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scribbledghost · 4 months

Text

Hurt

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (Reader, gender neutral, no Y/N)

Rating: T

Word count: 1850

Warnings: nightmares, descriptions of violence, brief mention of suicide, brief mention of vomiting

Note: This started out as a relatively simple idea and then it morphed into more Character Study because that's who I am as a person I guess.

Simon jolts awake, sharply inhaling as a telltale churning in his stomach sends him rushing for the bathroom across the hall. He knows he's woken you, but he's sure you'd rather him scramble out of bed in chaos than vomit on you.

A few moments later, when the contents of his stomach have been sent back up his throat and he's left panting and coughing into the toilet bowl, he feels your hand gently place itself on his back.

He doesn't mean to flinch. Really, he doesn't.

But he does anyway, and he feels your touch leave him.

Simon tries to even his breaths as he leans back on his haunches, but it's difficult. He wants to turn to you, to tell you that he's fine, but an irrational part of him is still convinced that he'll find you bruised and beaten when he looks at you. That he’ll find his own knuckles raw and covered in blood that isn’t his. The thought alone is enough to send another wave of nausea through him.

Instead, he closes his eyes, and takes several deep breaths.

"Wanna talk about it?" you ask softly.

"No," he blurts out immediately. He doesn't think he could bear to explain to you what's brought him to where he is right now.

"Need space?"

This time, he has to pause. Does he want you to leave him alone? No. He wants to go back to bed, pull you close, and softly tell you how he'd never hurt you. How he'd rather die than ever lay a hand on you in malice. How he'd never forgive himself if he ever marked your body with anything more than gentle love bites. He wants to hear you say 'I know' in return.

But he doesn't know how to ask for that. Not right now. So instead he says -

"Yeah."

He clasps his eyelids shut as you give him a soft and gentle "okay" before walking from the bathroom. His hands twitch, desperate to move and grab you and bring you back, but he dutifully keeps them in place.

Simon stays where he is until his legs begin to go numb beneath him. He then cleans up, brushes his teeth, then returns to find an empty bed. He leans back towards the hallway and notices the guest room door is closed, a soft glow emanating from beneath it.

He begins a practiced routine, though he’s acutely aware that this time will require much more effort to get his mind to settle. He pads into the kitchen, gulps down a glass and a half of water, and sits at the table with his head in his hands.

His stomach roils when he remembers back to the nightmare, how it had started with the memory of him nearly beating his good-for-nothing father to death. It had been satisfying, feeling his old man’s nose break beneath his hand again. But somewhere along the line, the face beneath Simon’s fist changed. At some point, he wasn’t punching his father anymore, he was punching you.

He nearly gags when he remembers how he had noticed the change, how he had recognized that it was now you with the black eye and bloody nose, but he had simply kept going.

His subconscious self had known it was you he was hurting. And he hadn’t stopped. Not until he’d jolted awake after feeling your throat constrict beneath his hands.

He’s listened to enough therapists tell him that there’s no deeper meaning to his dreams, that his subconscious violent outbursts don’t determine what he’s like in his waking life, but it still rattles him every time he experiences it. Especially this time. He continues to waste time trying to make sense of something that can’t be untangled.

Why had his subconscious changed the target of his rage from his father to you? Why had he not bothered to stop as soon as he realized what he was doing? Why did that version of himself not seem to have a problem with hurting you?

He doesn’t know the answer to any of those questions, and he hates himself for it.

The next time he bothers to look up from the table, the digital clock on the stove reads 4:34 in the morning. Realistically, he knows he should go back to bed and at least try to get another hour or so of sleep before he has to be up for work. But he can’t bring himself to move.

Simon has done this song and dance before, and he knows roughly how it will play out unless he willingly changes the tune or adjusts his steps. He knows that if this continues like any other time he’s suffered from a particularly bad nightmare, he’ll drag himself through his morning routine, zone out during important meetings, then limp back home to your arms that evening. But something tells Simon he won’t be able to get away with doing the bare minimum this time.

He’s never hurt you in his nightmares before. Even the worst ones pale in comparison to this one. Even the ones where he’s back in Mexico with sharp hooks digging into his ribs or the ones where his mother’s bloodied face screams at him, telling him that he killed her.

He’d take any of those in a heartbeat over the one he just had. Because at least with the others, he can rationally explain to himself that they'll never happen, that Roba is dead and so is his mother.

But this… this feels more real. Like there's some sort of sick chance that he could be at the punching bag later only to blink and realize he's really been beating you the entire time and has simply hallucinated being at the gym.

He thinks - no, he knows - he'd destroy himself if such a thing ever happened. If he ever laid his hands on you in such a manner, whether it was intentional or not, he knows deep in his bones that his first reaction would be to head to base, go to the shooting range, and immediately turn his rifle on himself.

Simon shakes his head, trying to dislodge the line of thinking he's managed to go down. He heaves a sigh from his chest and pushes himself to stand from the kitchen table, knowing his usual "keep quiet until the unsettling feeling in his gut goes away" routine won't help him this time.

He needs you.

As scared as he is as he approaches the now-dark spare room, as terrified as he is that he'll see you broken and ruined by his hands, he needs you.

"Love?" he asks softly as he knocks. "You still awake?"

"'M awake," comes your groggy voice from beyond.

He steps in, closing the door behind him as he uses the dim moonlight streaming in from the curtains to navigate. You lift the blanket for him, and he crawls beneath it and curls into you. After running a thumb along your cheek, he discreetly holds it up to the light.

He finds no blood there.

“Sorry I woke you up,” he mumbles.

“Don’t apologize.”

The quiet extends, and for a moment Simon thinks you’ve fallen asleep.

“Wanna talk about it now?”

He pauses.

“‘S’okay if you don’t.”

He knows. He knows if he tells you no, you won’t push it any further.

But he doesn’t want to tell you no.

“...I hurt you,” is all he says at first.

You drape an arm around him and pull yourself closer to his chest.

“It was my old man at first. Was beatin’ the hell out of him. Then it… it wasn’t him anymore. ‘S not like I didn’t realize it was you either. I knew. An’ I… I kept doing it anyway. I kept hurting you.”

You’re still quiet, and Simon worries that he’s scared you. Not that he would blame you, hell, he’s scared himself.

“I wouldn’t,” he breathes quickly into the dark. “I…”

He swallows thickly.

“I’d rather die.”

