angel.

about me + my posts

⠀⠀ angel⠀⠀charlie⠀⠀﹒◍ bigender⠀⠀fanfic writer⠀⠀nick <3⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

i take writing requests ; under16 DNI

i will not write graphic smut but suggestive flirting is fine to request. i post whatever im interested in at the moment, & a lotta writing

𝜗 ⠀fandoms marauders american psycho sherlock holmes call of duty the song of achilles six of crows percy jackson the secret history hannibal maurice scott pilgrim ⠀ ⠀ 🍈

note ; while i am extremely politically vocal, i am going to do my best to keep politics and anything related to current controversial events off my page.

꒰ interests baking writing ghibli movies true crime indie horror games the beginner’s guide naissanceE when the darkness comes radiohead the national minor threat rammstein interpol bear’s den jeff buckley short films grant lee buffalo reading maurice the breakfast club scott pilgrim slc punk ctrl-z punkrock⠀ 🌙

∘ my ◠◠ links !

@riotrambles on tumblr (side acc)

@ nossaintes on dc

@leftriot on c.ai

ao3 link will be coming soon

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tags; ghoap fic, simon riley, johnny mactavish, cod, ghost, soap, injury au, slight mentions of war imagery wc 514 authors note: hey guys, wrote something today. this fic is inspired fully by the song “blowin in the wind” by bob dylan. now, while i typically try to keep current events outta my writing, its bound to have some influence on how and what i write. this short fic is, yes, about johnny and simon trauma and emotional recovery and stuff, but also, it is about the violence experienced by so many people today all around the world. i want to bring as much awareness as i can to whats happening—in gaza, sudan, myanmar, ukraine, syria, and that’s just listing a few countries experiencing internal and external violence. i hope this fic inspires you to look into the things happening today, and how to help yourself and others. sorry for the longer note today! <3

˙ ✩°˖🍂⋆｡˚꩜ CANNONBALLS.

Smoke. Collapsed buildings, dry dust infecting everything. The sky gone, eaten up by tiny, greedy planes carrying pure destruction, bringing the death of thousands in a tiny compartment.

To Simon, war had such a distinct look and feel to it, uniquely equal parts revolting and satisfying. To hold a weapon in his hands and feel its weight was both comforting and deeply disturbing at once. He knew the intimate curves and dips of his favorite guns and knives, but the fact that they were, in the end, tools of terror, never escaped him. In a way, this reminder was one of a few things that kept him slightly human, slightly soft, more than just a machine with a job to do.

He had never fully accepted the mental commitment to a lifetime of death. He had tried, undoubtedly, but never had any success. He had learned to force it down, swallow the discomfort, keep shooting when his gut told him to stop, stop, stop this madness, closing his mouth when he felt he might object. It was a coward’s way of handling emotions, and somewhere far down within his soul, Simon knew something that brought a deep, overwhelming sense of dark shame: a truly brave man would not have his job at all.

Johnny’s head turned slightly, so he could eye Simon briefly, before his focus returned to the news story playing out on the television. His arm, wrapped in tight bandages, rested carelessly on the back of the tiny couch they were both settled on. He almost looked like a mismatched sock drawer; his body in shambles, bruises of all sizes dotting his rough skin, cuts scattered everywhere, his eyes holding the tired weight of a soldier who had been crushed slowly under years of grueling work. He was severely injured in a bombing mission that destroyed an entire block—a mission that nearly severed his hand, and surely severed a few lives.

Simon watched as Johnny stared forward, captivated by the gory scene on the screen in front of them. It was it, the generic setting of destruction, one so generic Simon only realized after a few moments that it was an event they had participated in. It was the mission that had resulted in Johnny’s injuries, in the streets full of crumbling buildings, in the apocalyptic spectacle of death.

“Tell me somethin’, Simon.” Johnny’s voice jolted Simon out of his thoughts.

“Go on.”

“How many times have we fired the cannon ourselves?”

Simon took a minute of silence, considering the grim question. He understood immediately what Johnny was getting at, yet he had difficulty creating a clear answer.

Finally, he settled on a reply. “…Too many.” 

Johnny breathed in deeply, his expression turning to one of genuine concern and fatigue. His face was complex, slightly irritated, hard to decipher. To Simon’s experienced eye, it conveyed one message loudly, among others: i’m a soldier, i’m a soldier, i’m a soldier.

“Then when does it stop?”

Simon swallowed. He was a hypocrite, but knew the answer.

tags: soap x ghost, johnny x simon, ghoap fic, shortfic, offduty, cod wc 627 ★ AUTHORS NOTE hey guys, i hopped off here for a while, took a break but im back again for a bit! i’m planning on rvmping my account soon (aesthetics wise, fics will still be here but will probably be better organized, also thats why this post looks different, im trying a new format for my fics) but in the meantime, enjoy some writing i did today

Vulnerability gathered, fizzed, and erupted in the strangest places, empty parking lots and quiet diners, childhood bedrooms and temporary bus stations. It was a fact of life Simon Riley knew from extensive personal experience. He had felt the most vulnerable moments not surrounded by loved ones, but alone.

