#Burns Night Supper

[johnthestitcher]

Robert Burns’ Night Supper!

In honor of Robert Burns' birthday, Scots and non-Scots alike are celebrating his birth with a special supper. We started with Haggis puffs and a Kilted Cocktail (Irish whiskey, scotch, lemon juice, simple syrup). The main course was a haggis-stuffed pork roast wrapped in bacon (Strictly Kosher!), served with a cold leek salad and tatties (mashed potatoes), served with whiskey gravy (turkey gravy with thyme, bay leaf, and scotch mixed it). Stop turning up your noses - the tastes are FABULOUS! We saved half the pork to celebrate with a friend on Friday night, where we will also have my rendition of Cock-a-Leekie soup - another Scot specialty!

Stop complaining about haggis - your mouths are watering!

"Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot ..."

 (hey- I married a Scot!)

#robert burns #burns night supper #haggis puffs #cold leek salad #neeps #tatties #cock-a-leekie soup #kilted cocktails #whiskey gravy

[juliehowlin]

Haggis

What is haggis, anyway? Well, it’s not, as around a third of American visitors to Scotland believe, a small Scottish animal with longer legs on one side, so that it can run around the steep hills of the Scottish highlands without falling over.

10 things you might not know about haggis:

#facts #burns night #scotland #haggis #burns night supper

[selfindulgenttwaddle]

Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!

I know what you are thinking*; GRAVY?! I have a million excuses, but I’ll just go with I’m a Yorkshireman mascarading as a Scot for the night, everything is better with gravy. For all the real Scots and friends celebrating, Happy Burns Night! Here’s to the Immortal Memory, Lassies and Laddies. Cheers! 🥃 (*And look, I know there is a lot more wrong with my supper this year. The wife wanted a…

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#Burns Night Supper #Haggis #Happy Burns Night

[pinktinselmonstrosity]

i think i've said this before but. it is super weird when you've been lonely and friendless for so long to suddenly have people inviting you places and actually wanting to see you all the time. obviously it's fantastic but also. i'm sooooo tired how are normal people not incredibly tired all the time??

#i've been working 8am-7pm (inc commute) these past two days #and tomorrow i have classes 9-4 #and on friday i have classes and work 11-4 #my friend wants to go to a burns night supper tomorrow i said great! #then she asked if i wanted to go out afterwards. and to a ceilidh on friday. and camping this weekend #i said girl please i need a second 😭 #if nothing else i desperately need to bleach my roots so. please #🧃

[guildencrantz]

Your First Burns Supper - with USA Kilts

I was interviewed by USA Kilts for their feature on Burns Night this year. (What?! That’s crazy!) Enjoy my awkwardness (I was sick and had the brain fog something awful!), an actual expert, great tips, as well as some silly speeches by friends Emily Schwartz and Chad Snedeker, which you can view in full HERE. Sadly, we had to forego this year’s celebration – there was just too much going on...

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#burns night #burns supper #event #event planning #party #poetry #rabbie burns #Robert Burns

[married-to-a-redhead]

Burns Night is approaching - January 25, 2023. Have to start planning my Burns Supper soon!

#burns night #burns supper

[music-for-them-asses]

I've finally figured it out. I was a romantic poet playboy in a past life and now I'm being punished for my hubris in this one

#personal #I went to a Burns supper last night lolol #I was meant to do fuck-all and be a slut. I can feel it. #don't want to die of a tragic death in my late thirties but the rest sounds good #I am JOKING about all of this btw. Or am I.

[mistfunk]

Mistigram: tonight Scottish families around the world sit down to dinner of haggis, neeps and tatties (with maybe a dram of whisky) and celebrate the enduring legacy of #Scotland's national poet #RobbieBurns. This #ANSIart screen in commemoration of the occasion was drawn by Darkman Almighty.

#Robbie Burns #Burns supper #Burns night #ANSI art #Darkman Almighty #Scotland

[bletheringskite]

Enjoy yer bards night supper if yer huvin wan

The Freemasons Haggis Supper

Wance a year at haun shake meetins 

When kilts ur worn and pipes ur bleatin

Yer beasties served up wa’rm and reekin

The main course O' the wealthie's feastin 

It’s served up oan a silver platter

Addressed in haverin auld Scots patter

Whit these wurds mean jist disnae metter

Tae them thit’s gained above ther stature 

But tae Jock Tamson's oan the street

This plucky puddin's quite a treat

Baldy entrails stuffed wae oats n’ meat 

But wher’s the beasties wee hairy feet ?

