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#read a poem today please
rowan-ashtree · 5 months
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the sea and the lighthouse
an ode to myself, and to people like me
cw: violence (somewhat graphic), death mention, vague references to religion.
I felt like I was drowning in a sea of confusion, and I worried it was because I didn’t have the faith to walk on the surface.
I know now that this was not the case. My confusion turned to anger when I grabbed a buoy and saw people staring. Who were they to watch me sputter and splash and place bets on my survival?
They were the ones who would plunge knives into my chest and praise my pain tolerance (because I barely flinched anymore), then scoff at my faithlessness when I refused to sacrifice myself on the sealing room altar.
They were the ones who would weave nooses around my neck, made from indifference and empty words, then whisper of my weakness when I cut myself loose, seeking woven things of warmth instead.
They were the ones who would condemn violence (with my blood on their hands and the bodies of my siblings hanging above them) (without any trace of irony or even regret).
Who am I that I should be left to drown, fearing all the while that it’s my own fault?
I was the one who would take the blades they used to hurt me, and carve my identity, my entire self, out of the bare rocks of abandonment. Then, I would carve my own altar, and offer up the blunted and bloodied knives as a sacrifice.
I was the one who would weave bandages to cover my wounds, and blankets to keep myself warm, and shrouds for those they refused to bury.
I was the one who would learn to swim in my own confusion, and even relish it, so that I could be the buoy for the next person they would seek to drown.
The sea could not snuff out my candle, so they gave me bushel after bushel and called it a kindness. For a while, I merely set them aside. Now, I set them ablaze and add them to the lighthouse beacon that my candle has become.
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mizzingyou · 11 months
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heart to heart // ted lasso
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I am out of the med that regulates my pain (and the soonest I might get it is tonight if I'm lucky)
I haven't slept well in like a week
I log on to The Webbed Site and find that one of the peeps I enjoyed (through her interactions with several other wonderful queers on my dash) has been permabanned by the CEO, loosing her 4th account and her name is being used as a bludgeon to kill other queers, most often Trans Women who've already dealt with repeated baseless account wipes
I am so full of pain,
Tumblr is one of the extremely few places where I can be Queer and interact fully with others like me. It's the only place I have where I can speak and feel like I can actually say all I want to without the same level of worry that I have in my In Person life. I am blessed to have protection in the form of a Roommate dedicated to privacy protection and absolutely locking our Internet down. Even then, in the place I feel most comfortable to be Queer, I consciously make sure to not id my name, my siblings names, where I live or lived, because I *know* it takes one SINGLE person deciding to label me as a threat, to add me to a list, to ensure that I receive every bit of what Avery has shouldered for years. It's the reality of being Queer.
Trans Women and Men and People, the queers they are and they are friends with know to their core the reality of existence. We know that this is not fair, just, kind or in any way reasonable and yet when we stand in Solidarity and continue to point out how deeply this hurts! How deeply it guts the members of Tumblr who have defined it so completely they had the gall to say it was The Queerst Place, to be banned, to be targeted, to say the millions of dollars in ad revenue is worthless cause you're a goddamn tranny,
It simply results in the CEO doubling down, in scores of users sticking their head in the sand...
Well...
I can't do much, sitting here, in pain, feeling the loss of Avery and Nebulaaa and I am absolutely certain dozens of others,
But I don't intend to shut the fuck up,
We protect each other. And when Tumblr finally burns itself to the ground, whether 30 days or 3 years from know, I know I will find an internet home with all of you again,
Get fucked Tumblr, I hope this site gets hit by an exploding hammer car
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lhrry · 2 years
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it never ceases to baffle me that Harry and Louis’ lyrics are constantly interpreted solely in terms of polar opposites both by the fans on both sides and by the media, they either relate to larry or to a stunt or are otherwise seen as narrowly autobiographical. This is not to say that they are not often autobiographical, and it is natural for them to draw on their lives and I think eg the larry lyrics are always almost purposely obvious, but I do think that to reduce them solely to these two opposites is hugely detrimental to their artistic process. Because that’s what they are, artists. Creatives. And creativity is always going to be a big part of that process, not just rewriting one’s own reality. And it is an artist’s job to inhabit a multitude of positions, to feel and describe the perspectives of others, to express what others feel themselves incapable to. Songwriting is a creative process, and often it’s poetry and there’s often so much more to those songs than is seen on the surface.
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brightokyolights · 2 months
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Mary Oliver, from "Good Morning", Blue Horses
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Did you all know that long ago, Neil's fans posted photos from the bath?
Welcome to Tumblr, 2012. Just as adorable and quirky as Tumblr of today, and with just as much Neil Gaiman appreciation, but with fewer fans to fuel the fads:
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[link] [link]
(I went looking for Good Omens clues in the time capsule that is the internet, and Tumblr decided that it knew best and instead sent me down this rabbit hole from which I may never recover. 1 point to Tumblr; please send help)
Why were people doing this?? I think it's because there's a poem, Bathing with Gaiman, by Zenobia Frost @zenfrost
And it inspired a dedicated blog, @bathbookneil-blog, featuring an entire collection of fan photos reading his books… in the bath.
Neil encouraged fans to read their books "in the bath naked, fully dressed, they can be of any gender or all, masked, alone, or in groups of as many of them as can fit into a bath." He also suggested trying to read while showering, a feat he said he's attempted, unsuccessfully.
When asked, Neil agreed to share a photo of himself reading in the bath if the donations for the free Audible release of Click-Clack the Rattle Bag reached 100,000 downloads/dollars.
He promised fans a "proper nakedy bath" with some discreet bubbles.
Alas!
I'm not about to reveal a long-lost photo of Neil in the bath.
The donations didn't reach the goal, and the bath-photo-sharing trend quietly wound down.
But maybe he gave us this glorious moment with David Tennant-as-Aziraphale-as-Crowley, to make up for it:
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[gif credits @tenthrees, @ferndaphnia, and @bringthekaos]
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vagabond-umlaut · 8 months
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tryst, too tempest
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Icarus fell for loving the Sun.
You will, for loving your lover.