It’s a soft, vulnerable confession. One he’s never said aloud before, but he hopes he’s made abundantly clear nonetheless.

“I know, Simon.”

He releases a breath and closes his eyes.

“Just… I don’t know why," he says. "Aren’t dreams usually… I dunno, a reflection of yourself or whatever?”

“Not really,” you say. “Sometimes they can help you process stuff, but I don’t think it really has any bearing on who you are when you’re awake.”

“Sure felt like it had bearing.”

You don’t answer at first, and Simon feels you tracing the skin of his back, fingertips feather-light against him.

“I think… you think that you’re hurting me. In real life, I mean,” you start slowly. “Not physically, but in some other way. And I think maybe that translated into your nightmare.”

Suddenly, something clicks into place in Simon’s brain.

You’re right.

He knows he hurts you frequently. Never because he wants to, but because he has to. He knows he hurts you every time he tells you he’s been called away for another deployment. He hurts you every time he’s away longer than he anticipated. He hurts you every time he returns with just a little bit more of him missing than when he left.

He hurts you often. And he can’t bring himself to stop. Because the only way he could stop would be to leave you, and such a thing is not an option.

The guilt consumes him frequently, especially when he’s in the field, knowing you’re at home alone waiting for him to return. Hoping he returns standing upright, not lying down in a pine box.

You deserve better. You deserve someone who isn’t so goddamn hard to love. He knows that. But he refuses to let you go.

“You’re thinking too loud,” your voice calls to him through the fog.

A short hum leaves him as he feels you kiss the column of his throat.

“I knew what I was signing up for when you asked me to be yours,” you murmur against his skin. “I know you don’t control your job, or where it sends you, or when, or for how long. But I do know I’ll be waiting here whenever you come home.”

Another kiss at his throat.

“And I know you’d never lay a hand on me in malice.”

Simon pulls you closer; holds you tighter, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“You deserve better,” he mumbles.

“I deserve you. And you deserve me.”

“No I don-”

“Shhhh,” you interrupt, shimmying up to kiss his lips, “no arguing, it’s late.”

He smiles against your lips, conceding defeat for now as he tucks you against him. He soon notices your breathing even out and deepen, and he presses another kiss to your crown.

Simon doubts he’ll get any more sleep tonight. But for right now, he’s content to stay awake, keeping watch over your sleeping form and ensuring no harm comes to you in the dark.

He may not be able to chase away his own nightmares, but he can at least protect you from yours.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost scribbles

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chvnnie · 4 months

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a/n: no smut! just some angst w a somewhat happy ending! idk it just came to me! bye!

The water droplets that cling to your back stick you to the bathroom door. Hair too damp, the water spilling down your nude body and dripping to the floor. Plop, plop, plop as if the liquid has a heartbeat of its own. Eyes shut, you focus on the soft sound to slow your breathing. Maybe, just maybe, if you try hard enough, you can evaporate with the water.

Anything would be better than this.

There’s a dull knock on the other side of the door. His head lulling back against the wood, level with yours. The sound of his breathing is too loud, drowning out your treasured drops of water.

“Are you ready to talk to me?”

Your eyes open, red and stinging from the shampoo you lathered in just moments ago. Purposely not rinsing properly, you let it roll down your face. Seep into your eyes. It was nice, a distraction from the feeling of your heart being ripped from your rib cage.

It beats on the other side of the door.

He sighs, and there’s another thud. As if he’s turned, forehead now pressed against the wood. “Baby, just say something.”

The taste on your tongue. Mouthwash burns it, yet that name overpowers its strength. Baby. It makes your stomach churn. Your lip trembles, nose wobbling along with it. If tears fall, it’s the shampoo.

It’s been days since you haven’t fought. Everything. Everything requires a war, the fight not stopping until you’re both broken and bloodied. Voices raw, achy. Heads throbbing. There’s been little reprieve.

Tonight was the night your white flag was raised. When he came home late, tie loosened and curls threaded as if fingers danced through them. He greeted you with a kiss to your cheek before dropping his stuff on the unused kitchen table. It took you a moment, too consumed in washing the dishes, for you to notice.

“It’s after eight.” You say, turning off the water.

“Yeah. Yeah, I got caught up in something.”

“For like, three and a half hours?” It’s impossible to stop the chuckle of disbelief. “It isn’t even your busy season.”

You know him better than yourself. Like the back of your hand, everything about him etched into your brain. Your entire soul, flesh, blood. Without even looking, you know he’s chewing his cheek, unfastening his cuff links. “Can we not do this tonight, please?”

“Not a text, not a call—“

“I’m so tired.”

“So am I.” Your words catch in your throat, sobs on the precipice. The last bit of energy you have is used to stomp them down. “You could have at least told me—“

“What do you think I was doing?” What is heavier in his tone — the pain or the frustration? “Do you think I was cheating? Off fucking someone else?”

It almost shames you, the fact that it did cross your mind. There are no other signs that point to that, nothing to really give you reason to think that. It’s the build up — the weeks of back and forth, never finding a middle ground unless he’s buried inside you. You’re so fucking exhausted. It would almost be easier to think there was another woman than to admit what it actually is.

Even thinking it feels like swallowing glass.

“You do.” He scoffs, throwing his tie on the table. “You really do.”

“Chan—“

“I fucking love you.” His voice is strained, tears like a waterfall. “Don’t you get that?”

“I don’t!” You snap back, forcefully removing the rubber cleaning gloves. The fall in the sink with a splash. “Do you really think fighting every night is love? This push and this pull, I’m so fucking sick of it.” You turn to the staircase, anxiety building in your chest so quickly. You need to get out of here, to get away from all of this.

As your foot hits the first step, the glass shatters. Your ribs cracked open, raw and exposed.

“I want a divorce.”

How can he expect you to talk to him after he says something like that? You replay the moment in your mind over and over again, the words louder each goddamned time. With a shaky breath, your hands cover your face. Nails in your scalp. Numb.

Chan is sniffling. What you don’t see on the other side of the door is the waves of regret. Salty and bitter, twisting around his ankles to pull him deep. Those four fucking words. They made you still, body immediately tense. The mere seconds you stood there felt like eons. Right when his hand reached out, ready to take it all back, you climb up. All too quick.