#Robert Burns Night #Burns supper #scots language #scotland #humour

[crashdown]

i was at a robert burns' day party last night and the host's son invited a friend and their mum who didn't know anything about the celebration. and we were getting ready to pipe in the haggis and the mum asked "so are we celebrating his death?" and yeah that's a fair assumption bc we didn't explain but-

#i haven't gone to a robbie burns day supper in awhile though it was so nice #its really a shame it isn't more common in canada. like its such a nice winter celebration #robert burns #haggis #burns night #robbie burns day

[cucumber-pictures]

Carrot and Parfait celebrate Burns Night.

#cucumber quest #cq #Princess Parfait #parfait #sir carrot #carrot #bunnies #rabbits #burns night #burns supper #robert burns #mr burns

[ryn-stillstanding]

I just started restrictive eating again after gaining weight on my antidepressants- things that helped me get started

starting slow:

-> cut out snacks, then breakfast, then lunch - then reduced supper to 700, down to 500cal

-> started with weight training (before i started dieting), added in 30min walks a few times a week and built up to 60mins a day and weight training 3x a week

figured out how to control cravings:

-> when i feel i need to eat, i tell myself to drink a cup of green tea, and if im still hungry ill have something small

-> im a chip girly and i love the taste, so i bought crispy minis in my favourite flavours (7cal / chip) and i eat a couple every day

-> for sweets, keep small chocolates, or i make my coffee sweet with zero cal coffee syrup, which keeps me satisfied all day

-> for fried foods, I just be careful with what I eat. for chicken fingers, i eat chicken breast instead - for fries, i eat other carbs (the low cal salty snacks help too)

-> if you don’t control your cravings, they will control you

figured out my triggering times and adjusted:

-> i start feeling hungry around 2-3, so that’s when i go on my daily walk (im lucky to be able to do this) it keeps me out of the house and away from food until supper

-> i used to binge on chips and chocolates at night, now i drink tea sweetened with stevia and a couple of crispy minis

-> at my triggering times, i look at thinspø, or my body to remind myself why im doing this

other rules i follow:

-> if tea is not available, drink an entire stanley of water before seeing if you’re hungry

-> chew about 10x per bite

-> drink an entire stanley of water while eating my supper to keep me full (i honestly feel stuffed after)

-> i still go out to eat with friends, but order something small / healthier, and pack up half for tomorrows meal. i want to lose the weight, but i want to enjoy time with friends too

-> “if i binge, ill just feel more hungry tomorrow”

-> embrace the hunger, it means im burning fat

-> i waited till i felt “skinnier” to weigh in, because i knew seeing the number would discourage me (idk why it has the opposite effect on me)

-> doing the calculations to find out when i will hit goals with my cal intake (number of days x caloric deficit / 3500 = pounds lost) - this keeps me motivated having an “end date”, but i dont think ill ever want to quit

^^ check out my pinned post to see how to do this + set rewards

thanks that’s all :)

#ed disorder #ed not ed sheeran #thinspø #tw restrictive ed #⭐️ving #tw disordered eating #tw ed diet #anatumblr #ana tricks #tw ana diary #ana bllog #ana trigger #ana meal #i need to ⭐️ve #⭐️rve #i want to ⭐️ve #ed advice #thin$po #i need to be weightless

[theautumnpicker]

@mystraguideme

It's his, by any rights. They'd taken an awfully long detour to find the book in the first place, and then it had been Astarion himself who had been sent to collect it, to carefully sever the connection between the pressure plate and the statues around it. Yet for all his effort— not to mention his very polite request— it was Gale who was rewarded with the treasure. And for what? It's undoubtedly just another bauble to him, the ravenous, power-mad fool.

Not that Astarion can really fault his ambition.

