#cw mcd

[armacheart]

The last of his kind

[mitrielle]

A quick quiz: how would you rate my mood right now based on my art?

15 minutes speed painting.

[spiltspit]

Hold me close, I just found you.

(Knight & Highlander Au)

[aluinwe]

ghost - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 286

James was laying in bed, flat on his back with his arm flung across his face. Eyes closed, gently lulled into that gap between being awake and asleep where his limbs felt heavy and his head felt light.

Quietly, voice thick with sleep, he murmured into the room. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, James.” Regulus replied softly. “I’d put you in the garden, feed you to the birds.”

“That’s mean.” James smiled softly. “I’d still love you. I’d buy a tank for you and keep you forever.”

“Yes, well. You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot.” A smile tugged at the corner of James’ lips. “How about if I was a dog? Would you keep me then?”

“Nah.” Regulus snorted softly. “I’d give you to Sirius. He’s always wanted one.”

“That’s fair. I’d be such a good dog for him.” James shifted slightly, as if to roll over onto his side, but decided against it. “You’d make a good cat. I think that’s what you’d be if you were an animal. All regal and grumpy.”

Regulus made a non-commital sound and the room filled with silence once more, the only sounds to be heard were gentle breaths and the breeze outside brushing through the trees.

James broke the silence once more with a whisper, cracked around the edges. “Would you still love me if I was a ghost?”

“Of course I would, Jamie.” Another beat of silence passed. “You still love me, don’t you? And I’m a ghost.”

James finally rolled onto his side and opened his eyes a crack to see only the empty space where Regulus should be, sheets undisturbed as if he’d never been there at all.

[johnpricescumrag]

You were a new recruit to the task force, sent there shortly after Soap's death. You were essentially his replacement.

Unbeknownst to you, Ghost resented you for existing on the team. Especially because you were so much like him.

A young, rowdy, but promising, Sergeant. A fucking demolitions expert, just like his Johnny was. You had a bright future in the SAS, just like he did.

Ghost was always harder on you than everyone else. But you took it all with a smile, constantly cracking jokes with a dopey grin on your face. Ghost hated it.

But just like Johnny, you managed to break through the defenses he had built up. You partially filled the void Johnny's death left in Ghost's heart.

"Nice shot, Lt! Betcha couldn't do it again!" You say over comms, smiling at Ghost in his sniper nest.

"Focus, Sergeant." Ghost rumbles blandly. He focuses his scope on you, just like he used to do with Johnny.

And that's how he watched you die, too. A hostile that Ghost was too distracted to see threw a Molotov cocktail at you. You were immediately engulfed in flames.

He had to watch you burn to death. He had to listen to your screams over comms. He couldn't save you.

Just like he couldn't save Johnny.

[srfiv]

this is never getting finished

[irrwurz]

(cw canon compliant mcd) making myself sad thinking about the company insisting Bilbo take Thorin's coat home.

It spends its first year in Bag End locked away in a closet. How strange, to go from being worn daily to being stowed away. Carefully hung up and looked at so longingly then shut in the dark.

Then the door swings open. Bilbo hides his face in the furs, the tears wicking off his face. He doesn't care a wit he's getting dust in his nose, a bit too preoccupied sobbing. He's clutching the coat so fiercely that were it made of a lesser material it would have torn.

The coat spends a few weeks on Bilbo’s bed. He never puts it on for he would drown in it. Instead it acts as a blanket, a pillow, a handkerchief for tears that spill down Bilbo’s cheeks. Bilbo holds it close even in his sleep, holding onto something he knows isn't there.

Eventually the coat comes to live on Bilbo's armchair. A blanket for when he spends long, sleepless nights reading. He has those nights often.

Then the strangest thing happened. The coat isn't draped over a lap. A tiny hobbit burrowed beneath it instead, finding it a lovely dark warm place to hide. If the coat had feelings perhaps it might be delighted to muffle the giggles of the faunt.

"Frodo? Where did you run off to lad?"

The boy covers his mouth, trying to squish himself into the smallest shape possible. Bilbo steps into the room, pretending not to notice the bundle that's shifting and shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Oh well... Shame I can't find my dear nephew, I had some fresh baked scones--"

"Here I am uncle!" Frodo throws off the coat, running after Bilbo.

The coat becomes Frodo's favorite. The boy uses it to make pillow forts, he takes it outside to sit on for picnics, Frodo claims it for his own bed and sleeps soundly with the faint smell of unfamiliar smoke lingering. It keeps him warm on chilly winter nights.

Frodo never questions the coat. In the same way most children do, he just understands that everything in Bag End belonged there. Bilbo tells him anyways. Sugar coated bedtime stories about the dwarf who wore the coat while Frodo clutched it tight to his chest with stars in his eyes.

It grows worn over the years. Frodo grows up. Nothing can last forever. But the coat is still good, hardy material. Bilbo knows what to do.

It hurts to cut into the fabric. For Bilbo, of course, not the coat. It isn't death, but a transformation.

To Bilbo, it feels a little like he's burying his soulmate again. But the grin on Frodo's face, that shining excitement and gratitude in his eyes and the fierce hug that follows after is worth it. Bilbo gifts a coat, something new made of something old, one that fits Frodo perfectly.

It keeps him warm on his journey. Just as it had kept Thorin warm.

[shadow0-1]

Gganbu