Why did he say something he didn’t really mean? For you, he would bring the moon to earth. Hang the stars above your bed. Crawl into the depths of the earth and break it down from the inside, watching it collapse with you. He’s tried, many times, to describe his love for you and nothing can come close. It’s bigger than him.

Bigger than this.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, choking softly on his tears. “I don’t know why I said it. I just—“ his inhale is shaky, like he’s unable to fully catch his breath. “—I don’t even know. Baby, please, please come out.”

Your entire soul. The start of time and the end of it. Every planet that ever was, that ever will be. No matter how hard you push, how badly you want to step away.

When the handle turns, he falls to his knees.

Shards of glass pierce your skin from head to toe, digging deeper when the agony he’s feeling hits you. It’s written across his face, etched into his gaze. Sorry. Sorry isn’t close to enough.

You tilt your head down, looking at your husband for the first time in hours. This isn’t the same man that left your house this morning; jaded, empty. This is the man you fell in love with.

“I’m sorry.” He cries, bowing down until his red cheek is flush against your foot. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“

Despite the words that have seeped into the walls around you, the foundation of your home all but quaking from the hate and anger that it’s been pelted with. Despite the fact that your heart lay, covered in glass and bled out on the floor next to him. You believe him.

If he really meant it, he would have taken his ring off.

#skz angst #stray kids angst #bang chan angst #chan angst

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sourholland · 2 months

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ooh! can you do a bestfriends to lovers blurb with tom!! maybe an angry confession or jealousy (anything really, upto you!)

a little more angsty than i imagined but enjoy

feel free to leave a blurb request!

“Why are you so upset,” you breathed, staring at Tom with burning eyes and chapped lips.

He was walking you home from a party in Greenwich, snow crunching underneath your sneakers. He, unlike yourself, was not a New York City native and had no idea where you were half-drunk leading him. Tom was a gentleman, though—when you told him you were only a ten minute walk and wished for air, he refused to let you leave alone.

When you left the party, he had looked rather upset with you and helped you out the door chastely and without a word. He never complained that you hadn’t taken an Uber. The tip of your nose had gone numb and raw with the cold, every few seconds Tom would glance at you as you wiped at it with your sleeve until it grew irritated.

“I’m not upset, who said I was upset?” He shrugged, looking down at his feet.

“You’re acting pissed off,” you tried to brush your arm with his, cheeks aching and flushed with a buzz. “You barely talked to me all night. You just got here yesterday and you told me all week that all you wanted to do on your visit was see me.”

Your voice cracked a bit, he only continued to look at his feet and kick at a few stones on the sidewalk. His nose was running slightly, hair askew and eyes tired from what you could only assume was jet lag. You put a hand on his shoulder but he shrugged you off, shaking his head again.

“Okay, what the fuck?” You finally said, voice raising slightly. “You don’t talk to me all night, now you won’t let me touch you? What’s your problem?”

He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, finally looking at you with narrowed eyes. His expression read frustration and disdain, sucking his teeth and inhaling deeply.

“You’re selfish, Y/N. That’s my fucking problem,” he finally spoke.

“What?” You say, tone sharp with confrontation and sarcasm. “How am I selfish? Tell me, please. Enlighten me, Tom.”

“I put work on hold to come here. I begged my team on this next project of mine to postpone meetings and scheduled events. I practically fucking moved my entire next month around to fly to another continent to see you.”

“Tom—“

“No. Let me finish,” he bit back. “I planned my entire visit around you! When I get back to London, I am going to be running myself into the fucking ground to get caught up with things. Then—as if you see this as some big cosmic joke—I get here and you don’t even want to go out alone with me. So I go to your party like you wanted and you somehow end up fucked up enough that you’re in some other guy’s lap before midnight.”

Silence. There was complete and utter silence while you both stood and looked at one another on the desolate and deserted New York City sidewalk. His lips were dry and his nose pink from the cold. He watched you hiccup, still slightly drunk but sobering with his harsh words.

“Selfish,” you finally murmured. “Perhaps you are no so out of line for calling me selfish.”

“No,” he said, shortly. “Perhaps not.”

“Did I ruin everything?” You whispered, wringing your fingers and trying to read him.

Tom stared at you for a long while, he pressed his heel into the snow and finally shook his head slowly. His lips were pressed into a line, his eyes sad, but he gave you a look that said you might still have a chance to reconcile after all. That your selfishness was not so irredeemable.

“I’m not—I’m not good at these things,” you say, breaking the silence once again. “I’m selfish and abrasive and probably have some kind of commitment issues, I don’t know. I’m drunk so just tell me to shut up, but I don’t want to ruin this, whatever it is.”

“Okay,” he finally said.

“Okay?”

Tom held out a hand that said ‘talk tomorrow’, without words. You nodded and took his cold fingers in your own to walk the rest of the way to your apartment.

#tom holland x y/n #tom holland blurb #tom holland x reader #tom holland blurbs #tom holland imagine #tom holland imagines #tom holland #tom holland au

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ladythot · 1 year

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Hey! Are u still writing for gyutarou? Cause i need to read some quality smut of him 🤌🏻 idc if it's a long or short writing i just wanna read some decent content of him taking over my p*ssy as he wants like there isn't tomorrow and u are the right person 😫 so pls, i'm begging

Yessirr no one beats the stinkiest out of all my other favourite stinky characters lol

Warnings: NSFW content, bits of sex addiction, pussy drunk gyu, loss of virginity, cock warming, somnophilia

Taking his virginity wasn't something you'd expect to be easy with lubricants and tissues. Risking the chance of pregnancy isn't a big deal to him, whether the condom breaks or when he runs out of packs—he'll still have the energy to raw dog your cunt until the only thing he'll hear mindlessly is the sloppy squelches from your cunt made by his dick.

It's been about four days before you two first started the whole thing out and ending up in a fuck craze. You initially planned on turning him on just for fun since the day you figured out gyu gets turned on pretty quickly when it comes to you—had you been the confident one. Every rapid thrust and bite reminded you are not so confident about your mere expectations. You were merely expecting a whole fake scenery of leaving him with a hard Dick but were you so prey you let him hunt you.

Yet, you were numbed by the ecstasy that is somewhat delivered by pain.