Of course, he showed no outward sign of his irritation. That wouldn't win him any points with their leader. Besides, he still had options. He meant to wait until they were at camp and swipe the thing while the others were eating. He even pitched his tent next to Gale's that night, watching the wizard closely as he set up all his worldly goods. Yet Gale seemed to keep the book with him, as if it were a bit of light reading he wanted to settle down with on a full belly.

So, giving up on his first plan, Asterion joined the group at supper after all, smiling and joking to disguise his poor appetite for the sort of food they have to offer. He went to bed directly afterwards, but he can't sleep, whether or not he wants to. Thoughts of the book invade his mind, almost calling out to him with the power it has to offer him. There has to be something in the pages of that tome that he can use against Cazador, or even just use for himself. Something to make his condition permanent, beyond the grace of these damned tadpoles that everyone else seems in such a rush to remove. He imagines returning home to his old master, telling him what he'd discovered and promising to share the secret— for surely even Cazador would envy his power now— only to watch him burn and writhe in the sun.

That does it. He is getting that damned book.

Astarion sits up and raises the flap of his tent, peering out and seeing to his satisfaction that all the others are asleep, or at the very least in their little beds, oblivious to all the world. He half crawls outside, keeping low to the ground in a prowl, as he steals over to Gale's tent and listens outside, ceasing to breathe as he listens for the sounds of the wizard's own breathing inside. He feels hungry suddenly, but whether he hungers for the knowledge close at hand or for the blood he can smell under Gale's skin as he stalks his quarry is hard to say.

The hunger makes him impatient. Astarion doesn't wait until he can hear that breathing slow, until he's sure Gale is fast asleep. Instead, he enters quickly and quietly, not even looking at the wizard at first as he scans the entirety of his surroundings in rapid search for his heart's desire. Even if the book remains on Gale's person now, Astarion fully intends to take it for his own.

#ic post #thread: necromancy of thay

[targaryen-dynasty]

SWEET POISON.

Aegon II Targaryen x niece!Reader

Cregan Stark was a decent man, but your heart yearned for the man from whom this marriage would tear you away. Yet you were ignoring him to keep the liaison between you a secret – much to your uncle's infuriation.

WORDS: 2.7 K

WARNINGS: SEXUAL CONTENT–MINORS DNI; NON/DUB-CON, canon typical incest/targcest (uncle x niece), (semi) public sex, p in v, slight fingering, dacryphilia, slight petting, humiliating, degrading, choking, spitting, mean/dark/jealous/possessive!Aegon, female Reader (with Targaryen traits -> silver hair, lilac eyes)

NOTES: Written for @lovelykhaleesiii 🥰 You prefer the uncle x niece trope? Say no more! Thank you so much! 🤭

The arrangement between you and Cregan Stark made more than sense to tie the North to your mother’s side of the family. Especially if Aegon should ever choose to assert his claim to the Iron Throne, despite not being appointed heir by your grandsire. 

It was a good plan, and nothing more than a political arrangement. 

You had met Cregan once before the King’s official announcement of your betrothal and the supper he hosted in honor of it, and while he was a decent man, your heart yearned for the man from whom this marriage would tear you away. 

All evening you had to endure the cold stare of Aegon. And while his eyes usually were glued to you with a certain softness that caused you to get lost in them, they did nothing more than burn with fury at the end of the feast. 

But the announcement of your betrothal was not the trigger, you had informed Aegon beforehand a few nights ago. It was the way you clung to Cregan’s hand as he guided you to the dance floor. The way you smiled and laughed whenever the Stark made a joke. And if this didn’t fuel his jealousy, you not paying any attention to him at all certainly did. 

The whole night long.

It wasn’t that you were ashamed of the match made for you, but you were just too afraid to look at Aegon once you’d noticed your mistake, for your uncle was known to be quick to anger and slow to forgive. And you weren't sure if you were ready to face the dragon’s wrath. 

The liaison between you was a secret. You were sure your mother and stepfather would feed you to their dragons, if it were to become known to them that your uncle had broken your maidenhead the night you turned ten-and-nine. But the agreement of secrecy seemed to be long forgotten by said uncle, his jealousy clearly taking over. 

It was no surprise that, when you eventually exited the throne room as the feast was nearing its end, a shadow in the form of Aegon trailed behind you like a predator waiting for the right moment to seize its prey. 

