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#or is it a pruning stick
moonbythecabstan · 5 months
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Don’t think about how Loki has been searching and craving for someone to truly see and understand him his whole life. He finally finds this in Mobius, someone who has studied nearly every moment of Loki’s life, can see through his lies and tricks and games, yet doesn’t necessarily see Loki as a bad person. A villain. He even finds it amusing sometimes.
Which is why it’s so much harder on Loki when he comes across past TVA Mobius and Don/Mobius. Why he becomes so desperate for Mobius to recognize him. Because that one person he could call a friend, the one person who saw everything Loki did and was going to do and still believed in him, suddenly had no idea who he was.
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definegodliness · 2 months
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youtube
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proto-language · 1 month
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www.google.com "where are the snacks" "how do i make snacks appear in my home" "why are there no snacks" "why are snacks far away"
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savageboar · 5 months
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duckweed. duckweed everywhere.
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ariesbilly · 2 years
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“The fruity four” and it’s just prunes
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neolightsoficial · 1 year
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2022
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Do you ever just really really want to start a small controlled fire in your backyard?
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marahsfandomloves · 2 months
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Saw this teaser TV Spot for Deadpool 3 and am super psyched for the trailer tomorrow during Superbowl!! As a diehard X-Men fan, I'm so excited!!!
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musickin · 6 months
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greetings, could I have some songs that Prune Juice Cookie (from crk) would listen to? or just in general have the same vibes?
Hmmm I'm not good with genres but I enjoy what I think is called folk? or stuff like indie pop or rock? yeah sorry I'm horrible with music genres. tis my fatal flaw.
(also if it's not too much trouble could I request that a few songs include themes of love? uhhh actually fuck it maybe some general themes of being an outcast as well if that's not too much trouble)
Sorry this one took so long ! Nobody told me we had a cookie run ask . List & Links under the cut !
Pocketful of Sunshine - Natasha Bedingfield // Spotify · Apple Music
Bang Bang Bang Bang - Sohodolls // Spotify · Apple Music
My Alcoholic Friends - The Dresden Dolls // Spotify · Apple Music
Boys Don't Cry - The Cure // Spotify · Apple Music
Harness Your Hopes (B-side) - Pavement // Spotify · Apple Music
Trees - McCafferty // Spotify · Apple Music
Little Lion Man - Mumford & Sons // Spotify · Apple Music
Dial Drunk - Noah Kahan // Spotify · Apple Music
Lovers Rock - TV Girl // Spotify · Apple Music
Brave As a Noun - AJJ // Spotify · Apple Music
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inkskinned · 5 months
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it isn't really complicated, but i still can't tell my grandma about it. my girlfriend is also my boyfriend and i'm her girlboyfriend and there are a lot of days this feels like smoothing sheets over a good mattress. it feels like getting a cup of good hot chocolate. we paint our nails lesbian flag pink, and i watch her eyelashes make shadows on her cheeks. she wants to kiss me because i am really good at baking, and i want to kiss her because when i am freaked out about how i spilled coffee, she just hands me extra napkins and helps me clean. he is so handsome i want to eat my fist. they once just winked at me and i couldn't talk for like the next fifteen minutes.
i haven't seen the L word and i was raised catholic. my earliest experiences with queer relationships were through harrowing conversations and hushed questions and blood on the ground. i didn't like boys soon enough. what, are you gay? asked to a 6th grader, almost like a demand.
when she is asleep next to me and i can feel the dreams run up and down her body, i pretend we are both somewhere in the stars. i like to picture a future full of fruit trees, and writing him poetry. sometimes she wakes up, has a whole conversation with me, goes back to sleep, and utterly forgets that we ever even spoke. she is always kind to me, even in that liminal half-there ghost. i like the croaked, raw way her voice sounds in the very-early morning, the way she always seems surprised i'm still here, and home.
on the internet, there are a lot of people who would be annoyed by both of us, and how labels must be pruned into orchids. a box has to hold and define the insides. people must be organized.
we went on a date last night, and the host said, oh, table for 2 nice ladies? neither of us are ladies, but also we are very much 2 nice ladies. i have been wearing her sweater nonstop. he has frequently been forced into wearing my taylor swift official merch quarter-zip because i was worried about him catching a chill, and you simply cannot be cool in an official taylor swift quarter-zip. do not worry: they listen to better music than i do, and their voice sounds like leaves falling.
i wear the skirts and makeup and i am better with spackle and know how to drive stick. recently someone commented on my work - you're just a man trying to reappropriate lesbian spaces. sometimes i feel like she is a clementine to me, and sometimes i feel like he is a german shepherd and sometimes i feel they are a bird. i like watching his hands over a guitar. can i write this poem, even? how can you be a lesbian if you're sometimes with a man? or you are the man?
how can i, huh. you know, our first date lasted 3 days. we'd been flirting for over a year before i finally asked her out. i'd already written her into poetry. she'd already written me into songs.
last night, in the late night, when they woke up again, confused about where they were, they said - oh, thank god. this is your arm. there's just something so precious to me about the specifics, the denotation that the arm was (thank god!) mine. i really liked that definition. i liked the obvious relief because i understand it.
i say yeah, i have a partner. i mean - oh. thank god. it's your arm.
