The First Time Graves Used “all Y’all” In Front Of The Brits, They Had To Physically Restrain Themselves

I AM VIBRATING THIS IS SO GOOD!!!!! I JUST WANT TO TREASURE IT LIKE A RABID DOG WITH ITS CRAPPY LITTLE TOY THAT IS ITS BABY

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”

elrond: must you always attack me with words? durin: you want me to use rocks??

LotR fandom, as far as I've seen, pays an astounding lack of attention to the Fellowship's canonical Roommates Period, in which they all lived in the same house in Minas Tirith for two-and-a-half months after Aragorn's coronation simply because he wanted his friends to still be around for his wedding (which, incidentally, he refused to tell them was coming).

bagginshield moments in the hobbit trilogy:

an unexpected journey:

- bilbo was a simp for thorin the second he knocked on his door

- bilbo hearing gandalf and elrond talk about thorin in rivendell and thorin letting him hear

- thorin fully risking his life to save bilbo even tho he thinks he’s a “burden”

- bilbo being so personally hurt by thorin saying what he said, that he decides to leave (dramatic gay™️)

- thorin realizing he actually hurt bilbo and regretting having said anything (guilty gay™️)

- “why did you come back”

- bilbo saying he came back bc he wants to help thorin find a home

- bilbo being the one to intervene in thorin’s fight w azog despite never fighting before and having every excuse to stay on the tree

- he fully jumps an orc???? like twice the size of him???? to save his boyfriend????

- faces AZOG head on bc thorin wasn’t moving

- thorins first question upon waking being about whether bilbo is okay

- trying so hard to be angry at bilbo

- bilbo becoming a burden on thorins HEART rather than his mind

- “i have never been so wrong in all my life. i am sorry i doubted you.”

- the look™️ after the hug

the desolation of smaug:

- thorin and bilbo having the most willpower out of everyone in the group

- constantly joining at each other’s sides

- the look on thorins face when he realizes bilbo isn’t with them anymore

- thorin being the only one to think that bilbo would come for them

- thorin RUNNING to the cell door when bilbo appears

- bilbo looking to thorin when he asks them to trust him

- thorin being the only one who trusts bilbos judgement w the barrels

- “well done, master baggins”

- bilbo vouching for thorins character

- thorin giving him the Look™️ as bilbo speaks on his behalf

- “you have keen eyes, master baggins”

- “thorin, you can’t give up now.”

- thorin coming back as soon as bilbo calls for them

- thorin trying to dehumanize bilbo as much as possible so he “won’t care” as much about his life, being fully incapable of doing so

- bilbos FACE when thorin turns his sword on him

- thorin being able to really easily read bilbo’s expressions, even when he’s blind by greed

- thorin suggesting they all split up and taking bilbo with him

- bilbo not wanting to go with balin, and calling for thorin as he’s pulled away

- bilbo always immediately responding to thorins commands, not hesitating or doubting him for a second

- “keep going bilbo!”

battle of the five armies

- “i’ve tried talking to him, but he won’t listen.”

- the fact that bilbo took to stone because he knew what it would do to thorin, not caring if thorin found out and hated him after because he knew he was helping him

- the way thorin LOOKS at him when he shows him the acorn

- literally the Look™️

- the way bilbo relaxes under That Specific Gaze from thorin

- bilbo being the only one who cares enough to try and reason with thorin

- “you should never underestimate dwarves” ft. the Look™️

- thorin intentionally gives him one of the strongest pieces of armor they have

- “i look absurd,” “it is a gift, a token of our friendship. true friends are hard to come by.”

- never assuming for a SECOND that bilbo would be the one to betray him

- the SYMBOLISM of thorin backing away and them being separated by the other dwarves

- “i’m not afraid of thorin”

- thorins face when he realizes bilbo was the one to betray him

- bilbos voice being the only one thorin hears clearly in his head, the only voice that brings him to sense

- bilbos FACE as he says “thorin” when they finally come to fight

- thorins face when bilbo comes to warn him of the fifth army

- the Look™️

- they exchange one look and bilbo knows that he’s meant to go with thorin

- “i’m glad you’re here”

- “you’re going to live, thorin.”

- bilbo holding his hand

- “plant your tree, watch it grow”

- bilbo begging him to stay alive, whispering to him about the sky and the eagles, desperately saying his name as he dies

- cradling his body

- sobbing next to him

- standing alone at his body during the funeral, unmoving

- trying desperately not to cry, being unable to look at his body

- “i know that’s how you must honor him, but to me he was never that. he was... he was...”