"Gyu..gyutaro..." A husked whisper through a silent space—You turned to see the face that made you feel no chance in feeling more hunter. His face looked relieved, as if stress has peeled it's skin off. He sleeps as if he wasn't just the impatient boy who lost his own control from your teases last night, But what's more to your senses is that something's still gently throbbing below similar to what you cried for last night—it feels as if it was already carved into your cunt, what you felt last night still remains faintly til morning. Are you still dreaming? Were you too shocked by ecstasy? Not a thought. You carefully looked down, at your pelvis, you see his cock still plunged wet into your sore cunt—the sheets under you both had a trace of dry cum he spent the night splattering.

"Y/N ughhhh-" you heard him hum. His eyes are still closed, but surely you know yourself he could feel you in his sleep.

You're flabbergasted. What have you gone yourself into. You felt sore, you couldn't watch him sleep by any longer. You moved, jerked, and squeaked. It felt painfully sore. You held his cock as you tried to slip the rest out with the remaining still-wet cum hoping it'll somewhat hand you help. You felt his cock by your hand for the first time—it's still hard and most likely still dripping precum inside you. It had a rough skin, the base plastered with marks like the ones on his face, you've only seen not even half of him, you can only see from the tiny length you just pulled out by now. Gyutaro suddenly jerked at your hand, one rapid thrust at your cunt and he's back full into you.

He moaned, so loud you couldn't tell if that was from a sleep. You sighed.

"What am I gonna do with you?"

#gyutaro x reader #gyutarou x reader

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kvetchinglyneurotic · 4 months

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For the word game Wednesday (or any day of the week), day and/or night.

I don't have Wednesday or any other day of the week 😞 (and am now being haunted by that one time i know for a fact I did have Wednesday in THD). But I do have day and night in both wips, so here's one from each:

Day, Flightless Birds

Mummy pulled up in her ancient, janky little hatchback mid-morning the next day: she’d saved for years and bought it second-hand when he was fifteen, cared for it like her own child. “You’re not replacing Bertie,” she said sternly the one time Jamie offered, and that was that.

Day, Tell Me Something True

“You don’t have a fucking screwdriver?” Roy asked, incredulous. Somehow, they ended up at the hardware store, Jamie trailing after him as he picked out a screwdriver with interchangeable bits and a set of Allen wrenches and a hammer, because what the fuck kind of adult didn’t have a hammer? Stopped for lunch on the way home and let Jamie talk him into waffles piled in whipping cream and chocolate and syrup, grumbling all the while like he hadn’t meant for it to be a cheat day the whole time.

Night, Flightless Birds

“Good.” Keeley banged her cup again, gently this time. “Second item: this isn’t working.” Jamie frozen, whole body going cold and numb. At his side, Roy made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. He’d thought— they’d had worse fights, him and Keeley; hadn’t even really been a fight between them this time and she couldn’t want to leave Roy, not over that, not when she’d come home and tucked herself between them and stayed there half the night. “Not like that!” she said. “I love what the three of us have, I don’t want to stop being…” she circled her hand around the table. “Whatever we are. But Roy, you need to heal, and you can’t do that if you’re too busy worrying about Jamie to take care of yourself, and I want to be able to look after you both by myself but I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Night, Tell Me Something True

The lads all had a rest day after they got back, and that included Jamie — he shouldn’t’ve run the lad so hard right after a match, even if he’d only admit it in the privacy of his own head — and besides he was half convinced if he saw him now he’d do something stupid, like demand to know where his shit fucking excuse for a father lived in Manchester so he could beat him to death, or else burst into tears, scraped raw from a night dreaming of tiny fourteen-year-old Jamie trembling in front of his father in the Wembley dressing room.

#i just realized i've been calling this chapter of FB chapter 3. it's actually chapter 4 #fic: flightless birds #fic: tell me something true #thank you!#ask games

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illarian-rambling · 2 months

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Thanks for the tag @scribble-dee-vee! Sorry it took me a sec

5 Lines Tag

My lines: a line describing liquid, a line with regret, a line with darkness, a line about food, a line with a lie

Your lines: a line describing liquid, a line with anger, a line about light, a line about a drink, a line with a half-truth

A line describing liquid (Tw: the liquid is blood)

However, without words, Sepo not only lacked the meticulous control of other sirens, but he lacked protection from the raw divine energy currently coursing through his throat. That storm would sure serve as a distraction, however it would put them in just as much danger as the smugglers. And Sepo...

There had been dangerous times before---deep within the twisting corridors of the Trench---when he'd been forced to call on his double-edged power. Izjik still remembered the blood; sickening clouds blossoming from his mouth. Dragging his limp form through the grasping tube worms that lined the cramped tunnels, never sure if something was tracking their scent. Lightless days upon starless nights where he lay still and pale as a corpse.

She had to hurry.

A line with regret

"We definitely will," the halawemavar said with a matching grin. "But I am sorry for real. Yeah, you could've talked to me, but it takes two to have an actual conversation and I wasn't being exactly conversational. I should've trusted you to act with a cool head and came clean. I should've trusted you to help me through all this... whatever this is."

Sepo looked to his friend. Her expression was a touch distant, as it had been since he'd woken up. Izjik might be good at reading people, but she'd always been far too honest to wear her heart anywhere other than her sleeve.

<You don't have to do this alone,> he signed. <You never did. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way.>

A line with darkness

Her tongue was numb. There could've been a lot of things Izjik noticed upon waking up, but damn it, her tongue was numb, and her face throbbed, and her arms wouldn't move. She felt like one big, shitty lump of pins and needles.

Now, where in the double-fuck am I?

With a groan, she forced her eyes open. It was dark---the hope-eating kind of dark found at the bottom of the sea. Izjik closed her eyes again. Not like it made much of a difference.

A line about food

From the eye of the cyclone, Twenari waved cheerfully. She was conducting a veritable symphony of pots and pans all ferried about by discs of translucent orange energy. Simmering sauces formed unruly ranks, while the rice was busy boiling over in a milky foam. Sepo started to take his boots off and was nearly struck with another spoon making its way towards something that smelled of vinegar.

In a heartbeat, all was still. Everything hung as if suspended in resin. Then, Twenari gave a little clap, and like a cloud of trained birds, three plates were dished up and flew themselves to the spotlessly set table.

A line with a lie (2, if you can spot them >:))

"Look," Tyche continued, joining him on their host's sumptuous couch---which they'd extorted from the man several days ago. "You're gonna do fine. Just play along and, hey, maybe you'll be able to take an early exit?"

"Huh?"

"Head home early, you know?" Hit the bar before the rush, get us some good seats."

