#like why this descriptor soap

[jeeb-roski]

I think a LOT about how Soap has canonically referred to Price's beard as the dick tickler. 😭

#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #john soap mactavish #soap cod #captain price #like why this descriptor soap #what do you know

[ghouljams]

ANOTHER FASHION HISTORY NERD!!! YOU MAKE ME CRY TEARS OF JOY!!!

I hate seeing a period piece and then: ‘he pulled her panties down’ it gives me the ick… pantaletts are a sexy concept! Just get through all the ribbon, silk and lace of her skirts? There’s no barrier, it’s sexy! It’s like crotchless panties but, better… idk why it’s better but, it is.

(I love those novels!!! ‘titillate’ is a funny word and very accurate to use as a descriptor. It feels like a cross between giggly and turned on, y’know?)

Lord Mactavish is so *sigh* … just picturing him in any way shape or form… when they’re actually married he takes her (us) back to his mansion? Chasing her through the manor house; through the winding halls… taking her (us) against the carpet until your knees are covered in rug burn. (I picture the massive mansion from the secret garden)

(Servants are scared to roam at night. It’s too awkward to look your lord and lady in they eye after seeing that)

When you go to get your dresses for the season, he comes with. “Leave extra room- need to alter it for her pregnancy soon.” You’re not pregnant. He intends to fix that and parade you around at every gala.

On god I am staring at period undergarments just to make sure I'm not misremembering when pantaletts became a thing lol. They weren't popular during the regency period so we can just pull the skirts up (drool) It's so much better than crotch-less panties you're right.

You're fucking doing something to me... Lord Mactavish parading you around at every gala, he knows full well that not everyone thinks it's proper to have you out and about when you're showing, he also knows that he's supposed to be using euphamisms. He still settles a hand on your stomach and proudly announces that his wife is "bred just like she's supposed to be" which gets him smacked and gets you fucked in whatever room he can get you into quickest. Grrrrrr I want him.

More Bodice Ripper Soap...

He likes this little game you play, you know he does. Barely married, and he's taken every opportunity(on every surface) to make sure you remember it. You can hear him whistling through the corridors of his manor, letting you know where he is at all times. It's also a warning to any servants still awake and busying themselves about the place. Your heart hammers in your chest as you press yourself back behind the door of the study. You know he saw you come this way, you made sure to close and open various doors along the way to try and throw him off.

It's funny, the anticipation of being caught makes your stomach heat, makes wetness slick your thighs. It's terribly improper, being chased through the house by your husband, you can't even remember what sparked it this time. He'd said something, he always says something, and you'd called him exactly what he is, a rake, a bodice ripper. He's laughed, mirthful and dark as the night outside your windows. Then he'd done just that, gripped your nightdress between two hands and ripped it open. Even now you're clutching it closed over your chest, feeling the frantic flutter of your heart under your fingers, and pretending it doesn't do something sinful to you.

The whistling comes close, you turn your head to peak through the crack left by the hinges. Your husband in all his glory, still in his hunting clothes, you half expect to see him carrying his gun or rope. His hands are lax by his sides as his eyes sweep the hall. He slows by an open door and turns to investigate. You're careful, quiet, as you make your way around the door, eyeing the room nearest you.

You can't stay here, not if he's stopping to look around. Your best bet is running, and hoping he doesn't catch you coming out. You tiptoe to the next room, press yourself to the wall and listen for Johnny's whistle. You close your eyes tight and hear him wander into another room. You take a steadying breath and poke your head out again, determined to make a run for it.

You dart past the next door, or try to. Johnny catches you by the throat, his thick fingers curling menacingly around your neck as you come to an abrupt halt. Your hands fly to his wrist and his grip tightens ever so slightly. "Caught you," He growls, "Shouldn't run from your husband, love." You're pulled against his chest, and bullied to the ground. He's not gentle putting you on your knees, but at least he has the compassion to follow you.

Compassion that flies out the window when his hand leaves your neck and grips your hair tight, pushing your face to the hall's carpet as he pulls your skirt up. You choke feeling his fingers prod your sopping cunt. Johnny makes a noise, a soft, pleased sound that has heat prickling over your skin. He drags his fingers through your folds, collecting the slick, enjoying the heat, before his touch leaves you. You squirm without meaning to, your hips moving to follow his fingers. He hums, fabric rustles, and then you hear him slicking his cock with your wetness.

"Fuck this pussy," He leans over you, forces you to take his weight, the blunt head of his cock teasing your entrance, "tell me she doesn't want me, that you don't love this."

You can't, it wouldn't be true, and he knows it. The best you can do is try to hide your face, nearly impossible with Johnny holding your hair so tightly, and whimper, "Can't."

"Can't what hen?" Johnny coos, "Can't tell me? Or can't take it?" You shake your head against the carpet, try to, at least. Johnny releases your hair, his hand moving to grip your hip hard enough to bruise instead. He ruts against you, his cock just catching at your entrance before slipping back over your slick folds. He presses his forehead between your shoulders. On another man it might be an almost tender gesture, but on Johnny it rings alarm bells in your head. "I'll make it fit," The smile in his voice makes your eyes roll back, "don't worry."

The tip of his cock presses more insistently against you, pushing into your cunt. Your back arches, your nails clawing the carpet as you gasp and whine. He stretches you open on his cock, the heat of his skin burning the same way the stretch does, like he's hoping he'll reshape you for himself. He shushes you, keeps you held tightly in place as he rocks his thick cock into you. You shake and shiver under him, knowing it only spurns him on. There's nothing you can think of that turns this man off of you, he seems annoyingly predisposed towards finding you charming.

Though perhaps charming isn't the right word. Tempting. No, tempted men don't always give into their wants. Your husband has never restrained himself around you, tempting you are not, you're magnetic, destined to attract the Lord Mactavish at every crossing.

You clench on his cock, feel his hips press against your ass, feel every tantalizing inch of him. You feel his teeth ghost over the back of your neck as he drags his cock out of your cunt. "Scream for me wife," He tells you,

and you do.

#cod x reader #x reader #cod x oc #x oc #john soap mactavish #john soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish smut #john mactavish x reader #soap mactavish #soap mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish #soap cod #soap #john mactavish #soap call of duty #soap mw2 #soap x reader #regency au #oc: moon #Lord Mactavish I am *fans self* #I worship only one lord and it's not the one in the bible #mdni

[migwayne]

Getaway

task force 141 & gender-neutral reader

fluff, shenanigans & disgruntled dad price 🫶 r being a softie, little to no physical descriptors

word count: 1955

please god. pls show up in the tägs i'm reposting this for the 5th time

Rain poured down gradually harsher on a rare uneventful night at the base. The pounding of heavy water droplets could be heard all over, grey clouds slowly blending into the darkening sky as the hours went by. It was time for a smoke break (a break from doing not much else really). The air was significantly cooler as you stepped outside, reaching the point where your breath was visible. As comfortable as you could be, you scooted close to the walls to evade the pouring water and lit a cigarette hanging loosely from your mouth, inhaling slowly. 

Not much else was going on today on the base, obviously, everyone seemingly occupying themselves in their room to their liking. Soap or Kyle occasionally dropping by, exchanging a few words or silly jokes before retreating. Some more company wouldn't hurt on a day like this when you're left to your thoughts for longer periods than you could handle. 

That's why when you noticed a small figure approaching you from your peripherals, you turned in interest hoping for a bit of company again. It was a little calico cat, seemingly around 8-9 weeks old, taking slow steps towards you, the poor thing's fur drenched in water. Only when you made eye contact with the kitten did it start meowing loudly. 

"Ooh, you poor baby are you cold?" The cigarette dropped quickly, and lowering to the kitty's level as much as you could, you took a few steps towards the little cat. With the baby voice you were speaking, you bet your teammates wouldn't even recognize you. It didn't seem too frightened, but then again the poor thing seemed to be barely standing, its little body shaking at the cold temperature. 

"Oh shit, I'll warm you up okay?" It didn't budge as you hastily take your hoodie off, hung over one arm before you finally decide to risk picking the kitten up with the other, gently placing it down your lap, still squatting. The little furball doesn't resist as you wrap the soft black hoodie loosely around it. With the kitty safe and secured, you quietly enter the base once again, hoping no one is lurking about. 

"How the hell did you get here kitty? Where could your mom be...?" You thought out loud while navigating the dimly lit halls, hoping to stop later by the small kitchen area to prepare something edible for the little cat. Your focus was on getting her dry and warm though. Thankfully, you didn't run into anyone on your way back to your room. Procuring the fluffiest (and clean) towel you could, you unwrapped the feline on the bed, before wrapping her right back in the soft fabric, drying the fur in slow and gentle motions, even resulting in soft purrs. 

"You're lookin' much better now, ain't that right?" you spoke as you scratch the animal's soft-furred head gently. 

"You stay right here and I'll get you something to eat, you got that Private?" The cat kept on purring, seemingly safe and sound enough, for now, to be left alone for a few minutes. You hoped no one came looking for you in these later hours now and be welcomed by another whole living breathing being that wasn't you in your room. 

The kitchen area was still barren thankfully, and you deemed it safe to prepare some scrambled eggs, having learned some time ago that milk wasn't actually that great for cats to consume. It didn't take long thankfully, and with the eggs on a small little plate for the kitty, you powerwalked back to the safety of your own space. 

"Hey, ______!" 

Fuck!

Slowly turning around, you could see Kyle just barely step into your room uninvited. Literally any other time you wouldn't have minded, since he was used to you doing the same pretty much every other day. Goddamnit.

Of course, he noticed the hesitation in your movements and was further puzzled by the small portion of scrambled eggs held in your hand because of course he would. 

"What's with the egg?"

"Is that what you came here to ask me?" 

"Uh, no, I just think I left my charger in here, will you let me look?"

"You know where you left it?"

"I dunno man, on the bed? Or the bedside drawer, will you just let me look?" he asked, you could sense a little impatience in his voice as he did. His attention quickly snapped downwards though, as he felt a small tug of something at the leg of his pants. That's exactly when you noticed your little rescue cat was not on the bed anymore. 

The look on Kyle's face told you everything... He was not impressed, to say the least. That's why it was a pleasant surprise to see him gently pick up the kitty. That didn't mean he liked you bringing it in here, you knew that all too well...

"What is this?"

"...Uh, a cat..?" 

"I know it's a damn cat, how and why is it in here?" 

"...I brought 'em in here, duh. Okay Gaz I wasn't gonna let the thing out in the pouring rain, what was I supposed to do?" 

That one got him. He didn't seem to want to continue arguing, so funnily enough he just started babying the kitten in his arms along with you in silence. It was quickly back to purring loudly from the affection.

"Did y'know... calico cats are almost always female?" Kyle shares unexpectedly while bundling back the kitten into the towel, all three of you sitting back on the bed. She seemed to be on the brink of sleep now in the midst of all the pampering. 

"Wha? How'd you know that?" 

"Just a lil' fun fact..." he replied with a smirk. "So seriously, do you actually plan on keeping 'er here? What about when we're sent off to god knows where in a matter of days?" 

He has a point... somberly feeding the kitten bits and pieces of scrambled egg, you come up empty on that front. 

"But Kyleeeeeeee, she's so cute! I'll just... ask around first or something..." you stated as the kitty was scooped in your arms once again.

"I'm going to name her... Kyle MacTavish Riley Price." 

"Pfttt no you won't..." Kyle protested lazily at the name.

"Fine, you will not be part of her name then." 

"Dude, seriously you can't keep her in here for long... just wait 'til someone tells Price..." He said in finality, arms now crossed, eyes still on the undeniably cute kitten though.

"Pssht, what's he gonna do?"

"Who tells me what?" 

At the voice of a new person in your room, you tried to hide the little furball behind yourself as delicately as possible, hoping the cat was not seen. 

Fuck. Kyle didn't close the door.

In peeked Price, with a questioning look on his face, but seemingly in a good mood as of now at least. Of course, the way you quickly swiveled with arms behind your back didn't escape him, it was not very subtle. You knew there was no way around it now.

"What's with the hiding Sergeant?" He inquired, head raised towards you in a suspicious nod. 

"I-uh--"

"You better not lie." His voice was now serious, audibly so, as if he was giving out orders on the field.

As if the tension couldn't climb higher, a soft 'meow' was heard, and of course, Price immediately knew before your hands presented the little creature to him. Head hung, knowing the jig was up, the kitty was now held out towards him. You couldn't deny, you were a little curious to see the captain's reaction, barely hiding a smile while glancing up at him. 

His eyes widened momentarily, then a hand raised to pinch the bridge of his nose in that usual disapproving way of his. 

"Kid... do I even hafta tell you?" Pose mirroring Kyle's, who still stood next to you, Price crossed his arms in a mildly-annoyed dad manner. 

"...Pet ownership-"

"Pet ownership in quarters is forbidden. So explain to me what this is." 

"Dad-" Kyle snickered "I mean captain, it's goddamn pouring outside, and this little thing just walked up to me soaked to the bone, I couldn't possibly just leave her out there, could I? ...We could make her our mascot?"

"We don't need a mascot. We're a task force, not a damn sports team." He eyed the little cat, now held securely to your chest wrapped in the fluffy towel. He was your captain first and foremost, but not a heartless one...

"Just... let me take care of her 'til I find her a home? Could Laswell take her?" 

"Laswell's not gonna come down here for a cat of all things!" His voice raised now, almost laughing at the suggestion. At the sound of the commotion two new heads came into view behind him, now every member of the task force congregating in the vicinity of your room.

"We gettin' a mascot?" came Soap's voice, before noticing the kitten, bundled in the towel relaxing in your arms.

"Swatch at thes wee bairn!" He slinked carefully around Price, looking at the cat adorningly. 

"Don't you swear in front of her." The cat mewed softly in perfect timing, as you placed a palm gently on her head, covering her ears. Nonetheless, Soap was now petting her too, and she definitely enjoyed the attention. 

"Aye aye, shut up..." 

"Children, the lot of you..." 

"Just gimme one week Captain? Please? I can't just throw this little baby out..." Pleading to Price, you lifted the kitty to your cheek, hoping to amp up the groveling just a bit.

Hearing him sigh you were tempted to jump in joy, knowing the captain's resolve was broken. Brows furrowed, finger pointed, and patience dwindling he took one final look at the furball.

"She stays in here, clear? If I see her anywhere outside yer room, I'm personally throwin' her out, got that?" 

"Yeah yeah, got that..."

"Watch it." and with that, Price made himself scarce. The rest of the team still stayed though, Ghost stepping into the room, finally getting a better look at the calico. He was the other one whose reaction you were curious to see. Kyle was watching the cat curiously again, as Soap entertained her with a loose string he pulled from the towel. Her little paws were trying to squeeze around the string tightly, but it was slowly pulled from her again and again, earning a smile from everyone in the room (even if no one saw Ghost's.) 

"What are you actually going to do with this?" He piped up to break the silence after a few moments, as he gently scratched the kitty under her chin. 

"Not this, her! Kyle MacTavish Riley will go to a good home as soon as I uh.. find one..." Kyle no longer seemed to be affected by the name, and Soap laughed at the sound of it heartily. Ghost, of course, tried to look serious as ever under his balaclava. 

"Oh no, you named her already? Fuckin' hell..." 

"She's no longer Price anymore?" 

"Alright, alright, go back to your room if you hate her so much why doncha?" 

"I didn't say hate..." 

"Did you call Price Dad?" 

"Johnny shut up right now or I swear to god--" you were quickly cut off by a headlock- 

"Aye, I'd like tae see ye try, Sergeant."with the headlock now turned into a tight hold over your chest, you hung in his hold with stretched-out arms, much like you'd see the little cat do in the past few hours.