He had never been brave enough to open himself up to anyone. Emotionally, he was as cowardly as a scrawny cat, tiny paws lingering at the edge of the water. Physically, he was tough and awkward, taking up too much space to allow others near.

He was perpetually stuck in a terrible middle ground—too scared to reveal too much, too experienced to let the cracks show, and too loving to even consider the possibility of burdening anyone else with his problems.

He was a complex, disgustingly human mess.

At first, Johnny MacTavish didn’t change much in Simon. He yanked a few more smiles out of the battle-hardened man, cared more for him than many other past friends and lovers, and occasionally drove him up the wall with annoyance, but still had a difficult time breaking down the wall that kept Simon’s emotions from crashing down upon himself and others.

But all walls come down with time, and Simon’s was no exception.

It happened just like all of Simon’s other vulnerable breakdowns, in a strange place seemingly caught in between two moments in reality.

The awkward dinner was real. The quiet drive back to Simon’s apartment was real. But the brief series of events that followed never felt real.

As they came to a stop in front of the location of Simon’s temporary residence, a shitty apartment complex with dim lights illuminating the area, Johnny shut off the engine of the car.

Simon’s hand made its way to the door, yet he paused, seemingly unable to open it without saying something to the man sitting silently in the driver’s seat. He opened his mouth, but found it dry and empty, devoid of words to express the odd emotions he felt.

Johnny made the first move as Simon mulled over his thoughts in his mind.

“You barely spoke tonight.”

Simon stiffened at the direct words.

“Didn’t need to.” He replied, his voice nearly a mumble.

Johnny shook his head. Simon glanced over, and in the darkness, saw for the first time—something like worry or fear lingering in the eyes of his lover.

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” Simon’s voice was immeasurably small. 

Johnny hesitated, then answered the question slowly. “Shut down like that. Makes me feel like I’ve lost you.”

Simon felt his fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, which had sat, settled comfortably by his side. He was overwhelmed, nearly torn to shreds from the inside by one simple sentence. One excruciating combination of meaningless words. The worst amalgamation created by the cruelest inventor, meant to torment him forever. The words echoed in his head, and he was at a loss for a reply for a moment.

“You didn’t.” It was the only answer that he could come up with.

“Then look at me.” Johnny’s gentle demand startled Simon, whose eyes flitted around the small car before finally settling on Johnny’s face. It was too vulnerable. The moment was, to Simon, like a flickering candle, able to be put out by a single breath.

“There you are.” Johnny breathed out softly, the few words barely heard by Simon, as their eyes met. Slow and clumsy, Johnny’s rough hands found the other man’s shoulders, then his neck, and then his jaw. Simon tilted his head back just slightly, allowing Johnny more exposed skin to work with.

Here I am, Simon agreed, as Johnny’s fingers unhurriedly traced their way up his scarred face.

yes, this one is lazy. i’m currently working on a longer ghoap fic dw (already at 1.5k words yay) where simon n johnny go on a lil road trip. anyhow for my soc/ck fans <3

186 wc

Matthias Helvar woke, after nearly falling asleep for the second time that night, to find himself completely exposed to whatever dangers might have lay past the foot of the spacious bed he shared with the cause of his unfortunate predicament: his girlfriend, Nina Zenik. He grumbled, rolled over, and saw her, wrapped in the thick blankets that previously kept both of them snug and warm. 

“You’ve stolen all the blankets again.” He muttered softly, as he tried and failed to tug one of the blankets out of Nina’s grasp. 

“Didn’t steal them… They migrated to me for warmth.” Her sleepy mumble went straight to Matthias’ heart. He had to try a different approach.

“I’m freezing.” He prodded her gently, hoping for some sort of merciful response. He got nothing in reply but a tired groan and on second try, an annoyed huff. 

“You’re from Fjerda. This should be your element.” Nina rolled the blankets into a tighter ball around herself, encasing her body in a warm cocoon. He knew not to argue any further. 

guess what time it is??? fuck yeah, the holidays are finally rolling around. (i’m spending christmas alone buried in unfinished work and stress but its gonna be alright)

simon is overwhelmed every year by regular christmas festivities. the warmth, the noise, the unexpected coziness of it all, never ceases to surprise him.

they exchange “gifts” without ever talking about it. johnny cleans simon’s gear, and simon fixes johnny’s watch strap. or something like that.

as soon as december rolls around every year, johnny starts humming carols under his breath, off-key and low. simon grumbles yet lets him continue.

simon has a history of bad christmases. johnny doesn’t prod, but every year he tries his best to make sure the holidays don’t bring simon down.

simon prefers small traditions. one tree, one set of lights, one quiet night. johnny adapts instinctively.

they talk a little more around the holidays. conversations become more than “you a’ight?”, and slowly morph into talks about family, memories, anything and everything.

simon keeps every single christmas card johnny ever gave him safe in a particular box.

our last night together ( ghost x soap )

teen!au ghoap drabble inspired by the song our last night together by arthur russell. dw the fic isnt sad, the names just a bit misleading

527 words . . . !