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headspace-hotel · 8 months
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Tree stuff
Most trees should outlive you. If a landscaper tells you the lifespan of a tree is 10 years, they don't know what they're talking about.
Trees are free. Carefully comb over your yard for baby trees, especially in mid-spring!
Similarly, If you live near a gravel driveway or gravel parking lot, you can find baby tree sprouts that can be easily transplanted by gently removing the gravel bits from around the roots, wrapping the roots in wet paper towel, and transplanting to a large pot.
Do not pile up mulch around the base of a tree. You can mulch under the tree, but it should be a mostly flat layer, not a raised mound, and keep the mulch a few inches away from touching the trunk. Roots need some access to air or the tree will grow roots upward through the mulch, and the roots will slowly wrap around the trunk and strangle the tree to death. It's called root girdling and it is very sad.
Trees need friends!!! If possible, plant two or three trees instead of just one. Trees share nutrients through the mycorrhizal network and they protect each other from storm damage.
Always get a tree that is native to your area and suited to your local environment.
Growing an oak from an acorn is easy. Go to an area where there are oaks in the fall, and collect the acorns that have turned brown and whose hats have popped off. Get large pots at least 8 inches depth, and lay the acorns on their sides on top of the potting soil, then cover them with a layer of damp fallen leaves, and leave them outside all winter long. Just be sure to cover them with some wire mesh or something to protect them from squirrels
Please keep oaks and other large trees about 20 feet from any structure because they will grow huge. Websites will tell you to keep trees X distance away from "structures or other trees" but other trees can go as little as 6-10 feet apart whereas structures need to be like 15 feet away minimum, generally speaking
Prune the tree while it's dormant, NOT in the middle of summer!
If you happen to be from the Eastern United States, please consider getting an oak! They are keystone species and host plants for literally hundreds of insects. We have too many maples here too, so maybe consider a Sweetgum or Black Gum for pretty fall colors?
If you have a tree that's tied to a stake to keep it upright, get rid of that thing as soon as you can, particularly if there's zip ties holding it to the tree, because those can grow into the bark and kill the tree...
If your tree is dead, please consider cutting off the branches and leaving at least 6-10 feet or so of trunk standing. Dead tree snags like this are important nesting places for many birds and you might see a woodpecker
If you live in North America, whatever you do, do NOT get anything marketed as an "ornamental flowering pear tree." They're typically Pyrus calleryana, and they're virulently invasive
Bugs eating a few holes in the leaves of your tree? Good for them! (They aren't hurting the tree unless they're like, fully skeletonizing it, and they're just the caterpillars of butterflies and moths. Want Luna moths or Tiger Swallowtail butterflies? Let the caterpillars eat their dinner mmkay.)
Don't throw away the fallen leaves! Butterflies, moths, stick bugs, lightning bugs, ladybugs, and many other insects hibernate the winter in the fallen leaves. Use them as mulch for flower beds, compost them, or just leave them alone! You'll probably want to stop mowing after the leaves fall if you'd like to see bugs.
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I don't remember when I saw it, but allow me to pass on this harmless suggestion
Go decorate a stick
Go grab a good stick, amd just kinda.. decorate it. Make it yours. Who's gonna stop you? It's your stick now.
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demonicseries · 2 months
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they may not have shown mobius or loki in the deapool 3 trailer, but wade did spend his first interaction with the tva making a joke about pegging and pruning sticks so I'm considering this a win
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haikyuuhoo · 6 months
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if i could bring you anything, i swear to god i'd bring you peace
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pairing: suguru x reader
wc: 811
a/n: had a sad girl moment yesterday, so enjoy this fluff i dredged up from the depths of my drafts <3
listen
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The muffled sound of your music goes quiet, and you wait a few beats before pushing yourself up to check what’s wrong. You take a deep breath as you breach the surface of the water, lungs burning at the intake of air, and your eyebrows pinch together almost immediately in annoyance at the sight in front of you.
“What are you doing?” Suguru isn’t even trying to hide the amused, albeit slightly concerned, look on his face. He’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, spinning your phone between his fingers.
“Having a sad girl bathtub moment, what does it look like?” you huff, leaning forward to grab the device—he really had the nerve to stop the music in the middle of such a good song—but he holds it above his head and out of your reach.
“Like you’re trying to see how long you can hold your breath. Like you dropped your ring but it fell down the drain when you were trying to get it and you don't know how to tell me so now you’ve given up. Like maybe I should be more worried. Should I be more worried?” He raises an eyebrow and you let out a quiet sigh, your shoulders sagging slightly with the motion, and the sight makes it feel like a weight has settled on his chest.
“No, I’m fine, can I please just have my music back?” You stick your bottom lip out in a pout, giving him the puppy dog eyes you know usually make him fold.
But Suguru still doesn’t hand over your phone and instead sets it on the counter. He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Rough day?”
His voice is so soft it threatens to break down the walls you’ve been holding up since you got out of bed that morning.
“Yeah,” you whisper, “I just didn’t know when you’d be home, and—”
“You could have texted me.” Suguru frowns, but you wave him off.
“It’s not that big of a deal, I wasn’t gonna bother you.”