Meanwhile, in the Captain's office...

"You're calling me about a cat right now?"

"She's really cute Kate..."

#fluff #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader #call of duty x male reader #male reader #gender neutral reader #x reader #kyle garrick #john mactavish #simon riley #john price #fanfiction

[gothcryptid-art]

simon 'ghost' riley x reader headcanons

fully gender neutral + no descriptors because ghost is for the people. implied that reader is military tho. all lowercase bc im cool. wacky ass writing. no other warnings besides ghost being a deeply insecure individual

(literally just writing this bc i have the brainrot so bad i spent 95 hard earned canadian dollars on this stupid game im not even good at it its amazing i love it anyways enjoy u filthy animals)

- he's a dog guy. he secretly wishes he couldve had a stabler life so maybe he could have one or two. If you have a dog, he is ALL over it. will buy treats, toys, enrichment, literally anything and everything. he just wants to spoil the lil baby

- absolutely does not know how to cook, he can only use a microwave smh. if you can cook for him tho, he will absolutely get all heart eyed kickin his feet under ur dinner table twirling his hair round his finger he is in LOVE

- THAT BEING SAID!!!! he makes a bangin cup of tea. his fav is earl grey and he loves a good london fog, but with his line of work he just doesnt have the time. thats why every time he actually goes home, the first thing he does is make a proper cuppa.

- it's very difficult for him to trust anybody, much less fall in love, so when he falls he falls HARD. he'll go out of his way to do nice things for you. if you're out on a mission together and have some downtime he'll just grab your knives and sharpen them for you. He's already doing his own, why not yours too? He lovesss doing small acts like that for u. he knows a little kindness can go a long way.

- the same goes the other way around, if you do literally anything for him the man is SWOONING. he's about to head out but can't find something, and u pop outta nowhere to place it in his hands with a kiss on the cheek of his mask? he's planning a proposal as soon as hes out the door. he loves u. amazing.

- he knows he's a good looking guy, but before he shows you his face he's super scared about you not liking how he looks. He worries that he isn't your 'type' and once you see his face you'll get bored of him and move on to someone more entertaining like Soap or Alejandro

- He's not great at verbalizing his emotions, and tends to bottle things up. if he does it for long enough he'll get way too in his head and he'll start distancing himself from u (unintentionally). one day it gets to be too much and u just sit him down and make him tell u whats up

- he's just. not good at talking abt his feelings. his sentences have super long pauses where he overthinks everything he's saying. he's trying not to hurt your feelings if it's something relating to you, but sometimes that means he wont tell u the whole truth. but hes trying ok? he WANTS to communicate with you, he's just gotta learn how essentially from scratch.

- but man if ur able to break down his walls a little, and he can tell that you see him as a person and not just some mysterious puzzle to solve, he will go to the ends of the earth for u.

- he will devote a lot of his downtime to just being around you. he just likes your presence, hes the type of guy to want to sit in a room together and do your own things. he'll post up at a desk and look over the next mission's paperwork while you chill in a corner with a hobby of yours

if u made it this far hell yeah i hope u enjoyed, this is absolutely just self indulgent but i figured the world must be blessed as well. have a good one yall

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost x gn reader #ghost x reader #ghost x male reader #ghost x female reader #cod mw2 x reader #x reader #cod x reader #i get so embarrassed when i tag shit like this like #wow how cringe #ghost hcs #ghost hc #ghost headcanons #simon ghost riley headcanons #cod headcanons #cod hc #cod hcs

[captain-mj]

In honour of spooky month I have a horror prompt

Soap/ghost trapped in a time-loop by a malicious entity (super angsty) until they learn they can either annoy or scare said entity enough to stop fucking with them because I can’t read horror without a happy ending

If your stuck with something forever chance is your gonna find someway to piss it off

Thank you have a great day

God I hope I finish this by Halloween

Ghost woke up on October 30th again. He sighed and sat up, body aching from the way he just died.

His body had clipped through the floor and been shredded. Shockingly, it didn’t hurt that much, just tickled. But he still died and despite the reset in time, his body hadn’t quite caught up.

Ghost ignored the recruit that knocked on his door. He could recite the little speech that she gives him down to her cadence.

“Sir, there are reports of someone stealing-“

“Everyone's Left shoe. I know. Its Sergeant Daves. Check his locker." The recruit stopped in her tracks and nodded. “Uh, thank you sir.."

Ghost had spent about 60 days finding that out. It was very annoying because no matter how much evidence he got at the end of the day, he'd die in some strange eldritch way and then be right back at the beginning. Eventually, he figured out who it was. For the first few days afterward, he went through the motions of finding evidence but so far, there were no consequences he could see from just... telling her and making her leave.

He brushed her off and went looking for Soap.

His breath of fresh air.

Even if he was still bitching about working Christmas.

“Do you know how mad my Mam is??” Soap moved his hands a lot as he talked.

Ghost hated this next part. “Johnny.” He waited for the movement of his hands to go away. “We’re in a time loop and I have proof.”

Soap stared at him. "Nae. Can't be in a time loop or you'd give me the passcode."

"That's the thing you fucking muppet. You refuse to give me the passcode. If you'd give me the passcode, just for once, I could tell you it the next time I wake up."

"Why haven't you tortured it out of me?"

Ghost huffed. "The one time I do that is the day my loop breaks."

He had actually tried. He had ripped off one of Soap's fingernails and immediately stopped. Then, he tried to torture Gaz to get Soap to admit it. Same situation. Despite knowing this would have zero lasting effects, Ghost even planned to kill himself right as he got the passcode, he just... couldn't bring himself to hurt them.

He had been tempted to try again with Price, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do that either.

"Well, I'm not giving it to you. I'd only give it to you if we were in a time loop."

"This is a paradox. You see that right."

Soap shrugged and smiled at him. This is what Ghost hated. That Soap never believed him.

"One day, I hope I get the right words for you to believe me." Ghost said softly. So terribly sad. He stood up and got out his gun. Soldiers were immediately alert, but not frightened. While it was unusual for a soldier to whip out a pistol during breakfast, this was Ghost and well... his behavior was usually excused.

Soap frowned. "What are you doing??"

"Right door." Ghost shot the thing that came in. It looked like a dog. Not quite, but close. If he had to describe it in a coherent way, it would be a dog's skin that was stuffed with too little meat.

Soap grabbed his own gun, never went anywhere without it, and held it up. "How did yo-"

"Time loop." Ghost answered. "Don't go and investigate."

"Why?"

"Just watch."

Soap didn't go because Ghost told him not to, but he was clearly unhappy about it. He lingered where he was, the urge to move and figure it out and save the day, while all normally admirable traits, were now causing a power struggle in his silly little brain.

Ghost had went through this day enough to know that Soap would not go. He'd stay. Maybe if more time got to pass, he'd disobey Ghost. Soap was always loyal, but obedient was never a good descriptor for him.

But right as someone poked the dog with his foot, it broke. The skin broke into fractals, letting something ooze out of it that melted through the floor.

Poor guy that poked it managed to get his boot off in time, but Ghost knew that despite Soap's distaste for dogs, he wouldn't be so callous as to kick it. He would use his hands and lose his hand. He'd know because it happened three times already. One time, due to either how Ghost worded it or how he shot it, he couldn't be sure, it killed Soap.

Ghost was quick to blow his own brains out and reset the day. He didn't even want to risk a world where Soap didn't make it out of this.

Ghost tried not to think about how easy dying had become. Most of the time, it was simply to reset things. Sometimes though, he did it because after this point, things just get worse.

For days 6-10, a little bit before he stopped counting, he didn't bother to leave bed. He died by being mauled, drowning, a fire that broke out and Sergeant Daves breaking in and shooting him for ratting him out for hoarding left shoes.

Fucking freak.

He also died in ways he didn't think possible. Like no clipping through the floor, being sent to space, freezing to death on a regular day and melting.

All of these were punishments for doing certain things. Ghost had figured out the rules and tried to follow them as not following them seemed to irritate it. And also, he did not want to get melted again.

One, he could not kill the girl in the beginning. Torture was fine, he tortured her for information about the time loop. He tortured Sergeant Daves too. He specifically could not kill her.

Two, he could only talk about this to Soap, Gaz and Price. Mostly because none of them believed him. At least, that was his theory. Strangers meant instant death. It was the few breaks in the pattern he could find.

Three, trying to sleep past 4 pm. He tried to sleep the remainder of the day away and that's when he got shot into space.

Ghost sighed. "Soap, I love you."

"What??"

Ghost left the cafeteria. Soap would be too shocked to follow him for about 8 seconds, which gave him just enough time to escape. He made his way to the gun store to grab his sniper and then up on to the roof.

Things would move like clockwork. More of those dogs. If he wasn't fast enough, Gaz would be killed in the center of the training field. To do so, he'd have to shoot a recruit in the leg and let the dogs get to him first. Around 3 pm, Gaz would scream at him for it, but it was the only way Ghost had found for Gaz to survive until 3 pm.

Then, Ghost would have to go to Price's room an-

While thinking over his plan, Ghost made one of the dumbest mistakes a sniper could. Stop focusing on his target.

There goes Gaz.

Fucking hell. Ghost groaned and hit his head hard onto the floor. For a moment, he considered bashing his brains out instead of shooting himself.

Then, he got a funny idea. He sat up and found her among the rushing recruits. Ghost took aim and fired, watching her die. The girl from the beginning.

Ghost felt himself combust. The fire burned so fast he didn't feel any pain.

He woke up.

Ugh.

His mouth still tasted like smoke and flames.

Ghost rolled out of bed and groaned.

A knock at the door.

"IT'S FUCKING SERGEANT DAVES."

"Uh. Okay, sir. Thank you?"

"Get fucked and tell Soap to come here."

"Okay?" She left to do as she was told.

Soap walked, looking concerned. "Ghost. Why are you on the floor?"

Ghost slammed his head hard enough back into the wooden floor it made a cracking noise. Soap cringed and quickly grabbed him by his shirt and forced him to sit up.

"I'm in a time loop I can't escape from. This is so fucking annoying." Ghost groaned and grabbed Soap, squeezing him like a teddy bear for stress relief. "I just want it to end. I can't believe I'm going to say this. I want it to be fucking tomorrow." He bit Soap shoulder before screaming his frustration out.

"Calm down, Lt, calm down." Soap writhed in his arms.

"Never going to get out."

Soap frowned. "Is this your first time telling me?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. How long have you been in here?"

"I don't know." Ghost groaned and squeezed harder.

Soap nodded. "So you haven't gotten a chance to get my passcode?"

That was it?? He just had to seem more pathetic and sad??

“I haven’t. Can you give it to me?”

“My passcode is 4497.”

Ghost squeezed him tighter. “Thank you thank you.”

The room span So fast they slammed into the wall, almost obliterating them.

Ghost woke up and screamed into his pillows again.

His body ached a lot from that one but… it sparked an idea.

Ghost grabbed his knife from under his pillow and went outside. He stabbed the girl over and over again.

The moon slammed into Earth, killing him instantly.

Ghost went to the mess hall and stood up in front of everyone. “I’m stuck in a time loop and I bloody hate all of you.”

He was teleported to Saturn.

Ghost shot the girl, set the base on fire with everyone inside and told Soap the pass code over and over again so he’d know what was going on. He carried Soap around when he fought him and he killed himself and everyone else so many times.

The girl didn’t knock this morning.

Considering he was in the base after blowing it up, he knew the day reset, so this made no sense. Quietly, he came out, gun in hand. He started to walk around the base, surprised by the quiet.

This was new. A way to stop him from breaking the rules? Maybe?

Ghost went to bed at exactly 4 pm and he was speared through his chest.

The girl knocked again. When he opened it, she was pissed.

“You are so Fucking unfun. What the fuck is wrong with you??”

“Kill yourself.”

“Motherfucker.” She shoved him. “You suck.”

Ghost shrugged. “Gonna kill Me again?”

“Yes.”

He slid through the floor and died again.

Ghost woke up and groaned. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” His whole body hurt. Every one of his deaths had caught up to him.

A knock at his door.

“Fucking hell.” He threw open his door. “Soap?”

“Hey Lt! Happy Halloween, sir.” He was in a zombie costume. “You okay?”

“Oh. It’s Halloween?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you remember anything from yesterday?”

“No.”

“Thank god. I love you.”

“Huh??”

[anjelicawrites]

The winner takes it all

Chapter III (I, II)

Paring: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Synopsis: inspired by the Æthelflæd and Erik's storyline in The Last Kingdom. Might be spoilerish if you haven't seen it (go watch it!!!), even though I've just stolen the inspiration and went on with the story my way.

Warnings: mention of marital violence, mention of rape.

A/N: reader is AFAB, they/them pronouns are used (they are called “lady” and “daughter of the North”). The only descriptor is that they have long hair.

A/N 1: this is an AU. Look at me taking the canon story of Westeros and yell “Parkhour!” as I jump out of the window clutching it in my hands.

18+ only, tank you!

It takes Prince Aemond two days to fulfill the first part of his promise. He arrives with a bunch of his men and a sturdy woman carrying a big piece of soap and fresh clothing for you. His men flank you and him as you walk outside the city walls, the woman walks in front of your group, head up, staring at the horde of white haired people as if challenging them.

You don't really care about the people trying to ogle you, you are too busy breathing in the fresh air and feeling the anemic sun of the North on your skin.

“Was this really necessary?” You ask, pointing at the warriors around you

“You are precious to us, I can’t risk anything happening to you.” He answers stiffly and you wonder if he’s not that used to talk to people

“You can’t risk having your bounty taken away, you mean.” It still hurts when your worth as a person is reduced to that, a pawn in someone else game.

“It would be a great loss for our new reign to lose someone like you. Bounty or not”.

He is even more stiff now that you are forcing him to talk to you.

Having a conversation with you was not part of his plan; he was supposed to keep guard as you washed yourself; he had envisioned just greeting you and now you are staring at him with sadness in your eyes and he knows he has fucked up. Gods he is so not good at interacting with people.

“I’ve heard tales of your beauty and courage. Not many would have tried to defend themselves against me the way you did. The North needs you and New Valyria will need your presence even more”.

You stop walking to stare into his lilac eye, he has to bend his head a bit to look at your face. His men form a protective circle around you two.

“What will happen to me if my husband does not pay the ransom?”

“He will pay”

“What if he doesn’t?” You don’t want to show him, but you are scared of the possibility.

You hope your voice is strong and doesn’t betray how insecure you feel, he just stares at you again as if he is scrutinizing you, trying to stare into your very soul.

“You are our prisoner, but you are under my protection. No harm shall befall you”.

He is, if that’s even possible, even more stiff when he answers you. His arms are behind his back, his whole body in a protective stance, legs firmly planted on the ground; his eye is soft though, his stare warm like the flames of fire during a long, brittle winter.

“Thank you.” You say and you have to stop staring at him but you can’t, he has mesmerized you

"Your bath awaits you or has the cold changed your mind?"

You don't openly laugh, but a short smile appears on your lips

"This is not cold, Prince Aemond. You have no idea of what true cold feels like"

"It's good then, than we are approaching spring"

"Yes we do, but winter always comes." You say proudly

"It will be a different kind of winter Issa riñnykeā." A smirk curling his lips.

You desperately want to ask him what those foreign words mean, your pride stopping you; your situation is already precarious the way it is, why add another layer of weakness?

With extreme difficulty you stop staring at his lonely eye and start walking again. When you all leave the heavily guarded gates, you are reminded that you have no chance at running away, not with the way the area is, offering you no hideout and with your people's army so far away. Even the small stream is of no use to you: here the ice has already melted, you have no idea of what you might find down the course. Not that you have a boat to sail, by the way.

