@thecreativeforge ://

<< Yorkville, New York, New York >>

Sunlight didn't wake him; breathing did. The measure of another body's life and warmth. The shape and weight and delicate muscle of another leg resting on his leg; leaner and shorter than his; pleasantly warm. 

He'd been dreaming—Ben thought he'd been dreaming, and he sighed, and the fireworks behind his hot red eyelids left on him the impression of its pleasantries. The next gala was a year away, and he'd made it through this one; he even felt well-rested. 

Then he opened his eyes. He opened his eyes to a smooth brown shoulder, well-shaped, taught with lean muscle, and smelling of cinnamon. That was nice. 

Then he saw the tattoos, and he scrambled. He recognized the cryptic bands in an instant and, in that instant, realized the body he'd made a fetish of belonged to Rashad. 

Ben's heart leapt, as he would have if he didn't feel crushed by shame. Instead, he peeled himself from the sheets and slunk out of bed. He was naked, which could only mean one thing. 

Clutching the doorframe and his—you know—Ben backed out of the master room. His stomach lurched. 

Had he...?

He woke up and found Rashad in his Manhattan apartment, in the master bedroom, with the candlestick and the Hiroshima Mon Amour poster. 

No, he hadn't found Rashad; he'd committed a crime. How had it happened? Ben couldn't remember. He must have coerced—or been coerced—maybe it had been mutual, a double murder of sorts. 

It was true he kept Rashad sequestered from some of his friend groups—Marci, Ian, and Tihan—his peers from Edinbrough—his friend group from Columbia—but Ben kept all his friends in compartments. And he and Rashad had always been friends. Really good friends since prep. What if...

When the room started spinning, Ben decided to forgo thought. He stumbled into the guest bathroom and threw up. Not hungover, no. Sick to his stomach with discomfit, sure. Yes. Great. 

Ben then performed his supposed daily ritual as though the cleansing of his body and the particular order of each task would protect him—ward off the yips or something. He brushed his teeth in the shower. He shaved. When Ben's back was scrubbed raw, he toweled off. He ran argan oil through his hair and glowered at his reflection. He'd decided to stop thinking, but if Ben were thinking, he might have thought this was more than he'd do if he were actually going outside. 

He looked okay, though he was sweating at his temples by the time he switched off the bathroom light and trudged into the penetrating living room light illuminating thousands of dollars worth of Pakistani carpet squares, the art deco armchairs. He'd forgotten about those. 

Ben quickly pulled on whatever clothes he could find, anything that smelled all right, wandered over to the fridge, and rubbed the perspiring bulb of French-pressed coffee on his face, all over the slope of his face. 

"Mmm, gross," he muttered, pouring himself a tall glass. "You're gross." 

He poured Rashad coffee from a different carafe and added a splash of milk. A glass in each hand, he crossed the hot living room. Slowly, as if he were wading through a vast mangrove to wake a sleeping prince. What would the prince be like when he awoke? 

Morning rose twenty storeys from the Manhattan streets, blaring with yellow taxis and ripe lemon sun pouring through unadorned floor-to-ceiling windows. At the edge of his bed, Ben stopped and sat. The bed groaned on his behalf. He glanced at the sleeping Rashad and took a deep breath in. "Uhhhhhh." And a deep breath out. "Huhhhhhhh..." He licked his lips. He swallowed. He did everything but wake him.

Rashad really resembled a prince, too, his hand drawn over his brow, his long, ringed fingers looped in the melodrama of his hair. Eyes... 

Nope. No. 

He had to stop himself. Ben never had that voice he imagined most people did, the Jiminy Cricket, but he knew he had to stop dreaming. Rashad was royalty. He lived in a realm of rare artifacts. There was a palace, tradition, and expectation. Then there was Ben. He knew *this* had to be stopped. Now. Before someone got hurt, roasted, canceled.

"Uh." Ben swallowed before reaching for Rashad's arm, his hand just brushing his skin. "Hey-y…"

That a simple touch had become so uncomfortable literally overnight, literally, in the strict sense of the word, was a cruel irony. 