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▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; 1.1k wc; comprises of elements inspired by the tale of 'hades and persephone' & 'fall of icarus'; warning: sukuna is sukuna, so expect the expected [mentions of violence, murder, cannibalism]; warning 2.0: the reader is not very keen to leave or not love her husband; uraume is the BEST WINGPERSON none of you two ever deserved but still got; FLUFF & ANGST & A MADLY DEVOTED LOVE YOU AND SUKUNA FEEL FOR EACH OTHER
▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' – same universe as the work 'six seeds, like rubies...' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!
▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️
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Foul winds howl through the land, the first year of your life as one Ryomen Sukuna's wife.
Servants cower before you the moment your shadow falls within their field of vision, yet their gaze stays steeped in pity and envy the entire time it remains trained on your feet. Grocers mumble to one another, eyes looking away when you move to look at the things in their shops. Even the very flora and fauna, you loved so much growing up, writing poems on them from the day you knew how to pen a poem– even the same flora and fauna feels so foreign to you—
"You do realize your importance to Master, don't you?"
Uraume's quiet question floats in through your thoughts, much akin a gentle breeze creating small ripples over the water surface. You smile. "Given how I haven't been eaten by him or sent to be murdered by his subordinate curses, I think I do."
Emotion, too similar to humor, flits across the mien of your husband's loyal follower — you decide not to think much of it. Too many days of having only them as someone to speak to, outside of requesting for a second serving of the soup or asking for the cost of yukata, has led to you imagining a smile on a person who is famous for their poker face. Shaking your head, you return to your poems, the quill fluttering over the roll of parchment you found lying at the breakfast today morning, and let out a content sigh — only for your peace of mind to be broken by the bursting of a guard into the garden, appearing too terrorstruck to utter a single coherent word.
It takes you nothing save one glance, moving from him to Uraume to your ink-stained fingers, before you find yourself keeping the papers on the ground beside and rising, feet breaking into a hasty giddy run down the corridors of the palace to the throne room where, certainly enough–
"I was under the impression you've run away in the extra while I spent sleeping, wife."
The world around you comes to a dead stop as the visage of Sukuna comes into your line of sight; you feel your heart skip two beats then begin a thundering rhythm against your ribcage.
Four years ago, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have given them a second of your time before walking away with a polite excuse.
One year before, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have huffed a quiet laugh. The first two have already come to pass (with too many lives lost and too many lives threatened) — yet the very last prediction? You would have considered it to be highly improbable, if not outright impossible.
Yet, now, if someone were to tell you the same three things, you think you wouldn't have shown much of a reaction. You would have simply turned to that 'someone' mentioned in the prediction, and gazed and gazed and gazed–
"I left the roll of parchment you bought for Mistress at the breakfast table, just as you asked, Master," Uraume's voice cuts your thoughts into half and you twist to catch them offer you both a very deep bow before hurrying out, to the left towards the kitchen, four baskets full of radishes in their arms.
You look back at your husband, only to find him seated stiffly on his throne, eyes landing anywhere but you. Stifling a giggle, you tilt your head to the side.
"Why do you act so embarrassed, my king?" you ask, stepping a timid step towards him, then another. Gleaming ruby eyes dart to your face then to your approaching feet. Something tingles through your veins. Climbing the stairs leading to him, you hum, smiling, "I don't think it's embarrassing – quite the opposite, in fact. To me, giving one's wife a thoughtful gift as that... it seems quite adorable to me."
"Be careful of your words, woman," the King of Curses growls, rising and taking a large menacing step in your direction; your smile grows intentionally too innocent, which does apparently nothing to quell his increasing fury: the precise outcome you've been wishing so fervently for.
He pulls you by the waist, flush to himself and lowers his lips close to yours, tantalizingly so. He smells very strongly of those bath salts you bought from a travelling merchant three moons back; faintly of blood and death, of the priest he diced last night after dinner — you wonder if you're worthy to be called a human, after finding the curse you have sworn yourself to forever, so terribly dear despite these.
Certainly not — but you reckon you're too far gone to care anyways, so you stop wondering such things – and lift yourself on your tiptoes to brush your lips with your husband's, then pull away a touch, words leaving your lips in a breathy whisper.
"What if I'm not careful with my words? What will you do then, hm? Will you devour me like the monster everyone says you are? Or, will you throw me away like everyone warns me you will one day– when you find someone prettier, smarter, better than me, huh?"
Two moments pass in pin-drop silence between the two of you.
Barking a noisy guffaw, Sukuna weaves his fingers through your hair, still damp from the bath you took a short time ago, and plants a deep kiss to your lips. Then parts his lips from yours, although a mere hair's breadth away, and grins, features teeming with that exotic species of malevolence you never saw yourself regarding to be charming.
Until your gaze met with his, one fated evening, that is.
Your nails dig crescents into the broad muscles of his shoulders.
Your lover's grin sharpens. "Let time tell the tale— yes, my queen?"
The next morning, you find a dozen or so heads waiting for you at the breakfast table, severed by a neat slice at the root of their neck– eyes and mouths which once looked down on your wedding with the King, frozen forever now in a scream of terror.
Forsaking the wonted theme of nature, you decide to pen a poem on scathing, soothing love, instead.
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or... everyone: your husband is a despicable monster!!! you: uh-huh everyone: he might leave you for someone better!!! you: uh-huh everyone: you better not stay in this union anymore. you: nuh-nuh. i'm so gonna stay and love and fuck my hubby <3
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▸ masterlist
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halcyone-of-the-sea · 9 months
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First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨
You’re awesome 🥰💞
Blood Was Its Avatar
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PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)
WORD COUNT: 8.9k
WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.
A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
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All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 
They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 
You pretended to be dead. 
Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 
You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.
“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.
Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.
As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.
“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 
“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 
Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 
You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.
Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 
“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 
A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 
Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.
“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”
You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 
“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”
“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  
“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 
A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.
“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 
You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.
“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.
“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 
On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 
But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.
Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 
You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 
“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 
The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 
Missions were rarely a failure. 
Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 
He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.
“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 
“None. Just us.” 
“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”
“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.
“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”
“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 
“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 
Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 
You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 
In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 
Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 
Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 
Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 
You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.
Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 
Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 
“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 
Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 
The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 
Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.
It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 
Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 
Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 
Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.
“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”
“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 
His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.
You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.
But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 
You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.
“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 
You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 
Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 
Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.
“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 
Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 
“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 
Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.
Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 
But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 
Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 
His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 
This couldn’t continue. 
Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 
“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 
Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 
You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 
Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 
Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 
“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 
Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.
A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 
Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 
He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 
The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 
When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 
He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.
Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.
Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.
When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 
Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 
If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 
On the second week, it got easier. 
You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 
“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 
Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 
Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 
The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…
Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 
He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 
Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 
The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 
You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…
“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 
Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.
“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 
The room returns to strained silence. You huff.
“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.
The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 
All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 
Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 
“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 
His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.
You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 
“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 
Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.
The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 
You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 
“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 
“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 
You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.
Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 
“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 
“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 
Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 
“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 
Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 
After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.
You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 
“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 
Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.
The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.
He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 
You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.
“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.
“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 
“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 
A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”
Hard lips slam into yours.
Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.
Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 
He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 
Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.
“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.
His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 
Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 
As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 
There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”
Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 
“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.
Ghost had tattoos. 
When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 
“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”
You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 
The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 
Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 
“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 
“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 
Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 
You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 
Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 
“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 
He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 
“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 
Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 
Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 
He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.
“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 
Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 
Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.
“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 
Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 
Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 
“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 
Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 
“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 
Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 
“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 
Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 
Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 
Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 
There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 
The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 
Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 
Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 
“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 
Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 
“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 
Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 
“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 
Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 
“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 
Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.
“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”
Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 
Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 
His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 
“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 
He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 
Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 
You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 
“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 
The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 
“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”
Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.
“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 
“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 
His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 
Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 
Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 
“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”
Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 
Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 
His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 
As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 
“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 
Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 
“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 
Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 
Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 
He watches blankly.
“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 
“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 
“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 
“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.
“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 
Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 
You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.
“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 
“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 
The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 
“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.
“In the fucking meeting room?!”
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TAGS:
@emerald-valkyrie , @anna-banana27 , @blueoorchid , @cryingnotcrying , @writeforfandoms , @homicidal-slvt , @jade-jax , @frazie99 , @elmoees , @littlemisstrouble , @alpineswinter , @phoenixhalliwell , @idocarealot , @lavalleon , @facelessmemories , @h-leigh, @20forty9 , @glitter-anon-asks , @emily-who-killed-a-man , @neelehksttr, @aeneanc , @escapefromrealitysm , @i-d-1-0-t , @pparcxysm , @hawkscanendme , @caramlizedtomatos, @konigsleftkidney , @sanfransolomitatm , @maelstrom007 , @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet , @pheobees , @glitterypirateduck , @uselsshuman , @fan-of-encouragement , @halfmoth-halfman , @ghostlythunderbird , @I-inkage, @pukbadger , @kopatych11 , @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop , @knightofsexyness , @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons , @330bpm-whiplash , @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu , @tiredmetalenthusiast
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harmoonix · 5 months
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⚜️Eternal Flower⚜️
• Astrology Observations •
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀❀
⚜️ - Chiron square/opposition/conjunct North Node = Your path is healing one, this aspect can indicate frustrations that may disturb you from finding inner peace
⚜️ - Jupiter square/opposite/conjunct Saturn = They have a fight between freedom and responsibility, it can be very frustrating for them to choose one of those 2, they can feel locked up in their own world
⚜️ - Jupiter square/opposite Sun can make the native to miss great opportunities, in this case your ego can be very big with those aspects. Your ego can make you lose a lot of opportunities
⚜️ - Neptune trine/sextile/conjunct Moon are really great at listening to their intuition, you can have a powerful inner voice with this aspect
✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
⚜️ - North Node in Aries/North Node in 1st house, please make yourself a favor and put yourself one the first place in your life, you'll see things change. You gotta live for yourself, everyone once in a while..
⚜️ - Lilith aspecting Jupiter are so crazy and wild when they are horny. With this aspect Jupiter expands your libido. Another session of breaking bed??
⚜️ - North Node in Libra/Leo you really need to love yourself dear, loving yourself can be complicated for some people but is not impossible
⚜️ - Lilith in Leo Degrees (5°, 17°. 29°) degrees can have have feline typo of face. Like cat eyes maybe? Maybe yellowish/tanned skin? Also wear orange and yellow it will help you
✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀✾❀
⚜️ - Venus in the 9th house/Venus in Sagittarius/Venus in Sagittarius Degrees (9°, 21°) always remember me about hearing a tropical song party, they have that tropical flow 💃
⚜️ - Sun in the 9th house/Sun in Sagittarius/Sun in Sagittarius Degrees (9°, 21°) did ever happened for people to confuse your ethnicity or the country where you are from? Yeah with these placements can give this vibe
⚜️ - Taurus/Libra Moons they are my Romeo and Juliet and no can change that, they often have this vibe because of their romantic aura (Taurus about finding love in herself and Libra finding love in the others this is literally everything)
⚜️ - Pisces/Cancer Sun/Venus/Mercury = They are the people who can have the most cutest voices ever. They also have an adorable face
✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
⚜️ - Moon - trine/sextile/conjunct Pluto = You can fall in love with them at the first sight. They are full of mystery and charm, is something like 'I love you since I first met you' with them
⚜️ - Pluto in the 1st/10th/11th house they literally attract envy everywhere they go. They are the reason why the haters can't sleep at night
⚜️ - Chiron in Aquarius/Chiron in the 11th house may find comfort in their friends. They can be really lonely people but with heart of gold
⚜️ - Lilith aspecting ascendant= misterious appearance, they are so full of mystery and secrets, people can be so curious of them
✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
⚜️ - Sun - Mercury aspects have that cute/shy voice, they may talk softly and so calm in the same time, literally so charming
⚜️ - Libra/Leo Risings have that beautiful shinning hair, literally go girl spin your hair around. Rapunzel Vibes
⚜️ - Don't be afraid for challenges when you have Aries/Sagittarius placements with you. They can take it all and risk everything for the adrenaline
⚜️ - Venus - Mercury aspect in someone's chart can be the type of native who may like to write love poems/letters and even songs sometimes
✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁
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✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀᠁✾❀✾
💫 Good day to everyone reading my notes today… It's a great day to follow your dreams and to let every negative energy out of your body 💫
💫 Have a blessed day today 💫
- Yours truly, Harmoonix 💫
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i23kazu · 2 months
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♡ TO BE LOVED BY
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characters. albedo zhongli diluc alhaitham x gn!reader genre. romantic fluff + hurt/comfort. 1.6k words. an. part 1 , part 2 coming soon!!!! | to be loved by genshin men who appreciate art forms – where their favourite piece of art is you. ; reader is insecure + has low self esteem, and the men help them think otherwise. | please reblog!! im getting back into writing and reblogs with tags and comments will make me want to write more :D
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the painter
to be loved by albedo, the painter — people realise that the faces that he paints every day seem to resemble one person and one person alone. the high cheekbones, the crooked smile, the monolids — its either the artist has a case of the same face syndrome, or there is only one source of inspiration for him . . .