You are a prisoner in your own home.

Prince Aemond and his men turn around when you all reach the small river to form a human wall and leave you with your dignity intact; the Valyrian woman helps you with your clothes and with your hair. The two of you are so engrossed in your work, that neither of you notice Prince Aemond sneakily turning around, his curiosity winning over his manners as he steals glances at your naked form in the cold water. His whole body stiffens when he sees the lashing scars on your back: they are healed over completely, but don't look awfully old. Also, why would a lady of your standing be the recipient of lashing? His analytical mind starts putting all he knows about you together and the result doesn't sit right with him: already he's had to chop his subordinate's hand for his disrespect, now he has to kill your husband. His death in battle has always been a possibility, now he has to hunt him down and kill him. What a Gods damned bother the man is and Aemond doesn’t even know him.

He whips his head around quickly when he notices you have started turning. It is embarrassing enough to have these murderous feelings towards a man he doesn't know, but Aemond has never taken kindly to men beating their spouses, to have you discover his lack of manners would be horrendous beyond repair; he is no Aegon, he’s always been better than that. Talking about Aegon, he hadn’t been happy with Aemond's punishment, even after being explained repeatedly that letting that one violation slide, would have meant weakness on their part: either you are untouchable or you are not. When you go home, you might survive the war or die, there’s too many variables to count, here he can offer you his and his brother’s protection, even though you are a prisoner.

When you have dried yourself, the woman offers you a red and black dress, simple and in a Valyrian fashion; you’d rather not wear Targaryen’s colors, but you are not checking the horse’s mouth when your clothes are muddy and ruined beyond repair. The woman, then, makes you sit on a big rock and starts combing your hair and styling it into Valyrian braids

“I don’t know if you understand me. Do you know what happened to my handmaid?”

The woman never stops her ministrations and answers in broken Common Tongue

“Dead or taken. - You shudder at what she implies. - I am sorry.” She adds, her rough hand on your shoulder as a modicum of support.

You let her work the braids in silence as you try to control your tears. You had hoped she had managed to escape; in retrospect you were the target, the other people in the camp only unfortunate enough to be where you were. You can only hope that the men pursuing you ignored her as you ran into the thick woods.

You are in no talking mood as you walk towards your prison. Prince Aemond seems to sense this and he doesn't force you to speak, he even tries to keep his distance physically, even when his men have to close ranks around you two as you re- enter the city.

Hearing all these people talk High Valyrian makes you want to scream in rage, but you are stronger than that, your shoulders stiff and square, your strides even more confident: you want to show these people that the North might be small, compared to New Valyria, but that you all don’t go down without a good fight.

Once you are again in your cell Prince Aemond waits until it’s only the two of you

“I haven’t forgotten. - He says and looks even more constipated than ever. - The other half of my promise”.

You can’t help but stare into his eye, the hypnotic quality of the lilac forcing you to keep looking, incapable of stopping

“Thank you Prince Aemond”.

You curtsy and he doesn’t go away, he stays rooted into the spot, his eye unnerving on your face, taking you in. You look even lovelier dressed as a Valyrian: he wants to engrave this memory in his brain until he knows his good manners have deserted him once again.

He has to force himself to leave you alone into your cell, he doesn’t want to go and strategise with Aegon, he wants to stay with you, admiring your beauty, so foreign to him. With a great effort he kisses your hand again, having to stop himself from keeping it in his for longer than necessary and goes away, closing the oak door softly, the skin that has touched yours burning like dragon flames. He is not questioning his behavior.

Everythig taglist: @hightowhxre

Aemond taglist: @phantoms-main-blog

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond targaryen #the winner takes it all

[liesmyth]

Do you have any tips/resources on writing smut? I've never really written it, but I need to include a little in a fic I'm writing rn and yours is very good.

Anon! Thank you so much, this is Extremely flattering ❤️ Honestly, my #1 rule to Writing Smut is that actually anything can be hot if a scene is written to be arousing. It's all about the setup.

Some things that work for me:

EMOTIONS. ime, smut scenes should cause some level of emotional response in the reader. It can be the POV character experiencing strong feelings and that coming through in the narration; it can be a taboo or hard kink that’s enough to guarantee some kind of reaction; it can be an emotionally cathartic scene or character study through sex. It doesn’t have to be a lot! But there has to be Something that makes the reader invested, a takeaway that you couldn’t get from a purely objective description or looking at a picture.

FLOW. You’re either trying to make the reader horny and/or you’re trying to make them interested in what the characters are doing and feeling. Lean into that when crafting a scene! I find that varying the length of sentences in a paragraph helps (building up to a crescendo) and so does the deliberate use of terminology to set up a specific mood (more descriptive euphemisms vs. crude slang as the POV gets more overwhelmed, alternating lush prose and crass descriptors to create some contrast.)

CHARACTER-APPROPIATE VERBIAGE. This is a big one! There are NO forbidden smut words, actually. I have read super hot smut that hinged on the repeated use of some deeply unsexy terms. It’s ALL about the narrative voice. Try to construct a scene that’s immersive, with a narrative voice that suits the characters and the story, and the type of vocabulary that suits the POV and setting. Ime, anything and everything can be sexy if the mood is right. Yes, even the word “penis.” YES even funky euphemisms.

PURPOSE AND PACING. Why is the scene there? Try to strike a good balance between descriptions, feelings, and words. If the characters stop mid-sex to talk, it’d be harder to get back into a sexy mood (why I’ve been stuck on this one WIP for months. RIP) On the other hand, sometimes it’s fine to skip moments / descriptions, or even end the scene mid-sex.

(This is especially important in chaptered fics, in my experience. Sometimes there’s a long elaborate build-up to a get together and then all the emotions fizzle out during The Sex Chapter, or a plot-heavy story, and then the story slows down to fit in 3 orgasms per character. It’s fine, often better, to just stick to one orgasm, make it extra hot, and skim over the others)

WRITE DRUNK EDIT SOBER or any variant thereof. Write in comic sans and edit in times new roman. Write horny edits in public. It’s really easy to overthink smut and in my opinion, it Really helps to fully commit to a shitty first draft—no quibbling over word choices or positions; just don’t look at the screen and bang out 500 words. (Ah-ah, bang.) Write on your phone if you want! Put it away for a while then edit.

SMUT IS NOT SEX ED. Realism matters less than feelings do. I don't need to know every detail unless it's relevant to the development of the scene. Unless it’s something glaring like someone is suddenly naked or used soap as lube, no one is going to nitpick how realistic it is to hold X position for Y minutes or how many spankings a human being can endure. The scene works narratively >>> the scene can be recreated by random non-athletes having sex. It’s fic! If someone is taking it as a Guide To Sex that’s not on you.

Other resources: This is a good essay directly from 2005 era livejournal. Some posts about vocabulary: on kissing, smut thesaurus, more words! (use with caution, don't take anything as a hard rule etc.)

Also I just think I'm funny:

GOOD LUCK WRITING IT LMK HOW IT GOES

#Anonymous #ask #writing tag #smut writing #long post

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold secrets, warm light (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/3

Note: This got longer than expected, so now it’s gonna be 3 chapters instead of 2. LMAO.  This takes place in the same universe as cold hands, warm heart and is seen as a continuation of that fic. 

Rating/Warning: Canon typical violence, blood/injury/and minor gore. Thigh grinding and making out.  ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) haha ! nice! (also those gloves make me feral)

** All the names of politicians are fake/do not relate to any living or deceased person. I also created 2 entire locations because I don’t want to use the real world lmao. (Al-Qunbar & Noreth)

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, and no other descriptors are used.

(Read on Ao3) ||| 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~

In the days that follow, you settle into a routine with Ghost and Soap at the safe house. Samira looked after Soap. She attended to his medical needs and physical therapy. He’s a decent patient until his frustration boils over and then he’s huffing like an old goat and crossing his arms. Agathi’s boys worked the farmland. They shovel manure, or prune plants, or tend to the harvest. The security of the safe house is organized into scheduled shifts. The perimeter of the property, the barn, and the house itself are your main concerns.

However, Ghost took over the sniper position at the barn. Instead of following the six-hour schedule, he stayed up there for twelve to fourteen hours. When he returns to the house, he talks to Soap, rests, then returns to the barn without speaking to anyone else. You don’t take it personally. Ghost is a diligent operative. He never wavers. He never falters. You are safer, Lukas is safer, with him here.  

Your nails are encrusted with dark, rich earth from digging up carrots with James and Lukas. Lukas’ favorite task is to unearth food you’ve grown. He smiles brightly, holding aloft potatoes or carrots or stalks of green onions, and you cannot help but smile in return. He is a sweet and tender boy. And its awe inspiring someone so sweet and gentle could come from you. A trained killer. A girl made of ice. A woman without identity, without roots.

You skim your dirty hands across the stalks of tall reeds while walking down the dirt, pebble-strewn road. A lone bird calls out to signal that night is upon them and the predators will awaken soon. Your smile tugs errantly at the corners of your mouth.

The sky is bruising purple and dusky blue. The clouds on the horizon promised rain. You can smell in the air – fresh, biting, and green. You unscrew the cap of your flask and swallow a warm, robust mouthful of black tea. The dilapidated barn leans against a backdrop of dying sunlight like a wounded animal. Sven emerges from the grass with a sheepish smile. His blue eyes dart briefly to the barn loft.

He says, “time for shift change already?”

“I’m early.” You ruffle his stringy, blonde hair. “Go on. Your brother is waiting.”

Sven flushes bright red.  “Thanks.”

You watch him jog down the road with a flashlight in his hand. You check under the tire well of the abandoned truck and find the hidden pistol. You check the safety and clip. You tuck it away again. Price, the thoughtful bastard, managed to arrange a covert supply drop. Ghost collected it earlier in the week. It contained ammunition, infrared lights, night vision scopes, and supplies for Soap and Ghost.

Price can get into serious trouble by his superiors if anyone finds out about it.

You aren’t sure why he keeps sticking his neck out to help you, but you’re grateful. You think of Lukas. You wonder if he suspects anything. Samira often says fondly, ‘it’s as if God took the blueprints of you and made him.’ You don’t see it. And whenever you tell Samira this, she laughs, and her scarred skin stretches with joy.

The wooden ladder creaks when you ascend it. Ghost is perched with his sniper and completely unmoving. Your nostrils itch as the scent of old, dusty hay fills them. You sniffle and wipe your nose with your knuckles.

“All clear,” drawls Ghost.

“Yes, I know. I was just outside.”

Ghost scoffs. You settle crossed legged next to him. You glance at his stark black-and-white profile. His sandy eyelashes flutter against his black-painted skin. Your body hums with acute unspoken desire. You trace the shapes of his tattoos on his forearm. You would give anything to touch him and feel the hot expanse of his skin across your palms. You’ve lain awake in your cold bed, tossing, and turning and coiled with taut desire, and wondered if he’d shun you if you came to find him. But you always manage to talk yourself out of it.

There’s no benefit in complicating matters further. Noreth is at war. You and Lukas can’t leave. Soap and Ghost can’t leave. The best course of action is to lay low and keep safe until extraction. You swallow another gulp of tea and watch the cloudy, star dotted horizon and swaying tall grass.  

“What’re you drinking?”

“Tea.” You wipe your mouth with your fingers.

“Nothing stronger?” He grouses.

“We’ve got vodka back at the house.”

He gives a small shake of his head. “Foul.”

You extend your arm toward him, the flask pinched between your fingers, and Ghost glances sidelong at you. Seconds pass. You’re about to pull it away. But then Ghost reaches and accepts the flask without touching you. You force yourself to look away rather than look at him. You imagine the shape of his lips closing over the mouth of the flask. You imagine his muscled throat shifting when he swallows. You imagine him wiping away a teardrop of tea from the corner of his mouth with his gloved thumb. You wait until you hear the sound of the cap screwing back on before looking at him again.

His mask is pushed up to right below his nose. His jaw is shadowed with dark blonde stubble. You recall how it scratched against your bare skin and left faint, irritated red lines. You avert your eyes.  

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.” He mumbles.

You shrug, “things have changed.”

“Have they?” He says and the words are deep and rumbling. You take the flask from him and drink to delay answering his question. Things have changed. You are no longer an intelligence agent. You deserted. You have a child. You have good people relying on you. You have a reason beyond survival to carve a place for yourself in this new world.

“A bit.” You respond vaguely. The silence stretches, weighted and poignant, and you crack your knuckles one finger at a time. It never used to be awkward with Simon. Or has nostalgia completely skewed your perception? Or is it your guilt? Your fingertips touch when you pass the flask again. An electric jolt fires across your skin. You meet his heavily lidded, shadowed eyes. The unsaid words and confessions linger on your tongue. The distance between you is miniscule. It’s mere inches, but it feels like an endless chasm. You risk the danger and shift closer.

His skeletal gloved fingers graze along the feverish skin on your inner wrist.

“We shouldn’t complicate things.” You blurt. Your secret presses on every of your chamber of your heart. His presses his lips together and cocks his head to the side.

“We’re well past that, Lux.”

“There are things you don’t know about me, Ghost.”

The rough texture of his gloves glides up to your shoulder, lightly touching your neck, and you feel his index finger slide under the golden chain of your necklace. Your pulse throbs in your carotid artery. The moth charm twirls, pretty and light, between Simon’s large fingers.

“I’m not saying this to be coy or mysterious, Riley.” When you use his name, his eyes dart from your throat to your face, and you feel every ounce of his attention on you. You feel like a butterfly pinned to a display frame.

A hot and prickly sensation burns in your throat, “I have secrets you’d hate me for keeping.” You whisper.

You swallow with some difficulty. His tongue sweeps across his lower, chapped lip before he pulls his lower lip between his teeth briefly. Your heart stutters.  You force your eyes from his mouth.

“I doubt that very much.” His voice is rumbling, and quiet, and its reverberation echoes into your spine. Your skin burns. Your breath, ragged and warm ,drags itself through your lungs and out your parted lips. You tilt forward and press your forehead against the cool, hard plastic of his mask. Your eyes shutter closed.

Simon says your name longingly. His breath tickles your chin. Your heart pangs to tell him the truth about Lukas, about Al-Qunbar, about Price and his help. Yet, pragmatism pinches your tongue in a vice grip. Lukas’ safety and well-being is everything to you. The less people who know the truth the better.

His lips ghost across yours. His stubble is prickly and rough. Without further prompting or encouragement, you kiss him and slide your tongue between his lips. You tremble and your breath huffs desperately through your nostrils. You hold his jaw. You need him close. You want to wrap your bodies together and remain glued. An overwhelming sensation of bliss floods through your veins. Simon’s tongue moves languidly and tastes of robust black tea. He squeezes the back of your neck, holding you tight and refusing to let you pull away. A heady sense of warmth explodes inside your chest and launches your heart into a tailspin.

You throw your leg over his big thigh, straddling it, and Simon makes a low, pleased sound at the back of his throat. His other hand clutches your hip—tight, possessive, his thumb digs into your flesh. He pitches your hips forward, then pushes back, and you quickly get the idea. You clothed cunt grinds against his muscled thigh. You encircle your arms around his neck, pressed chest-to-chest, and feel Simon’s every rough inhale and exhale. Your original plan to remain distant and uncomplicated has crashed and burned into ash and charcoal.

His tongue flicks obscenely and wetly into your open, panting mouth. “Can you come like this?” He asks, “or do you want my hand, hm? My fingers?” The thought of Simon’s hand shoved between your legs is enough to make your body tighten with anticipation and desire. You wonder if he’ll keep the gloves on.

