll be right back, okay? Just stay there!" He said, before falling through a portal and leaving.

"So does this mean we technically won-"

[croquicat]

nnnnnnyes sure let's go with that

[kimjun]

girls are like “I want a boyfriend” but reject everyone because none of them are their comfort characters

[chibird]

Self love is not always easy. It can be challenging and not fun at the time, but your future self will thank you!

Chibird store | Positive pin club | Instagram

[kkusuka]

i would love to be john price's (141's) little bird.

(afab reader, you're lowkey a housewife, g/n pronouns, this was also a lot longer than i meant it to be-1.2k words- and i also wrote it entirely in class)

just the cute little thing he comes home to after long missions; ready to give him anything he needs to fully enjoy his time at home. barefoot and wide-eyed waiting for your bear of a husband to return from his long hard mission, keeping him fed and fucked as much as he needs. and he just loves you so much-- so much that he needs to show everyone how good you are for him.

it's not like he sets out to rub it in, but when his sergeant mentions not having anyone waiting for him at home-- john just can’t help but invite him over, you always talk about how much you love taking care of him, adding another man shouldn't be a problem! and what kind of captain would he be if he didn't take care of his subordinates?

and you aren't complaining! you love when john lets you see into his job! and gaz is just so sweet, saying please and thank you, offering to help clean the dishes, and politely refusing any leftovers even when you all know he has no food to go back to. so, you just have to keep inviting him over, night after night. and he's so good at conversations, even when he and your husband talk with all their military jargon, he makes sure you understand all of it; you just want to keep him in your house forever! so you kind of do…

you can't imagine making him go all the way home to his cold and dark apartment, it's so far and you know he's tired from his month of constant action-- so suddenly kyle has a bedroom set up right next to yours (close enough to hear how john thanks you for being so good to his sergeant, and just maybe a hand goes down below his waistband) a fully stocked bathroom and a place to put his shoes when you all come back your occasion dinners out. (they're dates, you don't think it but they do)

but kyle is not a man so stay silent about his blessings. you're too nice, too pretty to not tell soap about-- and trust john isn't going to complain, and he knows that you won’t either. 'the best roast i think i've ever had' and 'knows exactly how to make a man feel at home' and soap is not one to stray from his desires.

so you end up with your boys, and a bubbling scotsman in your dinning room with no warning. and you're upset, no one told you that you had to make more food and now there isn't enough to give everyone your usual heaping portion- and there is no way you're letting anyone go hungry in your home!

so you end up bouncing around the kitchen, trying to whip something up before the main course finishes in the oven and who but soap offers to help you out! he's got a hand on you at all times (two on your waist when you're chopping the onion, he just wouldn't know what to do with himself if you got hurt making him dinner. so he has to hold you steady, he has to run his hands over your hips keep you stabilized-- don't think too much into it, just stay focused on chopping bonnie)

and soap knows that he can talk for hours, but he can't help it when your eyes light up when he mentions his childhood in scotland and his missions around the world. and your small flinch and frown when he talks about getting hurt. their lass just can't help but worry about them. he just can't stay away from his captains sweet bird-- not when you send him off with a steaming pile of leftovers and a tight hug (pressed against him as hard as you can because you don’t want him to go)

johnny, a man to brag, never shuts up about how it took kyle three months to get a room but it only took him two. (sometimes when he comes back from the bathroom in the morning he can see into your room as you're getting ready. and he doesn't mean to do it but your panties are his favorite shade of blue and they look so amazing on you-- he wants to see them up close so bad.)

and so he tells ghost of all his troubles- unasked and randomly the next time they got sent out. and does ghost really care about johnny's playground crush on their captains bird? yes. how had he been left the only one not getting home cooked meals after being sent out? is he going to say anything about it?

not a chance.

so it takes a little while before the final place at your dinner table to be filled. but after a particularly grueling mission (and already wishing to come over), ghost is finally convinced he belongs with the rest of his team.

and you've never been happier to make extra food; you've been hearing for months about the illusive fourth man of your husband's battalion but having him stand in your kitchen with a cute little store bought dessert was certainly worth the wait. ( 'Ah didnae ken ye liked pink that much, lt' 'it was all they 'ad, can't show up empty 'anded, johnny')

and is he a little awkward and standoffish, of course-- years of military pressure will do that to a man!

and simon is just too sweet, even if he doesn't know it. he's pulling your chair out for you, and running out in the rain to collect the mail that you'd forgotten all about. he even lets you drag him to the grocery store during your weekly trips. (it's not dragging, he'd follow you into the pits of hell if you'd asked him too so the grocery store is really not a big deal.)

everything is just so perfect when all of your the boys are all in the house together!

and suddenly everything in life makes sense again. that plate that you can never reach on the highest shelf in the kitchen, a body is pressed against you as simon leans over you to grab it leaving you with a squeeze to your hip and red face. the gossip that your husband just never understood in the way he should is studently being told to kyle over coffee every morning as your other boys roll out of bed. the soap opera that you rope johnny into watching every thursday night becomes facemasks and wine time.

and john just loves it. he just loves you so much; loves the way you smile at kyles flirting, loves how you cuddle up to johnny on the couch, loves how you let simon hold you so close when you make his tea in the morning, and he just loves teasing you about it. (teasing? yes. making you face the fact that you want your husbands men to run a train on you like a whore. also yes.)

i wanna keep going but i have to let it end at some point

[emacrow]

When John Constantine died, he didn't think his last deal actually saved his soul.

