Blurbs Save Me

A side blog for all of my new writing stuff, because I feel like it gets lost to my reblogs on my og account.

All of my old writing will stay under my og account [ @sirbonesly ], but it will still be linked here!

Call of Duty

Formula One

The Long Walk

Thomas Universe

🦴 anon asks

M*A*S*H*

Simon runs and runs and runs, his pants tearing on the branches of trees and shrubs that have sprouted in the dirt paths that he once ran free on. His body burns, his still healing arm making it so much harder to stay steady as his head pounds, but Simon doesn't stop until he sees it.

The place is barely standing, settled between two edges of a forest that have begun to reclaim it. Trees and bushes and other foliage grow up through the burned remains of a house that was never a home, the lake reflecting a time when this house was alive. Simon can remember the four times he entered that lake.

He was 10 years old, laughing as his mother chased him around the backyard. Tommy is in his playpen by the porch, laughing at them while chewing on his toys. There had been a bug, Simon doesn't remember what kind, just that it was big and in his face. His mother had laughed so hard when Simon had screamed and fallen back into the lake, still able to sit up in the water. The bug flew off quickly, and Simon's joy had returned quickly as his mother joined him in the lake to get her ankles wet.

It was the following summer when Simon entered the lake again. He remembers how the water filled his lungs, how he tried to scream for his mother, nails scraping at the strong hand holding him down. There was a beer bottle floating in the water next to him, and Simon remembers seeing the blue label before he passed out. His father loved that brand.

He waded into the water for Tommy's sake, the graduation party in full swing as people jumped into the lake and yelled and had fun. Tommy grabbed his hands, pulled him as far as Simon would allow, barely knee deep in the water. Simon smiled, sipped his beer quietly as Tommy and a few boys wrestled in the murky water with each other, pushing down his fear and panic each time Tommy's head disappears under the water.

Three weeks later, when he's finally able to come home again, Simon is in the lake again, his knuckles bloody and party streamers still floating on the surface. Tommy is inside, a broken nose and bruised ribs and familiar cuts on his arm from a beer bottle with a blue label. The body floats in the water, face still twisted with rage even in death, and Simon can't find sympathy to mourn the death of a man he could never call 'dad'.

With a broken arm, it's hard for Simon to traverse the burned ruins of his old life, memories bombarding him with every room he walks through. He doesn't stop though, moving forward, one foot after another, his hand bracing against ash covered walls, until he reaches his room. It had become Tommy's room after Simon moved out, there are still books hidden beneath the bed, burned and falling apart. Simon can't look at it.

He curls onto the floor, his skin staining black and white from the charred remains, and removes his shirt. If he were 5 years old again, his father would be in the room with him, dark brown eyes and blonde hair, a nose that matches his son's. Simon looks up, can see the memory in front of him, flinching as he feels the decades old pain of a belt buckle scarring his skin. His eyes close, and the clear memory of his father twists, that vitriolic voice wavering until it's a thicker accent, blue eyes staring down at him.

"Stop squirming, son."

Simon can feel the knife in his back, how the blade was traced so delicately on his skin, the handle traded back and forth between the two men he trusted the most. Somewhere in his mind is a burning fire, a pit that is swallowing his memories and jumbling them up. Roba, Price, his father, Nikolai. The memories all ripple and shake until one man becomes the other and they all shift between time.

The blade is cold against his skin and shaking, Simon's hand trying to hold steady as he slices through the tissue of his body. It's an awkward angle, using his left hand to feel for the scarred lettering, his right hand gliding the blade into himself. Guilt and grief and anger, so much anger, builds in his chest like a war drum hammering against his ribcage. The blood seeps down his wrists, his arms, staining the floors of a home covered in blood.

The letters on his back disappear, mutilated beyond recognition, and yet.

Ghost can't take it, can't handle the way his body doesn't feel like his own anymore, too many scars that he can't remember getting, covering him in so many places. Cuts on his arms, the still healing hole in his cheek, burns littered across his stomach. Every time he sees himself in the mirror, Ghost flinches away with a grimace.

The only thing keeping him sane are the two men currently wrapped around him, cigar smoke and jet fuel burning in his nose. Nikolai and Price have been taking care of him, but only they can answer the questions Ghost has.