"I don't get it. Weren't you just saying the other day that this needs to go off perfect?" Djek was perplexed. Tyche was always saying he needed to take a more 'active' role. Wouldn't skipping out early be the opposite of that?

Tyche sighed. "Nevermind. You're a good man, Djek. It's been an honest pleasure to be in business together."

"Yeah, you too, ya blonde bastard." Djek smiled, an amber glow of contentment filling his vision. Or maybe that was just the spirits. He smiled even wider---there was nothing quite like getting thoroughly buzzed with your best mate.

Tyche might always use words like 'business' and 'asset' around him, but he knew the two of them were friends. Why else would the gangster have taken a chance on some broke urchin well past his begging prime? Why else would she have taken him across the world with her---from faraway Vay to Nacé, the pirate capital---swindling and blackmailing with hidden grins as they went?

Well, Djek did have some skills---and a lot of folk were altogether too damn covetous of them for comfort---but Tyche had always respected Djek for himself, not for what he could do. She was probably the only one in all the world who liked him for him. Even if she had a hard time saying it.

Tagging @somethingclevermahogony @bumblebeebats @fortheoneswhowish @the-angriest-author @jessicagailwrites and YOU :D

#writing #writerscommunity #writblr #my ocs #author #HO

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foibles-fables · 6 months

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Helloooo. I just finished reading chapter 18 of, ‘The Weight of Us,’ and I’m hooked! Any chance you’re working on this story and will be updating it soon? Our girls are both in pain and I NEED to know what happens next, please. 😬

NONNY!!!! I am legitimately SO pleased to hear you've enjoyed reading....I really, really would love to get back to the fic soon and to give our girls what they deserve.

For now--and to perhaps make me accountable to keep working on it--how about I share what I have written of chapter 19 so far? Just for you ;]

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The sight of the blood was staggering—hostile and copious and fresh, lathered boldly all over, fouling the courtyard stone with its scarlet urgency.

And in the absence of an obvious victim, nobody gathered could say with certainty whether it had been spilled from beast or from man.

Cara, arriving as the pastel sunrise began its slow breach of the morning mist, was somehow (and yet, deeper, unsurprisingly) the first one privy to the grim scene.

Truly, she smelled it before she saw it. The sharp odor of it—raw iron and salted earth—lashed at her, raising her hackles as she approached the training yard. Sensing it altered her pace. Not exactly out of alarm, but from the gritty feeling of removed and morbid familiarity. The first breathful rushed through her perception and submerged her in the distant potency of temple training and the carnage of battle.

And for that brief instant, for those two hastening heartbeats, it elicited something akin to relief.

Wrapped up in that abrupt recognition was a taste of deliverance from the safe and stakeless hypotheticals of instructing the recruits. A definite departure from the vacant routine she had passively slipped into over the past fortnight: long days spent training. Always presenting early, using the morning heat to sweat out the wine or ale that had kept her teetering on the edge of sobriety hours before. Some nights trickling by alone in her chambers, staring into the darkness until her eyes ached, unable to discern whether her mind was too full or completely empty. Others spent trying to separate from her own skin, lying in bed above a tavern full of late-night diners and carousers—with Dahlia, sated and sleeping, curled against her bare back. Touching too much to feel at rest, touching too little to feel numb, churning like mad inside all the while.

And every moment across and between, feeling faceless in the daylight without even trying—trying to keep Kahlan out of the spaces between her ribs, keep her away from the thoughts that roiled in idle moments.

Forced to live with a choice she did not make.

Bearing the seal of Aydindril on her chest felt like a cruel sham when she hadn’t so much as spoken to Kahlan in twelve mornings—since she walked out of Kahlan’s solar, heavy limbs, exhausted spirit. Only silent, avoidant awareness colored their few encounters, trying to ignore the way Kahlan was trying to ignore her. Gazes askance. Kahlan’s hands fumbling. Cara’s curling into shaking fists.

A duty-bound protector who could hardly look at the one she was meant to protect.

Laughable. It was laughable. It was all laughable. She was laughable.

(She wasn’t laughing.)

The golden badge was minuscule, but its weight kept dragging her down ever farther.

A momentary distraction like this was more than welcome. But Cara’s hammer-hearted, near-delighted anticipation diminished rapidly as she came close enough to see the state of the courtyard.

Alert concern billowed up in its place when she remembered one thing, and realized another.

Cara remembered that blood like this had absolutely no place in the courtyard of the Confessors’ Palace.

And she realized that it had been left there in a way that was anything but random.

Something ethereal and deeply-ingrained ripped through the listless fog, like an unyielding hand reaching up to seize her by the jaw. Cara thought of Kahlan still fast asleep in her chambers—mouth half-slack, hair across her face in the closest semblance of a mess, breathing slowly with slumber, just the way Cara used to leave her at this hour.

And for the first time in days, the image and the remembering of it didn’t come bearing ache.

Only sudden focus, Only rigid precision. Only purpose. A surge of everything that had compelled her to stay here, the reason to still exist in this place.

Binding, defining connection.

Her forgotten name echoed back to her in Shota’s patronizing tone.

Agile motion stemmed from reflex. Cara’s hand darted her hip, and she let out a clipped snarl of agitation when she felt neither Agiel nor axe holstered there. Half a pulsebeat and all of the coursing hypervigilance carried a twofold reminder: her Agiels were useless, and she had left her axe behind in mind of the day’s objective of working on more advanced hand-to-hand combat.

Never again, she thought, cursing both that idiotic decision and how she had allowed herself to slide so far away from discipline. She channeled the self-indignation into a loud whistle and a less-than-delicate gesture at the Home Guard patrolman who was approaching from her right.

“Tell me,” she demanded, pointed and gruff, leaving no amount of incredulous rage in question as her voice carried across the space with ease, “what halfwit failed to notice this? I’d like to be personally introduced.”

The guard’s mail jangled as he quickened his pace to a loping dash. The expression half-hidden by his helm betrayed equal parts shock at the bloody display and ill-suppressed fear of the furious Mord-Sith. The latter caused his speech to sputter.

“This was not here on my last passthrough.” He paused, blinking, realizing he had just revealed himself as the halfwit and there was nothing he could do to retract it. “I swear it on my firstborn! I would never let something like this go unreported.”

Cara stared at him, lips pursed and eyes burning with disbelief, until his frozen discomfort was palpable. Finally, she barked: “Then why aren’t you reporting it now? Go!”