albedo sits by his artistry room, the window tinting golden light that shines onto your features. it highlights parts of you that you dislike, you argue, but he tenderly kisses each spot that brings you distaste. if you cannot love yourself, then let him love you extra. if you cannot see yourself the way he looks at you – with all the love and admiration and sweet infatuation in the world – then let him paint you in the way he so lovingly sees you so.
he motions for you to tilt to your left with a flick of his finger, not looking up from the blended paints on his wooden palette. you freeze – you don’t want to make him unhappy by not complying but complying also means seeing the ugliness of you. you don’t want him to see you ugly.
“i don’t like that side of me,” you whisper blankly. “it doesn’t make me look good.”
it is at these few words that albedo looks up from his painting.
“you are beautiful.”
he says the three words so matter-of-factly that you wonder if he even means it at all. they are so quick to fall out of his mouth – does he love you too little to properly regard them so, or does he love you so much that it requires no hesitation on his end to reassure you?
“albedo, thank you, but i am not-”
“you are so beautiful, my love,” albedo repeats. “and it pains me so because you don’t seem to believe it for yourself.”
“i am not-” you blink back salty tears.
“do my words hold no weight to you?” he asks, not unkindly. there’s an awkward stare that the both of you share before he lets a soft sigh part his lips, and he gathers you in his arms.
you look at him tiredly. this was not the battle you wanted to fight today, you think to yourself.
“i am beautiful.” you repeat after him. maybe, just maybe – if you say it enough, you can believe it just as wholeheartedly as albedo believes so. you can see the corners of his lips turn upwards into a soft smile – your lover smooths back your hair, planting a sweet kiss in the middle of your forehead.
“i love you, my muse. it’s alright if you don’t believe it just yet. you’ll have me to remind you that you are beautiful, every day.”
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the poet
to be loved by zhongli, the poet — the words he spins materialises out of his infatuation for you. at first glance, the words seem so bombastic – so huge, so big, that they don’t make any sense. but they are beautiful; his words are so sweet and lovely, endless love poems addressed to the one person he has fallen harder and harder for every single day. you.
“are you sure that’s a real word?” you laugh lightly, peering over his shoulder to glance at the newest word on his yellowed paper. eudaimonia, you read curiously.
“my dear, i would assume so,” he replies, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “i believe it means for a person to be of a flourishing, happy state. the thesaurus that tartaglia had obtained for me says so, but if you think otherwise, we can most certainly track down the author to contest that.”
“i trust the author.” you giggle.
“as do i.” zhongli presses a kiss to your forehead, and turns back to his pen.
you watch as he strings together sentences – sentences so lovely, you could never have ever imagined them to be about you. he describes the slight smile on your face when you reread one of your favourite books, or the fact that your laugh has two sounds – one like the tinkling of wind chimes, the other a boisterous, unbridled roar. his pen greets the paper once again, and you hear the gentle scratching of the tip against the sheet.
you are the reason i am able to rest at home with eudaimonia – my pillar, my rock, my lifeline.
“that’s beautiful. your writing is lovely as always.” you whisper, wrapping your arms tenderly around him from behind. he leans into the warmth of your touch, sweetly, lovingly, falling into your embrace.
“well, my dear – it would only make sense for my words to reflect the most pleasing of things to me.”
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the photographer
to be loved by diluc, the photographer — you are his model, day and night. he carries his camera when he can, and needless to say . . . more than three quarters of his camera roll is filled with pictures of you. they’re not perfect pictures, but they’re beautiful to him. and that is the only thing he cares about.
”diluc, don’t! i don’t look nice here.” you giggle as he, in a rare bout of unbridled playfulness, pretends to be your personal paparazzi.
“you look good in every photo, my love.” he chuckles, and runs you through the most recent photos he took.
it’s blurry. your cheeks look huge. your chin… “you look good” – was diluc blind, or lying?
you tighten your smile and turn back to your work, waving away thoughts that turn into jealous green monsters over others who would look good in his camera, no matter how imperfect their pose was.
“hey,” diluc sees the frown on your face. “i mean it. you look wonderful.”
“how?” you blink back frustrated tears.
“diluc, open your eyes. my eyes are uneven in this one. my cheeks look like a chipmunk’s. my chin.. i don’t even want to think about my chin. i don’t look good at all, diluc.”
he stays quiet for a moment, and you wonder if that was the right thing to say at all. maybe just keep quiet next time, (y/n). don’t insult his work – your insecurities are yours to hold alone, right? he tucks your hair away from your eyes and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“i urge you – look again, (y/n).”
“you didn’t edit anything, diluc.”
diluc thumbs away a stray tear as he cups your face – a betrayal to your plea to your body to keep quiet. just keep quiet, (y/n). your lover takes your shoulders and sits you down gently, kneeling next to you, camera in hand.
“you don’t look good, you say? interesting.” diluc has a placid smile on his face as he runs through his camera roll again – you are afraid of angering him, of doubting his craft – but how can you see those pictures and be immediately satisfied with what they are?
“why don’t you believe me? i’m the one who sees it.” you reply indignantly.
“i don’t believe so, not at all. you see it, but i see that you are smiling in each and every one of them, my love. you are happy and you are beautiful, my sun. undoubtedly so – for that is what the camera captures. is that not what matters the most?”
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the writer
to be loved by alhaitham, the writer — people often wonder who sparks these passionate feelings of infatuation in his writing; all they need to look at is the person he leaves his gaze to linger on for a little while longer. his smile seems to brighten a little when he’s talking with you . . .
he describes a love scene so tenderly. a man and his partner, dancing in the stillness of a living room in the witching hours of the night – sweet, loving words fall clumsily out of the man’s mouth – it’s obvious he’s infatuated with his partner. two words, my angel, stands out in the manuscript you read.