- just nodding, balin knowing exactly what he wants to say but can’t bring himself to

- “who is this person you pledged your loyalty to? thorin oakenshield?”

- the Look™️

- “he... he was my friend.”

- bilbo baggins kept that map, thorins map, the for the rest of his life, for it was all he had left of a lost love

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

Phillip Graves who makes you into his perfect little wife.

It all started out on a mission in god knows where, it was a simple hostage situation. Get in, free the hostages, get out.

One of the shadows had found you after the majority of the hostages were cleared out and safe. The shadow rang in through the talkie, ‘sir, you might want to come see this one.’

And he was right.

Phillip thought you were such a darling little thing, all vulnerable, beaten and half naked. His heart clenched at the thought of what a pretty thing like you had gone through.

So, he takes you into his arms as uncharacteristically careful as he could, and brings you to safety himself.

He kept tabs on you for months after, he found your medical records, your home address, your place of work- anything he could get his grubby hands on. He called your phone a few days after you’d been released from the hospital, he just wanted to check in on you, that’s all, no need to ask how he got your number or why theres a large bouquet of roses on your front step.

It took far longer than he wished for you to agree to a date with him, but he made damn sure it was worth it. Took you to a fancy restaurant, a late night walk where he draped his blazer over your shoulders.

“This could be a regular thing, honey.”

So, it became that. Every chance he got, he took you out. He bought you pretty dresses, heels, jewelry- anything his sweet girl wanted. Then, he bought you a pretty diamond ring and gave you his last name.

There’s no doubt he refers you and him as the shadows ‘mama and daddy’ in the most unironic way that makes you roll your eyes.

════ ⋆★⋆ ════

wow I’ve been watching all of the cod ask blogs spring up almost overnight in the past week and I am LOVING this

like I’ve seen gaz, soap (x3), ghost, price, keegan, roach, nik, konig, laswell, graves, and a lot of ocs interacting too

I think this is like the fandom equivalent of a spiritual revival

Hey guys, I know no one cares but I decided to let the void know that I have successfully self-regulated myself our of an overstimularion spiral :)

Leo by TROY

Like oml this shit sends me to the heaven lol

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

Hello! I have never written any of this shit down before, or posted! So here we go, its gonna be gargabe. But its my garbage so who cares?

Anyway!

Some Cod character headcannons

Simon definently has some crazy good hygiene when off the field. Can tell you first hand that some people who grew up dirt poor hate smelling bad. Simon is one of them. He has a full shower care routine, complete with exfoliating. Skincare too, he knows what that mask could do to his skin. Its almost meditative I think. A way to wind down after missions, to ground himself.

Price who was raised in a tough household. Not abusive, or so he says, just chaotic. A constantly working father, and a mess of a mother. Younger siblings, trying to be a parent while needing one himself. It gave him one hell of a need for control, and an outlet for frustration. He left to join the military, and never looked back. Still checks in on his baby siblings from time to time, but his parents are dead to him for reasons even he doesn't want to remember. It bleeds over into how he takes care of the 141, and how well he takes orders. He craves the rigidity, and the knowledge that somone else will always at least have a plan or orders for him, something he never got as a kid.

Johnny has a fascination with soft, cozy things. After he was allowed to get an apartment and live off base, his family, mainly his mother, sisters, and grandma, helped him decorsate. The place is full of old blankets, soft pillows, and a couple old childhood stuffed animals. It may seem out of character, but this man was not raised to reject much needed comfort out of a fucked sense of masculinity. You think he cares about getting made fun of? Look at that fuckass mohawk. He does not care.

Gaz who is always, always lonely when not on a mission or on base. Sure, he has friends from before he joined up, but theres a disconnect now. A chasm that can never be crossed created by the horrors he's seen and done. He has plenty of one night stands, but never sticks around. A smaller family, and he has a hard time keeping in touch. Just lonely. Eventually he caves and goes to a veterans support group, full of old men doing various crafts and activities. He is by far the youngest one there, but he finds himself enjoying it. Gets adopted by almost all of them. And he finds that they understand very well what he is going through. Afterall, they went through it too. Price doesn't question later how Gaz knows exactly how to fix a wobbly chair using only glue and some paper, but he is glad that his soldier seems a bit happier and coping better.