“We have to keep watch.” You whimper.

He chuckles like deep, dark wine. “I can multitask.”

The temptation threatens to drag you underwater. You are swept into the current  of Simon’s influence and your own intoxicating desire. His warm, rough burr. His large and deliberate hands. His strong, muscled arms and legs. His chiseled abdominal muscles quiver as you push your hands up his shirt and touch his hot, damp skin.

“God,” He drags the word out and tilts his head back to look up at you, “you’re gonna kill me, Lux.”

You smile. You are lost in the deep, coffee color of his eyes shadowed by ashen blonde lashes and smudged with black camo paint. They are the same shade as Lukas’. An arrow of guilt spears your heart. What are you doing? Noreth is at war. You’re on watch. You’ll never forgive yourself if Lukas got hurt because you let your lust overwhelm your logic. You clear your throat.

You say, “we – we should wait until we’re inside.” You climb off his leg and adjust your rumpled shirt. “Okay?”

Ghost licks his lips and watches you with dark, hungry eyes. “I’m a sniper. A few hours is nothing.”

“Great.” You reply, your voice tight, “I’m going to walk the perimeter.”

~~~~~~~~

The walk back to the heaven is tense. It is filled with piping hot anticipation and coated in white foam that tastes like a hopeful dream, a beggar’s wish. Two dimly lit windows peer like eyes onto the dead lawn and black skeletal shape of Kaja’s motorbike.

Simon’s palm glides along your lower back and blistering heat floods your stomach. Your body clenches and your clit throbs with pressure and desire. You’ve thought of nearly a dozen different positions and fantasies during your walk. This is unlike your time with the task force. You don’t need to avoid detection. Neither Samira nor Agathi will judge you. Although, for the sake of those sleeping, you resolve to do your best to stay quiet.

The front door opens to the sound of Lukas crying. Agathi is holding him, bouncing softly, and her tired face looks relieved when you cross the threshold.

“Nightmare.” She explains. Lukas reaches his tiny hands toward you.

“I’ve got him.” You bundle Lukas into your arms and kiss his flushed, sticky-with-tears cheek. You glance apologetically toward Ghost. Perhaps this is for the best. Maybe you shouldn’t sleep together. Maybe this was some unseen force ensuring that you and Ghost remain uncomplicated. Maybe it’s saving you from breaking your heart again. Once Soap is clear, Ghost will leave. You know it. You believe it.  

You sway Lukas in your arms and mutter softly.

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost stands frozen in the doorway. The boy has his eyes. And the realization is like a leech. He cannot shake it. He cannot bear to be in the same room as you and the crying child. The child with his eyes. He stalks down the hall and ducks into the small room arranged for him and Soap.

Soap is asleep. He’s glad for it. He doesn’t want questions. His breath his ragged and edged like shrapnel in his lungs. His skin is flushed and stretched uncomfortably over his bones. You held Lukas sweetly. You kissed his face. You showed him more affection than James or Sven. How did he not see it earlier?

Lukas looks nothing like Sven or James or Agathi. He looks like you. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. You must’ve had a child with someone during your time in Al-Qunbar. He scowls. The maths didn’t add up there either. He guessed Lukas’ age is close to 3. Lukas would be younger if you gave birth to him in Al-Qunbar. Then when? With whom?

He swallows thickly and recalls your short time together. Lukas can’t be his. Can’t be. Can’t. He’s not fit to be a father. He’s a dangerous man. A killer. And a damn good one at that. His palms are sweaty and clammy. He peels off his skeletal gloves and tucks them into the back pocket of his pants. He chews his tongue with his back molars.

If Lukas is yours then he doubts the agency knows. A child is a target. A vulnerability. He starts cleaning one of his guns to keep his hands busy. The gun oil is slick and warm against his fingers. He clears his dry, uncomfortable throat. He thinks about your weighted words in the barn. You mentioned you had a secret. You said it was something he’d hate you for.

His slick, oiled hands move purposefully over the metal. His gaze flicks upward to Soap. He watches his chest breathing evenly beneath the dark sheets. They will stay here for a few weeks and then they’d leave. He can endure it.  

You were never meant to have a reunion. And he is a fool for wishing for anything other than what he got. Regardless of who Lukas belongs to—he’s no one’s father. He’s not destined for a civilian life. He’s comfortable in the danger. He’s comfortable wearing the mask. He likes it too much to walk away.

He can’t go and live on a farm and change nappies. That’s not who he is. And he won’t bring danger to your doorstep. But he doesn’t want to say goodbye again. He doesn’t want you to disappear. Ghost sighs heavily and sets the pistol on his bouncing knee.

He needs to talk to you.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It took an hour to get Lukas back to sleep. You settle into one of the wooden chairs on your small, porch balcony outside your bedroom and watch the darkness and swaying grass. You roll the night vision scope between your palms and feel the roughed, grip texture. You peer through it ever-so-often toward the barn. You consider joining Kaja, but you don’t want to leave Lukas in case he has another nightmare.

A floorboard creaks. The smell of gun oil permeates the air. Ghost sits in the chair beside you.

He asks, “what’s the story between the kids here? They got family on the outside?”

You bite your lip. “Not really.”

“What about their dad?”

“Agathi’s husband is dead.” You explain.

Ghost rests his elbows on his knees, “and the small one?”

You chose your next words carefully. “He’s alive. I tell him his dad is a soldier working hard to keep everyone safe.”

Ghost stares at you, unblinking, and his gaze is like holding a lit cigar to your skin.

“That the truth?” says Ghost gruffly.

The crickets chirp, a chorus, a symphony, lonely and desperate for connection.

“The truth would hurt everyone, ” You shrug.

“It would hurt him.” You look meaningfully over your shoulder toward Lukas’ bedroom door adjacent to your room.

Simon’s tone is commanding and harsh as nails, “tell me the truth.”

You squeeze your eyes closed. A swirl of black and purple spots spin on the canvas of your eyelids. You had hoped to avoid this conversation. But Simon has connected the dots and you played your hand too heavily when you told him you carried a guilty secret.

“Do you remember Al-Qunbar?” You ask.

He hums, “Mhm.”

It was the last place you and Ghost met. A city of dust and smoke, a marble fountain that gurgled with blood.

“I was Qadir’s mistress,” you begin, referring to the politician that governed Al-Qunbar, “that was my cover. It was not uncommon in their culture for people of power, regardless of gender, to have multiple partners or spouses. And they considered multiple children as a sign of virility and good fortune.”

You inhale slowly. This is the part of the story that is like traversing a minefield. You’ve imagined telling him, but never in your wildest dreams did you think you’d get the chance.

“Qadir had many children. But his regime was unstable. I begged him to send the children away. I groveled.” Your voice quivers and tears sting your eyes like wasps. You bite down on your lower lip and compose yourself.

“Qadir refused. He said we’d all go together in the end. He gave poison disguised as medicine to his wives, his mistresses, his personal guards…his children…his children…”

You knew those children. You cared for them. You scrub a hand over your face. Finding the courage to topple dictators or stare at the barrel of a loaded gun is easy. But looking at Simon is impossible. You focus on a spot in the dark, starry horizon. The high grass that surrounds your property sways like whispering dancers.

“I knew I couldn't’ save them all, so I chose Lukas.”

“Samira helped. She was Qadir’s midwife and served in his military as a doctor. The day Qadir was assassinated, I got Lukas out, but I couldn’t leave Al-Qunbar. Not yet. The extremists, the loyalists, the American agents. None of them could know he was alive. I need to make it seem like everyone in Qadir’s family perished in the uprising.”

The wooden chair creaks like an old ship underneath Simon’s weight.

“You were the one who torched his compound.” He says. It’s not a question. You wonder if he read the file. You wonder if anyone told him your undercover name and saw you were listed under ‘killed in action’. You wonder if Price mentioned his part in helping you escape from under the thumb of imperialism.

You nod. You burned Qadir’s house, and all the bodies within, and fled. You earned yourself a deep wound from a sniper at the town square before you reunited with Ghost’s team.

Simon scoffs, “I think you’re a bit of an arsonist, Lux.”

You recognize his attempt at humor, but you can’t summon the energy to smile. You’ve told him the background, you’ve set the stage, but you haven’t brought the main actors into the play. You haven’t revealed the truth.

Your voice scratches as it travels up your throat. “I told Qadir the baby was his, but the timing was off.”

“He’s yours, Simon.” You finish weakly and your heart capsizes inside your chest, “he’s ours.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t look away. The mask hides everything from you and his eyes are guarded and cold. He will hate you. You are sure of it. He will hate you for lying, for not contacting him, for keeping Lukas.

You lift the night vision scope to your face to hide your hurt expression.

~~~~~~~~~

“Shit!” You jolt upright, blood pounds in your ears, and your eyes swivel across the black landscape. You peer through the night vision binoculars to assure you saw Kaja’s signal accurately. You’re not mistaken. She flashed her infrared twice. Trouble.

“What is it?” Ghost is beside you, alert.

“Kaja is in trouble.”

He huffs. You think there’s a question poised in his eyes, but then a burst of gunfire illuminates the darkness like white fireworks. You drop like a stone into fight-or-flight. You run into the adjoining bedroom and scoop Lukas into your arms, waking him, and he cries – startled – in your arms. There is nothing inside your head beyond the checklist of tasks you must complete for your sons’ safety.

“It’s alright, lovey. It’s just a storm.” You assure him.

You barrel down the hallway. James and Sven step into the hallway with Agathi clutching their shoulders. You swerve pass them, taking the steps hurriedly, your heartbeat thundering in your ears and drowning out the sounds of Lukas’ tears and the encroaching gunfire. You don’t bother to look behind you or check for Ghost. He doesn’t know the household protocol, but he can handle himself in a fight. You aren’t worried about him.

“If you get out of that wheelchair, I’ll kill you myself.” Samira snaps. She shoves a loaded shotgun into Soap’s hand. “Protect the little ones.”

You duck into the basement. The door is heavily fortified, and along with supplies, the back left corner equipped with an escape tunnel.

“Alright, there, there, sweet boy.” You kiss the side of Lukas’ head, “it’s going to be alright.” You bounce in him in your arms, kissing and repeating platitudes, promising him that everything will be OK. You never expected motherhood to come equipped with so many desperate lies.

Agathi opens her arms for him.

Lukas’ little fingers cling to your neck, unintentionally scratching, and he is grabbing your shirt, red-faced and screaming. You pry him off. Your heart breaks. Your mouth is dry. You swallow your tears as Agathi cradles your son to her chest and rocks him. Her steely blue eyes meet yours—fierce, red-rimmed, and determined. You share a meaningful, wordless look. You’ve always known the role you would play if shit hit the fan. Agathi and Samira are the protectors.

And you?

You’re the fucking executioner.

“Be safe.” James says, squeezing your hand once before you hurry upstairs. The second your foot hits the landing, Samira shuts the door and extinguishes her lamp. In near-darkness, Sven tosses a body armor vest toward you. You clip it hastily, grabbing equipment from the case, and affixing it to your body. You grab a few extra throwing knives and tuck them into the holster on your chest.

Ghosts’ footfalls are quick and deceptively quiet as he comes downstairs, “counted five approaching.”

“There’s likely more with Kaja.” Samira says knowingly, pinning her dark hair away from her face and scowling.

“What’s the plan?” asks Soap.

“Defend the house.” You nod toward the basement door, “this door especially. If there’s any risk of breaching, hit the switch here, and they know to get the fuck out.”

You walk confidently backwards and toward the door, “if I don’t come back—assume I’m dead and don’t come looking for me.”

You spin on your heel and slip through the partially ajar door. You knew the conflict would eventually reach your doorstep, but you wish it hadn’t happened when you had so much to lose inside. Their flashlights cut through reeds of tall grass and flicker like ghosts across the lawn. They’re shouting at each other in Noreth’s native language. You’re not fluent, but you get an idea of the instruction, and you weave through the grass. Your fingers curl around the knife’s grip.  

A low hum of insects buzz around your sweaty face and tall grass whispers as you move through it. You sharpen your focus. The moon illuminates the silent battlefield in a ghastly, blue-white subdued glow. You taste salt on your lips. You cling onto the memory of Simon’s warm, deep eyes. If you died here, or fucked it up, he’d never let you hear the end of it.

You catch your breath in your lungs. You attack, swift and deadly, your knife plunging wetly into your target’s chest. You vanish into the grass, crouched low, and using the light breeze to your advantage. You move with the wind, in bleached moonlight, and you strike down his partner before the others notice. The assailants approaching the front yard were easy. They spread themselves thin, they were too jumpy, and they held their rifles awkwardly. You surmised based on their gait and posture that they were newer—likely fresh recruits.

The three approaching the back entrance wouldn’t be so simple. They move cohesively with experience. You weigh your odds. You can kill one, but the other two will engage with you. If this had been any other mission, you would divert their attention slowly, pick them off using traps and tricks. However, the sands of time are pouring through your fingers, and you’ve got people inside to protect. A man you want to talk to, a child you want to raise, a friend you need to see again.

You test the weight of the throwing knife in your palm. It’s risky. But what choice do you have? These fuckers likely have reinforcements at the barn. Kaja is in danger. You grit your jaw and find the best position among swishing grass and damp, spongy earth.

You wait for the flashlight to illuminate his partner. Your knife spins in the dark, twirling, unseen and the target exclaims a short – “Ah!” as the blade sticks into the meat of his shoulder.

It’s off-mark. You leap to the second target, spry and agile. You are a weapon of death, a herald of doom. Your knife cuts across his throat in brutal efficiency and soaks your wrist in hot blood. You pivot, tucking your arm, and use the target’s body as a meat shield as they fire several rounds at you. You count the bullets.

He spasms and jerks against you as bullets whiz by and you wait for the reload. They might be experienced, but they’re spooked enough to fire all their ammunition simultaneously. You drop the body the second you hear the resounding click of an empty chamber. You draw your silenced pistol. Your last resort. Your breath catches in your lungs.

There’s only one man in front of you. You fire your shot. It goes through your target’s throat. He gurgles wetly, painfully, before falling backward. You scan the area for the threat, the missing attacker, but suddenly something hits you in the back of the skull.

Sharp and biting pain blossoms and stars dance in front of your vision. Their forearm wraps around your throat, pinning you to their chest, the muzzle of their sidearm pistol against your temple. Your time off the field has made you sloppy. Overconfident. Careless. You mentally berate yourself and plant your feet to try and throw him off before he can pull the trigger.

A bullet rings through the darkness. A torrent of hot blood and chunks of bone splatters wetly onto your cheek and side of your head. Your target collapses into you and you roughly shoulder him away. Half of his skull is missing and his brains and blood gushes over the marshland.