Suguru lets out an almost exasperated laugh, and the sound makes your belly warm. “Anything that makes you want to do this is a big enough deal to me.” He grabs your phone off the counter. “Tell you what. You have until I’m done making dinner to finish sad girl bathtub hours. You can still be sad, and we can talk about your day if you want to, or we can do something else. But what I’m not going to let you do is turn into a human-sized prune in our bathtub.” He sets your phone on the edge of the tub and leans down to press a kiss to your forehead. “Okay?”
You nod slowly, relaxing at the lingering feeling of his lips on your skin before tilting your head up to urge him into a kiss.
Suguru hums into your mouth, pulling back for a fleeting moment to nudge his nose against your cheek. “Say okay,” he whispers.
 “Okay,” you breathe, and you lean closer to capture his lips again and deepen the kiss. You pull one hand out from under the water and cup his jaw before pushing your fingers into his hair, your teeth flashing in the briefest glimpse of a grin at the way he jumps when water trickles down his neck.
He pulls away and you have to fight off a laugh as he wipes at the back of his head and noticeably shivers. “I’ll call for you when dinner’s ready.”
“Or…” You tilt your head to the side and give him a sweet smile. “You could join me?”
Suguru huffs out a ‘no-fucking-way’ laugh and shakes his head. “Absolutely not. That water is way too cold.” You pout, but he’s already standing up and turning toward the door. “I mean it. We can have sad girl blanket burrito hours or sad girl movie marathon hours, but we’re not going to have sad-girl-getting-hypothermia-in-the-bath hours.”
And this time you do laugh, and in that moment you both know he’s made the breakthrough you needed from him. “Okay, okay. I’ll see you at dinner.”
He nods, and he begins making his way back out of the bathroom when you call for him.
“Suguru?”
He turns back around and raises an eyebrow in a silent question.
“I love you,” you murmur with a voice so soft it makes his heart swell. “And thank you.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I love you too.”
You watch him leave the bathroom and then close your eyes, letting yourself take what feels like the first deep breath you’ve been able to manage all day. And then you look at where your phone is still resting on the side of the tub, waiting for you to press play, and you reach forward and pull the drain.
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fun fact i felt like i needed to title this some phoebe bridgers lyric but i'm sadly not a phoebe girlie and i couldn't lie to y'all like that
reblogs & comments always appreciated <3
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missxminutes · 2 years
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"Miss Minutes, can you become I don't know...solid or something? I wish I could share some of the sweets I bake with you." Shadow said.
Hey suga! Good ta see ya! Well, I guess I could become solid. I never tried before but I shore would like some of your good cookin!
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undercoverpena · 1 year
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had to see you
simon 'ghost' riley x fem!reader
summary: And then, he says, “It’s nice.” “You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.” “It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
an: eventual smut. angst with happy ending. will-they-won't-they, but they do. smut. he loves you 100%. word count: 5.7k || there’s a part two to this here
simon ghost riley masterlist
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You love the rain. 
Not so much when you’re away. When you’re strapped up, weighed down by all your gear. The additional weight of being wet makes for an uncomfortable experience, with hair clinging to foreheads and mud sticking to your skin. It also forces things to rub more, chaff. Your skin is often raw from where the buckles and belts sit. 
But, at home, it’s refreshing. 
It’s why you never hated your nickname, the one given to you in jest—to remind you that you are a female, soft, emotional. Only for it to grow more fitting. Because Rain comes from above, sharp, falling where needed—catching people by surprise, and leaving traces behind, but never enough to know where you’ll land next. 
Rain is also one word. One syllable. Short, sharp and easy.
It can be spat, it can be sweetly said and affectionately called. 
On good days, it reminds you of long car rides, staring out of windows at passing traffic as you watch beads of its travel down—racing. On bad days, it reminds you of more unpleasant memories, ones born in moments you’d sooner forget, an emptiness in your chest from betrayal, loss and bad choices. 
At home, rain itself keeps you rooted. The scent, for one, not allowing your mind to whisk you off too old memories of war and enemy territories. The sound, for another, hits your windows and dulls the silence. All three senses are busied by it. It all blends perfectly together with the crackling of your candles and the low-light vibe you have going off in your flat. 
Plus, there’s nothing more British than bad weather. 
Each time you’re able to come home, you hope it’s raining. Landing back, greeted with cold and horrid rain. Preferably the kind which looks misty through windows and soaks you in seconds when you step into it. The kind which makes it hard to know which speed to put your car wipers on, and socks get drenched as puddles form quicker than people can account for.
You didn’t care that you looked like a drowned rat when you unlocked your flat door. Or that your wet clothes were difficult to remove as steam filled your bathroom because you were always going to have a shower. A routine—a tradition of sorts. 
Hands desperate to wash the months away, let your expensive soaps and scents soak into neglected skin and smother old scars and newly gained ones. Plus, the water was hotter at home, almost scolding your skin as you stood under it, letting each droplet massage a part of your neck and upper back as your living room music drifted through the cracked door.
You dress before you really prune, sliding on silk PJs—the ones which you buy as a treat and wear once, maybe twice a year. Your skin sighs in relief, thankful to forget sand, bullets and bruises, the same as your mind. Busying your hands with preparing a lavish dinner, a large dish too ridiculous for one person—but again, you’d missed it. Home.