@warpaiint​​ said: “  you talk in your sleep, ya know.  ”

        At the statement, the commander’s nose scrunched some and her eyes narrowed. “ I do no such thing. ” The comment came out a little defensive and was muttered mostly to herself. Could Leksa really be so sure that was the case? after all, she spent many RESTLESS nights alone. And then the spirits of all the past commanders did commune with her. Most often she would receive their guidance in dreams. Validating Aloy’s observation. But surely those conversations did not bleed out in the WAKING world. 

ghh. please dont flop. please dont flop. please don

this took like 203 layers. and 13 hours and 30 minutes btw. irlk it was like 2-3weeks

but uhh it doesnt look that official iguess. who carez

jhere lemme show you like two easter eggs i put there actually:3

this ones pretty obvious id.say

just reffering to how timekeeper is croissant

okay so no. coffee candy isnt crying at nothing. HGEEDLP

if you recognize the lobby theyre in. uyes its the witches kitchen. and you can see matilda(the witch from cr) (search her up) hand slightly. thats becasue, tk felt silly , trapped baugette and coffee candy in the witches kitchen and made them run away from . their death!

right as the witch was about to grab therm both. tk was like 'oops this went too far' and then bought them back to the present timeline! teehee

also the picture . thats floating kinda. is a hc that. string and croi were. childhood besties... hgh,,,,

reading comics not for enjoyment or leisure but a secret third thing (to win arguments online)

@kingfishered said : "if a genie gave you three wishes, what would you ask for?" (from soap to ghost)

Something about the operation today felt... off.

And that was being generous. Ghost didn't usually get anxious like this over a mission. In fact, it was usually the opposite. Usually, he'd be bouncing off the fucking walls to get back out on the field, to get his hands dirty, to be useful.

Not today.

From the second they had made infil, right until now, he'd had a gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

His team had pushed in first, and as Johnny was muling the explosives, Ghost had instructed him to keep a decent distance back, to keep safe. Sure, the explosives were mostly the reason. But, even since the night when Johnny had found him covered in blood in his office and tenderly cleaned him up, Ghost had found himself getting more and more tentative about allowing his Sergeant into the line of fire. What if something happened to Johnny? What if something happened to Johnny on his watch, today? He'd never be able to fucking forgive himself.

Despite his persistent paranoia and the gut feeling that something would go terribly wrong, it had all been going fine. Smoothly. Well, even. That was until...

"If a genie gave you three wishes, what would you ask for?"

Ghost had to admit he was glad for the mask, or else everyone in the fucking room would have seen the sheer look of horror on his face. Here Johnny was, chatting away like he wasn't on a job with the terrifying Ghost. No, Johnny was acting like he usually did when it was just him and Simon.

That wasn't how it could go today. He had half a mind to give Johnny an apologetic look before he spoke, but that sentiment quickly went out the window when Ghost became acutely aware of all the eyes on him, waiting with bated breath to see their Lieutenant's reaction to the question.

If it wasn't for their company in the room, men and women who hadn't worked with Ghost enough to realise he was a ball of bad jokes and anxiety, he might have laughed. He might have actually tried to answer the question, it was quite an interesting one to think about.

But, unfortunately for Johnny, Ghost had to save at least a little face, and couldn't be setting a bad example for the rookies by letting himself get distracted by his Sergeant. 

Agonisingly slowly, Ghost turned, fully facing Johnny with his hands tightly gripping his rifle and his feet planted firmly on the ground. He fixed him with an annoyed stare, knit brows behind the undoubtedly suffocating mask. It was pretty warm, it wasn't a surprise he was struggling to breathe a little. Though, he did suppose he could put that down to shock over Johnny's... peculiar question.

Maybe it was a bit of both. 

"What the fuck do you mean, a fucking genie, Soap? 

No Johnny for him, not while he was fooling around and pulling everyone's attention off task.

"Sergeant, some of us are trying to do our job, here," Ghost hissed, stepping towards him, taking him roughly by the arm and marching him out into the already cleared corridor. Out of earshot of everyone else, Ghost ducked his head in, voice lowered and tone much softer. "What would you ask for?"

1AM GANG RISE UP.

@f1rst-prince

"We'll start small", Catherine had said. "We'll start with Henry, and work our way up to Bea and Pip. You'll see - they'll understand, darling." Arthur wasn't so sure, but he wanted to believe. The cancer had been supposed to be fatal. Irrevocable, the hospital had said. They'd advised bedrest, somewhere warm, and between Catherine and Mary, which looking back was never a good thing), they'd decided it was best for Arthur to disappear until they knew, one way or another. He hadn't, however, realised that disappear meant dead. That his children had been mourning him all this time, and that Catherine had been pretending to go on charity excursions. "It was as good as charity," she'd joked, and he'd frowned at her. He was angry and horrified. Insisted that he be reintroduced to their lives, demanded it, in fact, or he'd find a way to damn well get back. "It won't be easy," he'd been told, but he didn't care. So they'd started with Henry. The youngest, the softest, Catherine said (though Arthur privately disagreed), the one least likely to snap after realising that he'd been lied to half his life. Once more, Arthur wasn't certain he agreed, but they had to start somewhere. It took some planning, and he wasn't sure how Catherine was even going to tell Henry (surprise, your dad has been alive this whole time!) or the others, but he had to trust her. He didn't have much choice. Catherine had flown Henry and his partner in from America, and on the flight over she'd decided spur of the moment, it'd be better just to... wait. Henry wouldn't believe her if she told him, and their relationship was not great. It was better, she thought, if Henry saw, if he and Arthur had that wonderful moment she could almost imagine in her head, the two of them running toward each other, that beautiful family moment., then everything would make sense and be forgiven. It would be perfect.