Simon Riley’s sixth form years were filled with slow school days that dragged their heavy feet across the concrete, drunken evenings with strangers, and a lot of Johnny MacTavish’s idiotic face. It wasn’t the best time of his life, but it came in at a close second. Despite his father’s persisting rage at home, Simon was, in a way, happy.

Of course, he wasn’t happy with his life, family, or potential future. But if you were to ask 17-year-old Simon how he felt about everything, he’d say “s’alright”, and that was great. It only got worse as time wore on, and “alright” was practically the same as “wonderful” from a lad like Simon at the time.

One November evening, Johnny had his hands on Simon’s shoulders as he made his best attempt at communicating clearly with a drunk and tired man. Dim lights flashed and a loud rendition of some song Simon swore he knew played over the yelling and chatter of people running around and making out in dark corners. A blonde girl with her hands on a massive hunk of a guy pushed past Johnny and Simon, forcing them apart briefly. Johnny complained while Simon kept his mouth shut. This scene was one he was quite familiar with.

Moments later, Simon felt Johnny grab his arm—or his shoulder, or his neck, he truly wasn’t sure what body part the other boy had taken hold of—and lead him towards a small room. As the door shut behind both of them, Simon blinked and a simple realization came to him slowly. He was in a bathroom. His body felt heavy and sluggish as Johnny shoved him gently to the wall. He could hear him mutter something along the lines of “bloody hell, you’re heavier than ya look..” He fell, his warm skin touching the cool tiled floor, and slumped against the wall.

“This room’s spinnin.’” Simon muttered. He was failing to locate anything in the room but Johnny and the bathtub.

“That’s your brain crying for help.” Johnny replied, shaking his head in slight amusement.

Simon shut his eyes. In his head, Johnny’s voice was nearly as deafening as the booming music outside. “…You’re loud.”

“We’re at a party full of people who scream when they talk and I’m the problem?” Johnny asked jokingly. Simon’s eyes focused on the other man’s fingers as they twisted open the cap of a plastic water bottle.

“No… you’re loud in my head.” He admitted honestly. He didn’t feel like lying to his best friend at the moment, as he laid with his back to a bathroom wall in the home of a person he hardly knew.

Johnny paused, his fingers freezing on the lid as it came loose. For a moment, he stayed silent. His eventual response was slow and accompanied by a quiet laugh.

“…Not sure what that means.”

Simon didn’t clarify. He didn’t quite know what he meant either—maybe, Johnny was just too loud and that was it. But the more pressing possibility that occurred to Simon was he simply thought about Johnny so much his voice had become engrained in his mind.

That idea scared him immensely.

hey guys.. sorry i forgot about halloween and fall stuff but im doing it now so its a-okay

könig absolutely adores fall. he loves the changing leaves, the quiet mornings, the frequent rain. he feels less out of place when the world feels like it’s slowing down for a while.

he wears overzised hoodies (which are difficult to find for someone his size) and thick knit socks around the house.

he wakes up early to make tea while the sky is still grey and misty.

he doesn’t really celebrate thanksgiving, but he loves being able to feed people he cares about. he often spends hours in the kitchen trying to figure out how to make the perfect roast veggies or stuffing.

he gets bashful when people compliment his cooking, shaking his head and muttering “it’s just roasted potatoes, not special.”

he collects little autumn trinkets, like pinecones and pretty leaves and lines them along the windowsill.

he keeps an extra pair of gloves in his jacket when you go out with him in case you forget yours.

before he met you, könig never understood halloween. he never went trick-or-treating as a kid, due to a lack of friends. however, he came to love carving pumpkins and baking treats with you.

he answers the door for trick-or-treaters in a full costume that covers his face, usually some gentle monster or knight. kids in the neighborhood love him.

he bakes spiced breads and cookies in complete silence, focused like he’s defusing a bomb. he always refuses to eat the first batch because he’s comvinced they probably turned out “wrong.” you always try them, and they’re always fantastic.

caffeine, baby! ( keegan x reader )

hey guys this is an old drabble i never got around to posting. its basically just a silly hc about keegan russ

199 words . . . !

You and your boyfriend, Keegan, could both easily agree on one thing: you two had vastly different tastes when it came to coffee. And you both thought the other was crazy for taking their daily dose of caffeine the way they do. 

Keegan was a simple man; straight, black coffee all the way. It was straightforward, required no hassle, and wasn’t overly complicated. He never understood people who read out coffee orders the length of his typical grocery list at the local cafe. 

You, on the other hand, were a little different. You despised how bitter Keegan’s coffee was, and could never understand how he could drink such an abomination every single damn day; his unwavering loyalty to black coffee never failed to amaze you. 

Keegan’s reaction to your coffee order was similar. 

He lifted a brow, eyeing you, almost suspiciously. “You want… three sugars and cinnamon?” You were almost surprised his expression wasn’t one of complete horror.

“Yes.” You answered, deadpan.

He sighed and shook his head, then reached into his bag and handed the barista a few bills. “You’re a menace.”

You rolled your eyes, your reply coming quick and blunt. “And you’re allergic to good coffee.”