The scent of gravy, potatoes and meat.
When asked, you’d been quiet about your plans with the others. Them only having a slight idea of which city you call home. It’s not that you didn’t want to see them—not even sure you’d be able to fall asleep without Soap’s snores, Ghost’s huffs and Gaz’s odd bedtime stories. But, you’d gained new nightmares on the last job—ones which you needed to make peace with before they stole another fraction of your soul.
That’s what it did, eventually. Even to the best of them. 
Bad choices, untested intel and wrong moves left little marks before they claimed a piece of innocence, kindness and happiness. 
It’s a little different with the 141. Without realising it, you’re sure you all help smother each other's struggles away. But it’s only temporary. You know it, you can feel it in the muscles in your back and in the knots in your stomach. So, if you saw them now when you needed to heal—if you relied on them—you’d go back weaker than when you left. And they needed you; you needed them. A team where you could only trust one another—having been betrayed so often, you were all each other had.
It’s why you were taken back by a firm knock. 
Short. Deliberate. 
Pausing, allowing whoever they were to realise their mistake. Even if the sound didn’t appear as though they’d chosen the wrong flat or someone who was cherry-knocking. It was purposeful, direct, and your hands quickly dried on the kitchen towel as your feet crossed the tiles and laminate to your front door. 
When you’d left, you’d asked a friend to check in on the flat—fix the peephole. Something having forced it to get stuck, leaving you blind to whoever was on the other side. Your friend is good, kind, and sweet but forgetful. Something which also reminds you of home as you snort, undoing the chain, and unlocking the door, half expecting them. 
Only to see him. 
“Ghost?” 
He has a hood up, and a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face. 
His eyes fall over you, taking you in centimetre by centimetre, digging into you as if he’d not expected to see you.
You find it just as odd to see the skin around his eyes not tainted in grey or black and that his frame is still as ridiculously large, even in plain clothes, as he holds a duffel bag in his hand.
Suddenly aware of the thin layer covering your body from him. Especially as his eyes drop from your face to the silk shirt with its three buttons undone and then to your legs, where silk shorts did their best but were futile in hiding thighs, knees or legs from him.  
“You lettin’ me in?” 
Instinctively, you move, not even questioning it. 
Even if he didn’t say it like an order, he was still your lieutenant. Even on home ground, you slipped into your sergeant role too quickly. Watching him pass you, turning to face the direction he moves in before pressing your back against the inside of your door. Fingers sliding to the side of you, turning the lock, the sound filling the small space as you watch him stop at your key hook, slowly sliding his feet from his boots—finding him wearing thick, bobbly socks. 
He turns to face you, eyes washing over you again as his hood remains up as he undoes the scarf. It doesn’t matter if you’ve seen his face a handful of times, each time, it still renders you silent, if only for a second. 
Clearing your throat, you rub the back of your neck. “I don’t mean this to come out as rude, but why are you—“
“Someone broke into my place.” 
You move, almost too quickly, from the door. Your hand brushing his shoulder, wanting—needing—to comfort him, soothe him like you would a friend. Before you remembered who this was. 
Almost surprised he doesn’t flinch. Even if he does shoot you a surprised look before you wrench your hand back. 
“S-sorry. Habit.” He frowns, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole. “Not with y—when I’m home, I’m… well, I—did they take anything?” 
“Not sure.” 
Right. “Do you need somewhere to stay?” 
He looks at you briefly before his eyes flick away, the tell-tale signs of him processing and thinking. You’ve seen him do it often, especially when Price is talking and when he reads files. As if he’s choosing where to store it in the filing cabinet, he calls his brain. 
“Please,” he says, the word almost coming out as a whisper. 
As if it’s so rarely ever said. 
You’re unsure what to say, even if there’s so much swirling around your brain. So many questions you want to pepper him with, but he’s not Soap, who’ll answer them all or Gaz, who’ll have already told you everything. 
He’s Ghost. 
Silent. Quiet, Ghost. 
Your oven beeps, his head turning to the sound. 
Sighing, you rub your arms, suddenly aware of how cold your hallway feels, as you cover your chest with your elbows. “You hungry?” 
Silence. 
A beat or two blossoming, your eyes unable to move from his face, even if you know you should, before he licks his lips, saying, “Starving.” 
You smile, “Good. It's not a lot, just some chicken, potatoes… a bit of veg. Nothing huge. And, not quite a typical Sunday roast, but enough to ease me back in.” 
He doesn’t laugh, not that you expect him to. 
“Bathroom is there, to your right. If you need it,” you say quickly, almost stepping past him to answer your beeping oven. “I just need to dish up, and… yeah.” 
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You expect to feel calmer by the time he’s back. Especially with your dressing gown on, loosely knotted at your waist, covering more of you from him. 
But you’re more nervous. 
Doubting the food you’ve plated, the scent of the candles, whether the low lights make it romantic and whether you should turn up the acoustic songs playing or let the rain be the soundtrack of the evening. Suddenly aware of how fucking odd this is. 
Him being here. 
And yet, not that odd at all. 
“Hope it’s okay…” you mumble nervously as you place the plate down.