You look toward the house. You can’t see Ghost’s sniper scope in the darkness, but you feel it. You feel him watching. You holster your gun. You walk away from the house and toward the barn. To Kaja. To finish your hunt.

~~~~~~~~~

Ghost watches the flashlights disappear from your window. He has every intention of providing cover fire with his sniper—if you need it. He is watching you through the scope, remembering Spain, and his cold heart pangs weakly. He isn’t sure how he feels about you. He wants to be angry for keeping secrets. But, that’s bollocks, isn’t it? You both come from special ops backgrounds, from troves of classified files, and hell—his identity has been a secret for years. You don’t even know what he looks like. The kid’s got my eyes. There’s some small part of him that carries on throughout the world and you’re the only two people who know about it.

He doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to being angry. You made the right call. You kept the kid—Lukas—safe. His kid. Ghost’s throat threatens to tighten. He shoves it down. The feeling smolders inside his chest. It’s not like it matters. You’ll go your separate ways once Soap is cleared to evac. Assuming everyone lives after this evening, he thinks wryly. He adjusts his hold on his sniper and breathes deeply.

A burst of gunfire crackles in the distance. He swings his scope to the swaying reeds. One of the targets have veered off into the darkness while the other fills his dead friend with bullets. He catches brief flashes of your body, hunched, before you duck from beneath cover and stand—your form exquisite and lethal. A muted flash appears before the muzzle of your gun.

The second target appears from the darkness and grapples you. Ghost holds his breath. His finger hovers over the trigger. The pistol touches your skin. He imagines it firing. He imagines your body going inert and dropping like a sack of rocks into the strangers’ arms. His jaw clenches. He has seconds to react. The targets’ face hovers next to yours.

He fires. An explosion of blood and brain and bone spews around your head. You knock the body contemptuously away and somehow manage to meet his eyes through the rifle scope. Ghost’s heart thumps painful and hard into his ribs. You’re half-covered in someone else’s blood like the final girl in a slasher horror film. He thinks of kissing you. You turn and vanish into the darkness. He releases the breath he was holding.

Samira swings into the room, hand clutching the doorframe, “Ghost.” She says, “I need you to go to the barn.” Her tone brokers no argument. Despite that, however, he still says…

“Why?”

“Kaja’s not back yet which means she didn’t escape.”

“How’d you know?”

Samira huffs, “we have a system of triggers and alarms and codes. She hasn’t signaled the all-clear.”

“Could mean she’s dead.”

Her gaze darkens, “they do not often kill women in Noreth. They make them suffer first. Go. An order, Ghost. It’s an order.”

He dislikes taking orders from her, but Samira has your trust, and that means something. And although you claim you don’t have a hierarchy at the haven, it’s clear they look to you for leadership, and Samira is your second.

His head is still fucked from everything. But he’s thankful for the clarity of battle—of conflict and fighting—it gives him something to focus on. He follows the tracks you made through the grass. The air smells like car exhaust fumes, and gun smoke, and dark, damp earth.

“Leave her alone!” Your voice jabs into his gut like a well-placed and serrated knife. Ghost moves silently through the brush. His blood is hot and pounding in his neck.

The glaring headlamps of their truck illuminates your bruised face. Your teeth glisten wet and red. There is more blood covering you, but he can’t tell what’s yours and what isn’t. Someone has you pinned to the ground, your hands behind your back, and your legs are pinned by a second body. The man in front of you drops to a crouch and speaks lowly. Ghost doesn’t hear what he says. Your gaze hardens and your lips press into a tight line.

Your eyes move past the man speaking to you. Your gaze strikes his through the blades of swaying grass and encroaching, tall weeds. Your eyes are red-rimmed and filled with vengeful tears like the oil-painting of Lucifer.

“Bring them both in!” The man pinches your jaw roughly, his tone scathing, “You will sing like a songbird for me, little viper.”

Your jaw shifts. You spit a bloody glob of salvia into his face.

“Bitch!” He yells. He back-hands you, and you head lolls sideways into the dirt, wheezing, a fresh cut blooms on your lower lip. Rage burns through him, hot and corrosive, across every limb, every nerve, until he’s certain the dry vegetation around him is going to burst into flames. He’s never wanted to tear somebody limb-from-limb before. Not ‘till this moment.

He’s shaking. He realizes it almost distantly, like he’s not inside his body, like he’s viewing everything from a sniper’s scope but he’s without his calculated, cold ease. A voice inside his head informs him of the amount of bullets he has, the target locations, and the cover the barn could provide.

Kaja’s lilting voice appears from somewhere near the back of the truck—her words are thick with phlegm and barely distinguishable—but Ghost can tell she’s begging. He can hear it in her tone, how she sobs around the broken syllables. It’s not you who will break. It’s Kaja. Young, inexperienced Kaja. Another voice inside his head tells him he needs to silence her before she blows his cover or more importantly, your cover and the safety of Lukas. There’s only one target with Kaja and his back is to the shadows. Big mistake.

He shifts into the dark, lush undergrowth. He circles around the barn. You’re still goading the leader. He suspects you’re doing it to keep the focus away from Kaja, to take her pain, because you know she’s fragile and you’re trained to take it. He hears your brusque, insulting tone and it is nearly always followed with the sharp, biting sound of his skin striking yours. His heartrate skyrockets.

He’s shaking again. He bites his lower lip, tasting copper and salt, and it forcefully yanks him back to reality. He creeps through the darkness. He strikes. His large palm covers the target’s mouth, dragging him backward into the shadows, he snaps his neck quickly and efficiently. He drags the body into the grass and approaches the truck bed where Kaja is tied with a black canvas bag over her head.

“Please!” She’s trembling. “We’re just a little farm! We’re not rebels!”

Ghost yanks the bag over her head. She meets his gaze with glossy, frightened eyes. He motions one finger to his mouth. He doesn’t have time to cut the ropes that dig into her bony, bird-like wrists. He grabs her and pulls her from the truck. The weight is shifted and the springs beneath the back tires groan and squeak.

His blood curdles with the abrupt sound of your scream when his boots hit the grass. Every instinct in him wants to—to drop Kaja and fire every bullet into the men that circle you like hungry lions. He resists. If you’re screaming, then it’s part of the act. You wouldn’t give these slimy assholes the satisfaction. He believes that.

He drags Kaja into the darkness.

“We need to go back!” She whispers harshly when they’re several minutes away from the barn, “untie me. We need to save her.”

Ghost says nothing.

<< Part Three (Final) >> 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

TAG LIST: @k1llerch4n // idk why sometimes it looks like it works and othertimes it DONT.    @iwantmethgivememeth // @levisbebe // @solidly-indulgent​ 

#ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley reader insert #simon ghost riley fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty fanfic #ghost cod x reader #call of duty modern warfare fanfic #ghost x you #ghost simon riley imagine #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #ghost mw2 #ghost mw2 x you

[artbyblastweave]

Gideon the Ninth Liveread, Chapter 9

I like the subtle gag of capitalizing “Gideon’s First morning.” 

The bathroom sequence is an old standby- “fish-out-of-water-from-a-spartan-culture-explores-an-upper-mediocre-living-space” and paints an interesting picture of Gideon’s knowledgebase and ingrained Taboos. She knows what a Sink is from comic books but not what a bathtub is. She knows that soap made from human fat is an off-putting thing to wash oneself with, and uses the sonic in light of that, but at the same time grew up in an environment where all soap was human fat and thus there was no local taboo for her to pick up. Strongly suspect she’s never used soap before, just to spite the nuns; it’s also possible that she knows soap generally isn’t made from human fat (again via her comic books) but suspects that First House soap specifically might be, given their parallels to the religiosity of the Ninth House; This seems unlikely, given the lack of available humans, but it’s also unclear where they’re getting their supplies from, so, uh. Who knows. Anway this has been your daily three hundred word tangent about human fat soap.

Gideon’s complaint about Harrow upon finding the ring gone implies a previous track record of Harrow taking Gideon’s things; It keeps coming back to the fact that their Rivalry growing up was comically intimate and petty for how spiteful it was. Harrow knowing enough to cut Gideon’s attempted loophole abuse off at the knees also attests to this.

The general disrepair of Canaan House is interesting; they did the bare-minimum necessary to get it functional for the presence of some of the best and brightest of the empire, and while the house is obviously too big to keep in full repair on a skeleton crew, they had some lead time to get some contractors in, for the quarters at least! The general decay of the situation feels like a flex; “you; treasured scions of the great houses, are not special enough to merit anything but birdnets over the holes.”

Here we get a confirmation of my earlier assessment that Skeletons have essentially taken the niche of robotics technology in this setting; the skills involved in making a skeleton are described in similar terms to coding and precision engineering. This stand-in for robotics technology is notably not a one-to-one thing that could be swapped out for actual robots, or clones, or a similar servile construct race; the one-to-one necessity of human death to provide energy and materials for each skeleton integrates the technology directly into the story’s themes. 

Alright, enter Magnus. The way that Gideon juxtaposes Magnus with the horrible teenagers of the fourth (and I love their affect, incidentally, I used to do something similar to my roommate all the time when I wanted to bother him) is interesting. The first descriptor is “Wholesome.” My knee-jerk reaction is that Gideon is casting about for a parental figure of some sort and he’s the first candidate she’s really encountered; I find him mildly endearing if a bit overbearing. There is a Specific Bit that he’s leaning into, the same basic bit that semi-parodic characters like Sir Hammerlock from Borderlands are leaning into. Polite-to-a-fault pseudo-British Gentleman adventurer, except probably less divorced from the imperialist connotations.  We’ll see how things go with him.

Gideon’s description of Canaan House- deceptively lateral in its layout, with no obvious path to the upper lower sections, but still deeply confusing- is interesting, because this clearly was a house at one point. What was it like when this place was in use by humans? How many humans was it in use by? Was it a Winchester-house situation where the handful of people using it thought it would be funny to make it impossibly complicated?

Gideon’s earlier lack of recognition of plumbing-like, as a concept- are reiterated here; she doesn’t understand the function of the pool, constantly calling it a “Pit,” incapable of understanding why there would be ladders leading down into it- but she does immediately recognize the rest of the space as a gymnasium, which tells you a lot about her priorities. I get a lot of chatter on this site about the “Pool Scene,” and you know what, I actually really heavily doubt that this scene was that.

Oh, she can’t swim, can she? She’s on an ocean planet, A Pool has very pointedly been presented as a place of narrative importance, and she grew up on a bone-dry rock. She can’t swim. 

Alright, this door will be relevant later. And I’m not just saying that because I’m perpetually six chapters ahead in the book of the chapter I’m writing these about, expanding on my initial notes as I go. It’s a big black door with an exquisitely-described skull that only Gideon knows about.

Alright, enter the thirdlings. First real in-depth examination of them.

Naberius is interesting because he’s hitting on basically all the observations I’ve hit upon about the mind games being played at Canaan house- the deliberately-squalid conditions, the funny little mentor man, the shuttles being pushed off the platform- except he’s approaching the matter from the perspective of these mind games’s target audience, that is to say, someone extremely entitled who views these things an affront to someone of his standing rather than, say, as a gigantic red fucking flag that they’re all about to be killed. He’s talking about writing to the heir’s fathers about it.  Now, Naberius is implicitly a badass because he’s the cavalier from a House that’s got it’s shit together, so this might account for the discrepancy, but this is still pretty unique; it’s like if the fodder children in Charlie and The Chocolate Factory exhibited suspicion of Wonka’s set-up as a test of character intended to thin them out but plowed ahead with the offending behaviors anyway. He knows what kind of story he’s in but hasn’t internalized it.

I can’t tell which twin is which in the “second voice and third voice” sequence, but I can tell which twin Gideon is very, very into. The takeaway here is that Ianthe is the booky one, Coronabeth is the golden child, and....

oh god. That took a turn. Coronabeth treats Naberius like a dog, and the narration uses that imagery. Ostensibly she does this on the behalf of her sister- the golden child standing up for the maligned lesser twin- but look me in the eye and tell me that this isn’t coming from a place of royalty-inculcated sadism. And then Ianthe, despite being the offended party in theory, despite being the more abrasive of the two by far, is the one to get Coronabeth to simmer down; not on any moral grounds but because she’s wasting time. And then Coronabeth starts being chummy with Naberius (Babs!) again like nothing happened. It’s been implied to me that Ianthe is the evil one in the dynamic? (and what is the dynamic, exactly? Three or four different reads on this sequence. They’re siblings. They’re a preppy clique. They’re... a third secret thing.)

And in the end, Ianthe is the one to hang back and deliver a cryptic warning to Gideon. “I would not attract attention from the necromancer of the third house.” And this could be in reference to her sister (who Ianthe appears to be the leash-holder for) and thus a warning, or it could be in reference to herself, and thus a threat, because Gideon already has attracted her attention. That’s what’s happening right this second. Yeah, no wonder Naberius went right to mind games. That’s just his lived experience with these two.

As a last note, the recurring theme with these three is that of boundries, and pushing them; they were introduced as arriving late, they brought one more person than they were expected to, their conversation was intensely mutually antagonistic but in a reasonable way until Naberius inadvertently crossed an unspoken line; Coronabeth’s response, in turn, is clearly influenced by the need to toe some line Ianthe has set; and as they leave, Ianthe takes time to communicate that Gideon is on the path to transgression but doesn’t yet merit corrective action. 

It’s actually a little reminiscent of Gideon’s own situation on the ninth- a upbringing defined by an endless state of rebellion that was still on some level coloring within the lines; the lines in question just being really, really weird. Gideon’s no stranger to fucked-up “what-exactly-is-the-nature-of-this-relationship” relationships, either!

As a last note, “Coronabeth” is an outrageously funny name to me. Part “Corona,” Part “Annabeth.” Faintly portmanteau-ish. Almost reminds me of. It reminds me of. You know what webcomic this reminds me of by now

#gideon the ninth liveread #gideon the ninth #gideon the 9th #gideon nav #blastweave livereads #the locked tomb #tlt #the locked tomb liveread #thoughts #meta #ianthe tridentarius #magnus quinn #coronabeth tridentarius #naberius tern #jesus these keep getting longer and longer

[ivymarquis]

WIP Wednesday

Sliding in here with 30 minutes to spare after being tagged by @gaeadene and @direwombat! Tagging whoever wants to do it lol

This is a Soap fic with a southern plus sized nurse reader (listen she’s 2 steps from being an OC but imo the important part on the reader aspect is the flexibility to see yourself as the character and a part of that being no physical descriptors and we’ve checked that box okay? Okay.)

Anyway, she’s a holy terror but great at her job which is the only reason she’s not reprimanded near as much as she should be or frankly fired

Grumpy x Sunshine trope abound with Soap being the simp Sunshine of course. And a slight twist on the “Who hurt you” trope because Honey knows who did and she’s fucking pissed lmao

Told via Price’s POV because it’s funnier this way also Im a hopeless simp for that man

John has questions, wants to know what the hell went so wrong so quickly with Soap’s recovery. The surgeon who performed the operation has an answer for every inquiry but John’s medical knowledge is limited beyond the scope of emergency care to ensure the soldiers under his charge live long enough to make it to the table if needed.

He can’t help but feel he’s being soothed and placated with bullshit, but doesn’t know enough to go toe to toe with the surgeon the way he feels he should be. John’s more than willing to advocate for his subordinates and the whole situation has left a foul taste in his mouth but not in a way he can readily articulate and argue over.

The sight of you storming up to the surgeon is an unexpected boone. You’re so locked in on the doctor it’s clear you haven’t noticed John until you’re damn near on top of the pair of men. There’s a file in your hand- though it’s poised like you’re ready to launch it-, and he can see Sgt. John “Soap” Mactavish scrawled across the front of it.

Price has, the more he’s gotten to know you, realized just how horrid your temper can be when provoked and given the fact he’s got the sneaking suspicion that Soap coding is what light this particular fire-

Well, he’s got no interest in cooling you off.

The surgeon realizes that you’re heading straight for his throat, sending John a reproachful look Here she goes.