Especially with a enormous room full of Gods, Demons, Faes and other being he swindled his soul with.

He didn't expect that deal with the Ghost King in the infinite realm for beating darkseid accidentally contaimnented his poor excused piece soul with ectoplasm to morph into a halfa when he died doing what he never thought he do last.

Save a kid from an illegal ectoplasm extraction from what would've cause the future to end later on.

The next thing he knows, he is in a giant room with all the entity he swindled, sitting on a red plush pillow. Feeling smaller than ever, looking at his tiny tanned pudgy baby hands before a loud whined was heard.

"Fuckin Infinite king got him."

"Yeah, fuck that, I'm not fighting the infinite king after what he did to Chaos last time. He can keep Constantine's stinky soul."

John could only stare in amazement and some twisted sense of shock as one by one, more and more entities were leaving the room, giving up their own contracts, some cursing or grumbling under their voices, even the one who swear she'll get him, could only gritted her teeth, and throw a cursing tantrum before throwing her own contracts on the floor before walking out the room.

Leaving John alone, sitting on a plush pillow with the main person who has caused all this..

Danny Phantom, who was sitting down, relaxed in mid-air, playing with a miniature newborn galaxy like it was a playdoh. White hair full of stars constellations as braids holder, face covered in stardust with a smug grin on his face.

"Why..?" John could only say softly. After all the trouble he cause with the infinite realm high king, he didn't expect this.

"You'd grown on me after accepting that deal to take out the ecto-acts, and seeing your cheese grated soul like that and knowing what going happen after you die. It was the least I could do, plus.." Danny said honestly, waving his hand a bit in gesture.

"Now, there are no excuses that I can't look in your cursed astronomy tower at the house of mysteries!" Danny said with his cheek beaming brightly.

John could only stare blankly for a moment before he started to giggles.. that giggles morphing to a full-blown out crying mixture laugh.

The tiny, purpled hair toddler sobbed like a baby for the first time in years, tears of overjoyed or overly emotional sense of relief that he escaped his own damnant thanks to one deal with a scrawny teen in a outhouse diner 3 years ago.

Hell, being turned into a 3 year old toddler halfa was a better thought than he had in mind, even at the expense of no alcohol for the next 14-18 years would be worth it.

Part 2 -> here

[lilybug-02]

Hi, Dewi!

Bug Fact: Red light is generally the least attractive to insects at night. (ie. Dewi taped some red tape on his flashlight to not scare the bugs)

V2 First || Prev // Next

Volume 2 Masterpost

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Interested in learning about insect light spectrum's? No? Too Bad.

COLOR VISION

Human Vision:

Varying Insect Vision:

[pricetagged]

butcher paper

Here's a young (maybe 19-early 20s) Simon struggling with his emotions, working as a butcher's apprentice, and fixating on the pretty student waitress at the café next door (':

Content: plus size f-presenting reader; allusions to domestic abuse (Simon's past); fat-shaming (not Simon); little bit of violence, unedited. (Link to Ao3)

He's not sure that it counts as desire. Interest. It crawls over him, makes him feel aggressive, makes him want to dig his teeth in and shake and snarl.

It's hunger.

And he knows hunger. Knows it like he knows the cigarette burns on the back of his hand. Knows it like he knows his old man's a waste of space and that he has to defend his mum and protect Tommy and- and-

He's the man of the house, only the house is rotten. Woodloused frames, crumbling bricks. Gutted. Empty shelves hidden behind broken doors. Chipped plaster, electricity cutting off. Squeaky steps that always clued them in when the old man was on a rager (not that it helped, creaking out a warning but giving no clue where to run. The percussion leading to a gallows' jig; the heavy step before the hit).

But the old man's gone now. And Simon is left trying to fill in the boots he doesn’t know how to wear. All growth spurt and gangly limbs and anger. So much anger at the old bastard. Tear-soaked anger at his mum sometimes (buried deep behind the shame that he feels when he thinks of her black and blue. Anger and shame, bitter roots that he chews at to soothe the clench of in his jaw and the grind of his teeth). And then he sees you through the window. Through the peeling CHRISTMAS SPECIAL sign highlighting ham joints and turkey and pigs in blankets.