He looks like he belongs at your table, even if your table is small and usually for one-person. He’d helped, in as much of a way as a stranger can in someone’s home, grabbing glasses from cupboards you direct him to, making squash for you and water for him. 
His hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie as he waited for further instruction, catching sight of the hood still being up, having noticed he’d swapped jeans for dark joggers before you told him to sit. 
“There’s more gravy… just wasn’t sure how you liked it,” you add. 
Ghost doesn’t answer, not even as you slide into the chair opposite. Your hands have a slight tremble to them as you pick up your cutlery, trying not to watch him take a bite—suddenly feeling like a contestant on a judging show. 
And then, he says, “It’s nice.” 
“You can tell me if it isn’t, I promise I won’t be offended—it’s not as though I cook often.”
“It is nice,” he repeats, giving you a look which tells you to stop worrying as if you have any control over your feelings.
The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the occasional sound of a fork grazing the plate and the knife slicing through food. It’s almost normal—as though this happens regularly. 
“Your place is nice, too,” he mumbles.  
Lifting your head, you find he’s looking at you already. “You don’t have to lie, Simon. You can still stay even if you think my decor is odd.” 
His eyes widen a fraction before it vanishes like it never existed. A brief moment of you wondering why, until you realise the slip—the way you used his name and not his alias. Making it feel personal. More so than the two of your knees occasionally butting under the table. 
“It’s not what I expected.” 
“You’ve thought about my place?” 
Ghost says nothing, hovering his fork over his dinner as he keeps his eyes down. 
You smile if only to yourself, pushing some meat and vegetables onto your fork, continuing—wondering if he’s hoping you would. That silence would settle over the two of you, the storm outside being enough background noise to keep it from being awkward. 
“I have to ask,” you say suddenly, keeping your gaze down, trying to still your pulse as you manoeuvre food around the sauce. “Why me? I mean… I don’t mind you being here, but I thought, well, I assumed you’d pick Soap—if you needed a place to stay.”
You try not to look, even when you hear a faint snort, seeing his plate—empty, only traces of broccoli stalks remaining—slide closer as the chair creaks in his movement. 
“You were closer.” 
Oh. 
Your stomach drops, suddenly feeling foolish for thinking there could be any other reason. 
Almost wanting to kick yourself for allowing yourself to consider another option, one which you’ve been stuffing down for weeks, months… 
It isn’t as though you were meant to fall for him. The man who originally kept his face a higher guarded secret than his own name. But, it stemmed naturally and out of nowhere. He made you laugh as you moved into an enemy building—nerves humming in your bones. He made it worse when he flung himself in front of you before a car exploded, gripping you tightly against him, not letting go for minutes later before his hand cupped your cheek, mouthing words you couldn’t hear as ears rang and rang.
Smiling, you nod, not sure what else to say as you take his plate and yours, turning your back to him as you hear him clear his throat. 
“I had to see if you were okay.” 
You don’t place the plates down, not immediately. 
Eyes trying to peer at him through the corner of your vision, slowly lowering the porcelain to the counter—too afraid to break the moment with a single sound, even as your heart hammered in your ears, in your chest, and throat. 
He had said it so softly, you have to wonder how long it’s been churning on his tongue. 
Slowly turning, you face him, finding his eyes already on you with an awkwardness in his shoulders as he looks up at you. 
“Well, I’m fine.” 
“Had to be sure.” 
You smile, pulling your dressing gown around you tighter. “Well, that’s because you’re a good lieutenant.” 
His brows knit, lips spreading into a thin light before you notice the subtle shift in his nostrils as though he’s sighed before Ghost nods with his usual professionalism. That’s when your stomach drops, fluttering ridiculously near your feet as you feel you’ve made a mistake.  
“Tea?” you ask. 
Ghost’s face shifts and you’re almost sure there’s a faint smile on his lips. 
“Don’t worry, I know how you like it,” you add, pulling open a cupboard as you retrieve two mugs and flick the kettle on. “I’ve heard you berate Soap for his piss-poor tea skills.”
You make him snort. 
And it does nothing to stifle the fluttering.
If anything, it adds to it. 
Shit. 
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Even though it’ll be his bed for the night, Ghost refuses to sit on the sofa and doesn’t allow you to sit in the armchair. Practically insisting you sit how you would if he wasn’t here. Even if you’re worried he won’t be comfortable, the ridiculous chair was bought as a filler—an accessory, rather than something people actually used.
“Fine,” you mumbled, grabbing your blanket and curling up across both seats as he clutched the mug in his hand. 
You put something crap on the TV, the volume low—just in case he doesn’t feel like talking. Your eyes flick to it occasionally, half-listening as you softly wiggle your toes under the blanket—needing something to focus on. Because you couldn’t keep looking at him. 
Not with how your mind was running away from you, imagining ifs and buts and everything else in between. 
He fits here. Your home rarely feels warm and comforting, but with his presence, it does. As though your place has always wanted to be enjoyed by two people, not one person who rarely ever visited it. 
It doesn’t feel weird, even if it should. It makes you feel unsteady, and dizzy. Suddenly unable to stop focusing on the fact there’s a six-foot-something amount of feelings in your chest, twisting and tightening, trying to unlock everything you stuffed down. 