And seizing you he did, once the hallways became more dimly lit and lonelier. 

There was an urgency in him when he not-so-gently fisted your hair to pull you back, shoving you into one of the keeps alcoves. He didn’t have to speak first, as there was no need for him to phrase what bothered him. You knew all too well what plagued his mind.  

“He–We–We are betrothed,” you whimpered, lips pulling into a pout while your head was firmly pressed against the stone wall of the alcove by Aegon’s hand around your throat, “do not be mad at me.”

Your heart was racing, pounding against the confines of your ribcage with Aegon’s large hand trailing over the bodice of your dress, fisting the skirts of it to lift it enough for his hand to snake underneath. “Are you really sulking now?” he growled, breath reeking of Arbor red as it fanned over your face. His thumb started to circle over the dampened spot in the center of your smallclothes, teasing your little bud. Your small hand reached for his wrist, though you weren’t sure if you wanted to claw his hand off your throat or if you used the grip to keep yourself grounded. 

The sound of pleasure that left your lips was the epitome of pathetic, and the volume of it had embarrassment coloring your cheeks and neck in a bright red. Your bottom lip trembled, and, despite the pleasurable sensations that rippled through your core at the ministrations of his thumb, you attempted to wiggle out of his grasp. “Y-Yes!” you all but whined, though you tried your best to keep your voice low considering you were still kind of out in the open, barely shielded by the alcove. 

Aegon flashed you a lazy smirk when you focused your eyes from the bawdy tapestry hanging on the wall behind him, finally meeting his eyes. “Then quit the sulking before I give you something to sulk about, niece.” 

It was well-known that Aegon was not a proficient warrior, unlike his younger brother, yet this did not mean that he wasn’t strong. His grip on your throat was tight enough to lock you in place, rendering you immobile, and when he placed one thigh between yours, you knew all hope for you was lost.  

“Mayhaps I must drag you back to the Throne Room…,” he muttered, tilting his head to the side as he assessed you, watching your eyes grow wide with fear. “... bend you over the table to claim you in front of everyone. Mayhaps this will show my half-sister that you belong to me.” 

You tried to cower, lilac eyes flickering between the emeralds on his gold chain and his mocking expression. “Gods,” you breathed, the thought sending shivers down your spine, “p-please, no–” Your words were cut off by your own gasp when two of his thick digits pushed the linen of your smallclothes aside to scarcely drag through your soaked mound, barely using any of your arousal to slide inside without a warning.

But, as quick as his fingers had entered you, they withdrew again, resuming to rubbing your little bud.

“P-Please,” Aegon mocked with a dry chuckle, pushing his lips into a pout to mimic the one you had made before, “you are so pretty when you beg.” The backhanded compliment seemed to be enough to dull your inhibitions, allowing a warmth sensation to bubble in the pit of your stomach. “I know you like it, sweetling,” his head dips forward, looking you down with a sharp expression, “when I treat you like the common whore you are, taking right after your mother.” 

And just like that, the warmth vanished, bringing you back to the cold reality and the predicament you had found yourself in. Perhaps you should have seen it coming sooner, having witnessed all the oh so cruel jokes he had made at the expense of his own kin, his younger brother. But why did a part of you crave his cruelness so much? 

Your body was torn between feeling a hunger for him and being humiliated by him, the interplay of both leaving you utterly confused. When you turned your head to the side to escape his mocking stare, and hide the tears rolling down your cheeks, Aegon was quick to force you to meet his gaze again, his hand releasing your throat, so his fingers could not-so-gently dig into your cheeks. 

“You look at me when you cry,” he commanded, seemingly enjoying the power he held over you, compensating for something he lacked in his everyday life. “Those tears belong to me,” he said, gathering some of them with the pad of his thumb, “just like this sweet cunt of yours. You belong to me, not to that cunt of a Stark. Am I understood?”

When you didn’t answer, he spoke again, but not without spitting on your cheek first, feeding the shame and the humiliation you felt. 

“Am I understood?” 

Your face grew burning hot with the realization of what he had done, your mouth agape, but before he could spit on you for a second time, you were quick to manage a short whimper of ‘y-yes.’

