Doodling doodles, Tolkien nerd; multi-fandom art blog. Mostly sfw content but there will be the occasional nsfw that are censored or tagged as lemon or lime (#bring back the lemons)
Another Ghoap-Married-Before-MW19 snippet from Yours Truly (and thank you to @thegreencarousel. You know why. And to @greyhavenisback. You also know why.)
"Hey Si," he said, taking in his partner's appearance. "Ye look knackered."
"Mhm, been utter shite the past few days. Nothing but FISH and CHIPS but we're headin' back next week. Had a sandstorm blast through the other day and felt like I was a VM again tryin' to get the damn car to start. Wanted to let you know we'll be back in Credenhill by Wednesday, if they don't push it back again."
John let out a hollow laugh. "Looks like I'll miss ye by a day. We're being sent to Brunei to," he did air quotes with one hand, "refresh our jungle training. Flyin' out to TUDB airbase on Tuesday."
Simon swore quietly under his breath. "Well, that's jus' typical, innit? So, in six weeks, then?"
"'Fraid no'," John replied, face twisting with regret. "It's straight to the yanks fer jump training after."
"Bollocks."
It truly was, if anyone asked John. But, such was military life and they both knew it. They'd make do, they always did.
"Have fun with the leeches and mosquitoes, and don't forget to pray before peein' under a tree," Simon said before disconnecting, leaving John more than a bit confused. He hadn't been to Brunei during selection but to Belize, so SEA was a new one.
He quickly typed out a message.
<Simon, wtf are ye talking about?> [21:51]
<Local customs, Johnny. Keep up. FYI, haunted
trees are mostly banana and banyan. Interesting bugs
there as well. Try not to get bitten.> [21:52]
Well, that sounded just lovely. John wasn't sure he wanted to know what, exactly, Simon considered to be "interesting" bugs.
Also, what even was a banyan tree and what did it look like?
The consequence of having watched Heated Rivalry and mutuals who are very passionate about ice skating is that I now have Winter Olympics Ghostgaz rattling in my mind on my way home from work and energy levels in the negatives to draw them 🤧🤧🤧🥲
Sam blows out a long, slow breath and presses his hands flat to the ground as he moves into the next pose in his yoga routine. In his thirties, a childhood in gymnastics and regular workout routine had meant that his muscles and joints were always ready to do what he asked of them. Now, with fifty on the horizon and the hours and demands of full-time superheroing, yoga and tai-chi have become just as important as all the strength training and cardio Sam does.
Still, this is an extra session on top of his usual exercise routine, entirely because Sam has felt a knot of tension in his muscles since the flight home from his and Bucky's last mission, and the longer he and Bucky have gone without talking, the worse it's become. The massages and slow stretching and hydration have all helped for a short while when he does them, but then Sam can feel it creeping up again, the tension spiraling from his arms and hips and neck, gathering in the space between his shoulders time and time again.
It's the same today: Sam can feel the knots starting to loosen after an hour's exercise, and then the doors of the compound's gym swing open to admit Bucky, and Sam's whole body braces for some nebulous hurt that it's certain is coming.
He could swear he feels Bucky's eyes on him, but the moment he looks up in the mirror, Bucky is striding determinedly towards the weights, without so much as a greeting. Sam watches him for a moment anyway, scanning the parts of his back and shoulders that are bared by his workout tank. There's some scarring along his right shoulder blade, but it's the pink of newly-healed skin, like the injury is a month old instead of the almost-week that Sam knows it's been.
Even as he looks away, there's a sudden tightness in Sam's chest, the memory of Bucky's face mere inches from his after being tackled to the ground. It had happened so fast that Sam hadn't even realized why, until he heard the crackle of the magical flail that he'd been dodging all night and watched Bucky's expression contort with pain. It's the memory of the blood, warm on his hands, that proves too much. He sits up abruptly, tearing his gaze away from the mirror and beelining for the showers without bothering to finish his workout.