That same instinct and set of emotions which made you try to rip yourself from Soap’s grip when Ghost had entered a blazing building just for a stupid USB; how you’d been so angry, feral—as Soap called it—not able to think, how it had filled you, consuming you. How you’d even told Price you needed benching, unable to even look at your lieutenant, never mind be in the same room. 
He eventually cornered you on the base, pushing you, mixing between berating and taunting you until you slammed your small fist into his shoulder as you called him an idiot, a fucking cunt, a liability, a heartless cunt. How your tiny fist hammered into him with each array of insults until he grasped it tenderly, staring at you until tears bubbled in your eyes. 
You cannot die.
Why?
But, he had to know. His eyes followed a single tear down your cheek as he released your wrist, allowing you to walk away from him and begin the process of stuffing everything down again. 
Then you’d been shot. Through and through. Fire, gasp and fucking pain, your mind rendered uselessly, but he was still the person you called for. Not Soap, who was closer, not Gaz, who could actually stitch you. But Ghost. 
Ghost who came in a flash, telling you what you needed to hear—ordering you to do things like look at him, gripping his arm. 
“What?” 
Blinking, you didn’t even realise you’d been looking at him. Your mind blanking excuses tumbling from your grasp as you offer the quickest smile and a ‘nothing’. 
You forget how good he is at reading people. 
Especially you. Almost sure you make it easy for him, even if everyone else says they struggle. 
Ghost always knows, as though he’s in your head, digging his way through each time he stares at you. You wonder how much you let him in, whether he finds it easy before you want him in there—in your mind, in your heart. 
Now, he’s giving you a stern look, one which makes the truth rattle in your chest and snakes up your throat. 
Sighing, you shake your head. “Fine, I was thinking about how weirdly normal it is that you’re here. That it doesn’t feel weird, alright? That was it.” 
Anyone else, you’d think they’d smirk. 
But with him, it’s the slightest movement of his lip which tells you he has heard you. 
Ghost takes a sip, purposefully holding your gaze as he does so before filling the silence with, “You thought about it, then? Me being here.” 
“Of course I have,” you answer too quickly, wanting to kick yourself as the words hit the air, his brows raising as he sips his tea. “Not… Not like that.” 
“How then?” 
Shit. Swallowing, you sigh, trying to buy yourself time. Shit, bollocks, shit. 
“Should tell you, lying to your lieutenant isn’t smart.” 
You give him a sharp look of your own, and he snorts—actually snorts. Your eyes are all set to roll until he says your name. 
Your real name. 
Not your nickname. Not sergeant or soldier. 
“Fine. I’ve thought about it.”
“It?” 
You groan, pulling the blanket up further—not that it’ll hide the obvious warming of your cheeks or embarrassment. You’re sure that’s painted across the room, likely even doing a jig at your expense. 
“Us. You, me. In a bed,” you mumble. “Happy?” 
Wanting to hide your face, almost about to when the sound of his mug meeting your coaster makes you freeze. Your armchair—the one his frame has somehow fit into comfortably—groans as he moves, and you let yourself see him from the corner of your eye. His forearms leaning on his knees, his hand sliding his hood down as he watches you. 
He’s silent. 
So silent it almost kills you. The adverts in the background do nothing to stop it; the rain, now hammering against the windows, was not stifling it. 
Slowly breathing as you place your mug down, standing before you can even consider the options. “I didn’t realise how late it is,” you say, forcing a yawn. “I should… go to bed. Let you make your bed.” 
You fold the blanket, throwing it over the arm as you try to shrug, and play it off, but he’s quicker at recognising you—he knows you better than that. His hand comes to touch your wrist, like he did months ago, eyes scanning yours.
For what you’re not sure. 
Not wanting to get your hopes up. Not wanting to lose yourself in dreams and imagination. 
So, you smile. As sweetly and as believable as you can as you point to the coffee table chest. “Blankets, pillows, the lot are in there,” you say, almost breathlessly, as he releases you. “Have a nice sleep, Gh—Simon.” 
He swallows, his face remains unreadable as he chokes out, “You too.” 
But you’re already moving, desperately seeking your room—throwing the door open and shutting it as you place your back against it. She’s closing, chest hammering so hard you’re sure it’s trying to escape. 
Go back. 
Go back to him. 
Your eyes slowly open, catching sight of yourself in the mirror as the street lamps partially light your room.
He came to check on you. You. 
Rolling your neck, your fingers flex at your side, twisting your wrists, wanting to shake it all from you. Trying, desperately to rid yourself of the tension and adrenaline. Almost doing so until you hear the floorboards outside your door creak. 
It doubles your heart rate as a lump forms in your throat, suffocating you. You don’t want to give in, but wish to all at once. Your hand cupping your mouth, trying to hide the extra breaths the sound has forced you to make. Needing him. Wanting his calloused fingers to leave marks over your skin, his stubble to slice against your cheeks as his lips capture your breath, words and soul.  
It’s that which makes you shift from the door. Not sure what you’re expecting, what you’re going to see, as your hand twists the doorknob, coming face to face with him all over again. 
His hoodie is gone. 
Expression torn—that same awkwardness in his shoulders.
Your hallway light touches his unreadable expression, highlighting all the lines and shading of his tattoo that stand out against his skin. 