His lilac eyes were dark blown, a perverted desire flickering in them, and letting you know you were right about the dragon’s wrath. He loomed over you like a vulture, and shielded your small frame from the few people passing the alcove on their way.

“You are so fortunate, little niece. Do you know what other ladies would do to be in your place, to be desired by the future King of the Seven Kingdoms? And how many other ladies would want to be you right now?” You couldn’t bring yourself to correct him, stating that your mother was proclaimed heir long before he was born, as you were too afraid to make your misery even worse. “Many noble lords would kill for their daughter to take your place,” he said, “you should thank me for only wanting you.”

You swallowed thickly, and your voice betrayed you. Instead of giving him the answer he desired, a pathetic moan slipped past your lips, only topped by your legs buckling beneath your weight at the impact of his words, of his possessiveness. His hand found your throat again, keeping you steady. 

“Lo iksā daor jāre naejot gaomagon skoros vestran, nyke kessa jurnegon syt iā riña bona kessa.” The High Valyrian slipped past his lips with so much ease, the shock on your face was evident. Never before had you heard him speak the tongue of your ancestors, not even knowing if he could speak it. But the smoothness of his voice, and the lack of accent, made it clear the lazy prince had been a dutiful scholar. “Āeksio Borros iksis gīmigon naejot emagon izula tali. Kostilus mēre hen zirȳ kessa gaomagon.” If you are not going to do what I say, I shall look for a lady that will. Lord Borros is known to have four daughters. Perhaps one of them will do. 

Even though no one would know he casted you aside for one of the Four Storms, you resented the thought and the shame it would bring you. “No,” you pleaded, more tears brimming in your eyes, causing your vision to grow blurry. “B–But please let us take this to your chambers,” you whined, “I am scared of someone seeing us.... me.” 

“Silence,” Aegon purred, his tone a stark contrast from the harsh one he had used prior. He bowed his head forwards to nuzzle his nose along your cheek, licking up the tears that had run down, before his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. “But in my apartments no one will know you are mine, sweetling.”

So lost in the softness of his voice and the warmth of his breath, you hardly registered him undoing the laces in his breeches, only just lowered enough for him to free his hard cock. Once that was done, he lifted one of your thighs to wrap it around his hip, which brought you close enough to his cock to feel it prodding against your cunt. 

“We–We can’t,” you tried to protest, wiggling out of his grasp. But Aegon was adamant, keeping his hand locked around your thigh as he solely relied on the hardness of his cock to breach your core instead of using his hand to guide it in. “Not here… please, uncle,” your voice was reduced to a whimper, and the despair audible. A thousand thoughts flashed before your eyes, the most prominent one being either your mother and stepfather, or even Cregan himself, finding you mid-act. 

“I decide where I take you,” he growled your name in a condescending manner, displaying his raw need to prove himself and show the dominance he held over you, “and if I wanted to fuck you in the small council chamber during a meeting, then so be it.”

You released a shuddered breath, and the memories of the delicious stretch his cock brought you clouded your mind to the point you couldn't intervene, only to be revived a split second later with him slowly but surely pushing in. Every ridge and vein of his cock dragged along your inner walls, not making the burning of the stretch any more pleasurable than the countless times he had had you before. 

He tilted your head back to expose your throat to him, allowing him to nibble your skin as he started to thrust his hips into yours. His teeth dragged along your throat over to the curve where your neck met your shoulder, and you couldn’t tell if he left any marks or not – even if he did, you didn’t care at this point. 

The snaps of his hips weren’t particularly fast or harsh, but deep and determined enough to make your breathing hiccup each time the tip of his cock brushed the sweet spot within you. When one thrust seemed a bit rougher than the others, you released a moan that was a tad too loud for your own liking, but alas, the man in front of you didn’t think so, and was quick to change his pace to coax even louder sounds of pleasure from you. 

“Be quiet,” the silver haired prince teased, yet he didn’t do anything to stifle or mitigate your moans, “we do not want to raise any more attention, do we?” The tone of his voice was so wicked, and you damn well knew that was exactly what he wanted. If anyone was to see you two, nothing would stand in his way to get you all for himself. Not Cregan Stark, and not even your stepfather himself, the Rogue Prince. 