“hayi, why do you never call me your angel? ever?” you ask, a slight pout on your face.
“because you are not a metaphor for me to use,” he counters, not unkindly. “you are not someone who i want to compare a mere object to.”
you see the slight disappointment in his face, and you hate yourself for it.
“maybe being compared to something would be better.” you reply softly.
“you are so much more than that,” he cradles your face in his palm, so gently it hurts.
you don’t deserve this gentleness, do you?
“who am i to take that away from you?”
the silence that follows seems louder than anything else you have ever heard. he sighs softly, not with frustration, but with a tenderness that only alhaitham can muster. he gathers you in his arms – he is so, so much bigger and taller than you – he never wants to crush you. never with his anger, nor his fear, or his hurt or his sadness.
“i’m sorry for always asking that. i don’t want to be annoying.” you murmur, blinking away tears.
“you will never be annoying to me, (y/n).” he exhales.
another quiet moment is shared between the two of you – it’s healing. the silence seems to nod to a shared understanding of a love that need not be said.
“i love you, (y/n), most magnificently so. and if it would take a lifetime for you to remember that, i would like to ask for a chance to spend that lifetime with you,” he whispers these words with a quiet fierceness, burying his face into the crook of your shoulder.
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taglist: @tiredsleep @loptido @raincxtter @chichikoi @ladyadii @soulsanta @sheiiths @genshinparty @eowinthetraveler @moonbyunniee @legitnoi @lemontum @manager-of-the-pudding-bank @starz222 @ilyuu @cherry-colored-petals @mondaymelon @tartaglia-apologist @soleillunne @m1shapanda @aimynx @smokipoki @adeptuscharm @vennnnn-diagram @ryuryuryuyurboat @yuminako @camvrin @aqualesha @sixtynintharchon @supernova25 @kunikuda-simp @starglitterz @rin-nyrasti-writes @mxyarylla @starchivves (send ask/comment to be added to taglist)
just for this post: @dailypenpen
reblogs w/ tags & comments are highly appreciated !!! <3 every reblog with a tag or comment gets a cookie from me hehe
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arkhammaid · 4 months
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— ˚₊‧⁺˖ "ALWAYS YOU."
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fandom. formula one
pairing. oscar piastri x fem!reader
content warnings. none
notes. breaking my silence with the big reveal hehe
previous. series masterlist.
oscarpiastri
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liked by landonorris and 183'083 others
oscarpiastri Bowled up to the paddock like this today... read more
landonorris aye mate!
user back to oscar ignoring his own softlaunch....
⤷ user it has been (not even a month) YEARS
user SIR I BELIEVE YOU HAVE TO TELL US SMTH!!!!
user awesome!!!
user this smile... it's hiding something
⤷ user his gf
⤷ user FOUL
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dailypoems
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liked by oscarpiastri and 3'245 others
dailypoems 28th November '23, the never ending love poems between @/daughterofsea and @/sonofsun on Twitter!
user i will never stop talking about the sea x sun poems
⤷ user they are my roman empire fr
user ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE???
user oscarpiastri is this where you searched for your caption when you soft launched?
⤷ user not you tagging him 💀💀💀
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DO YOU WANT TO JOIN THE TAGLIST? please send a non-anon ask to be added to the taglist. taglist can be general taglist (all fandoms and all works), fandom taglist (all works within the fandom), series (all works for specific series) or nsfw taglist (all nsfw works and all fandoms).
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ARKHAM MAID 2023
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blues824 · 11 months
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Hi!!! Could I request headcanons of Leona, Sebek, Malleus, Trey, Jack, and Rook with an s/o that likes to nuzzle into their chest when hugging them?
If any of you write Sebek or Trey fics, please tag me in it. I would literally propose to you. Anyways, gender-neutral reader.
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Trey Clover
He loves hugs, and you always greet him with one. It was a tradition that you had formed with how many times you visit Heartslabyul, and better yet when you just visit him. Today, you had texted him and said you were coming over and he was very excited to see you.
Once you entered the lounge, he opened his arms and you ran into them. However, as you were hugging his torso, you nuzzled into his chest and pushed him to the couch so you could further cuddle into his chest. The sudden display of affection definitely made the baker a tad flustered but he definitely loved it. He chucked a little before sinking and relaxing into the sofa cushions.
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Leona Kingscholar
The two of you have a routine where you would go to class, get to your extracurricular, come back to Savanaclaw, and you would cuddle with him until the next morning. The two of you got Crowley’s permission too, because Leona came from a wealthy and influential royal family.
But this time was different. Once you jumped into his bed and snuggled up next to him, you cuddled specifically into his chest. His ears went flat against his head as he witnessed this adorable moment. His heart was pounding against his chest and his tail went to wrap around your waist as he started to fall asleep.
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Jack Howl
He doesn’t have a ton of time to cuddle, but he will take advantage of it when he does. You go to his room because 1) it’s more structurally sound and 2) the entire room smells like him. It doesn’t matter to him, but he does get a little scared about you staying in Ramshackle because he is afraid you are going to get hurt.
Imagine his surprise when you went over to cuddle him and you tried to burrow into his chest. He was hoping that you didn’t hear how hard his heart was pounding against his chest, but you did and you weren’t going to say anything. After all, you knew that he was flustered enough.
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Rook Hunt
He loves when you show him affection because he always showers you in his love. It may be true that he doesn’t have too much time, as he is an archer as well as a Vice Housewarden as well as a member of the science club, but he will always make time for his beloved in all of Twisted Wonderland. 
The two of you often meet up in the woods for some privacy, and you both will cuddle under a tree while he reads the newest poem that he made for you. Well, this specific time, he finished reading and he felt you snuggle further into his chest. He let out a loud gasp before making loud proclamations of his love for you in French.
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Malleus Draconia
This man has not had the experience of cuddling someone before you came, and once you introduced it to him he was in love. He got to hold you close to his body as you both talked about whatever came to mind, and those moments were the ones that he treasured the most.
He usually met you at Ramshackle, and once he teleported into the living room of your dormitory you noticed him and ran into his arms. He carried you to your bed where a cuddle session ensued, but while you were getting comfortable you burrowed slightly into his chest. Malleus had never seen anything so adorable from his Child of Man, and he held you tighter..