“Tell me to go back to your living room.” 
Inhaling sharply, your hand drops from your mouth and falls limply to your side. 
You are not thinking, thoughts all scattered, scrambled. Not even sure you can find words to tell him you want anything but. That you want him here, right in front of you; you want him to be rough and also kind, you want him to kiss you like he’ll never have the chance to again. 
As though reading you, he moves closer, not even touching you, but your body yearns for him, muscles tensing and spasming at the endless thoughts of what could be—what he could do, what you already know he’d be good at. Suddenly wanting to rid yourself of your dressing gown, of your PJs, of the thin lace between your thighs you’ve already ruined. 
“Words, sweetheart.” 
Sweetheart.
Your legs almost give way, a smile wanting to bloom and spread across your lips, up your cheeks until it's radiating from you. 
“Tell me. Or I’ll kiss you.” 
Speechless, your lips part. 
Yes. Please, yes. 
Not even sure you are even breathing as you imagine his hands on you, his mouth against yours, against your neck, descending down and down—
His hand cups your cheek, pulling your eyes to his as he examines you. He studies you like he’s capturing every fucking inch of you: the curve of your cheeks, the position of your brows, the way your lips are waiting for him. The clear crisis you’re going through is rendered and broken at the mere thought of this becoming a reality. 
“Simon…” you manage to whisper.
Hoping it's enough. Needing it to be enough. 
He blinks once more before he lowers his head, his lips planting against yours and you’re sure you explode. Your heart furiously beating, ears buzzing and burning all at once.
Barely focusing on the way his arm snakes around you as your mouth moves to meet each one of his movements. His lips are soft, even if his tongue is rough; his grip tight, purposeful—desperate, even if yours are gentle, nervous. The pads of your fingers slide past the healed scar on his cheek, moving into his hair, his groan vibrating against your lips. 
Gh—Simon is almost lifting you, moving you back as his foot kicks your bedroom door shut behind him, blocking out the light from the hallway. Only the streetlights dance shadows across your room as kisses grow messier, fingers brushing over skin as he hooks a finger in the waistband of your shorts, then sliding, freeing you, until you’re stepping out of them. Your robe next, falling with a thud as your hands slide under his t-shirt, feeling taut, hard muscle and silver scars which paint stories as your legs find your bed. 
He smells different than usual.
Less sweat and fireworks, and more some combination of Ghost meeting sandalwood and amber as the two of you bend down onto your bed, the frame hissing at the weight and movement—not even aware of what’ll be expected to support soon enough. 
“Shit, woman. Y’know how beautiful you are?” 
His teeth nipping, sucking, leaving an answer to your prayer before you feel him unbuttoning your top, all slow and gentle, as if undoing a present he’s waited desperately for. 
“Rip it,” you moan, his teeth grazing over the space between your breasts before he lifts up. 
His eyes burn into yours, the smallest evidence of a smirk on his mouth as he slowly shakes his head. “I’ve waited too fuckin’ long to get here, I’m takin’ my damn time.” 
If you weren’t already soaked for him, that did it. 
All slick, swollen and hungry for him. Not sure if it’ll even take much, not with how precise you can imagine him being—how fucking thick his fingers are, how he’s staring at you like he wants to break you in all the ways he can before sunrise.
And you want it. Desperate for it. So much so that just the fan of his warm breath against your exposed nipples makes you rub your thighs together, needing friction—something he can tell, he must do. 
“Wait.”
It’s sharp, authoritative, and he’s going to be the death of you. 
Your body is so tense, you’re sure it’ll snap if you keep any more still as he undoes the last button and exposes your skin to the cool air and his breath. So focused on his eyes, you’ve forgotten all about his hand until you feel lace dig into your waist, tightening and tightening—snap.
And he smirks.
The devious bastard smirks. 
Your lips part to make a remark—one you’re not even wholeheartedly sure will come out right—but it dies when he touches you, one finger, one thick calloused finger sliding between your thighs, brushing where you need him. 
“Fuck…”
“Part them, sweetheart.”
And you do.
You do it like he’s said open-fucking-sésame. Two fingers sliding against you, diving between your folds. It’s intense, teasing and everything all at once. It’s making you burn and shiver, sweat building on your brow as you pant and whimper. His name falls freely, almost chanting it, like a song you’re the only one who can sing it. He captures what he can, tasting each syllable you say of his name until you’re tightening and clenching, and he whispers in your ear how good you are, how perfect you are, and you meet your orgasm with blinding lights and arched back. 
The sight of him licking your want from his fingers brings you back, his mouth crashing against yours as you pull him down, knee bent against his hip as his hand comes to rest on your hip—the one you hope he’s bruising. Wanting, wishing for him to leave literal fingerprints as your hand slides between the two of you.
You knew before tonight Simon Riley would be big. 
Almost too big. 
The weight of him against your palm is something else, the thickness of his cock in between your fingers as you make him hiss, thumb swiping over the head as he groans. 
He mixes kissing and nipping at your neck depending on what your hand does, the groans of your name making you desperate—needing him inside you, suddenly empty and desperate all over again, but not for his fingers. 