It was far too easy for him to lose himself in you. Despite some people passing you two, exchanging hushed whispers or releasing disgusted gasps, he couldn’t stop entering you over and over as you bit back on every sound of bliss his thrusts issued forth from your lips. 

The hand that cupped your cheek was put behind your head to support it, and allow him to thrust harder into you, each thrust forcing you against the cold stone wall. Perhaps it was the possibility of being caught by your own kin, or being defiled by him so openly, but your peak approached you far too quickly, more so as he adjusted his hips and brought your other leg up around his waist to make his cock reach an angle that had you gasping, whining and clenching around him ever so tightly. 

“Go on,” he rasped, tilting his head forwards slightly to lick a flat stripe from the crook of your neck up to your ear, harshly biting down on your earlobe once. “Be a good girl and wet my cock, niece.”

It seemed that all your encounters before had taught your uncle one valuable lesson, because, when you eventually did what he said and your peak crashed over you with soaring pleasure, he moved his hand to clasp it over your mouth to stifle all the moans and whines that escaped your throat. You were loud when peaking, and perhaps that was even too loud for the corrupted prince. 

“That’s it,” he purred, “making a mess all over my cock. Just how I like it.”

With a grunt, he reached between your bodies to rub your little bud, prolonging your high and intensifying the feeling of your body erupting in flames as your arousal dripped down his twitching cock. 

Your cunt squeezed Aegon tight enough for him to reach his peak with one final thrust, and, when his cock spent itself deep inside of your trembling walls, his hips stilled. It surprised you he didn’t pull out right after, staying nestled inside of you just a few moments longer until his breathing settled back to normal. 

Your senses came back slowly, until it didn’t feel like a haze anymore, and made you terribly aware of what had happened. His hands ran over your arse before he lowered you back on the ground, a smug smirk gracing his features. 

“Do you know that once I am king, I shall fly North to claim what is mine. You. And I do not care if I must burn down Winterfell or feed that Northerner to Sunfyre. I will come and I will take you.” The determination with which he said it rendered you speechless, as it was far from the Aegon you got to know growing up, and you feared for what the future might hold. 

That night in your chambers, when you had changed into a black shift, you stood in front of the mirror and watched your reflection. Upon looking more closely at your neck, you spotted a purplish bruise right at your throat, and it appeared that mayhaps your uncle’s wish might be fulfilled sooner than anticipated when you had to face your mother in the morrow to break your fast.

Modified my taglists so: General Taglist: @aemondx @watercolorskyy @nothingqueens @urmomsgirlfriend1 @heimtathurs @croatianprincess @nina2697 @malfoytargaryen @sophie-looks-at-stuff @thetaygaryen @wintrr13 @winter-soldier-101 @kyuupidwrites @boofy1998 @thekinslayersswordhand @sagelovesreading @jiminie-08 @doublesparrows @at-a-rax-ia @fan-goddess @recorddust @tsujifreya @melsunshine @docmartinis @drwstarkeyy @kazuyatokue @moonlightfoxx @bbgmonsay

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd fic #aegon the usurper #hotd aegon #aegon x reader #aegon the second #aegon ii #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon targaryen smut #aegon ii smut #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x you #aegon ii fanfic #aegon the elder #aegon ii fic #aegon ii x y/n #aegon ii x you #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii imagine #aegon ii x fem!reader #aegon ii targaryen fic #hotd smut #house of the dragon fanfiction #house of the dragon fic #house of the dragon fanfic

[ceilidho]

prompt: you keep seeing apparitions of a dead special forces operative who's been haunting the barracks. (light angst; nsfw) (actual ghost simon riley)

-

War dogs chewed up and spat out by the machinery of war.

It is an incalculable blow to learn of his death. Worse still that you learn of it by happenstance, one officer talking to another, only listening in because it’s been weeks since you’ve seen him and their voices go hushed in that way that makes your ears prick up. You’re sitting at a nearby table in the canteen when someone says the single most devastating words that have ever been spoken near you.

“They weren’t able to recover the whole body, just some of it. Pretty gruesome. Don’t know if you ever met him, but he was an alright guy—pretty quiet. Scary, yeah, but—I don’t know. He was fair. Got the job done though. Soap’s taking it pretty hard.”