You're so soft.

You look like you’ve lived a life well-fed and well-loved. Something round and sweet and helpless, like the puppies he and Tommy had seen dumped in the park while they snuck cigarettes and swigged from cheap supermarket cider.

And that brings him back to the hunger. He's an awkward creature, shuffling to the café where you work part-time. He's more feeling than man, all rage and appetite stuffed into a skin suit. You sense it too, nerves tugging at the tilt of your smile as you approach the scavenger that swept in to sit at the cheap plastic tables in this greasy spoon. He sits awkwardly, too, hunched over the table like his stomach is gnawing at him. Big hands snapping the disposable plastic coffee stirrers and shredding the napkins. That first day, he just stares at you. Sneers a little when you flutter over to take his order.

You slosh the tea a little when you serve it.

He sees the burn bloom, watches as you suck at the sting with plump cheeks and a rosy little mouth, and he just wants to dig in and scratch hard to see you do that again.

It becomes a habit, watching you. He finds out bits and pieces listening as he rends and chops and saws through muscle and bone, stinking of sweat and iron. You're here as a student. You're living in student digs (good, best that you avoid the up-and-downs and rough streets that would fit a student budget), and you're a real sweetheart. Old Sal who has been running the café for the past 30 years leans a heavy elbow on the display counter as he chats with the boss.

"She's lovely, taken to it like a fish to water," his raspy, smoke-charred voice is cheery as he waits for the bacon and sausages to be weighed and wrapped. "Only asked for Thursdays and Fridays off since she has afternoon classes then. Otherwise, I almost have to round her out of the shop, doing more afternoons and weekends than my own kid."

You're hardworking too, then. He wonders if it's because you're hungry too, needing something to do with your time, living on pot noodles and supermarket ready-meals like he'd heard some students do. It's strange how that thought sits uncomfortably, makes him want to hunch over you and bring you his scraps.

That week, he decides to talk to you. Only the words get caught, don't come out quite right as he stares at the way your jumper clings to the soft curves under your faded apron. When you turn around, bustling to other customers, he can't help but stare at the line of your skirt. It's real pretty, decent, sitting just above your knees but Christ, he wishes that it would roll up a little higher. That it would catch on the corner of a table or hitch up as you raise your arms and swish past with a tray full of fry-ups. He almost gets lucky as you bend over to mop up a spill just across the room. Your thighs widen as they press against the table, tights stretching thin and sheer and he just can't tear his eyes away-

(The hunger in his stomach turns hot and biting, makes his cheeks flush and his mouth dry-)

But it's ruined. Fly in the soup, hair in the dish, as you catch him and your eyebrows pinch together as you look away. There's something guarded, bitter, in your lovely eyes, and the dryness in his mouth turns wet and sour. You seem to take pains to avoid him, swapping out with Sal's son so that you can work the counter instead of the floor.

"'m Simon," he grunts as he goes to settle the bill. "Work at the butcher's across the street."

You clearly didn’t expect an introduction, shoulders relaxing and hesitant smile blooming as you give your name in return.

"Yeah, I know. Sal mentioned you a few times. He's tried to give me the rundown of practically everyone on the street, feels like."

"Y'should come in t'the shop," the invitation rushes out in a way that makes him feel clumsy. Perhaps that’s why he did it; to have you in his space, with his head and his footing right. Here, he feels every inch the artificial man. Pieced together, too big and too looming, with no help or guidance on how to talk to soft things and pretty girls.

You grimace a little, eyes focused on the till as you count out his change. "Not really on a butcher-shop budget right now."

"'S'alright. I can keep something aside for ya," he doesn't mention how it would come out of his wages. How it would come out of what he brought home to his mum and Tommy. It didn't matter, though, when he was used to going without.

"That's - that's really nice, actually," Your sweet face is glowing now, and he feels like he could bathe in the warmth of it. "Next time you come by lunch is on me."

He sees the way you tuck your chin and smile as he walks away, and that bottomless pit in his guts feels just a little more full.

(He doesn't quite catch the snickers of the boys at table three, whispering and nudging each other as you come to take their orders. This time.)

He stares more and more through the window of the shop, watching as you come and go. Watching the way you greet the regulars and skirt around the group of lads who like to linger in the evenings. There's something sharp, nasty, to the way they circle around the entrance. The way they cackle and hoot when the one with the eyebrow piercing smirks and whispers to his mates as they force you to brush past. They're a pack of hyenas, shrieking and smug as they toy with the poor little thing that's walked past their watering hole. He's seen this type before, practically grew up with them. His old man was probably one of them, perfecting his cruelty while young, cementing it as part of his nature.

It has Simon sharpening his knives while he grits his teeth. Has the boss tutting at him when he cuts too close to the bone.