"Can... can you tell me about them?"

Neither man has to ask what Ghost is talking about, giving each other a quick glance before slowly descending upon him. They kiss and rub each line, each raised keloid and burn, over Simon's stomach and arms and then tuning him onto his back. When the two men reach the bottom of Simon's back, kissing over two nearly identical scars, they share a fond smile.

"I remember these, don't you Nik? The lad was still a sergeant back then, and he squirmed so much we had to tie him down."

Price says it with a laugh, kissing over the 'J' carved delicately into Simon's lower left back, thumb brushing over the 'N' that matches it on the right, not noticing how the air shifts. But Nikolai does, he can feel the way Simon tenses up, and hears the hitch of Simon's breath that always comes right before the tears.

"... what?"

They haven't heard Simon like this, not even when the man showed up on Price's stoop looking like a corpse. His voice shakes with unshed tears, turning his head to look at the two of them over his shoulder. Despite the bruised ribs still healing and his left arm still in a cast, Simon moves quicker than his superiors.

lavender and viridian green!!!

send me questions! Please!

Honestly, you don't know what you were thinking when you decided to go for a late night run, but getting pulled off the side of the road and tossed into a truck should've been expected.

The drive was... well, you don't really know how long you were blindfolded, but the constant bumping and jostling means a dirt road. The first few hours of captivity are a blur of pain and crying and tears and a lot of blood from your leg.

Your missing leg.

Ghost bandages you up, keeps you fed and warm when you quietly speak up, voice shaking as you try not to look at the stump of bloody bandages.

"Wh-why are you doing this?"

His eyes sweep over you, patting the rag against your sweaty forehead with such gentle care. He doesn't answer you, but as you shiver from the cool breeze coming in through the window, he pulls the blanket up to your chin.

Time passes weirdly. Between the odd meal hours, and the fact you keep passing out from pain and blood loss, you're not able to accurately gauge how long you've been here. Ghost hasn't cut off any other limb yet, but there's dried blood under your entire body, evidence of previous people.

Your hopes of rescue dwindle by the hour, and eventually, routine sets in. At dawn, Ghost leaves the cabin with a simple look towards the straps around your wrists and ankle. He returns several hours later, usually with some small dead animals, or sometimes with take out food (your favourite order too). He feeds you the food, wiping you clean with whatever rags he has, but never slipping into your pants.

By the ninth day (if your guessing is right), you finally gain the courage to speak again. You wait for him to come back with food, a few rabbits tied around his waist, before tugging slightly on the leather straps holding you down.

"C-can we go for a walk?"

Ghost's eyes turn dark with distrust, hand wrapping around the cleaver on the table, metal glinting in the light of the lamp. Betrayal is written all over his face, genuine and almost scared.

"I'll need help to walk... ma-maybe you could carry me?"

You don't want to die. Sure, you didn't exactly have anyone that would miss, except for a fish that your neighbour takes care of more than you. But you'd like to think someone is missing you, that your presence has made a difference in someone's life.

Except, as you lean your weight into Ghost's side, his arm holding you up by the waist, you can't stop your body from leaning into the warmth of him. He's the only human contact you've had in over a week, maybe more if you haven't kept a good track, and the solitude is painful. Even with his hand wrapped tightly around the chain that hooks to a leather collar, keeping you close to him at all times when you shift to using a crutch, you feel the freedom he's allowing you.

You're not sure why Ghost has spared you, and distantly, you wonder if death would be better. But when he turns his back to lock the door, hands fiddling with the metal padlock and chain, you don't run. Your eyes scan the horizon, the beautiful forest, the smoke of a campfire rising not too far away, and your attention focuses on it. The smoke, still dark and probably two or so miles away, rises above the trees like a beacon. People are out there in those woods, humans that have phones or maybe weapons.

"They shouldn't be having a fire in the woods, it's the dry season."

Behind you, Ghost smiles with a proud satisfaction, sliding up next to you and unhooking the chain from your collar.

okay, okay.

so, my favourite ship of all time from ANY star trek series is:

B'Elanna Torres/Tom Paris/Harry Kim

now look, B'Elanna and Tom are one in my top 5 of ships as just them, but add in Harry and you've struck gold

He's Tom's best friend, and honestly, he gives a lot of advice to Tom when it comes to the relationship so, i'll give some head canons as to how they all got together

B'Elanna is the one that originally brought anything up. Being half Klingon, she's used to being blunt and a bit rude when it comes to how oblivious humans can be.