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Sebek Zigvolt
He is not used to affection of any variety, and it took him months to get used to holding hands with you. So, as you can imagine, cuddling is not a stage where you both are at yet. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t know exactly what to do. Plus, he doesn’t have a lot of time, much like the others.
But in the time that he does have some free time, he enjoys sitting underneath a tree and reading a novel that he picked up from the library. You decided to join him one time and plopped yourself into his lap and nuzzled into his chest. The knight stiffened as his face was glowing red, not really sure how to process what was happening.
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frail-and-freakish · 1 year
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today, april 11th, is the anniversary of Mel Baggs' death. Mel Baggs was one of the early founders of the neurodiversity movement and believed that no one was too disabled for human rights, something that modern nd movements fail to understand to this day. sie was so instrumental to my understanding of literally everything. sie died from medical ableism and neglect during the beginning of the pandemic. we would be nowhere fucking near where we are now without hir. i've decided to make a masterlist of some of my favorite posts of hirs, organized into different categories.
(some of these are listed in more than one category because they overlap so much)
here are some of the "essentials" (what you might have already read by hir/should read first):
hir memorial site hosted by ASAN:
In My Language
the oak manifesto
There is ableism at the heart of your oppression, no matter what your oppression might be
Getting The Truth Out (many pages, parody of bad autism awareness campaign called "getting the word out")
the meaning of self-advocacy
what makes institutions bad
aspie supremacy can kill
here are some of hir beautiful writings on perceiving/communicating with hir environment as an autistic person, and on communication in general:
up in the clouds and down in the valley: my richness and yours
distance underthought
the naked mechanisms of echolalia
empty mirrors and redwoods
the fireworks are interesting
hir tumblr tag #sensing (@withasmoothroundstone)
on personhood and who has the authority to take it away:
being an unperson
what it means to be real
empty mirrors and redwoods
on institutions and the I/DD service system:
caregiver abuse takes many forms
"i don't know that person's program"
what my home means to me
dd service system tag
god help the critic of the dawn: glamour and its fallout
what makes institutions bad
post on the JRC
outposts in our heads
on online social justice communities/their inaccessibility:
Your politics have a problem when they contradict the real-life experiences of the people they're supposed to be about.
politics, ethics and mental widgets
hir tumblr tags #outside the wall and #little packages (@withasmoothroundstone)
misc:
The Bones My Family Gave Me
Please violate only one stereotype at a time
My sort of people, just as real as theirs.
Reviving the concept of cousins
gender tag
this is hir poems and creative works:
this is hir writing on autistics.org:
may hir memory be a blessing/revolution.
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haosweater · 2 months
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perhaps i loved you.
content: idol! jeonghan x gn! reader, angst, fluff, past life au, coffee shop au, royalty au (just read, you’ll get it), unrequited love.
summary: a unique cafe down fifth avenue opens a whole new door of surprises for jeonghan.
word count: 1.4k
note: based this off the short exert i wrote at the end lol. totally not inspired by real life events haha… also i’m writing this at almost two in the morning please forgive any grammar or spelling mistakes.
it was cloudy. the sun peeked through the smallest crevices it could find as the wind gently brushed against jeonghan’s skin.
he shivered, pulling his green cardigan on tighter. he reached up, grabbing his white bucket hat to make sure it didn’t fly away. god knew the wind was ruthless these past few days. jeonghan felt like the world seemed to be against him.
he hummed along to his music, walking down the street in solace. the cherry blossoms bloomed magnificently, its pink petals falling to spread its beauty. he looked up, admiring the trees with a gentle smile.
there weren’t a lot of people out this time of the day and jeonghan liked that. he liked the comfort of not being recognised, being able to go about his day peacefully. the solitude was exactly what he needed.
inhaling a deep breath, he turned and continued down the street. the shops down this road were vintage. unique little thrift stores, record stores, quaint coffee shops that sold overpriced coffee— wait.
jeonghan paused, staring into the shop. olive green bookshelves lined the beige walls of the shop. behind, there was a counter with coffee machines and cake displays. at the very front of the store, there was a table. it had two chairs with a typewriter sitting on it.
a cafe? no, bookstore? or was it a vintage thrift store? confused, jeonghan looked up at the sign.
‘caffeinated literature’.
‘how peculiar,‘ jeonghan thought. glancing around, he peeked into the cafe again, noticing no one was inside. he wondered if it was closed, a slight pang of disappointment filling his chest.
however, the ‘open’ sign on the door proved him wrong. his eyes moved down, and noticed the poster on the door, prompting him to move closer and read it.
enjoy a cup of coffee,
and let me write you poetry.
welcome to caffeinated literature.
it didn’t take jeonghan another second to push the glass door open, the soft chime of the bell ringing in the air. “hello?” he called out softly.
there was a muffled crash followed by a yelp, shocking him. “hello! just give me a moment! please, take a seat!”
jeonghan sat down apprehensively, fluffing the cushion beside him. the interior was cozy, minimalistic and welcoming. swinging his feet, he continued to observe his surroundings, not realising you had emerged from behind the counter.
“hello, so sorry about that! what can i get for you today?” you panted, handing him the menu.
jeonghan looked at you in awe. your voice sounded like sweet, smooth honey that dripped slowly into a cup of warm tea. there was a sense of familiarity to you, but he couldn’t figure out what it was.
“uh, sorry,” he mumbles, snapping out of his thoughts. “i’ll just get an iced cappuccino and a poem, please.”
you grin. “great choice. i’ll be right back with your coffee, so just take a seat in tbe front,” you gesture to the table with the typewriter. he nods, getting up as you disappear behind the counter.
jeonghan feels light-headed from staring at you. something about you was so enchanting, so magical and so familiar. he sighed, annoyed that he was unable to figure out what it was.
the aroma of his coffee drifted in the air as you brought it over. he thanked you as you sat across him, smiling as he sipped on it slowly.
“oh, wow, this is really good,” he remarked, licking his lips. “thank you.”
“it’s no problem,” you say, smiling. “now, for the poem,” you gently slot the paper into the typewriter. turning around, you turn the speaker on, calm jazz music filling the cafe.