Since his father had died, Henry felt like the colours of the world around him and the gilded cage he was trapped in had faded to a dull grey. He'd lost most of his family in one fell swoop; Dad was dead and buried, Mum was absent both physically and emotionally, Philip had apparently decided to follow Gran's views on pretty much everything, and Bea had gone completely off the rails as she searched for her next high.

In short, life had been pretty shit - would've been unbearable if it wasn't for David, Pez and now Alex.

He'd been curled up in bed with Alex and David when Mum had called out of the blue, asked them to come back to England as soon as they could. Of course he'd agreed; Mum had called to ask, and that in itself was something to sit up and take notice of. She wouldn't say what was happening, though, and neither Bea nor Philip knew what was going on - they hadn't received a call, though Bea was threatening to just show up anyway ( for moral support, she'd said, though Henry thinks that she might just be nosy ).

That's how he'd ended up here, stood in the gardens of Kensington Palace with Alex's hand clasped tightly in his own as they waited for Catherine to meet them, politely admiring the rose bushes with quiet murmurs.

this is such a baby take but ppl who don't talk through tags low-key freak me out

𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐘 / 𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄: 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒

MEDICAL TW: Hello followers, I know my pinned points out that I'm low activity already, but I'm going to emphasize it for May 2024 ( & June more than likely ). I'll be in & out of the hospital very frequently beginning the 7th, so I may not have my devices on me, or I'll genuinely be too stressed / miserable / etc. to respond to asks & threads, plot or draw, you know the drill. Hopefully, I should be alright by the 17th - 20th, but the outlook isn't that good. If I have to extend my hiatus through June, I will post an update here. I do have an important notice regarding June, but it's a bit sensitive for medical, so it's under a read more:

For those not in the know, I'm undergoing treatment for a multitude of conditions, predominantly PTSD & Epilepsy, among other uncontrollable symptoms such as morbid hallucinations & irate behavior / extreme mood swings. Which, after briefly losing health insurance, worsened. I'm currently in the middle of trying different cocktails of medications + treatment to see what sticks, which has resulted in symptoms I don't even want to get into right now. The point is that I'm a very sick individual, & I'm sick to the point that I'm under the process of applying for disability, as I'm not safe to work in public or drive right now. Changing medications & going to the hospital for treatment take a serious toll on my emotional, mental & physical well-being, so depending upon how my mind / body reacts come June, I will post a second hiatus if need be.

@itmeanspeace sent:// [ 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 ] : as sender is about to leave, receiver grabs them by the wrist,' and now it's the starter of all time

—☾—

New York City was a good place to disappear completely. Historically, Manhattan was the mythical megalopolis where people came to create themselves in Their image fading into ghosts and withered gods over time by choice or natural selection. Ben told himself he was back in the Apple temporarily. He was in public transit purgatory until further notice. That was all.

On this muggy, pre-fall day in limbo, Ben was on his way to 'pick up Rey from work,' though Rey, being both the mechanic and the one with a valid driver's license, ruled the wheels. Ben was a tolerated, eternally grateful passenger. Since his license had been suspended, Ben joked that he'd sold his car to a really talkative guy named Greg Arias. 

In all seriousness, he had.

Rey wasn't waiting outside Salerno's Body Shop when he rounded the corner of Ninth. A quick look inside the vestibule led to an awkward exchange with her boss, and when Ben shrugged through the open door of her supply room, he didn't find Rey there.

That was fine.

Ben then sloped into the main shop, Hell's Kitchen's largest industrial carousel. As he scanned the floor, a funny feeling crept up his shoulders, placing him in a chokehold. Not funny-ha-ha. Funny-uh-oh. Something was going to happen—but Ben usually had the sense that an anvil was about to drop on him any second, so, slouching, he took his leave, figuring he’d text Rey later. Or possibly tomorrow. Or in a year, when he renewed his license.