When she saw how Tom would relax near Harry (smth he only did with her) and how easily Harry would adjust whatever he was doing to involve Tom somehow, B'Elanna started planning

After the whole prison thing, Harry and Tom were even closer, didn't want to let each other out of their sight. It was only common sense for them both to sleep in the same room, and while B'Elanna wasn't happy about to begin with, she'd seen the first few nightmares Tom had about losing Harry.

Harry slept on the floor to begin with, but after finding Tom there almost every morning, limbs wrapped around his best friend, B'Elanna finally just dragged Harry into the bed one night.

Waking up with both B'Elanna and Tom wrapped around him, Harry slept through a full night for the first time in days. It was also B'Elanna s most restful sleep that she's gotten, knowing Tom is happy now.

Sure, B'Elanna may have been the first to point blank ask Harry out, the evolution had happened without any of them realising. It was only during a shower did B'Elanna have the thought, "Tom would love to join me. Harry too."

So of course, she didn't bother talking to Tom about it, knowing that Tom would deny anything that made it seem like he wasn't enough for B'Elanna

When B'Elanna had asked Harry to join her and Tom on a date (during the middle of work, mind you) Harry had agreed without thinking, sounding just a little too eager.

His life in the military is over, body too warped and broken to continue the rigorous activity. It doesn't make Price happy, but Simon hasn't seen him happy in a long time, so he's not worried about it

The silence is the hardest part. Laying on a cot he stole from base before leaving, staring up at the ceiling, listening to every little creak of the floor above him. Ghost can sleep during the day, has learnt to ignore the hustle and bustle of noise. But during the night, when everyone else is supposed to be asleep, he can't help his paranoia surrounding the strange noises.

So, he gets a job. Starting at 1700, Simon clocks into the warehouse on the edge of town. His body is all creaking joints and scar tissue, the man that hired him said it's perfect to ward off anyone that might cause trouble. And Simon finds purpose in his work, his broken body suddenly useful again.

He works nights, moving boxes of packaged goods from ships and onto pallets and into trucks. It's good for his body, keeps him in shape, but doesn't make him feel like dead weight the next day. The job is also where he meets you.

As a retired firefighter, you're looking for the same kind of thing he is:

A reason to keep going.

You're younger than he is, able to run circles around him even with your arms loaded up, but he can see the cracks. You show less skin than he does, and you never talk, though you're more caring than most people he's met. Simon can't help but be intrigued

His name slips off Simon's tongue with honey dripping from the corners of his mouth, manchester accent making the "k" come out slurred. The widows peak is what Simon's eyes are able to focus on first, how the hairline juts out with the thick, black stands. He's able to drag his eyes down, warm brown eyes and a nose that's been crooked back into place after too many breaks, chapped lips that are stained with blood from chewing on the loose skin.

"Nik..."

The man hums, somewhere between amusement and questioning, tilting Simon's head back to wash the suds from his matted hair. Simon says nothing, eyes fluttering closed as warm water cascades down his back, over the plastic that's wrapped tightly around his ribs and his left arm and both legs. It's to protect the bandages that he's covered in, but that doesn't mean Simon is anymore comfortable wearing it.

"M'fine."

Lies. The words sting his throat as they come out, barbed and trying to catch on his tongue, but Simon spits it out anyways with a cough. Blood speckles his hand, and distantly, he recalls biting his tongue somewhere between the entry hall and the bath. Nikolai makes an agreeing noise, like Simon is a child saying that he's going to run away. Disbelieving and yet letting Simon keep his pride.

The words don't stop Nikolai from pulling the drain on the tub, wrapping a towel around Simon's head to soak up the water from his hair, and then another around his shivering body. Between one blink and the next, carried in arms that feel like safety, there's warm and fluffy blankets beneath him– well, beneath Nik's lap that he's sitting on– and Simon melts into the warmth. Nikolai takes a brush to Simon's hair, using a needle ended handle to start untangling the mats that have formed after so many weeks spent in his own filth.