The sentry who had been unlucky enough to be assigned this particular watch nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to alert the other watchmen—and to get as far away from Cara’s scrutiny as possible.

She saw him off with a dangerously skeptical scowl and then took up hawkeyed surveillance of the area, in search of either the bled or the culprit. There was no sign of either except for the spillage on the stonework.

Cara took care not to step in any of the slicks of it as she approached the palace wall, raising her gaze and then narrowing her eyes as she attempted to read the silky-wet red lettering slathered onto the space below the Mother Confessor’s balcony.

STREGANICHA

It wasn’t a word Cara recognized.

But even unfamiliar in meaning, it roamed over her skin with a sinister chill.

#book readers (the poor things (myself included)) will recognize the word #i miss them SO much.#legend of the seeker #cara x kahlan #cara mason #kahlan amnell #the weight of us #i gotta........revisit my outline.................

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anonymouscomrade · 4 months

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aC on vacation

so here's a summary of day 1, more later when i feel like getting the photos off my phone

got to a hotel where my brother and his wife are staying because fuck driving several hours when i should be asleep. google maps sends me to a parallel fucking dimension where the hotel was built on the opposite side of the city. also the roads here are somehow iced over when most of the road leading here wasn't so go figure. we try to get dinner and almost everywhere is closed on account of the snow, except for this hole in the wall chinese takeout place, because if you can count on any place to be open, it's one of these. they make the best general tso's chicken i've had in a long time, it turns out

woke up at like four in the morning for our 7:30 am flight, because by airport logic being only two hours early is tantamount to no-showing. this was right after shit got polar so the roads were covered in ice. at the parking place, i tried and failed to get past a barrier before the lever arm came back down again because it was on a slight incline and i couldn't get enough traction to clear it before it closed. this happened like SIX TIMES, it was some Three Stooges shit

our shuttle takes us over to the airport. i stick to my brother like a little kid to his mom because he's done this before and i have not. the flight is going to be five hours. which doesn't make sense to me because the return flight is only supposed to be three and a half. i dunno, maybe headwinds or something? i'm not a fucking pilot. i'm anxious to get this part over with because, again, never flown before. after waiting for clearance for what feels like forever (justified, on account of ice) we're finally in the air. it's... nothing? it's kind of mundane and somehow boring. one of the greatest achievements in human history and the only difference between this and being on a bus packed full of strangers is there's no road to rumble against that eventually numbs your butt, and also it's several degrees of magnitude faster than a bus i suppose

we arrive at LAX and if i didn't already feel like a fish out of water then oh boy. how the fuck do people live like this? how do you figure out who's supposed to go where? it's like living in the Kowloon Walled City, thought the guy who grew up imagining anywhere big enough to have a walmart counted as a "big city"

we get another shuttle, this one absolutely cramped with people, to get to the rental car place. my brother argues with the guy (who isn't even actually *physically* there, he's somehow doing sales over Zoom or some shit) for like half an hour before telling him to cancel the whole thing. turns out they wanted close to four times what he was originally quoted and weren't budging. we decide to get an uber to the closest In-n-Out, because we're in California, and also starving, so why not. we're standing in line looking a bunch of huge dorks carrying around suitcases. if i was ever going to be mugged in broad daylight it would be right here, right now. i order a double double combo, swap out the tomato for onions because raw tomato has all the texture and flavor of a balloon filled with wet sand, and onions and cheeseburgers go together like chocolate and peanut butter. the burger's okay, i guess. the fries are the most boring fries i've ever eaten. at least it's probably the cheapest meal i'll have while i'm here

we take another uber to get to our airbnb, about 45 minutes out. every other billboard is this guy

we arrive and immediately notice something is wrong. it was advertised as 4 bed. there are TWO double beds. this is pretty good if you're two married couples and not so much if you're the double third wheel travelling with two married couples. there's one room with a folding leather futon and not much else that seems kind of pointless and i decide this is where i'll stay. turns out that futon is the least comfortable sleeping surface ever manufactured in human history and there are maybe three exact positions that are even kind of comfortable enough to fall asleep in while lying on it and not having an iron bar press up into your lower back or your shoulderblade or the back of your neck

END OF DAY 1

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negative-speedforce · 4 months

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"I Wish That It Was Enough For Me"

youtube

With: My OCs Siv and Hailey

Siv jerked awake, immediately pulling away from where she had been curled up against Hailey. Siv curled into themself, scooting away from Hailey's unnaturally cold body to the edge of the bed. She wrapped her arms around her knees, staring blankly at the wall in front of them.

I wish this was enough for me. They thought. The usual weight of grief in her chest felt much heavier tonight, like a millstone wrapped inside her half-formed heart. Last night, with Hailey, had been absolutely perfect. The tenderness with which the other woman had worshipped her scarred, broken body was unlike anything Siv had ever experienced before.

It was the first time they had let Hailey top them. At first, she had feared the loss of control, that it would set off some unknown trigger and they would turn into... her. But Hailey had been careful, making sure Siv knew exactly what she was doing as she touched the most intimate parts of her.

It was amazing, and perfect, and everything that Siv had ever wanted. But it still wasn't enough. The aching, cold, numb feeling in their chest was still just as raw as it had been yesterday, and every day since they had watched Gina be slaughtered like an animal in front of them.

The rage. It almost hurt, how much she craved justice. No, not justice. Who were they kidding? She craved revenge. They wanted nothing more than to tear their father apart, to watch his blood stain the concrete as he pleaded for mercy, only to realize that she would give none.

She wanted him to look up at her and see the monster he had made. Hell, part of them wanted everyone, even Hailey, to see them like that. Siv knew they were one, in a way. Half of her wanted to be the monster, and the other half wanted to pretend that she was still the same person that they were before the Accelerator. Before Gina.

"Hey." Hailey stirred awake. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Had a nightmare." Siv replied. "I'm fine."

"Talk about it?" Hailey sat up, squeezing Siv's bicep. Siv shook their head.

"No thanks." Siv said. "Last night was really great, by the way. It's not your fault that I'm like this."

"I know." Hailey scooted closer to Siv, wrapping an arm around their shoulder.

Siv shuddered, the unnatural cool of Hailey's skin sending her into a flashback to Gina's bloody corpse in her arms; the body going cold against her skin. They gasped, then shook their head, banishing the memories to the back of their mind.