“i know this sounds rather far-fetched, but i usually hold people’s hands to get a better feel of their aura before i write their poem. do you mind if i do that with you?”
jeonghan shakes his head almost instantly. “no, not at all,” he says, extending his hands.
you smile, nodding in acknowledgement as you take his hands into yours, slowly shutting your eyes.
jeonghan shivered, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the cafe anymore.
he was now clad in formal wear, standing at the entrance to a balcony. you stood at the edge, back facing him. the moon was bright and the stars shone in the sky.
“i didn’t expect you to come,” your voice wavered. jeonghan couldn’t speak– he could not control what he did.
“i’m here now, aren’t i?” he chuckles, swirling the glass of wine in his hand. “what bothers you, my dear, on the night we are to celebrate?”
when you turn around, tears rolling down your cheeks, he freezes. you stare at him, sniffing softly. even when you’re crying, you look breath-taking to him.
averting your gaze, you sigh. “i can’t lie to you anymore, han,” you whisper. “tonight i watched you get married to the love of your life, confessing your love to each other in front of the whole kingdom,” you look up at him again.
“and now, i will confess my love to you, in front of the moon and stars.”
jeonghan is in shock. he doesn’t know how to comprehend this situation. it is all too fast, too quick– was this his past life?
“i have loved you ever since we were kids, han. my heart has held onto you tightly, refusing to let go. i’ve seen the best and the worst of you. i’ve seen all your flaws and imperfections and yet still i love you. i have been your friend, but never once did i love you like one. i loved you more than that. i would sacrifice the moon and the stars just to gaze at your beauty. i would burn the kingdom down if you wanted me to. my heart aches and yearns for your touch, your love, your heart and i know i will never get it, but i had to tell you.”
by the time you’re done, you’re panting, out of breath. jeonghan wants to rush forward and hold you, but his body stops him. there is no control.
“b-but y/n, i’m a prince and you’re a—”
“knight, i know,” you sob. “i prayed to the gods every day that my heart would let go of you because i knew i could never be yours, nor you, mine.”
jeonghan simply stood there, heart aching at the sight of you. “i am sorry, y/n. i am sorry i cannot love you the way you want me to,” he whispers, taking a step forward.
“it’s okay, han,” you say softly, tears staining your once rosy cheeks. wiping them away, you look at him with a sad smile. “it was never meant to be anyways.”
with a loud gasp, jeonghan finds himself back in cafe. he’s panting, eyes darting around vigorously before landing on you.
you were crying.
and so was he.
“sorry,” you let out an awkward laugh, wiping your tears away. “i don’t know why i’m crying,” you whisper, trying to stop yourself from crying, but the tears keep coming.
“it’s okay,” jeonghan stutters, quickly wiping his own tears. he wants to comfort you more, but he couldn’t find the words to. he felt like he didn’t deserve to.
sniffing, your fingers suddenly start to gly across the typewriter, the clicks ringing in the air. jeonghan observes you intensely, watching you throw draft after draft away. you were clearly frustrated.
finally, after his ice had melted, his coffee finished, you were done.
“sorry,” you say, removing the paper. “i had a hard time finding the right words,” you confessed as he smiled.
he looked down, reading the poem as you fidgeted with your fingers. his eyes drift across each word, heart clenching as he reached the last line.
“this is beautiful,” he says breathlessly. “thank you. i love it.”
you return the smile. “thank you for coming. i hope to see you again.”
jeonghan’s heart flutters at your words momentarily. “thank you for the coffee and poem. and who knows? perhaps i will see you again,” he chuckles before waving goodbye, pushing the glass door open as the bell chimed.
the breeze was stronger now, and jeonghan had to grab onto his hat again. with a loud sigh, he began to walk down the street, thoughts flooding his mind. it was racing, restless and utterly confused.
as he reached the end, he stopped at a traffic light, waiting for it to turn green. pulling out the piece of paper, he reread what you had written, tears forming in the corner of his eyes once again.
‘who are you,
stranger?
you look rather familiar.
perhaps i have loved you.
in another life.’
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httpskuzuu · 8 months
Text
Please, Fedya
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idk why, but I'm very embarrassed to publish this
Yandere!Fyodor x Reader
English is not my mother tongue, sorry for the mistakes.
tw: kidnapping, yandere, mention of: broken bones, abuse, isolation, bad mental health, punishment and escape attempt (nothing explicit really), stockholm syndrome, fyodor is a general tw
Your life with Fyodor had been good, as good as a life with a kidnapper could be, but you would never admit that out loud, it would be too hard a blow to your dignity.
At first everything was hell, Fyodor was the definition of cruel, it took you months to be able to get out of the 4 walls where he locked you up, in complete darkness. It screwed up your eyesight, your sleep and your overall health, physical and mental. He at least fixed those problems, paid for your eye surgery, gave you vitamin D supplements, helped you by fixing your sleep schedule, etc.
It wasn't so bad, except that not all the issues could be fixed, your mental health was horrible, it still is, you doubted he could fix that.
Before you had all that help Fyodor gave you, you had to change your behavior, you were always a fighter and with Fyodor it would be no exception. The turning point of your behavior was the night you tried to escape. He caught you, as punishment he broke both your legs and your fingers, he also left you in complete isolation, you don't know for how long. Since that punishment, you never disobeyed Fyodor again, not intentionally at least.
As time went by, and when he saw that your meek behavior was not a lie, he began to give you more liberties. One of the most important for you was the freedom to go outside, obviously accompanied by Fyodor.
Also, with that freedom to go out, you realized that Fyodor liked to treat you like a doll. Every time he allowed you to go out he was the one who dressed you, you had no voice or vote in that.
On those outings, you realized that the place you were in was Russia, you didn't know specifically which part. Before arriving in Russia, you had never seen snow in person, so it was beautiful the first time.
Today was one of those days that Fyodor allowed you to go out.
He dressed you in warm clothes and took you to a coffee shop. It was nicer than you thought it would be, not only because you went outside, but because your talks with Fyodor were pleasant.
By the time you left the coffee shop, it was getting dark, but you convinced Fyodor to go to a local bookstore and buy some books. It wasn't for you to read it (you didn't understand Russian and Fyodor had never tried to teach you so you couldn't communicate with others), it was for Fyodor to read it to you, it was an activity that, surprisingly, you enjoyed very much. You left the bookstore with a book of poems whose cover caught your attention.