He turns the faucet as hot as it'll go before he steps in, steam filling the bathroom as water crashes down onto the tile below. It's sharp and stinging when it first hits his back, but then the heat and pressure begin to work away at whatever has wrapped itself around Sam's ribcage, and he can draw in a deep breath for the first time all day. He takes another, greedy for it now, and another after that, and in the steam and the pounding of the water, if his eyes are wet, he can pretend that that's for some reason other than the ache in his chest.
It's hard to know how long he's been in there when he finally steps out. The noise and heat had muffled things, for the most part, but the locker room itself is thick with steam, the mirrors around him foggy enough that Sam knows it's been a while. He dries off and tucks the towel around his hips, already bracing for the shock of cold air by the lockers, but he doesn't make it that far. For a moment, after the water had turned off, there had been ringing silence. The footsteps that break through it are familiar, determined enough that Sam knows there's no point in attempting to outrun them. He tries anyway.
The problem with being so in tune with a mission partner is that the attunement doesn't go away just because bullets aren't flying anymore. Sam has the idea to dodge the long way around to get to the lockers, but the second that he turns the corner, Bucky is right there, his jaw tight with anger and…something else that Sam doesn't want to name.
When Sam tries to dodge him, Bucky's hands come down to settle on the counter, boxing Sam in from both sides. Sam isn't sure whether he's expecting to see triumph in Bucky's face, but this close together for the first time in a week, all that he can see is the same exhaustion in Bucky's eyes that he sees in his own.
"How long are you going to keep avoiding me?" he asks.
Sam tries to put space between them, but there's nowhere to go with the counter at his back. He sighs. "I'm not avoiding you, Bucky."
In spite of the frustration that Sam can read in the set of Bucky's mouth and shoulders, his voice is soft. "Yeah?" he asks. "What do you call it when you haven't looked me in the eye for a week? You weren't even there when they let me out of the infirmary, Sam. When have you ever missed the chance to tell me I was being stupid in the field, huh?"
"There was a lot of cleanup to do," says Sam, trying to keep his voice even. "A trio of sorceresses from another timeline trying to tear a hole in the multiverse isn't the kind of thing that the city can just come in and clean up."
"I know," says Bucky. "That's why last year you put together a system for dealing with collateral damage after a magic-based disaster. Cleanup was over three days ago, and we both know that."
Sam feels the tightness again, the anticipatory flinch that he hasn't been able to shake off all week. He swallows hard, wills himself to talk around the lump in his throat. "What do you want me to say, Bucky?"
Bucky sighs, and Sam feels it against his neck, eyes falling shut at the sensation. He forces them open again, makes himself look Bucky in the eye when he says, "Whatever you need to, Sam. Whatever it is that you're not saying to me, that's making you find an excuse to leave a room as soon as I walk in. If I fucked up, tell me I fucked up. If the world's ending, if this was just the herald of some worse destruction, tell me that. If you want me gone for a day or a week or— or for forever, even. Is that it? Should I go? Is that easier?"
He doesn't wait for Bucky to finish, just shakes his head furiously in response. "No," he says hurriedly. "No, no, of course not. Of course I don't want you gone, Buck."
Bucky's hands have relaxed on the counter now. If Sam wanted to, he could probably push past him and go, but he doesn't. Instead he stays where he is, watches Bucky bow his head in contrition and knows where this is going.
"I know," Bucky says, his voice soft. "I know I shouldn't have said what I said. I didn't want to say it. Not like that."
"It's okay," Sam says, but Bucky shakes his head.
"It wasn't," he says, and when he locks eyes with Sam, all that Sam can think is that Bucky looks like he's braced for the hurt, too. "It isn't. I shouldn't have put that on you. It wasn't your problem, and it still isn't."