"Your skin is cold." Siv commented.

"I know. It's been like that for a... really long time." Hailey smiled ruefully. "I told you that I'm a veteran, right?"

"Yeah, you fought in Afghanistan." Siv replied.

"Yeah." Hailey nodded. "I, um... I was injured over there. I've been cold ever since."

"You get shot or something?" Siv raised an eyebrow.

Hailey shrugged. "Close enough. It doesn't really bother me anymore, but when it first happened, it was... a lot. I had to be discharged from the Marines because I was so psychologically fucked."

"I'm sorry." Siv replied.

"Don't. It's not an issue anymore. I've learned how to move on with my life."

"Do you ever feel like..." Siv took a deep breath, changing the subject. "...like what we have isn't enough for you?"

"Sometimes. I feel like I barely know you half the time." Hailey admitted. "Sometimes I wish we could be more than what we are, but that's not an option right now. You are what you are, and I am what I am, and I doubt that's going to change anytime soon."

"No." Siv shook their head. "It's not. I just wish that I could be satisfied with what I have, but I can't. I'm just so angry all the time, and it never goes away, no matter what I do. I think... I think I'm broken."

"Getting professional help actually helps." Hailey said. "I know, shocking. When I was first discharged, I didn't think I'd ever be able to assimilate back into civilian life. But I did. I managed to find some way to move on, even if I'm still not the same as I was before Afghanistan. I'd really recommend it for you. It might help."

"I don't think it will." Siv replied. "At least, I'm not ready to find out. I don't want to know if I'm fundamentally, irreparably broken or not. I'll just try to get better by myself, thank you very much."

"Well, until you're ready to reach out and let someone help you, I'm here. At least, when I can be. We're still on opposite sides of this fight, after all."

"Yeah, we are." Siv stood up, putting their jacket and jeans back on. "I'm sorry. I've gotta go. I'll see you around, okay?"

"Sivonne, wait-"

"Goodbye, Hailey."

#oc shit #siv thawne #hailey laurence #revan writes #Youtube

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inflamearc · 1 year

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audrey / @lissome.

she hasn’t so much as glanced at most of her stuffed animals in years, and the crafting supplies lined neatly on laura’s desk are from sixth grade art class. none of the pictures she has lying around are much more recent. the walls, her paintings, her bedspread — all chosen by her mother, when she was too small to even remember. the space is lived in. it’s warm, inviting. but it’s also a shrine, in its way.

that normally wouldn’t bother her: it’s nothing she’s ever even considered in those terms until now. until audrey was here, all but going through her room with a magnifying glass, now and then stopping to pick up some trinket, feel its weight in her hands. laura barely manages to keep from offering backgrounds for each: not as a gesture of friendship, but rather as someone on trial might. someone desperate not to be associated with her own memories, her own existence.

(her own tiny plastic quarter horse, a much-loved novelty for having cost a quarter.)

her life seems so impossibly small — so, well, tawdry — in audrey’s delicate, meticulously manicured hands. i can explain, she imagines herself saying, knowing full well that she never will. this isn’t me. maybe it never was.

“i’m sure you’ve been up here before,” she says instead, though suddenly laura isn’t sure at all. whatever’s been between them the past eighteen years has rarely been reciprocal, at least in the hornes' direction: even when she’d trespassed, even when she’d done her worst, part of her always knew that none of it mattered. that she’d go home at the end of the day having stolen her fifteen minutes of acknowledgement, and they’d all stop pretending that she existed in any other context. it's too much to consider that audrey might wonder about laura in the same way laura wonders — has always wondered — about her, about what her life is like when she isn't there. "i don't — it's not much," she starts and stops, uncharacteristically somewhat shy from her vantage point on the bed. painfully aware that the other girl will not cut her off, regardless of how long she flounders. "but it's — it was nice of you to come. good. of you." no one else has, laura doesn't add, but they both already know it's true. laura looks down at her hands, folded in her lap, heat rushing to her face. "you can go through my shit if you want. i don't care."

#lissome #lissome: audrey #for now i am half numb，half raw.

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perceives · 2 years

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you can't get this kind of satisfaction out of writing fanfic tbqh

#verse info.#for now i am half numb，half raw.

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izzy-b-hands · 2 years

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Steddyhands with a focus on stizzy, in which Izzy gives Stede his first tattoo, and Ed returns home with that and more to admire.

TW for some light descriptions of tattooing, and mention of the blood and fluids that come with that.

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"Take a breath."

"I did!"

Izzy chuckled. "Yeah, because I told you to. We can take a bre-"

"No, absolutely not," Stede interrupted. "It's one tattoo; I can handle it!"

"Ed's going to be shocked when he gets back and sees this," Izzy said. "Unless you told him already?"

"No, it's a surprise," Stede replied. "You don't think he'll be upset he wasn't here for it, do you?"

"Nah, besides, once you have one you almost always want more," Izzy said. " So he can always be around for another one I do for you. Next bit is an awkward angle, so I can have you move, or I move around you as needed."

"I'm good where I am if you don't mind my staying put."

"Let me show you where I need to be first, just in case you want to go the other way," Izzy said.

He moved from Stede's side to standing over him, in front of his head. With Stede laying down, partial small backpiece nearly done, it put his face right near Izzy's waist.

"I'm good," Stede reiterated, though admittedly he was very aware of how close Izzy was, the warmth coming off of him, the scent of some sort of cologne? He couldn't recall if he'd ever been close enough to Izzy to notice if he'd worn it before.

"Alright, remember to keep breathing this time, just gentle and slow," Izzy instructed.

Stede winced at the needle poking in again, on what was feeling like rather raw meat on his back, but he didn't move.

"Good boy," Izzy murmured, still working away.

Stede felt his face go red. He hadn't expected this to awaken anything in him, but then again...

"Ooh, sorry, sorry," Izzy said softly as Stede shook after an extra tender poke.

Izzy's hand rested on his shoulder for a moment, and Stede had to remind himself to breathe for a reason other than the pain.

"Sure you want to keep going?"

"How much is left?"

Izzy helped him stand, and walked him to the floor length mirror they'd stolen a week back, now set up in the captains' quarters. "Just a bit at the top there, see? This line here, and this one. Little bit of shading by that one."

Stede nodded. "I can do it."