Walking on your way home you heard high-pitched meowing coming from an alley, you stopped your steps and, consequently, to Fyodor, who was holding your hand.
"What is it, милый?"
"I heard meowing." Your gaze did not move from the alley.
You let go of Fyodor's hand and headed down the alley, Fyodor followed you closely until you reached a cardboard box lying on the ground.
You bent down and opened the box to find an orange furred cat, it was about the size of your hand and very thin. You wondered what kind of horrible person had abandoned such a cat.
You petted it and the cat reacted affectionately, rubbing its head against your hand. You laughed at the action and turned your head to see Fyodor standing behind you, still standing. "Please, Fedya, let's keep him."
Fyodor wasn't a big fan of cats, or animals in general, it wasn't that he hated them, but he preferred not to have pets. But there you were, begging him for an abandoned cat, and, well, you were being on excellent behavior, so he needed to give you a reward, right?
"Okay, but you'll be the one to take care of it." You nodded quickly as you grabbed the cat, pulled him against your chest, and covered him up as best you could with your coat.
The two of you walked out of the alley, you were petting the cat's little head as you smiled. Fyodor just looked at you, appreciating how cute you looked when you were happy. He thought that, perhaps, he could do more things to see that smile of yours more often.
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spriteofmushrooms · 5 months
Text
Wei Wuxian sipped the wine Lan Zhan brought from Gusu in one of Jinlin Tai's many ostentatious peony gardens. He had found a branch in a ginkgo tree that was high enough that no one should see him at a glance where he still had a good view of the moon between the yellow leaves. It wasn't the worst way he could have spent his time at the Discussion Conference. Lan Zhan, for example, had to be xiandu. What could possibly be worse than that?
"Jin Ling, what's the matter now?"
Wei Wuxian rolled his eyes. Really, Jiang Cheng is such a wronged mother. He plays his part like a grand madam.
"Do you think Zizhen-ge is a better sect leader than I am?" Jin Ling hissed.
"What?" Wei Wuxian looked down. Through the branches, he could see Jiang Cheng's silver lotus guan glimmer with his head shake. "Where did you get that from? A-Ling, sit and explain."
"You complimented him in front of everyone," Jin Ling grumbled, but he flounced onto the bench.
Jiang Cheng folded himself gracefully, careful of the drape of his robes. "It's his first conference. All I did was walk him through presenting himself, like a junior should be treated."
"You liked his proposal."
"You like it, too, brat. Besides, a little support in the beginning keeps the old men at bay."
Jin Ling knocked his shoulder against Jiang Cheng's. "So it's not because you always wanted a poet for a nephew?"
Wei Wuxian couldn't see it, but he could imagine Jiang Cheng's face. But when Jiang Cheng spoke, it didn't match the tone he expected. Sad, but trying to joke. "After the poems Zixuan wrote?"
"A-Die wrote poems?"
Oh, oh, Wei Wuxian wanted to leave.
"Once he became enlightened, he was devout. 'Rain pearls on lotus leaves which bow gracefully/Thoughts of you collect and overwhelm me.' A-jie blushed for weeks." Jiang Cheng sighed. "The Jinlin Tai library should have them all somewhere. Please don't let Ouyang-gongzi read them."
Jin Ling huffed a laugh and threw his arm around Jiang Cheng's shoulder, which is when Wei Wuxian realized Jin Ling was taller and broader now. He hadn't seen them side by side in years. A light breeze stirred the gingko leaves and lifted the scent of peonies.
"Hanguang-jun didn't murder anyone with his eyes today," Jin Ling chirped. "Do you think he's starting to like politics?"
"Don't."
"Jiujiu..."
"He's the xiandu, Jin Ling. What do you think would happen if anyone overheard you disrespect him, especially while hosting the conference?"
Jin Ling groaned and threw his head back dramatically, jostling Jiang Cheng. Briefly, Wei Wuxian amused himself by imagining what Yu-furen would have made of her grandson. Then he gently slapped himself. "You're so boring, jiujiu! It's not like he respects either of us."
Jiang Cheng snapped, "I didn't realize you aspired to be so immature and irresponsible."
Immature? Irresponsible? Jiang Cheng had a lot of nerve! Wei Wuxian would tell him so, but then he would have to admit to hiding in a tree. Jiang Cheng would be so annoying about it, and Wei Wuxian really didn't want to bother!
"Aiya, jiujiu, if I can't complain to you about him, who can I? No one else sees what he's like."
Jiang Cheng leaned against Jin Ling, but then he ruined the picture by saying, "It's good that most people can't tell. If half of the sects ran to Zewu-jun with complaints about his beloved didi, he would leave seclusion before he was ready."
They were quiet for a few moments. Suddenly, Jin Ling burst out, "Do you really not care?"
Jiang Cheng paused. "About?"
"You know I spend time with—him!"
"You're sixteen, Jin Ling. Your memory should be good enough to remember every other time you've poked at this. And use his name; he doesn't actually appear every time you call."
"Wei-qianbei misses you!" Jin Ling grabbed Jiang Cheng's shoulders and started to gently shake him back and forth, but then Jiang Cheng pushed his hands away and stood.
"As you are clearly feeling better, I will leave first," Jiang Cheng hissed.
Jin Ling zipped in front of Jiang Cheng, blocking his path. "Jiujiu, I don't understand you at all! You want to talk to him, and he wants to talk to you. Why are you waiting?"
"He wants to talk to me so much that I learned about his elopement from gossiping disciples? He wants to talk to me so much that he lives in Cloud Recesses, which he hates? He wants to talk to me so much that he ignores Lan Wangji's hand on Bichen every time we meet?" With each question, Jiang Cheng prowled forward, and Jin Ling backed up.
"I don't think he hates Cloud Recesses..."
That's right; Wei Wuxian didn't. Lan Zhan was there, for one thing. And the juniors!
"That's because you don't fucking know him," Jiang Cheng snapped.
"Oh, and you do? When you won't even talk to him?"
"I was his assignment, Jin Ling. He either played with me or starved; he either trained to be the best or lost his position." Jiang Cheng laughed, dark and mean. "Not that I noticed."
"Jiujiu..."
"Let him live the life he wants, Jin Ling. Let me go to bed."
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