He knows there's something violent in him. The old man tried to bring it out then snuff it out, getting scared when the knife that he sharpened was able to cut him in return. He's no stranger to bloodshed. No stranger to the calloused, deprivation-dimmed apathy that breeds like algae in the environment where he was forged. Dripping, slimy, suffocating.

Doesn't mean he likes it, though.

(He'd gone back for those puppies, you know. Felt wrong leaving them. Felt like a rebellion against his old man's sick life lessons as he dumped the box outside the doors of a local veterinary clinic).

So he keeps his eyes peeled, stakes out the café like he owns it. Stares down anyone who looks at you wrong until they look away, muttering under their breath. 'Fucking freaky dead-eyed git.' It seems to work.

And you seem to like it, sparing more smiles for him. Bringing him bigger portions than normal and topping up his cup before he even needs to ask.

"I know you've been working since seven, Simon. Gotta keep your strength up," You seem bashful as you slide the plate across, and he just eats it up.

You've been looking at him, thinking about him. It's not something he's familiar with, having someone care for him. His mum loves him, of course. Tommy too. But it’s not the same, not when it's been his job to take care of them. His job to step up to the mantle and into the shoes that his father should've filled. Watching the sway of your wide hips as he tucks into the steak and kidney pie with gusto, he feels satisfied. The hunger is there, always is, but it's not gouging at him under the skin. It's satiated, pleased. The kind of comfort that leaves his eyes heavy and his belly warm.

It's a routine you fall into, and everything is rosy-

Until it's not.

He's closing up shop, wiping down the counters and getting ready to haul down the shutters when he sees them. Those stupid pricks, travelling in their pack and signaling that their quarry is in sight. Look, there it is alone and limping and- You're in a rush, leaving later than usual and shrugging your coat on carelessly as you shout your goodbyes to Sal. You're in that skirt again, the one that makes his lower belly tighten and mouth feel dry.

"Oi, look! Dirty scrubber has her fat arse hanging out!"

It sets them off, chittering and howling as you freeze wide-eyed and lip-quivering.

"Gonna be sick, mate. Don't want to see your knickers, love. Didn't even know they came in that size."

He doesn't even see red. Doesn't see anything but your pretty, round face crumpling as you try to tug your skirt out from where it got caught under your coat.

The ringing of the bell by the door muffles the sound of the first punch. His fist crunches into that prick's nose, and he wants nothing more than to keep going until his face is little more than meat and pulp and blood. He can taste it, smells the blood in the air like a shark.

But you're watching.

"Bit bored with y'taking the piss out of her," he snarls it as he hauls the man by his jacket, shoving him hard against the wall until his head thwacks against the bricks. Easy as hauling a side of beef. "Why don't ya try me next?"

The man seems dazed, head spinning and nose dripping. His mates, too, look floored. Ready to scatter and abandon their leader to the bigger beast. Only the promise of more blood keeps them watching, feeds their nasty appetites and he's just itching to let them see. Watch what happens; it's coming for you next.

"Speechless now, eh? Had so much to say earlier," he's spitting the words out, teeth snapping as he leans down so close to the man's face that he can see how his pupils constrict. "Apologise."

And he's smarter than he would give him credit for. Smart enough to whimper out his 'sorry, sorry, sorry' as he drops to the filthy, damp pavement when Simon swivels towards the others. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way his hands and apron are splattered with the gore of man and animal, has them scattering.

"That goes for the rest of ya! Don't ever want t'see your ugly fucking mugs around here again," he spits on the ground, itches at his jaw with his wrist as he watches them run.

He can't hear them anymore. Can't hear anything over the sound of his heavy panting and pounding heartbeat.

It's cold out. He's only realising it now, standing in the December chill with just an apron over his jeans and t-shirt. It has him shaking, flexing his hand as his knuckles start to sting and swell. He welcomes it, welcomes the familiar bite as he pushes down the savage, ragged anger rippling through his chest.

"Simon-"

"Y'alright?" he cuts you off, faces you head-on.

And all the rage saps out. You're not cowering away. There's no disgust on your face. No tears or embarrassment either, no. You've got a crumpled packet of wet wipes in your hand, reaching out for him. Concerned.

"Figure you'd want to get that prick's blood off you soon as possible," you give him a sad little half-smile. "Didn't have to do all that for me, Simon."

"Yeah, didn't have to." He concedes as he steps closer to you. Crowds into your space until you're toe-to-toe and he can feel your warmth. He brushes his fingers against yours, lets them linger on your soft skin as he reaches for the wipes. "I wanted to."

-----------------------

Let's all pretend that this was okay and ignore the fact that I still haven't posted the wips that I keep going on about 🫠💖

Just a little self-indulgent drabble idea that I had today, thinking back to watching 'My Mad Fat Diary' as a teenager, feeling nostalgic ~ (The Finn-defending-Rae scene had 18yo me in a chokehold lol).