If Sam closes his eyes, he can still hear it—has been hearing it, every time the world has gotten quiet enough for him to hear himself think this week. He knows where he is now, knows that he can smell disinfectant and his own soap and Bucky's shampoo, but somehow the iron tang of blood is in his nose again, the crackle of magic as spells fire off over their heads. Sprawled protectively over Sam, Bucky's body is quickly turning to dead weight as he slips in and out of consciousness, and it's on a labored, rasping breath that Sam hears Bucky say three words and feels his heart shatter from the impact of it.
It's the touch of cool vibranium that brings Sam back to himself, a solid point of contact that he focuses on until the whole of him is back in the locker room.
"You don't have to say anything to me. I'm not holding out for that; I know how—" Bucky breaks off, breathing out slow like he's steeling himself. "You don't have to worry about, uh, addressing anything with me. I know what we are, Sam."
But if Bucky has more to say, Sam doesn't wait to hear it. "Do you?" he blurts, unable to hold the words back anymore. "Do you know what we are? Because I don't. I don't know what to call it, Buck. I don't know what word is enough for you taking a blow that would've killed me and then telling me that you love me. I don't know how to carry that."
"I already told you that you don't h—"
"Of course I have to carry it," says Sam, shoving at Bucky's chest, suddenly desperate for space. "Of course I do. You could have died, Bucky."
"That's the job, Sam. That's been the job this whole time. Do you know how many times you've almost died this year? I watched an alien try to crush you alive. I watched someone strap a bomb to your chest. I watched an EMP fry your wings over the fucking ocean."
"It's not the same," says Sam. "It can't be the same."
"Why not?" asks Bucky, right up in Sam's face now. "What's so different now about us risking our lives, huh? What's so different about us risking our lives for each other?"
"Because I could feel it, Bucky," snaps Sam. "Because you've been walking around like you're fine all year, but when it happened to you, I could feel it. You got hit, and you said you loved me, and you were slipping away, and something wrapped its hands around my chest before I could say it back, and I—and I can't stop feeling it."
Sam doesn't really register what he said until the moment he sees Bucky's eyes go wide, his whole expression softening. "Oh," he breathes, so soft that it makes Sam's stupid heart sing. "Oh, sweetheart."
"Don't say that," says Sam, blinking rapidly like it'll do anything to stop the tears welling in his eyes. "I can't—I don't know how to be that. I don't know how to be your sweetheart, Bucky."
"Yeah, you do," says Bucky, gently brushing away a tear as it streaks down Sam's face. His palm is warm, and Sam can't help the way he wants to lean into it. "You always have."
"But I don't," Sam says. He sniffs, and wonders vaguely what amount of snot it takes to turn off a man who's already taken a killing blow for you and told you he loves you. "Buck, I watched you risk your life the other day, and I still can't breathe right from it. I don't know how to do that every day."
Bucky brings his other hand up to Sam's face, and the vibranium should feel too cold in contrast to his right hand, but instead it's a comfort: the certainty that no one else in the world could hold him like this and feel the way that Bucky does. When Bucky tips Sam's chin up, it's gentle enough for him to pull away, but he doesn't.
"I'll show you," he murmurs, his eyes locked on Sam's. "I've had a lot of practice being scared to lose you, and I'm still here. Just let me show you, huh?"
From this close, Sam can feel Bucky's breath against his lips, but Bucky doesn't move in any closer. He leaves the choice in Sam's hands, waits for a signal here better than he's ever done out in the field. When Sam leans in that last little bit and presses his lips to Bucky's, he can feel the entire goddamn world holding its breath until Bucky kisses him back.
His hands slide up along Bucky's chest before settling on his bare shoulders, and it's only a moment before Sam's fingers skim over one of the scars he'd noticed earlier. He tenses again, beginning to move his hand away, but Bucky gently holds Sam's wrist and keeps him where he is.
"It's okay," he says, his forehead resting against Sam's. "It healed, Sam. I healed."