You want him so deep in you you’ll forever feel empty without him. You want to feel every inch of him, want to rock against his hips as you press half-moons into his skin as nails dig into him. 
The ache growing, worsening as his tongue draws a line from your neck to your earlobe, his fist clenching around your bed sheets at your side. 
“Fuck… stop. Stop,” he groans, a hand smothering yours, halting you as he stares at you before pressing his forehead against yours. 
Letting him go, touching his cheek—his eyes full of lust, searing into you. 
“I want you.” 
“Yeah?”
You nod, his lips sliding up into a half-smirk—a Simon special. “I’ll go slow.”
“I hope you fucking don’t.”
His eyes harden. “I’m going slow. I’ll ruin you later,” he whispers darkly, before capturing your lips, a hand gripping the back of your thigh—shifting it just over his hip.
You're set to argue, and comment you can handle it until you feel him lineup, the head of his cock pushing against your folds. 
You gasp as his hips move forward, slowly pushing himself in, your nails digging into his shoulder, into his waist as shivers run down your spine. The stretch being both too much and everything all at once, your toes curling, him slowly burying his cock all the way in as his fingers stroke your jaw.  
“So fu—tight. Fuckin'-shit, sweetheart.” 
“Simon…” 
Your hips roll, moaning at the way it feels, having never felt so full. Never felt so stretched. 
He’s slow, as he has been since he stepped over the threshold. His determination to take things slow, to take his time, not lessening now that he’s deep inside of you. 
You’re sure you’ve left an array of welts and half-moon marks into his shoulders as he begins to roll his hips, his thrusts purposeful, desperately seeking that spot he already knows. 
“Eyes on me,” he says, thumb against your jaw as your eyes lashes beg to flutter, but land on him all the same. “There’s my girl.” 
It’s sinful the moan you let escape at his praise, your legs almost jelly as he steals it with a kiss—as though to taste it. Your mouth grasping for him when he pulls his head back, gripping your hip, helping you both to find a steady pace.
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He does ruin you.
Not the first time, the second, but on the third.
Legs so sore, boneless and aching you can barely walk without his aid to the bathroom. 
You’re not surprised he places you down on the side of the bath, taking a cloth you point him to as he cleans between your thighs as your hisses feel the space. You catch sight of yourself, an array of colours developing across your neck, collarbone and waist—just like you wanted.
A painting in colours of his own design. 
You expect awkwardness once you shuffle back, giving him a moment. Finding underwear, sliding it over shaky legs before surrendering the idea of PJs as you slid between your duvet and sheets. When he returns, you brace for regret—for words you wish he’d swallow, face hidden in the scarf or behind a mask, but he’s in boxers and shuts your door with care. 
Simon crosses the room, lifting the duvet as he slides in next to you, reaching out, tugging your back to his chest as he places a single kiss on the space below your earlobe. 
You want to tell him everything. That you like him, could even love him by now. That you look for him too, that you worry, that you care. You'd tell him that he has pierced your heart, and you welcome the sting, that you'd be there, whenever he needed it. Even with knowing he likes space and distance and everything else in between.
"Stop thinkin' so loud," he grumbles against your skin.
Smiling, you fix your eyes across the darkness, finding the outline of your dresser as his hand finds your hip. Whether to soothe you or silence you, it makes your hands clammy.
Unsure if he knows that someone loves him. Someone wants him alive, wants him uninjured.
“I have feelings for you…” you whisper, fixing your eyes on your dresser as you swallow. “In case it wasn’t obvious.” 
He doesn’t tense, doesn’t move. 
Blinking, you try to trace the shapes of your handles, keeping your mind busy, the silence building and building. 
"Say that again." You turn your head, meeting his stare, watching as he raises his knuckles before he traces your cheekbone. "Please."
His touch is so gentle, so soft that it makes your heart swell—your face relaxing as you repeat it again. "I have feelings for you.
"I care about you and...I like you alive, Simon."
You don't expect a reply, a declaration of his own. The fact he hasn't moved and hasn't pulled his knuckles from stroking your cheek, is enough of a declaration. Your lips turn, meeting them, pressing the softest kiss to them as if saying I know, I don't need to hear it. I know.
Letting your eyes ensure the message lands as you hold his gaze, ever-so-slightly nodding.
“I texted him. Johnny," he says. His fingers spread, cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your cheek. “But, I had to see you. Had to be sure.” 
Your eyes lower briefly, feeling your heart almost stammer at his words. “Because I’m your sergeant or because I’m your girl.” 
You’re my girl. Mine. Fuck, you’re mine. Mine. All mine. You hear me, sweetheart? 
His thumb pauses against your cheek, likely remembering the same words he chanted over and over as he fucked you senseless. His eyes narrow ever so slightly as his lips twitch, and yours try not to smile.
“The latter.” 
You nod. Feeling your body flush with warmth, turning your head back away from him, grinning as he pulls you flush against him.
Your heart thumping mine, mine, mine. Hearing him get comfortable against the pillow, a soft sigh blowing past his lips and kissing your skin.
“You make shit tea, though.” 
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read part two
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a huge thank you to @ghostaholics for this absolutely gorgeous graphic. I can’t believe how much it encapsulates the entire piece and is just so me, and so pretty. thank you so much, I appreciate it so much 💕!
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