At the very moment Ben shuffled toward the front gate, he spotted a mechanic he'd never seen before, and stopped dead in his tracks. She had big red hair, wore an oversized logo t-shirt knotted at the bottom, and the air of a person ready to go home hours ago. The woman was also instantly and eerily familiar, which Ben hated. He preferred the possible reality (now lost and gone) in which the woman was a stranger. Usually, Ben would hang under the flag brackets and wait out her exit so he could lope off undetected, but he couldn't ignore the impulse that told him she was a ghost, like him. A ghost he knew.

Ben smoothed the hair on the back of his neck, his body locked in reverie. A matte orange Mustang rose on the lift behind him like a silly set piece, and Ben was a doubly silly prop hanging from limp strings. Then those strings snapped, and the shop spilled back in full color, its bite of machine music and chemical fumes eating at his senses. Though it couldn't have been happening, it was; the red-haired woman was real, and Ben recognized her. She was one of the twins.

Ben swelled with memories, memories of glowsticks in dark wardrobes, fortune-telling games with autumn leaves; a sprig of golden-yellow horse chestnut meant good luck. Did they ever remember? Those lonely nights? The games with Reagan and Shiloh, too, though she joined in less often. 

Shiloh was a bit different. Reagan took to dancing and music; her sister took the china clocks apart and put them back together again. She’d been the more private sister, and Ben and Shiloh could be quiet together.  

One day, he never saw them again. The twins became whispers, ghost stories told around solipsistic urban bonfires. Twins were haunted, they said. It was that simple. 

How much time had passed? Ben stared at the twin, open-mouthed. She stared back at him.

In the rise, the rush of feeling in his chest, the quickening pace of that blood-pumping organ under his ribs, Ben couldn't tell whether he was looking at Shiloh or Reagan. For a moment, Ben was convinced she was Reagan, utterly enthralled until reality backhanded him. Reagan was...

"Shiloh?" 

Ben froze as she did—the name, it'd just sort of slipped out.

Shiloh’s face moved. She recognized him. And that wasn't good, apparently. Maybe she heard about his 'little accident' in Singapore. Maybe she didn't remember him at all. She dove into the Ninth Avenue rabble like merfolk. And Shiloh let herself be swallowed and hustled along, surely in hope of losing him in the stream of people, but Ben, who knew the rhythm of all crowds like the hammering of his heart, who, with a modicum’s assertiveness, could push his way through, and didn't, just couldn't let her slip away, couldn't let it go. 

Occasionally, one of his shoulders would slam into someone going against the flow of traffic, and so as he hurried to catch Shiloh, he waffled between calling her name (which drew far too much attention but seemed fundamental to their situation) and apologizing to hapless pedestrians.

"Sorry—

Shiloh, hold—

Excuse me

Uh, okay…

Sorry, please move, sorry—

Shiloh, wait

P—Ow

oh my GODfffmnmOVE

Shiloh!

Wait—"

Finally, Ben caught Shiloh's wrist in his big, hot mitt. Held fast, though his grip felt clammy and weak, though she glared at him, alarmed, maybe angry? She still hadn't grown into her eyes. Ben hadn't grown into one or two attributes he wasn't going to name.

"Just wait."

He'd had enough of ghost stories.

open for @ourcwnside or @hodgepodgebitches

I'm imagining Crowley's been singing the song that never ends or something, but it also could be he's bending over seductively or exposing his ankles or even something like calling him out on his weird new socks or something. up to you.

Aziraphale didn't get angry. Of course, righteous anger was allowed in certain circumstances, but he'd never been overly fond of it. After all, striking down wicked humans wasn't his job--that was above his pay grade, so to speak.

But Crowley had been teasing him, irritating him on purpose, and (may the Almighty forgive him) the fury had been building. And finally, it snapped. Supernaturally fast, he was out of his chair, both hands fisted in Crowley's shirt. Then they both hit the wall. "One more time," he dared menacingly. "Repeat that one more time and see what happens."

.

@lietwice sent:

❛ Don’t use your charm smile on me. ❜

Julian's smile went softer and his eyebrows tilted together curiously. "My charm smile? And what is that?" Even if he had a smile specifically intended to be charming, why would he think it would work on Garak? Still, he had to admit that Garak was especially adorable like this, all grumpy and argumentative, and maybe that was incentive enough to feign just a little extra ignorance.

Good morning, sinners!

> Had free time to write.

> Spent my morning looking at pictures of Vox.

borth .......... day .... .... .. ..

@amillixnvoices asked ❝ be quiet and kiss me. ❞ -

"Is that an order, your highness?" Alex questions, eyebrows raised high as he gives Henry a look that speaks of complete innocence, like he's not deliberately being a brat, like he's not deliberately holding back from obliging, pressing their lips together hungrily like they both know he wants to.