For days, Sam has only had temporary relief from the horrible, tangled-up knot caught at the center of him, present enough at every turn that he'd started to believe he couldn't really be without it. With Bucky's hands on him now, with his chest pressed warm and solid against Sam's, he feels the first terrible threads of that tangle begin to unravel. It radiates down to the tips of his fingers, the tension steadily ebbing away, and it's enough of a relief that he pulls away from Bucky just to press a hand flat against his own chest, feeling its rise and fall as he breathes in slow and deep.
Bucky doesn't go far even when Sam moves away from him, his hands finding a home on Sam's hips. He watches for a moment as Sam breathes in and out, then gives his hip a gentle squeeze.
"You okay, sweetheart?" he asks, and for the first time in days, Sam has an answer that isn't a half-truth.
"Not yet," Sam says, letting himself be drawn against Bucky's chest again, "but I will be."
Bucky's only real answer is a kiss pressed to Sam's temple, sweet and lingering. Behind Sam's ribs, the knot unravels just a little bit faster.
The file under his arm is thick and he's on his way to file it manually – a remnant of the old days, their paper archive – and he's honestly ready to turn in for the night when he hears Soap's indignant words from the rec room:
"You're cheating!"
"I'm not," comes Gaz's voice then, and Price can't help the smile spreading on his face. Gaz is definitely cheating, whatever it is they're playing.
"Yes, you are," Ghost says, sounding less irritated and more amused – he's probably cheating himself, just less obvious about it than Gaz tends to be.
"You're just being a sore loser," Gaz's tone is flippant – he is right, too. Soap is a sore loser. Price has seen it enough times himself. Cheated against him, too.
"Are you seeing this shit, Lt.? He's robbing us. Team up with me."
"Not in your dreams, Sergeant."
"Just play, mate," Gaz baits. Price stops by the rec room doorway and peers in. The boys are gathered around a table, a pile of cards strewn between them. Soap is pouting, his arms crossed, holding his cards in one hand. Gaz is looking at him with a smug expression that does nothing to soothe Soap's irritation. Ghost's back is to Price, but his posture seems relaxed. There is an ash tray on the floor, with a still smoking stub in it. Price should reprimand Ghost for smoking inside, but he would be the bigger hypocrite between the two of them.
"Not until you admit you're cheating," Soap insists, sounding even more like a petulant now that Price can see the accompanying frown and jutted lip.
"Even if I was," Gaz begins, and Soap scoffs at that, "why would I?"
"It's fair."
Price almost laughs at that.
"Nothing fair in gambling, Sergeant," Ghost rumbles, leaning back in his chair. It complains under his weight.
"Maybe so," Soap concedes, always deferring to his Lieutenant, "but this bastard thinks he can get away with anything just because he's Cap's favourite."
All amusement leaves Price instantly.
Blood roars in his ears as he listens to Gaz vehemently deny the accusation, with more vigour than the cheating accusations, and Ghost just sighs and digs out a pack of cigarettes.
Usually Price would not pay it any mind, the rumour mill does what it wants, but recently he's been plagued with… Visions. Dreams that make his stomach turn. That it's his own team spreading the rumour around, even as Gaz is denying it, makes him feel nauseous, especially after…
After…
Flashes to last night, his hand down his pants… The name on his lips as he pleasured himself… The shame that filled him after, the recoil from the despicable act…
He clears his throat and Soap perks up, ostensibly not surprised to see him there.
"Soap, would you come with me for a bit?" He tries to keep his voice even, casual.
Soap doesn't seem to catch on his distress – he merely folds his cards on the table. "Yes, sir."
Gaz and Ghost don't even look up from their cards as Soap gets up from the table and walks to the hallway with Price.
Soap follows a few steps behind, not questioning what Price needs from him – for a man so hotheaded he falls into command easy as breathing. Price finds them a quiet nook and then stops, turns to the Sergeant.
"Did you mean it?"
Soap blinks. "Mean what, sir?"
Price squeezes the file under his arm tightly. It digs into his skin, definitely leaving behind a red mark. The sting almost grounds him.