"Sleep. I will wake you to eat."

what if Simon and Kyle held hands.

on the field and on base, Gaz is nothing but professional and polite. He'll smile and charm and woo his way through conversations with people that don't respect him, and he does it easily. But around his team? Gaz is blunt, he's ranting about the "righteous" path they're on, complaining about all of the wrong and evil in the world. And the team listens with only half of their attention, already used to these rants.

Ghost watches and waits, much less professional about his lover, his pants tight and his cock aching as he watches Gaz get fired up. He drags the sergeant into a supply closet, worships him while Gaz continues to rant. The only hold Gaz has is the way his fingers grip into Ghost's hair and mask, head tossed back as he finally loses his train of thought.

But off of base? When Simon and Kyle set up tenuous dates and hesitantly brushing their hands against each other, it's blushing faces and soft words. Kyle makes the first move, hooking his pinkie with Simon's ring finger, the blonde man missing his last finger.

You keep flirting with him, small comments here and there about how strong Gaz is, or how pretty his skin looks when it catches the sun. And the entire time, Gaz just cringes internally and keeps building the king sized bed frame, the one going next to the crib.

Gaz doesn't have the heart to tell you to stop, but he feels so fucking guilty about letting someone's spouse flirt with him.

He's setting up the baby's crib, and at the same time, you're commenting about the new bar that opened up down the street, when finally he's had enough

"Look, maybe we just got off on the wrong foot, but I don't think it's appropr-"

"We're here! Traffic was a fucking nightmare, you would not believe it."

Gaz is stunned into silence by the arrival of two people, one of them holding a baby. They a smile with you before giving him a look like he's missed out on a joke.

You're a friend of the family.

Gaz learns during introductions that you're just helping out, and that you're single, as your friend quickly points out. By the time you're getting ready to leave, most of the house fully unpacked, Gaz follows behind you with a sheepish expression.

"So... I hear that new bar might be pretty good, if you want to go grab a drink with me."

"Only if you can keep up, pretty boy."

You didn't think about seeing any other soldiers at the club, the dim lights and warm hues casting shadows across your skin and making the harness your wearing shine. It's been so long since you've been stationed long enough to even find a good bdsm club, but you're happy to be back in the scene finally.

Except, you didn't expect to see your lieutenant and fellow sergeant at the club, both of them dressed in proper attire. Riley is on his knees wearing nothing but a cock ring and a harness with a leash. Edging closer from your position at the bar, it's obvious to see that Garrick is using his mouth, dick entered into the hole of Riley's cheek that you've only ever caught glimpses of. Garrick himself is dressed fairly simple, a buttoned dress shirt and some grey slacks, but you can just barely see the hint of a chest harness like your own.

They saw you the moment you walked in, had been waiting for you to venture over to them. It didn't feel as awkward as you thought it would be, sitting next to Garrick and watching as Riley's tongue works around the thick cock stuffed into his cheek, his mouth hanging open and unused. Garrick guides your hand to Riley's hair, shows you how to tug at certain spots and how his body jerks.

It's somewhere between Garrick asking you to call him Kyle, and Ril- Simon moving to lay his head on your lap instead, that you end up sitting on Kyle's thigh. You're not sure exactly how you got there, too many sweet words clouding your mind, unable to think straight when Simon is nosing at your dick.

"Just relax, sweet thing. He doesn't bite, not when you're with me."

Simon's skills on the field aren't his only talents. The mutt is wicked with his tongue, and seeing yourself enter his mouth, only to exit from his cheek, is like a taser to the back. Everything feels like electricity, your hands grabbing at Kyle's slacks, his cock rubbing against the soft fabric of your pants, all of it has your brain turning into a puddle.

When you cum, it's with Kyle's lips against your ear and his dog's tongue lapping at the base of your cock. White seed spills onto Simon's face through the hole in his cheek, and the sight has you blacking out for just a moment, coming back just as Simon finishes licking you clean.

thinking about Lance and Fernando, after the China GP, sitting in their hotel room together. The team have long since come to understand that whatever those two have is complicated. They won't name it, and hell, they shouldn't have to. But now, Lance is sitting on the bed, his fingers working into the sun-damaged skin of his idol his teammate his lover Fernando's hand. He massages the muscles, tries to help prevent the threat of nerve damage that looms over them both, over the entire team.