You barely breathe at the news. Something is squeezing your heart until it overfills on the other side. 

You walk around base in a daze after that. It’s not anyone’s fault that you aren’t notified—no one was supposed to know. Your whole arrangement with Simon was predicated on the knowledge that it would never be revealed to your commanding officers or the rest of the infantry. Made sense at the time. Makes less sense now when your world is falling apart and you have no way of even requesting Ghost’s dog tags. 

Pain holds you upright like a splint while it also tries to smother you. You crawl back to your barracks after training the recruits, voice a hoarse whisper in your throat. Showers are an optimal place to cry, when maybe you won’t be heard. Grief is not grief when there’s nowhere for it to go. 

Maybe Soap was privy enough to Ghost’s life to know. He doesn’t spend time with you, but you see him once from across the tarmac on a flight out and his gaze lingers on you. There are deep troughs under his eyes, dark even with the distance between you. His posture is still, rigid; despite his uniform being pressed and his hair being cut and gelled into place, there is something singularly heavy weighing him down.

He nods from across the way to you. You grit your jaw and nod back. 

It’s the only time you’ll ever acknowledge it. Soap never seeks you out after that—maybe it’s too painful. Maybe shared pain isn’t always enough. 

The worst is only finding out weeks later that Ghost has been buried. That’s your closure. An offhand comment from an operations officer on a smoke break. Your numb hand flicking a lighter. Rain breaking in the early twilight hours and you stand in it so long that you shiver and shake on your way back to your room. 

Lightning that crackles in the storm clouds, illuminating the place where you just stood outside while you stare from your window. Illuminating someone standing where you just were. You squint, but they round the bend to one of the other buildings before you can make them out. 

Every soldier has a story. Conducting barracks checks on staff duty only to find a soldier with half their jaw missing asking for a cigarette. A marine approaching a soldier asking for his rifle, garbed in a ripped vest from early Iraq. Squad bays known for apparitions, known for hauntings. Figures seen from the trees, the half-shadowed remains of old tanks, burned and hollowed out, suddenly upright and mobile. 

In certain barracks, soldiers won’t even leave their rooms at night to use the washroom. They’d rather piss in old bottles or hold off until morning light altogether. It’s common enough to be joked about, for soldiers to trade stories in the mess over supper, trying to spook each other with the things they’ve seen or claimed to see. 

You can tell the ones who’ve actually seen things from those who haven’t though. The ones who have are often quieter, often only laugh a little. The truth is buried in their inability to fully commit to the bit. It’s the knowing that does that.

Knowing that there are things that death cannot hide. 

The first time you see Simon again, it’s not a homecoming. You know there’s something very wrong. 

It’s 3am and someone’s standing in front of your door. You feel it before you see them, feel something like every single hair on your body standing on end and the sudden lucid thought in the middle of a dream that you need to wake up. That you need to wake up right now. 

Heart racing when your eyes snap open. Sweat already slicking the backs of your knees. You’re lying on your side, hands curled close to your face, and you feel its gaze on you like the heaviest dread you’ve ever felt in your life. You stare at the wall that your bed is pushed up against until you find the courage to roll over.

Just a shape in the dark. A dark shape. Distinct from the rest of the darkness in your room. Tall as it is wide. The slightest motion to it, like breathing or the gentle swaying of the human body when it’s allowed to be loose. 

There’s a lamp on your end table. You flick it on without tearing your eyes away from the dark shape looming by the door, but when light unveils your room, it flickers away like a bad illusion. Just a jacket hung up on the back of the door. Your heart races still. 

When the light goes off, the shadow doesn’t reappear.

It might not be him, but something’s haunting you. You spoon cereal into your mouth in the morning with a shaking hand. It’s the massive shape of a body behind the shower curtain in your private bathroom that has you certain—certain—that someone’s there until you whip it to the side and see only tile wall. You know what you saw though, and you know from the way the top of it peeked over the curtain that it was blond. 