"Does it seem to you like Gaz is 'my favourite'?"
Soap tilts his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, I mean—"
Price presses on, taking a step closer so that he's in Soap's space. "I'm asking this seriously. Does it feel like to you that I'm treating Sergeant Garrick favourably or differently to you?"
Soap looks stunned by the question. "No, sir. It was just banter."
"It doesn't come out of nowhere." Price crosses his arms.
"It's nothing, sir. It's just that you usually take Gaz with you on ops, is all. You don't actually… it's not a problem, Captain."
Price looks at him for a long time, searching for any kind of uncertainty in Soap's tone or expression. A hint that he's lying. Trying to placate him. It won't do.
"That could be a very serious accusation, you know?" Price says then. "I can't compromise the cohesion of our unit and I need to know if there is an appearance of favouritism. I'll address it right away."
"No, Captain, look," Soap sounds desperate now, "I really didn't mean anything by it! It was just some banter with Gaz, I don't think there's actual favouritism going on. We're good. I think you treat us fair. Gaz jokes I'm Ghost's favourite but we know that's not true either." Debatable, Price thinks and files that away for later. "I won't say it again, I swear."
Price bites his lips into a thin line and then sighs. "Alright," he says. "Thank you for your input. Honestly, forget I even asked. You're free to go, Sergeant."
Soap does a stiff salute and slinks back to the rec room. Price heads for the archives – he doesn't need Gaz and Ghost's curious eyes on him now. He hopes Soap will watch his mouth from now on. But the concern remains – is it so obvious? Has Ghost noticed? Has Laswell? That's the worst case scenario.
She likes Gaz. She wouldn't want to cause trouble for him. But Price is constantly on thin ice with her, has been since the mess in Urzikstan. They trust each other implicitly, have each other's backs because if they fall, they fall down together. But he's not infallible, not immune to disciplinary action if the word gets out.
He doesn't slam the door of the archive open. He opens it slowly, carefully, as if compensating for his racing thoughts. He leans against the door for a long moment.
He's in too deep. He's completely fucked and now all he can do is damage control. He doesn't know how – he thought he was being careful, being objective. But if Soap has noticed, enough to joke about it, then Ghost definitely has too.
And then there's Gaz.
The worst case scenario is not, really, Laswell. It's not the team, it's not the brass. It's Gaz. It's his Sergeant's eyes on him, a doubtful look. A breach in the trust between them, the awkwardness. A fracture in the chain of command.
So I haven't actually had a chance to read my fancy new edition of the RotS novelization with all of its lovely annotations 😅 BUT! I did create this lovely archival box for it. I've been taking a class on archival conservation methods this semester and our final project was to create a box (sort of a combination of archival and artistic methods). When I learned that we were allowed to bring in a book to create a box for, I looked over at my shelf at the shiniest book I own and decided a box might help keep my fingerprints off the shiny dust jacket 😂
It's so pretty. It may be the most professional looking think I've ever made. It's just so clean and elegant and professional looking? I can't believe I made it with my own hands.
Mine was easily the most dramatic looking box in the class all Darth Vader black and Sith red with little volcanic-looking marbled paper accents. We were a little discouraged from working with black bookcloth because it shows dust and glue stains and etc extremely easily but I was determined. For the Drama™️, for Darth Vader, for the #1 obikin stan Matthew Stover.
Maybe I'll reblog this a little later on with the unboxing video I took, I'm just so in love with how it came out.
I remember joking with someone on discord about alternative names for pricegaz (I think the context was that I wanted them to hyphenate their last names in my fic) and we came up with a funny combination of their names but I can't remember what it was now 😭
cw: 18+ smut. GhostGaz. Top!Ghost Bottom!Gaz. Emotional intimacy. Ghost is in love and thinking about death during sex bc of course he is. angst/comfort?
guys I had such a good dream a couple of nights ago lemme tell you about it.