You only stop when you see Price, the haze of red clearing enough to recognize a potential witness- even though John has absolutely zero intention of stopping you.

“Captain Price.” It’s odd, he thinks- hearing his name laced with such venom when absolutely none of it is pointed in his direction.

You seem to gather yourself- a deep inhale, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

John’s opening his mouth to greet you when the surgeon opens his.

“I’m not in the mood today, Honey-”

-And just like that any attempt at self soothing has gone clear out the window.

“I ain’t your goddamn wife so why the fuck would I care what kinda mood you’re in?”

Oh. And this is why he hears the comments about the preceptor who breathes fire.

John can’t help but feel that fire is going in a direction that he wants it to go, so he sits back and observes.

Your attention turns to John, expression softening for the slightest nanosecond from near-blind rage to “I am pissed off beyond all belief but not at you” “Captain- can you give us a second?”

It’s a wonder the way hospital hierarchy works. The surgeon is a newer resident but should be well enough trained- and yet here you are, a well seasoned nurse armed with a paper copy of a patient file which means you had to have gone out of your way to get a hold of it.

John wants to watch what happens next. He’s got a feeling that he’s going to hear plenty shortly.

“Yes ma’am,” he steps past you, finally feeling somewhat satisfied with the way his conversation with the resident is going.

No sooner than his hand touches the door to shut it are you flinging the paper copy of Soap’s file down on the doctor’s desk with a whooshing thud. The door has not yet closed and John hears you clear as day seething “Where in the sam hill did you get your medical degree- fucking Craigslist?!“

John may not know enough to go toe to toe with the surgeon but you sure as hell did. Clearly you’d barely had the presence of mind to avoid a public dressing down, but have full intentions of reading the resident the riot act.

It wasn’t much of a shouting match, and John can’t help but feel suspiciously vindicated at the way the resident isn’t shutting you down.

And sure, part of it may be that the young surgeon has realized it’s easier to let you do as you please- but John’s got the suspicion that he knows you’re right.

Harsh? Yes. Aggressive? Yes. Insubordinate? Absolutely.

But you’re not wrong. The surgeon is young and full of himself and cocky and there’s no way he’s taking your lashings sitting down because he feels like amusing you.

It goes on for 20 minutes. John checked his watch about the time you’d seemed to hit your stride.

#soap x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #grumpy x sunshine #x plus size reader #cod x reader #cod mwii #soap #john soap mactavish #wip Wednesday #my writing #john price

[cleolinda]

Sandalwood without sandalwood: Santal 33 (Le Labo, 2011)

(lelabofragrances.com)

As I've said before, most times I go into one of these writeups trying to answer a question. What is musk, what is amber, why is licorice Like That? So my question for Santal 33 was, why is this thing one of the most popular fragrances of the twenty-first century?

I have worn it 5-6 times, and I honestly have no idea.

I'm not even trying to be salty about this; I am genuinely, neutrally perplexed. Right now, even as I'm typing this, something's occurred to me, though. See, what I was going to say was, "This is supposed to be a sandalwood fragrance. It's a failure. It smells like leather and cucumbers. I barely get any sandalwood at all." And then I remembered what happened with me and the current eau de toilette of Samsara: is Le Labo also using a synthetic sandalwood, a "big molecule" like Javanol, which I can't smell?

As you might recall, there are certain synthetic notes that some people are just anosmic to. Kind of the way cilantro just tastes like soap to some people; it's personal, and it's weird. I'm fine with cilantro, but the current Samsara EdT—one of the biggest (as in physically biggest projection that will knock you down) sandalwood fragrances ever—smelled subtle on me. Or rather, it smelled subtle on me to me. I don't have any data on what I smelled like to other people who can actually perceive Javanol etc. All I really got was what must have been a smaller amount of natural Australian sandalwood oil at the bottom. And that's what I think I'm smelling—even less of it—in the drydown of Santal 33. The rest of the time: leather. And salad.

Which blew my mind, because the first time I heard of this fragrance was an opinion piece that I can't find now, to the effect of "Everybody in New York smells like sandalwood now and I'm sick of it. Thanks, Santal 33." I can't find that link, but I sure can find these:

That Perfume You Smell Everywhere Is Santal 33 (2015)

Le Labo Santal 33: The Scent That Went From Ruggedly Cool to Utterly Basic (2019)

I Don’t Care If Le Labo Santal 33 Is the [Pumpkin Spice Latte] of Fragrance

Someone has to say it – stop wearing Santal 33 (2021)

“everyone in New York smells like Santal 33” (2023)

Le Labo co-founder Fabrice Penot: "We are lucky at Le Labo to have a few 'cults' in our collection. But Santal 33 is another level of success; it has had a stupid amount of success. As a perfumer, you always secretly hope, but you never expect, such an impact."

Why is everybody wearing it??

(I love "a stupid amount of success." He gets it.)

I mean, I live in Elbow, Alabama (please show me this magical world where everyone smells like sandalwood), and I never fucking leave the house, so I wouldn't know that "everyone" does. I think I also have to accept that I will never, through no fault of Le Labo's, understand the allure for myself if I can't even smell the sandalwood. To orient us, though, a nifty summary from the "Utterly Basic" article:

Though it's now difficult to recall a time when SoHo wasn't filled with errant whiffs of the instantly recognizable aroma, Santal has only been around since 2011. Le Labo was inspired by both its preexisting, similar-smelling candle, Santal 26, and the rugged Marlboro Man ads from the latter half of the 20th century. In a press release, the perfumery described Santal 33 utilizing the romanticism of the early American west: "An open fire… The soft drift of smoke… Where sensuality rises after the light has gone," decidedly masculine descriptors for a unisex scent that would come to represent the smell of the social and fashion elite.

Indeed, here's the Le Labo site description:

Imagine sitting in solitude on the rugged, wide plains of the American West, firelight on your face, indigo-blue night skies above. There is nothing around save for the soft, desert wind. You. Are. Free. From this defining vision was born SANTAL 33: a perfume that touches the vast and wild universality of this dream... that intoxicates... It combines a mix of cardamom and notes of iris and violet, which crackle in the formula. Added to this smoking wood alloy (Australian sandalwood, cedarwood) are some spicy, leathery, musky notes, giving this perfume its signature and addictive comforting scent.

The thing is, Santal 33 is also notorious for smelling like dill pickles on people. I actually did get a whiff of dill—the dry herb, not from a pickle jar—when I first wore it on my wrist. But when I wore Santal 33 on the back of my hand—a "method" I discussed here—suddenly a plain, watery cucumber came out. Consistently, in fact, the next four times I wore it, and it really changes the mood of the fragrance, particularly if you can't smell the sandalwood. (Like I said, I can smell a little in the base notes as time goes on, maybe a small quantity of natural oil. It leans more cedar than anything.)

Curiously, the official Le Labo description doesn't mention papyrus, which is a fairly key note in every unofficial listing I've seen (parfumo.com, for example). I wondered at first if the "cucumber" note I was getting came from the papyrus, but that’s said to smell "aromatic or woody, a little dry, earthy and spicy." Which fits the Santal 33 brief perfectly, and might be the herbal "dill" note.

And some people do claim that it's the papyrus, but a poster on r/fragrance said, "Violet and sandalwood together can produce a note that comes off as dill-like." So I google further into this, and I find that "violet leaf" is often Givaudan's aromachemical Undecavertol, which has a "green-floral, fresh, fruity" character, and that could account for the plain cucumber I was getting.

At that point I remembered that Nest's South Pacific Sandalwood has violet leaf, sandalwood, and vetiver, and I happen to have a tiny "discovery" bottle. Guess what? Cucumber. So I'm going to say that [violet leaf + sandalwood] is a strong hypothesis, with or without papyrus.

Does vetiver contribute to the Pickle Effect? It’s not listed in Santal 33, but this fragrance is, after all, named after the number of components that perfumer Frank Voelkl used, and clearly, Le Labo is not revealing all of them. Vetiver, like papyrus, usually has a smoky, earthy quality; other varieties, like an essential oil I have, and the vetiver I think must be in Kuumba Made's Egyptian Musk, smell somewhat watery to me. Like, not marine "aquatic," but "watery-vegetal." If Santal 33 happened to contain vetiver, that could also contribute to the cucumber scent, I don' t know. I feel like the cucumber and/or pickle aspect isn't intentional, unless cowboys really love a good Claussen; it was probably the smoky, earthy, musky facets of vetiver (if I'm right) that were meant to come forward.

Why is Santal 33 so popular, though? Again: I don't even dislike it, but I have no idea. It's a strange one, and if can't smell the note it's named after, there's clearly some revelation being withheld from me here. In fact, Santal 33 really makes me question my concept of "masculine" and "feminine" in fragrance, because, while we all know that Gender Is Fake Except For the Parts You Enjoy anyway, this perfume in particular renders those terms useless. In fairness to me, Fabrice Penot says, "We never thought about who was going to wear it in terms of gender at Le Labo. We are more thinking of the souls — perfumery has to be sexual to me — it has to create an attraction, an addiction."

Now, I only have half a post drafted about what "sexual" terms in fragrance ("sexy," "flirty," "carnal") are supposed to mean if you (I) would like write more inclusively about perfume, so we're going to have to table "perfumery has to be sexual," not to mention the rhetorical jump from "souls" to "sexual," for a moment. This is a whole Thing that deserves airtime of its own.

But even considering that. Santal 33 is extremely mild and neutral and cool on me. It is not the least bit what I, an allosexual, no really I'm sure, would consider "sexual." I know what Fabrice Penot is trying to say, probably, and my nose isn't getting it. Maybe I need to smell it on someone else! Maybe I need to smell the sandalwood!!! Perfume Shrine says it's meant to smell like Sam Elliott in a bottle? Yeah, no, on me, Santal 33 is this cool, tender, vegetal leather that reminds me of the deeply worn-in glove I played softball with as a teenage girl. No spice, no smoke, very little wood, no "crackling" florals.

I've actually been looking for the scent of that glove for a long time, and here it is. I truly have the (unhelpful) urge to say that this is a "feminine" leather. It is not the least bit rugged on me (one supposes that the sandalwood might have made a difference). But then you have to ask, what makes a fragrance "masculine" or "feminine" in the first place? I have two hypotheses that I'm researching, but they're basically 1) "hormonal skin chemistry, which both changes and is changeable" and 2) "antiquated bullshit," since we don't do gender essentialism in this house. Maybe Santal 33 is perfectly "rugged" in its tenderness and I just need to be thinking more Quincey Morris—or Annie Oakley, for that matter—than the Marlboro Man.

The "cool tender leather" smell did keep me coming back to Santal 33, though—I wore it five or six times, until finally the vial broke. Would I get a replacement and add it to my "gonna keep wearing" box? I'm not sure. Both Le Labo's co-founder and many, many user reviews I saw talk about the fragrance being "addictive," and maybe that's it. I felt pretty neutral about it, even disappointed, when I was wearing it... and then kept trying it again.

Is it the very strangeness that makes it popular? Is it the contrast between "soft, watery, vegetal" and the "rugged, masculine" vibe that Le Labo actually advertises? Does Santal 33 change to suit each wearer, and my particular chemistry wanted to smell like softball glove salad? Again, since I can't smell the "santal," I may not ever be able to figure out why New York smells like Le Labo. Maybe the more interesting question is, what's it going to smell like next?

Perfume discussion masterpost

#perfume #perfume discussion #long post #perfume: le labo #note: violet #note: papyrus #note: sandalwood #note: leather #note: javanol #note: undecavertol #the genders

[ak-vintage]

Quarry - Chapter 10

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x f!reader

Summary: Din Djarin is on what he expects to be his last bounty hunt for Greef Karga. After all, Nevarro is swiftly moving away from its previous reputation as a Guild member’s paradise, and Din has more important concerns now, like finding a Jedi to train his mysterious foundling. However, after capturing a wanted starship engineer who would rather go anywhere other than “home,” the Mandalorian is forced to reassess his priorities.

Your taste of freedom had been brief but glorious. Now you are a prisoner of the most infamous bounty hunter in the Outer Rim – it’s only a matter of time before he turns you in. There isn’t much you would not do to keep from being sent home, but as you find yourself growing closer to your captor and his strange little companion, you start to wonder whether escape is really what you want.

Set after Chapter 13: The Jedi but before Chapter 14: The Tragedy.

Chapter Tags & Warnings: 18+ MDNI! Reader is Mando's live-in starship engineer, second-person POV, Din Djarin POV, no use of Y/N, minimal descriptors of reader character, unresolved sexual tension, pining, Din speaks Mando'a, cozy family vibes, fluff, falling in love

Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

By the last dredges of light of the setting sun, Din Djarin navigated the Razor Crest into a landing pattern, aiming for the bustling port on the outskirts of Trevi City. The air in his helmet was moist and close, his hair still damp from the shower and dripping into his cowl, down his neck. He could already feel the sensation beginning to aggravate him, but it was a price he was willing to pay. He couldn’t afford the time it would take for it to dry completely before putting his helmet back on. He needed to get off the ship, needed to get back to the hunt. Now.

He didn’t trust what he might do if he did not.

In the past, Din had assisted in the weapons training of countless Mandalorian apprentices, both when he still resided on Concordia as well as during his time with the Nevarro covert. When you had first agreed to some basic combat education, he had foolishly presumed that the experience would be no different from the many he had had before. He was confident in his methods; he knew he could make a decent marksman out of anyone willing to learn. However, he had failed to take one very important factor into account: he would have to touch you.

And touch you he did. He had felt the tension of your shoulders, the strength of your hands, the softness of your stomach. He had felt the way your breath had come short in your chest, how it had hitched under his hands, and he knew then that his touch excited you. He had even been close enough to smell you – the warmth and spice of his own soap, the salt of your sweat – clinging to your skin, your hair. It felt vital, primal, the draw he had felt to you. It had taken every ounce of discipline at his disposal to keep his concentration and to keep his touch perfunctory, professional.

And when you had finally made the shot? The way your eyes lit up, the way you beamed at him, pride spilling from you in waves. You had glowed under his praise, your skin glistening in the unrelenting sun, delicate tendrils of hair clinging to your forehead and neck. Were your cheeks darkened with the heat? Or with his attention?

After, Din had been helpless to the rush of relief that washed over him when you excused yourself to the bunk. He had barely managed to get the Razor Crest back in the air and on course before he had retreated to the refresher for some much-needed privacy, leaving Grogu to nap alone in the cockpit.

How many years had it been since he had touched himself to the thought of another person? Someone warm and real, not a risqué holovid, not some creation of his imagination?

Perhaps that explained why he had come so hard. His knees had nearly given out beneath him, leaving him weak and panting against the shower wall.

In the wake of such pleasure, there was only one thing he knew for certain. He needed to get off the Crest before he opened the bunk blast doors and showed you precisely how deeply you had come to affect him.

As the ship settled gently back onto the surface, Din powered down the engines, set the environmental controls to ambient, and scooped a still-drowsy Grogu into his arms.

“Time for me to go, ad’ika,” he murmured, cradling the boy close to his chest. The child squirmed and cooed in response, his wide, sleepy eyes half-closed as he patted Din’s helmet on the cheek. “I’ll be safe, vaabir naasad baatir ni. Nuhoyir jii.”

He continued to murmur soft reassurances into the top of the boy’s head as he descended the ladder. By the time they reached the cargo hold, Grogu’s eyes had drifted shut once more, and he had begun gently snoring.

Din took a few moments then to punch in the code for his weapons locker, restocking his various holsters and the bandolier across his chest with one hand. He clipped a set of binder cuffs to his belt, added a few ration packs and macro bars from the cooler locker to his satchel for good measure, and just as he was starting to debate waking you before departing, the bunk doors slid open, and you slipped out.

Something in the Mandalorian’s chest softened at the sight of you, clearly fresh from sleep. Your cheek was marked with creases from the pillow, your jumpsuit impossibly rumpled. Your bright eyes were bleary, unfocused, and you were starting to push strands of unbound hair out of your face when your eyes landed on him. For a moment, you simply held his gaze, a flush rising up your neck that he could feel mirrored under his flight suit.

As you opened your mouth to speak, however, he raised a single finger to his helmet in a silent, shushing gesture. You obeyed, saying nothing, but quirked an eyebrow at him in response. Din turned slightly, allowing you to see Grogu’s sleeping form supported with one arm, nestled snuggly into his breastplate, and a tender smile bloomed across your face. The softness in his chest warmed at the sight, at the plain evidence of your fondness for his foundling.