Weeks go by. You’re in a bivy sack and a voice you recognize wakes you up for watch. It’s the same voice that used to rumble low in your ear when you let him into your bed on leave (you always used to take them at the same time, no one the wiser). You’re back on base in your room and something leans its full weight onto your bed. You wake up to him sitting on the edge of your bed, blood dripping from an old wound. Him though, skull mask and all. Eyes shadowed always, black staring at you seeing and unseeing. 

You don’t need to ask what he wants from you. He lumbers around the barracks like a wraith that only you can see. Never truer to his old moniker than he is in death. A civilian worker flirts with you one day and he winds up in the infirmary. Fell down the stairs, another sergeant tells you when you ask. You smile tight, brittle. If only. 

He slips into your bed at night when the lights are shut and you’ve turned over onto your side. You can’t see him, but the bed compresses under his weight like it did when he was alive. He’s still for a minute, stare heavy on you while you lie there motionless, waiting him out. When he finally lays a hand on your hip, you flinch at how normal it feels. Like he didn’t go out and die one day. Like it’s really him at your back dragging a hand down the curve of your hip and over your thigh.

He divests you of your pyjamas the same way he used to in motel rooms, your apartment off-base, his cabin up north that you still have the key to but can’t bring yourself to visit. You let him. Shorts pulled down and kicked to the bottom of the bed, then your underwear. Shirt rucked up so he can fit a big, rough hand over your tit. His hands are solid where they touch you, nothing ghostly about them. He squeezes like the memory of your flesh is half-gone, like he needs to sink himself into you again. 

“Missed…you…” His voice comes like a deep rumble, tectonic plates shifting over the asthenosphere. 

The hand on your breast slides up, over the delicate skin of your throat, over where your pulse goes mad and you dry swallow because there’s nothing in your mouth. Over and up the curve of your cheek, thumb pressing against your lips, curling your top lip up until you’re almost kissing it. Then he lets go, hand coming back down to your hip. 

“Simon, are you—” you start, cut off on a gasp when he lifts your leg over his hip and something presses against your opening. Notches there, sinks in hot inch after hot inch. Head spinning and breath wild when he spears you on his thick length, half-tumbling over you until you’re lying prone on your bed. Simon’s as heavy as you remember, the full weight of him keeping you trapped there. You can only take. You can only draw in a deep breath and let out the softest sounds while he presses in, 

“Had to…come back,” the ghost of your old lover says, growling into your ear. “Couldn’t…leave you here…alone.”

You wonder what’s really behind the mask this time. His hands and dick feel flesh enough, but fear still quivers in your belly because you know that whatever it is pressing you down with a firm hand on your shoulder blade, it’s not fully him. 

You’ve heard of ghosts haunting places but never people. There’s something achingly loyal about the way he fucks you though. It’s dark and hot under him, and he mouths where he can, mask pulled up finally. Not that you can see. Better that you can’t, maybe. Pulsing in and out of your cunt, silent but for his shallow intakes of breath. He feels enormous and terrifying at your back. 

A big arm still clad in his old uniform jacket is braced beside your head. Simon whispers apologies into your hair; that he pulled himself out of a grave for a second time because he couldn’t untangle his soul from yours, but he got it wrong this time around. He didn’t make it in time. 

“I won’t leave you though, love,” he says around kisses laid tender on the nape of your neck. He bites the meat of your shoulder hard enough to leave an imprint of his teeth. “Never gonna leave you.” His words make you slicker, hotter; tightening around him until he snarls and fucks more viciously. A promise you thought he couldn’t keep. 

In the morning, you stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. You take off your shirt and turn around. There’s a red bite mark on your upper left shoulder and it aches when you touch it.

#cod mw2 #ceil writing #cod x reader #cod simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost/reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you

[wiltshirepiper]

BURNS' NIGHT MENU - WHAT TO DRINK

Malt whiskey is the usual choice at Burns Suppers. Contrary to popular belief, adding a little water to your malt should improve rather than reduce the flavor, although some whiskey drinkers can't take the kindly to reduce their drama!

It is traditional to pour drama over the haggis, but some people may prefer not to do so because it takes away the flavor of the meat and makes it soggy and cold! It's probably best to enjoy each other independently.

Visit:- https://wiltshirepiper.co.uk/burns-suppers/  

#Burns Suppers #burns' night