The sheets had long since been kicked away, the night thick with warmth and sweat. Kyle was over him, in him, cock buried to the hilt, his breath hot where it ghosted over Kyle's throat. He hadn’t moved in a while, just held them like that, flush together, arms banded around Kyle’s back like he could keep him there forever.
Kyle's hands were on his ribs, thumb brushing the jagged edge of a scar. His voice was soft, a little hoarse. “You alright, love?”
Simon stayed quiet, kissed his neck slowly, breathing him in.
He was thinking—too much, probably—about death. About the kind of man he was. How if it ever came for Kyle, he’d lose his mind fighting it. Tear through hell and back. Let himself rot if it meant Kyle got to live one more day.
But if it had to happen… if death came and Ghost couldn't stop it… maybe it could be like this. Quiet and close. With him still inside, still holding Kyle, still keeping him safe as long as he possibly could.
Ghost didn't voice the fears. He could, Kyle would listen, tell Ghost that it's alright. That he's here now. But Ghost didn't—couldn't—even as bad as Simon might have wanted to.
He kissed Gaz's throat, then the underside of his jaw, then just above the collarbone where his pulse fluttered. And then he moved, drew back, letting Kyle feel the stretch, the drag of him leaving, and then thrust back in with a firm, perfect snap of his hips.
Kyle arched and let out a breathless noise. “Fuck—Simon…”
Simon grunted and did it again. The exact angle Kyle liked. Again and again. Kyle's legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, breathy whispers of fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, filling his ears.
Simon found the pace Kyle liked and stayed there, committed to every motion. Kyle's breaths hitched and broke in time with his thrusts, hands sliding up his back, fingernails digging in.
“Shit, you feel good,” Kyle breathed, forehead to Simon’s temple now, lips brushing skin. “So good, Si—fuck—”
Simon made a sound, something near a growl, and rolled his hips harder, enough to punch a moan from Kyle's throat.
And then he slowed again, dragging it out and letting it burn. He wanted to give him everything, the closeness, the peace, the warmth, everything Ghost couldn't say, he could at least do this.
He kissed Kyle again, pressed his mouth against his, tender and firm.
No talk of death. No haunting what-ifs or how-sos, fucking him like it mattered more than anything else in the world.
And Kyle came apart beneath him with a low, desperate gasp, his spine arching and fingers locking tight around Simon’s arms. His whole body trembled, the pleasure riding high and deep. Like a slow wave breaking, all control slipping loose in a rush of heat and sound and the soft fuck, fuck, fuck falling from his lips.
And Simon watched him, he didn’t dare blink, didn’t breathe.
He watched the way Kyle's mouth parted, the crease of his brow, the way his eyes fluttered as he spilled between them, gasping and glowing with it. The way his chest heaved and his lips trembled. Beautiful. God, he was fucking beautiful.
Simon’s thrusts slowed to a crawl. Barely moving now. Just enough to keep that connection, keep that depth. And then he stopped entirely as Kyle came down from the high. He stayed sheathed in him, his body pressed tight, breath hot against Kyle’s jaw.
Kyle’s arms came up, wrapping around Simon’s shoulders. His fingers in his hair.
Simon stayed still and just breathed. He kissed his neck again, slower this time. Then again, just below the ear. Just staying close, staying inside, like if he left, even for a moment, the world might end.
Kyle let him hold on, cradled his head and stroked down his back, murmuring nothings, breathing with him.
After a long, quiet stretch of stillness, Kyle’s voice gently broke the silence.
“Fuck,” he said, then softer, “Simon. Hey.”
Simon didn’t look up. He kissed his neck again. Like please, not yet. Don’t make me let go.
drew out some of the first scene from this fic by @lies-unfurl !! slightly edited dialogue just to fit this in a normal amt of pages.. i love her fics and this one in particular had so many fun visuals...kind of bait for an artist lilke me haha. also im a sucker for superheroes having in-universe merch i think its soo cute.
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