Izzy helped him back to the canvas covered desk. "You can still tap out after this if you need. Don't be like Jack and pass out on me trying to be tough."

"That is such a Jack thing."

"It is."

Izzy took his place again near Stede's head, and Stede steeled himself for the last pains.

The first few were noticeable, but numbed after a moment. Then, on one of the last lines, he couldn't help himself from reaching and grabbing Izzy's leg.

"Bonnet," Izzy said gently. "I know you want this done before Ed gets back tonight. But it's a bold choice for a first tattoo, and there's no harm in finishing it after a week or two. Let it heal a little."

"I can do it," Stede said. "Ed could handle all his tattoos; I can handle one."

Izzy chuckled. "Okay, fine. Going to keep hanging onto me?"

"If that's alright."

"Absolutely."

He let his forehead press gently into Izzy's stomach, a hand still grasping the worn leather of his trousers, right at his lower thigh. And he did his best to breathe.

"Good boy, nearly done," Izzy murmured as he worked. "Never would have expected this of you, by our first meeting. Look at you now, though."

Stede nodded, and couldn't hold back a small whine.

"I know, but we've just got those bits of shading, little dots and then you're done," Izzy soothed.

His free hand reached down and patted Stede's at his thigh, then he kept on.

"Make noise if you need to; I don't care," Izzy said. "Jack yelled up a storm every time he got one done, so you can't do as bad as he did."

He meant to stay completely silent, even though the second 'good boy' had left him half hard and accepting he maybe had discovered something new about himself.

Then the needle poked again, and he moaned before he could stop himself.

"Ah, you and Ed have something else in common," Izzy said. "Well, and myself. And quite a few others actually, oddly common a kink it seems, among pirates."

Stede grasped harder at Izzy's thigh. He had no words, not at the moment. Between the pain of the tattoo and the friction of his clothed cock against the desk, he couldn't focus on speaking.

"And, there we are," Izzy said. "Take as much time as you need before you move too much. Don't want you passing out on me now either."

He begrudgingly let go of Izzy, and sat up once he'd moved away.

Izzy stepped in front of him, and a cool cloth touched his forehead. "Here. If you were Jack, I'd care less. But-"

He cut Izzy off with a kiss, then another.

Izzy set the cloth down as they broke apart, only to take Stede's face in his hands and pull him in for another kiss.

"I'd planned to help put away the supplies first, but that can wait."

They looked to the door, where Ed was grinning.

"Here, let me clean it up first before you show it off," Izzy said, moving to grab a soft cloth.

"Show what off?" Ed asked as he walked in. "I thought I just saw the show."

Stede blushed. "Did you like it?"

"I did," Ed replied, and leaned in for a kiss.

Stede felt Izzy's hand at his back, gently wiping away the blood and whatever else was cool and threatening to dry on his skin.

Then, he stood and turned for Ed.

"Fuck me," Ed breathed. "This is your first one. You did this for your first?"

"That's the Gentleman Pirate for you, bold as ever," Izzy smiled. "Eventually we'll have his back covered; he wants you to do the next bit."

"In a while," Stede noted. "Should probably let this heal first."

"It's gorgeous," Ed said. "We'll make sure it's well healed before I take a crack at more. Well done, both of you."

"All I did was lay there," Stede chuckled, and let Ed chat with Izzy about the rest of the design, while he admired his back in the mirror.

The lighthouse in the middle of his upper back, from the design he'd asked Mary to draw up and send to them, was perfect. And despite the ache, he found Izzy was right; he already did want more.

#text post #ofmd fic #stizzy #steddyhands #haven't been able to set up a tattoo appt yet so im living thru Stede lol

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shepfax · 5 months

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combo of day 3 and 4 post-op journal

this one has a photo in it of my body post-op so viewer discretion is advised. there is no blood, sexual content, or overall frightening imagery but it is "raw" so to speak in that it's actively healing flesh so it'll be under the readmore.

so yesterday (Jan 7th) I got to take a shower for the first time since surgery. this was my first chance to see my chest uncovered and when I tell you I legitimately could not be happier I mean it. my surgeon is apparently a fucking master human sculptor (my primary doc said today that she's typically on task for cis people's cosmetic procedures anyway) and she gave me a body that really, truly looks the way I always knew it should.

look at that. a fucking masterpiece. incisions lovingly shaped under my natural chest wall, nipples realistically placed, it's just organic enough to look symmetrical without actually being so, which is exactly how I wanted it for fear of looking artificial. it's soft, not flat, just like me, and it's mine. it's truly, honestly beautiful to me.

also I got a note that the pathology was normal on the tissue they removed and it confirmed that I lost 3.35 lbs of dysphoric meat. big win for me.

the showering itself was low-key awful though I'll be real with you all. removing the soft dressings from my bolsters and drains (which I was instructed to do I promise) made me all the more aware of them and while the bolsters are 100% numb the sensation of the drains made me almost faint it was so viscerally offensive. I sat in the shower and my wife helped me wash my head, arms, and back for as long as I could handle being out of the compression vest. putting it all back on was fine but then it was like. you know how you pack a suitcase perfectly before a trip and then you can never get all the shit you brought to fit the same way back into the suitcase? it feels kinda like that. ever since I unwrapped everything and re-wrapped it, I am suddenly slightly more aware of it's presence and it sucks ass. the drain outputs keep pinging me with a gnarly little itch of pain and the shower dressings I wore over the bolsters ripped out a bunch of my chest hair and those areas are itchy as fuck now. grrr

for physical activity I tried some of the neck/arm exercises the doc sent me and went with my mom to the grocery, picking up scar care gel for future use.

a friend of my family sent me not one, not ten, but a pack of 24 silly straws as a get well gift. I have aggregated 23 of them into a vase as the world's silliest bouquet and use one to stay hydrated.

today (Jan 8th) I took it very easy, with a small breakfast, a big hefty nap and a virtual appointment with my primary doctor for medication recheck on my hormones. she was very happy to hear about my experience with my surgeon and plans to recommend her to others in the future. big moment: I made myself lunch for the first time since surgery (literally just a banana cut in half with some peanut butter in the middle)! activity was only a short walk around the neighborhood with my dad, both because I was exhausted from poor sleep and because it was cold & windy.

tomorrow is my first post-op appointment with the surgical team and I believe it's the day I get my bolsters off but I could be wrong. we shall see what the future brings😀

#shep talks #surgery tag #top op journal

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