It was a bad race, the date they gathered tells the engineers nothing they didn't already know. The car is a fucking death machine that will end not just the racers' careers if it's not fixed. So Lance does what he can. He buys top of the line compression gloves, wrist braces, joint creams, anything that might help. While Fernando protests it all, sits alone after every practice session with retirement on his mind, he still indulges Lance. He has to, Nando can't stand to see the way Lance's eyes will dull with a resigned acceptance of refusal, the younger man so used to it after a lifetime.

When Lance is done with his massage, the cream absorbed into Fernando's skin, he'll pull the hand of his everything his lover his soulmate teammate up to his mouth and let his lips linger. It's a ritual at this point, and Fernando soaks it in, turning his hand over to cup Lance's jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble that's grown over the last few days. He likes when Lance grows out his beard, even if Lance himself doesn't. Fernando takes the joint cream from mi amor ml todo mi encanto Lance with his other hand, setting it on his lap so he can use both hands to guide Lance closer, pulling and nudging until the younger man is settled between Nando's legs.

John grew up rich, though he won't be quick to admit that. Dinners were a chance to prove himself, given a short moment at the beginning of dinner, as the oldest child, to speak about what he'd accomplished that day. Vacations were plentiful through the year, and whatever schooling he'd missed was made up through tutors. But the one thing his mother beat into him and his siblings, the one thing she would compliment them on, were table manners.

By the time John could talk, he'd already learnt which fork to pick up for salads, oysters, fish, poultry, or dessert. Even when his mother would switch them around, John was sharp. Ophelia Price would not allow one of her children to become the target of rumours and gossip within the circles of women. Her method of teaching was sharp words and pointed looks, quelling any arguments her children may have had.

When John first met Nikolai, it wasn't in some seedy pub or in an off the map safe house. No, it was over dinner at an upscale restaurant that served Russian food. Kate Laswell had been the one to suggest the place, called it "equal ground". Just as John had been taught, the forks and spoons were all laid out in order of use, an easy trick for the lesser men who tried to fake their status. He'd expected Nikolai to be one of those people, based only on looks and general attitude.

Ghost, who doesn't feel human most days. His body creaks, his skin itches and stretches weirdly, parts of him don't function how they should. He's learnt to push past the embarrasment of Gaz removing his diaper, how much they have to prepare for sex just so it's not a mess. Most importantly, Ghost can push past the way his body doesn't feel like his own. Every glance in a mirror comes with a wince, or some phantom pain in an old break that never healed right.

He's the one to ask Gaz for it. Begging between gasped sobs while being cradled so gently, pleasure overriding any shame or guilt. He shouldn't be asking Gaz to do this, to hurt him. And still, Gaz agrees.

The blade slides unevenly across the old scars on Ghosts body, and yet the pain isn't what makes Simon cry. No, tears slip down his cheeks and wet the pillow because, after every cut, Kyle whispers the same thing.

"My beautiful love... bleeding for me, under my hands..."

Simon needs to repay it, needs to help his lover just as Kyle has done for him. And the answer is obvious, the silk fabric of a navy blue blindfold feeling like an anchor in Simon's chest. But Kyle had assured him, setting out a plan and progression chart, just as he'd done for Simon's body. The structure feels nice, and over the course of weeks, Kyle and Simon work through the body with the silk fabric.

Laying it on Kyle's chest.

Wrapping it around one wrist.

A loose knot that hold Kyle's hands to the headboard, one that has to be retied with every small tug from the man.

Then finally, Simon ties the blindfold around Kyle's eyes, both of them standing in the middle of his barracks. They're between missions, a scant few days to themselves before going on a duo op in the middle of nowhere.

It's a challenge to explain to Price why Ghost is in the infirmary with a bruised rib and a dislocated shoulder without completely delving into their sex life. It's an even bigger challenge for Gaz to pull the blindfold back out nearly two month later.

His hands shake, gloves masking the feeling of the silk, but not the way his breath comes out in little gasps. Kyle sits on the bed, slips between Simon's legs, back against the chest of someone he trusts more than himself. Both of them are fully clothed, only the skin of their necks and faces exposed, a movie is playing on Kyle's laptop next to them. And then Simon takes the blindfold from him, lifts it up with whispered words, letting the silk glide up the bridge of Kyle's nose and brush against his ears.