Tossing your disheveled locks over your shoulder, you whispered, almost too soft to hear, “Want me to take him? Looks like you’re heading out.”

He nodded. “Please.” He watched as you gently slipped your hands around the boy’s body, one under his rump and one around the back of his head, and lifted him out of the crook of Din’s arm. You clutched the little bundle of brown robes to your chest so naturally, Grogu melted so easily against the now-familiar comfort of your body, and that warm softness became an almost physical ache behind the bounty hunter’s ribs. Unbidden, words he had not considered in decades echoed in the back of his mind.

Mhi ba’juri verde.

The final vow of the Mandalorian marriage pledge. We will raise warriors.

Something like panic rose in his throat at the realization, and Din took a step back, breaking your gaze. He couldn’t possibly begin to unpack such a thought, not when his blood was still up from earlier, not when you looked so soft, so sweet. There was a hunt he had been neglecting for the better part of two days in favor of spending time with you. He couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

“Do you know how long you’ll be gone this time?” you murmured, pulling him out of his racing thoughts and back into the present.

Din shook his head and busied himself with closing the weapons locker, refusing to meet your eyes. “Depends if the quarry is still in the city. The fob says he’s close, but I’ll need to investigate further. They aren’t always the most…precise,” he replied, keeping his voice as soft as he could while still registering on his vocoder.

He watched you nod at the edge of his peripheral vision, your mouth turning down a bit at the corners. “Okay. Um…if it’s all right with you, I might spend some time while you’re gone working on the hull?” Your soft voice quirked up at the end, phrasing it like a question rather than a statement.

“Of course. This spaceport is fairly well guarded, and there are plenty of maintenance crews around, so no one should bother you while you’re outside.” He paused, taking a moment to rummage around in his satchel as though looking for something, then added, “Just…don’t go into the city, and keep the ground defense systems on just in case.”

“I will,” you agreed earnestly. “And Mando?”

Din’s gaze snapped to yours before he could think better of it, the single utterance of his moniker from your mouth stronger than any unease he currently felt about the…evolving state of your relationship. You offered him a hesitant smile, and there was something warm but somehow also uncertain in the tightness around your eyes. It was an expression that looked rather out of place on you. It had been weeks since you had spoken to him with anything other than confidence and ease, and it made him want to smooth his fingers over your brow.

“Yes?”

The Mandalorian watched as your throat worked around an anxious swallow. “You…you be safe, too. Okay?” you whispered.

He could have sworn he felt his heart swell in his chest at that. Maker, you were so good. Too good for him. Voice thick and rough with emotion, he replied, “I’ll do my best, gotabor’ika.”

He could tell from how you quirked your eyebrow at him that you weren’t particularly satisfied with that response, but you didn’t push it. You simply nodded once and offered him a little wave with the fingers currently cradling the back of Grogu’s wispy-haired head. However, when Din raised his hand to do the same, a flash of white out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Glancing down at the source, his gaze landed on a scrap of creamy, floral-patterned fabric now poking out of the top of his satchel, and recognition shot through him at the sight. Apparently, he had unearthed it from the bottom of the bag when he had been rooting through it, trying desperately not to look you in the eye, lest somehow you sense the hunger in his heart. It was the scarf he had bought for you at the bazaar. He had yet to give it to you.

He pulled it from the bag, running the pad of his thumb across the delicately embroidered vines and flowers dancing along the edge. Before he could allow himself to second-guess the gesture, he beckoned you forward with a flex of his fingers. You obeyed instantly, trustingly, and with his pulse racing, blood roaring in his ears, Din gently draped the scarf over your shoulder, near where the collar of your jumpsuit gave way to the smoothness of your neck. The heel of his palm caught on the soft curve of your jaw as he withdrew his hand, and he knew he couldn’t have imagined the way your eyes drifted shut at the contact or the way your cheek darkened under his glove.

There was a question in your eyes when you opened them, but before you could ask, he murmured, “For your hair, to protect it from your welding helmet. Thought you might be in need of a new one.” He permitted himself the briefest moment to touch you again, caressing the very end of a strand of your hair just as he had the scarf. “The pattern…it looked like something you would like.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth, your bright eyes glossy and burning with emotion as you seemed to struggle with a response. “It’s perfect, Mando,” you eventually whispered. Your fingers fidgeted on Grogu’s back, on his head, as though itching to reach for the cloth now nestled against your neck. “I love it. Thank you.”

Din inclined his helmet at you, the soft smile stretching across his face completely hidden by its beskar façade. “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back. Ret’urcye mhi, gotabor’ika.”

The smile you offered him that time was full and genuine, and with the image of it still burned into his mind, the Mandalorian slipped as quietly as he could out of the Razor Crest and into the black night beyond.

___

The next few days proved to be an exercise in keeping your mind and body occupied. After so many months on the Razor Crest, stretches of time spent with no one but the child for company were commonplace. When Mando was on a hunt, your work typically kept you busy enough, and Grogu was a delightful companion – good-humored, inquisitive, mischievous but in a way you usually found endearing rather than aggravating. This time, however, you struggled.

You had never felt Mando’s absence so keenly before.

The ship felt hollow, too silent and too empty without the sound of his heavy boots on the deck plating, the gleaming breadth of his pauldrons peaking around the edges of the pilot’s chair. You missed the warm gruffness of his vocal modulator as he asked you questions about your projects or demonstrated how to read an astrometric chart to Grogu. You missed dodging him in the ‘fresher or outside the bunk, constantly dancing around him as you each tried to care for your own basic needs without imposing on the other. And unlike in the past, no amount of ship maintenance work you manufactured for yourself seemed to be enough to keep the thoughts at bay.

Concern for his safety. Longing for his presence. Nothing short of hunger for his touch, a burning need for the weight of his hands on your body. It all made the simplest tasks into a challenge, and by the third day of incessant distraction, even your little, green friend began to grow visibly annoyed at your absent-mindedness.

In an attempt to get yourself back on track (and to hopefully provide some entertainment for the stir-crazy Grogu), you decided you would take him up with you onto the top of the Crest for your next repair. You had never worked on that part of the hull before, but your latest structural integrity diagnostic had revealed a handful of weak spots clustered along the base of the port wing. Perhaps the boy would appreciate the change in scenery. And perhaps it would be enough novelty to keep you focused for more than a handful of minutes. Gathering a few scrap sheets of durasteel, your fusion welder, and a cannister of epoxy armor into a bag and strapping Grogu to your back in his leather carrier, you climbed up and out of the unused astromech socket and emerged onto the roof.

The sun in Trevi City was scorching and bright, steadily baking the reflective metal surface beneath your feet until waves of blurry heat were visible to the naked eye. It would be nearly unbearable to touch, you realized, but you never started on a project without the appropriate protective gear. Unclipping the carrier, you swung the child around to the front of your body and settled him, still inside it, in a secure little nook made by two curved sections of hull plating. The thick, padded leather would keep his skin from touching the surface, and he would be better situated to watch you work from the ground anyway. Pulling a pair of heat resistant gloves out of your back pocket, you tugged them over your hands and unrolled your sleeves from around your elbows until they covered your forearms.

Your hair, of course, was already taken care of; you had hardly removed the scarf Mando had gifted you since the night he left.

Once you were geared up and certain of Grogu’s safety, you settled into your work – identifying the stress spots, mapping out the most efficient size and placement for the reinforcements, and beginning to cut the sheets of durasteel, narrating as you went. At first, it seemed that your plan was working perfectly. The boy seemed to be enjoying himself – he cooed and grunted and babbled endlessly, his big ears wiggling in interest as he followed the sparks of your fusion welder – and you were able to immerse yourself in your task in a way that felt like a relief after days of nothing but distracted pining.

Your peace, however, was not to last.

After what felt like about an hour, you rose from your crouch against the wing and flipped up the shield of your welding helmet.

“Want to take a break, kiddo?” you asked, rolling your head side to side on your shoulders, feeling your cramped neck muscles pull and stretch. Grogu seemed to nod at that, and one of his little, clawed hands came up to drag across his wrinkled forehead, as though wiping away sweat. You smiled wryly at the gesture. “You’re not kidding. It’s hotter than a Jawa’s armpit up here, huh?” You could feel your own perspiration dripping down your face, gathering in the fabric at your collar. “Let’s go back inside for a bit and get some water. We can finish this later this afternoon.”

You took a step forward, your arms extended in front of you in anticipation of picking him up. However, your foot never made contact with the roof.

It all happened quickly after that. The heel of your boot glancing off the cylindrical cannister of epoxy armor laying at your feet. Your foot flying forward, your balance completely thrown. The lurch and stumble backward as you attempted to catch yourself, the sharp decline of the forward half of the wing buckling your opposite ankle in the struggle. The dull impact of the durasteel rushing up to meet you, the cloudless blue sky and the sun in your eyes as you began to rapidly slide down the angled surface on your back.

You were falling off of the roof, the slick, scalding surface unforgiving beneath your scrabbling hands.

Your eyes slammed shut on instinct, you heard a scream, and you wondered if it had come from your own throat. You couldn’t tell. Perhaps it had been you, perhaps a bystander in the port, but it hardly mattered. There was nothing now, nothing but the sickening sensation of dropping, and then –

– floating.

So unexpected was this sudden change that you wrenched your eyes open, and the yelp that erupted from your mouth at what you saw was entirely involuntary.

You were hovering in mid-air, suspended halfway between the Razor Crest’s wing and the harsh pavement below as though by a rope around your ribcage. Your head, shoulders, and arms hung limp, as did your legs, but you could feel an invisible…something supporting your torso, holding you there. It wasn’t painful, not how it would be if you truly had been hanging with your full body weight on a rope or a harness, but it was disorienting. You felt your stomach roll, immediately unsettled by the complete lack of gravity. However, before the adrenaline or the nausea could even begin to subside, you felt the softest, gentlest tug, and just like that, you were rising back up through the air toward the roof of the ship.

Every panicked, primal instinct in your body urged you to fight the sensation, to wiggle and kick and try to pull away – this was bizarre, unnatural, wrong – but as you crested the edge of the wing, your eyes met Grogu’s, and you felt all of the unease melt from your muscles only to be replaced with an overwhelming sense of awe.

Gone was his typically pleasant, curious expression. Instead, the boy’s wrinkled brow was furrowed, his dark, beetle-like eyes hard with concentration. Still strapped into his carrier, he had both of his tiny hands extended out in front of him, his fingers curved and tense. As he stared intently at you, you felt that gentle but inexorable force around your torso pull you toward the center of the ship’s roof, far from the edge of the wing where you had fallen, but closer to him.

Your eyes widened at the sight, any breath you may have had left in your lungs swiftly leaving.

“G-Grogu?” Your voice sounded like little more than a hoarse whisper to your ears. Was he…

Was he doing this?

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. That invisible force brought you back down out of the air and settled you almost tenderly onto the hull’s surface, rattled and a bit ill but somehow, miraculously, unharmed.

The moment your back made contact with durasteel, that sensation around your torso disappeared, and you watched as the child’s hands dropped helplessly at his sides, his wide, round eyes fluttering.

“Grogu!” you cried, struggling to your feet. You swayed precariously, having not yet regained any real sense of equilibrium, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. This boy – this sweet, precious boy – your boy – may have just saved your life, and now he looked to be on the verge of losing consciousness.

Clutching onto the leather of his carrier with weak, shaking fingers, you tugged him toward you. “Hey!” You released the buckles as quickly as you could manage and swept him into your grasp, leaving the carrier crumpled and forgotten at your feet. He looked pale, exhausted. His eyes were closing. “Nononono, Grogu, come on. Come on, buddy, it’s okay, I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay.” You were babbling now, but you hardly noticed. If something happened to him in your care…if something happened because of you…

You wouldn’t be able to live with yourself.

Grogu went limp your arms, and you fought the sting of tears and the overwhelming weight of dread as you brought a hand up to rest on his little chest, feeling for a pulse, a breath. “Come on, sweetie,” you murmured, peeling back the bulky layers of his robes. “Please be breathing, please be breathing.” The palm of your hand settled on his sternum, warm and impossibly small beneath his threadbare undershirt, and after an endless moment, you felt it – the flutter of his heartbeat and a deep, wide expansion of his lungs.

A wave of relief so strong it buckled your knees swept over you, and you heard yourself hiccup a sob. He was alive.

___

The comm link felt heavy and cold in your hand as you paced the cargo hold, gnawing your bottom lip in distress. Never once, in all the months that you had been traveling with Mando, had you been tempted to call him while he was on a hunt. You hated the idea of disturbing him, of being the reason why he got caught stalking a quarry or distracted from his mission. Any questions you had, you figured out the answer on your own. Any time you felt unsafe, you enhanced the range and sensitivity of the Crest’s ground defense systems and battened down the hatches. Any time Grogu had a meltdown, you resolved it with songs and stories and perhaps a few snacks. However, you wondered if perhaps this time, you had bitten off more than you could chew.

You had managed to get Grogu’s unconscious body back inside the Razor Crest and settled in his hammock strung above the bunk mattress, but that had been hours ago, and since then, you had run out of things to occupy yourself with as you waited for him to wake up. You had gone back up to the roof and collected your repair supplies, made notes in your datapad of where you had left off so you could pick back up another time, reconstituted and then failed to eat a loaf of polystarch bread for dinner, and now the sun was setting, and still, the child hadn’t stirred.

The relief and the gratitude you had felt when you realized he was still alive had long since faded, and the longer he remained unresponsive, the more you considered that perhaps it would be more irresponsible to leave Mando uninformed than it would be to simply wait around for Grogu to recover.

“Oh, kriff it,” you muttered under your breath. Swallowing thickly against the lump in your throat, you brought the comm link up to your mouth and pressed the sending button. “M-Mando. Come in, Mando.”

Silence greeted you. You paused your pacing, checked the volume controls on the device in your palm, but still the silence persisted.

“This is the Razor Crest, come in, Mando,” you repeated. Your voice had begun to tremble. You weren’t even certain what you were planning to say if he did eventually respond. Mando, please come home? Your foot-tall surrogate son who is somehow ancient and also a toddler used some kind of magic wizard powers to save my stupid ass from falling off the top of your ship, and now he’s been unconscious for hours, and I’m scared he’s not going to wake up?

It did not escape your notice that you had started thinking of the Crest as “home,” but you determined quickly that you would unpack that thought another time. One crisis as a time was about all you could manage.

After nearly a full minute had passed with no response, you brought the comm link to your lips one last time. “Mando, this is the Razor Crest. Come in.” You sighed, closing your eyes in silent supplication. “Please.”

Another beat of silence, then two, and just as you were about to tuck the comm link back into your pocket, the thing crackled to life with a wave of static and a gruff, modulated voice. “I read you, Razor Crest.”

You sagged against the stack of cargo bins, your heartrate slowly coming back down out of the stratosphere with relief. His words were slow, deliberate, his voice breathless. The man was clearly exhausted, and you wondered whether you had startled him awake, if he had found a place to make camp for the evening and you had interrupted his rest. A pang of guilt echoed in your chest at the thought. Perhaps you ought to have waited until morning…

Before you could formulate an apology, the comm link popped with interference once more, and you heard, “Razor Crest? What’s your situation?” He sounded more awake now, his tone tight with concern. “Everything okay?”