"I 'ave you, safe here with me, yeah? Nobody but me to touch ya."

The darkness envelops Kyle, and panic settles into his skin like an itch he can't get rid of. But the chest behind him rises and falls with steady breath, arms not wrapping around Kyle or holding him, the laugh-track of the movie filling his ears. Under it, just barely audible, is the huff of breath from Simon, always following a dumb joke or visible comedy that Kyle can't see.

You're friends had thought it was weird when you mentioned it. Letters to service members is something that school kids do, not 20 something year old university students trying to get a not-very-worth-it scholarship for the upcoming year. But, money is tight and there's no real harm in sending the letters.

The name you get in the mail is Simon Riley. He's older, a leftenant, and not likely to respond. You send the letter anyways, rambling on about your classes, the shitty job at Tesco, the even shittier neighbour upstairs that stomps around all day and eyes you up when you bring in groceries.

You send one letter every week, following the scholarship's guidelines to a T. Each letter is only a few pages, mostly complaining about shitty people at work, your neighbour, and classes. By the third month, you've come to enjoy the letters, thinking of them more as diaries. Sure, maybe you shouldn't mention the name of your school, or describe your walk to work, but what's the harm?

You practically celebrate when you get a new upstairs neighbour, not realising that his flat has been empty since the third letter talking about his wandering hands. The promotion at work comes as a surprise, but you've been working there for nearly three years, so maybe it was just about time. Nevermind the way your boss avoids you, sends other people to relay messages to you, as if he's terrified of you.

When classes start back up, the scholarship is completed technically. You stop sending the letters as course loads pile up, your spares time dwindling to nothing more than a quick nap between classes. It's almost easy to forget that you spent three and a half months talking to a stranger in the military.

That is, until a letter comes in the mail, the little photo attached to the blood stained letter showing a body on a metal table. You know that body, know how that face twists up with a sleazy smile anytime he sees you, how his hands feel against your waist as he "squeezes by" you in the wide hall. There are bloody fingers just at the edge of the photo, a knife still lodged into the chest of your upstairs neighbour. You read the letter, sweat beading on your skin, heart racing in your chest as you sit on your bed.

"Does this have milk in it?"

"Is there any way to get double meat in this?"

"What are the exact calories of this meal?"

So many questions that could be answered by reading the fucking pamphlet, and yet people want to ask you of all people. You, who feels so tired that each blink makes the seconds pass a little too quickly.

It doesn't help that your coworker seems to be brain dead, barely filling enough containers of food to meet the daily quota. You're working double time to make up for him, knowing that you'll be the one taking any heat.

The door opening is what draws your attention, eyes tracking the imposing figure of your new boss. Upper management hadn't even told you anything about a new boss until this morning, said the new owner would be touring the building and meeting with everyone.

You just hadn't expected him to be so... cute.

Mutton chop beard and a boonie hat covering his hair, the man looks to be somewhere in his late 40s, maybe his early 50s. Your eyes trail after him as the man goes around the room, quietly greeting people with a cherubic smile and firm handshake. By the time he gets around to you and your coworker, you're still trying to blink away the sleep that threatens to take you.

"John Price, it's a pleasure to meet my new employees."

His grip is firm around your hand, that smile gaining the slightest edge as you nod and give your own name. Your coworker is... nowhere to be found. Again. You let out a long sigh, running a hand down your face.

"I don't know where he went, Mr Price. But I promise, I'll make the daily quota."

For some reason, John doesn't look mad, not like your old boss used to be. He only nods, mutters something under his breath as he moves away to the next group of people.

The next day, news spreads to you that your coworker has been fired, and someone new is here to replace him. Simon Riley does his job well, even outpacing you. Suddenly, the daily quota is filled by lunch, and it leaves you with plenty of time to nap in the break room.

John is strangely nice, paying to have granola bars and fruit snacks supplied. He gave you and Simon matching water bottles, the straws similar to a child's sippy cup. Not that you're complaining with how often you drop the thing. When a new couch is put in the break room, John makes it clear that you can use it for as many naps as you want.

"Need my favourite employee sharp and steady at work."

Safe to say, coming to work doesn't put quite as much dread in your stomach anymore