You startled and immediately hit the sending button once more. “Yeah, yeah, sorry, umm… I-I think everything is okay? But I’m not…sure?” Your voice quirked up at the end like you were asking a question, and you felt your cheeks heat at how ridiculous you must sound. Hurriedly, you continued, “It’s-it’s the kid. He did something…crazy today, something I didn’t even think was possible, and now, I think…I think something’s wrong with him. Mando, I…” You trailed off, sighing into the communicator as you rested it on your forehead, as though steadying yourself with it, drawing strength from it. Your lower lip trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”

A long pause stretched between you at that, and you were certain you could feel it, yawning through subspace, connecting the two of you across however many miles he had traveled on his hunt, taut with the significance of what you had just revealed. Was he even still in the city, you wondered? If this strangeness with Grogu really was a problem, how long would it take for him to make it back? Had you waited too long to contact him? What if –

The sound of a gravelly sigh emanated from the comm link, interrupting your spiraling anxiety. “Is he unconscious?” Mando asked after a moment. “Breathing but unresponsive?”

You could feel your jaw drop of its own accord. “Y-Yes. Yes, that’s it exactly.”

“How long has he been out for?”

“Four, maybe five hours?” you replied.

There was another pause, and then, “He could be out for a few more yet. It depends how much…energy he used.”

“But…he’s okay? He’s going to be all right?”

This time, his response was almost immediate. “Yes, he’s fine.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you had been holding. Mando knew what this was. He had seen it before. And, miraculously, you hadn’t irreparably injured his son. “Thank the Maker,” you muttered.

“I’m…sorry if that frightened you. Are you all right?” the bounty hunter asked after a moment. You felt a small, fond smile tug at the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah. Now that I know he’s okay…” you trailed off with a shake of your head. “I’ll tell you more about what happened when you get back. But I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Something close to a chuckle filtered its way through the comm link. “I always worry about you, gotabor’ika.”

You scoffed into the receiver, suddenly thankful for the relative anonymity of this form of communication. You weren’t certain what this new nickname was, but you knew that every time he used it on you, it made your cheeks burn .

And now that the worry and the urgency surrounding Grogu had eased, the longing had reared its head once again, and the distance between you felt wider than it ever had.

“H-How’s the hunt? Are you…getting close?” you asked haltingly. You knew you shouldn’t be continuing to bother him, but you couldn’t seem to bring yourself to let him go just yet. You wanted to listen to his voice just a few moments longer.

“Yes. I think I’ve located where the quarry’s hiding out. Assuming I’ve estimated his defense capabilities correctly, I should have him in custody by the end of the day tomorrow.” You permitted yourself a real smile at that, the sharpness of the yearning in your chest eased somewhat by the promise of his return. However, before you could piece together a reply that didn’t make you sound too relieved, he added, “I…owe you an explanation. When I get back to the ship. I’ll explain as much as I can, about what happened today with the kid. I’ve kept you in the dark for too long. You…deserve better.”

You drew your lower lip between your teeth. You had only heard Mando’s voice take that tone once before, so gentle and earnest – when he had offered you the job on the Crest, after he had freed you. It never failed to soften your heart, to melt you from the inside out. “I…I think I’d like that,” you admitted. “Today’s been…a lot.”

“I understand. You did well, gotabor’ika. Thank you for calling me. For caring for him.”

The ache in your heart surged, the affection you felt for both him and his child nearly overwhelming. Had the bounty hunter been in the room with you, you might have been unable to resist throwing your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. “You don’t need to thank me for that.”

A lull in the conversation passed between you, the both of you content to simply exist on either end of the comm line from each other, until he murmured, “Get some rest. Stay safe. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

You nodded even though he couldn’t see you. “You, too, Mando,” you murmured. Almost unconsciously, you pressed the mesh panel of the comm link receiver to your lips as you spoke, as though he might feel them through on the other side of subspace. “Come home safe.”

The comm link fell silent in your hand then, and you let your head drop back to rest on the bulkhead behind you. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach, and you groaned aloud into the empty cargo hold.

You were falling in love with the Mandalorian.

___

Mando'a Translations:

Vaabir naasad baatir ni. - Don't worry about me. Nuhoyir jii. - Sleep now. Mhi ba’juri verde. - We will raise warriors. Ret’urcye mhi. - Good-bye (literally, maybe we'll meet again)

#din djarin #the mandalorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x f!reader #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal characters fanfiction

[scumscuttlers]

General

Name: Inezra Thamus

Age: 10+ Sweeps

Species: "Troll"

Gender: Female

Pronouns: Usually referred to by She/Her in narration. Not picky.

Location: Alternia

First Impressions

Build: Inezra is 6'7" with a strongman-esque build. Undefined but functional muscles, a bit of a stomach, and broad shoulders.

Style: Gravitates towards leather, chains, and spikes for both protection and aesthetic reasons. Clothes are usually generic (the kinds of things you'd be able to buy in bulk from a retail store) and some degree of stained, worn, or ripped. The only exception to this are the jackets Inezra wears, which are usually the most well-kept items in her wardrobe.

Sounds & Scents: Has a bit of a drawl and tends to speak in a lower register. Gravelly voice, quieter than one would initially assume. Typically smells like cigarette smoke, copper, sweat, and wet, disturbed soil on bad nights. Good nights are more tolerable; fresh linen, cheap antibacterial soap, aftershave.

Notable Characteristics: Black irises, multiple facial piercings. Scarring on visible parts of the body; throat, forearms, and hands.

Social

Status: Semi-public (information wise) marriage to Sefoni Peixes.

Personality: Generally unpleasant both in online and offline spaces. Gruff, not particularly talkative, and quick to anger. Is either apathetic to most attempts to interact or holding fast to an extreme degree of antagonism and vitriol.

Occupation: Works several miscellaneous jobs. Primarily physical labor, contract work as an A/V technician, and some under the table work.

Hobbies: Telling people to kill themselves online, fighting, making music, following local sports.

Setting and Background

This character isn't affiliated with any greater community or universe.

No SBURB / SGRUB AU.

My current running theory is that the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs worship an elder god. The clown cult is basically in charge. Sort of. Ish. The usual.

The Summoner's rebellion was squashed / didn't happen. Adults are still on planet.

Trollkind tampering with Elder Gods is part of why they're hyperviolent and somewhat crazy. More details on that later maybe.

Alternia is a true intergalactic empire with all the issues that come with it. Imperialism is a hot topic.

GUIDELINES

The higher up a character is in the list, the more recent the relationship.

Information presented here may change as my character interacts with others.

I recommend reading my meta notes on Inezra’s personality if you’re unsure where your character stands with her or why.

Some of Inezra’s opinions and feelings come from the type of content other characters reblog and their personal posts. She’s always judging you.

CLOSE CONNECTIONS

Notice how this section is empty.

CONNECTIONS

Adjaxi Cavalo: TBD.

Advoca Netrak: You’re not really here for the constant romantic posting, the tags, or any of that shit, but she doesn’t exactly get on your nerves either. Now that you've had a chance to actually talk to her you're not sure she's trustworthy.  She's lived a while, and usually there's only a handful of reasons for that.

Damithal Diabolus, From Hell: Who knew demons had OnlyFans?

Mara Sov, Alien Ruler: Making fun of her race before you had context that she ruled over an entire people was kind of your bad, but you would absolutely do it again. At least she took it in stride.

(fuckingshutup) Jasper: TBD.

(therealslimstrider) Dirk Strider, Dirk: This Dirk is related to the only Dave you can tell apart from the others. Despite being related, whatever that is, they don’t seem very much alike. You would classify Dirk as “cool” for lack of other descriptors. He's a little melodramatic for your tastes, but your interests align in such a way you don't see a reason to fuck with him on the regular.

(0empty0eyes0) Aradia "ee" Megido, ee: You don’t know anything about her except the fact she’s supposedly dead or something. So far nobody has provided you any concrete proof that ee is dead, you're not going out of your way to find out, and somehow your refusal to acknowledge ghosts has turned into a recurringing argument with Alex. ee on the other hand is (as far as you can tell) increasingly not fond of you. It would be funny if you cared a little more.

(yifftwiceplz) Dave Strider, Dave Human: There's something to be said about this dude. He's kind of “your” Dave, insofar as any of the humans in Sefoni’s extended social circle are yours. You don't have an equivalent for him, but he's tamer in comparison to other Daves cropping up on your radar. Still irritating and unfunny on occasion, but sometimes he does you a favor by reblogging a genuinely funny post.

(feeling-horsey) Equius Zahhak, Zahhak #2: Between the muscle posting and his general, unbearably earnest nature, you kind of don't like this guy. It's probably a plus to some people that he's pretty much what you see is what you get, but you don't like what he has to give.

(absylphe) Kanaya Maryam, Busybody: She has a subtle sense of humor you’re still picking up on, and for some reason also seems keen to ask you questions you’re not interested in answering. She also glows. Legitimately. If anything you're the one that should be asking questions.

Alex Miller:  You’re still figuring them out. They’re funny in an awkward sort of way, and messing with them is proving to be enjoyable. The more you learn about them the more unsure you are about their humanity, and have slotted that into the list of things you'll worry about later.

Sollux Peixes, Lux: You really don’t want to get started on this one. Lux exists in that weird in-between space where you’re both amused and annoyed by him. You wish she would actually do something with herself, but not because you care about her. Watching other people suffer gets boring after a while. Watching people continually fumble the bag on every opportunity given to them gets your blood boiling. Watching Lux is like a mixed bag of shitty entertainment with a payoff that could be so good but the writers will never fucking do it.

Lanota Nimtue: You can appreciate a troll that bites back. On paper, you’re similar. In reality there’s so much that sets you apart you don’t really feel like thinking about it right now. Now you're kind of toeing the line between platonic hatred and whatever passes for complicated acquaintanceship leading into friendship. None of this was your first choice—you definitely don't like it—but there's fuck all you can do about it now except get your fingers smashed in a car door.

Aressa Alkmin, Cardboard Cutout: You’ve met some vapid trolls in your life. You’ve even pretended not to know shit for the hell of it, but you’ve never met someone so good at saying absolutely nothing in conversation while thinking they’re an excellent socialite. What is it with this generation?

Sefoni Peixes, Wife: She said she wouldn't let you die until she wanted you to. What more could you ask for?

Talula Zahzii, Ex-Partner: She's kind of a wreck but so are you. You dated for a while and it lasted as long as your other relationships did, but it was nice.

Dialus Bolrik, Ex-Partner: This ship sailed so many sweeps ago you're not going to give yourself a headache diving into your feelings. You're hoping you can catch up sometime soon, seeing as you're back in orbit and everything. 

BACKSTORY

These are my other characters. Maybe you’ve heard of them.

Kikass Wosley, Nuisance: A nosy detective who you're going to dismember if they get too close to your personal life.

Aonarm Vurzic, Sobriety Buddy: You know them through Maerig. They don't drink anymore which limits about 80% of the fun you can have to standing around and talking. They are, at the very least, chill and non-judgemental. You wouldn't go sobbing about your problems to them though.

Maerig Gwayna, Open Tap: Somebody you owe a couple of favors for putting up with you over the sweeps. You're far from close, and yeah you might exchange some words on serious topics every now and then, but you're not friends.

Glynne Cacein, Ex-Bandmate: A "percussionist" rather than a "drummer." You refused to acknowledge the difference then and you're going to refuse to acknowledge the difference between "best-selling book" and "best-selling author" now. You actually spoke recently and it wasn't terrible. It took a load off you if anything. Not enough to reach out to your other ex-bandmates. But enough.

Biuret Reagan, Ex-Bandmate: They used to do vocals for your band back in college. You don't know what the fuck they do now and you most certainly do not care. Except you actually care, just a little bit, because now you're interested in doing something more worthwhile in your life. Maybe it's time to dust off some old connections.

Juelie Yseone, Ex-Bandmate: Played guitar, yadda yadda. Used to be all into weird piercing combinations and some other junk you didn't really care about. Of course they're doing whatever the fuck with bodies and playing detective with damned-if-you-do-damned-if-you-don't Wosley of all trolls. More power to them. They're as tall as you remember but a hair more quiet. You guess that girl of theirs finally took out their tongue.

#OOC #[META INFO] #[CHARACTER INFO] #// Collected things I thought were cool from other people's stats pages. #// tbd power section #// tbd thread starters / potential character connections

[separatist-apologist]

Oh god I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s reading Hurricane wars💀I will say I went into that book not realizing it was stars wars fanfic and then about four pages in I was like ‘is this star wars’ and sure as shit it is and I cannot stand it (me, a certified Star Wars hater™️) (sorry to disappoint)

Okay so look I was NEVER a reylo girlie. I never will be. But I was a star wars girlie in 2015 and like, that was THE fanfic so obviously I read it. And I liked it a lot, the writing was good, the plot was fun, like one of the tags was like, a soap opera with lightsabers or something to that effect.

So I bought this book with my own money expecting to also really enjoy it. I will say that the author can fucking write but sometimes her prose is...a lot. And she reuses the same descriptors over and over (I've been marking one about pine needles).

So far, it hits the same beats as the fanfic but it is also not doing a good job making them enemies OR making FMC two dimensional? I can't follow her thought process at all, and the things I liked and that worked in the fanfic (finding out shes a random princess by her dad seeing her and going, yeah thats her) do not work in the book for me.

I have forgotten their names but MMC also is like, "I hate her which is why I keep saving her life" like COME ON. On page like, 34 I left a note that was complaining one of them already likes the other.

#this was also the fairy loot special edition so i have two copies of it LMAO #haters bookclub

[kotamagic]

Lore Olympus this week has Persephone doing a "sleep dive" and it's causing tension all around.

I totally get why Hades is nervous about this exercise, but what's with that nymph? If it was the green doctor nymph apologizing, that'd make sense, but the context of this one is lost on me.

Not sure what it is, but that green nymph's face is unsettling to me. Not so much the artwork (though there is that as well), but also the GIANT FUCKING NEEDLE he's about to stick in Persephone's arm.

I wanna take this moment to appreciate the androgeny of Morpheus here. Neither particularly male or female-looking, and yet, at the same time, a well mixed combination of both. Does that make sense? Would non-binary be a proper descriptor here?

Going through Persephone's dreams and memories is a fascinating experience. The lines between the two are blurred here, and while revisiting these things is part of the mission, it is not the whole thing.

Actively recognizing that you are dreaming and taking control is what is known as lucid dreaming. Morpheus acts as a guide, but Persephone herself must take the action. She does so and moves on to the next part.

This was a neat comparison.

Dreams that suddenly shift from one moment or place to the next, especially if unrelated, do rather feel like changing channels. One station has an action film, and the next one has a soap opera on.

Not sure if this is Hades' memories of being trapped by Kronos or if this is the child deity taking a particularly similar form.

Kronos uttering "You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?" certainly doesn't clarify that.

Despite LO material being derived from Greek mythology, I can't help but get a Mexican vibe out of this figure. Reminds me moreso of Lady Muerte or La Llorona.

Could this be Erebus? Is this the primordial deity Hades and Persephone had to make a deal with to rule the Underworld by eating the pomegranate?

Thanks for coming to my LO post!

#lore olympus #lo hades #lo persephone #lo morpheus #lo demeter #lo kronos

[nosydogsoaps]

Hello, I just found your blog and I just??? Adore??? Everything??? About it???? Your scent descriptors are just so vivid and draw me into a world I don't quite have the sense to capture on my own yet; the soaps themselves are gorgeous, but you also do such an amazing job with the presentation and staging in the photography! Like all around A+++ work!!

OMG thank you so much...!!! You're so kind aaaaaa I love matching characters to scents and trying to capture with words just how and why I think it suits them, and I'm so very very happy that it sparks a connection for you! <333

#nosydogsoaps