Feeling Bad For My Professors Because This Is How My Papers Look Like

Soft fluffy tooth rotting Ghoap thought that became a mini fic

Johnny gets put on concussion protocol after a mission. A bad knock to the head, the kind that leaves his vision fuzzy and his mood worse. Medical sends him on leave, off-base and under strict orders to rest. Lights stay off in the flat for days. Curtains drawn. No TV. No music. No cellphone. No work. Just the painkillers, cold water, and the occasional muttered curse when the neighbor’s car alarm goes off.

And Simon—God bless him—is a ghost around the place. Quiet as a shadow, moving through rooms like he’s on recon, not just bringing tea or folding laundry. He cooks in silence, cleans without fanfare, and makes sure Johnny takes his meds on time. Johnny doesn’t have to ask for a thing.

The rain tapping against the window still makes Johnny hiss some days, the light of the fridge makes him squint, but Simon never pushes. Just offers a warm hand and a whispered “You alright, Johnny?” when the migraines hit worst.

And Johnny—dramatic, daft bastard that he is—soaks it all up. He rests, yes, but he also notices. The careful way Simon tucks the blankets around his feet. The way he keeps to soft shirts, no zippers, no buttons, so the quiet isn't broken when he moves. The way he presses one soft kiss to Johnny’s hair each night and thinks Johnny’s already asleep.

So, naturally, Johnny does what any self-respecting man in love would do under these circumstances.

He fakes his own death.

Well, not really. But he does lie dramatically limp and still on top of the duvet, arms flopped out like he’s in a Shakespeare play.

It’s a Tuesday afternoon. Simon’s just come home with groceries and chicken soup ingredients. And Johnny thinks it’s time he got a little extra affection. He has been through a traumatic brain injury, after all.

Simon pads into the room a few minutes later, that low, soothing voice he’s been using all week curling around the words: “You wanna eat, Johnny?”

Johnny doesn't twitch. He keeps his breathing slow and even, though his lips are fighting to stay straight.

Simon doesn’t push, just assumes he's sleeping again. He sets the food down and walks in closer, brushing a hand gently along Johnny’s knee. “Food’ll get cold,” he tries, coaxing but quiet.

Still nothing.

Simon stands there for a beat too long. Then his chest shifts with a breath that’s a little sharper than the rest, barely audible. He leans down, carefully, fingers soft against Johnny’s jaw, brushing over cheek and temple. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just a few bites, yeah?”

Still, no movement.

And then Simon’s jaw ticks. Something in him flickers. Worry, sharp and sudden. The kind that grips the spine and squeezes. He leans in closer, too close to dodge, taps Johnny’s face again, firmer now, a touch of urgency. “Johnny.”

And that's when Johnny strikes.

Arms snap up, legs curl around Simon’s waist like a fucking koala, and he yanks the poor man down with him—Simon lets out a startled grunt—only to get a mouthful of laughing, smug Scotsman pressing a kiss right to his lips.

Simon blinks, wide-eyed and floored. Johnny just grins, stupid and pleased, still holding him tight. “Caught you.”

“Mm."

“Yooohhh were worried,” Johnny sing-songs, clearly delighted. “Felt the panic settin' in. You were picturing my obituary, weren't you?”

Simon doesn’t even deny it, just sighs, long and put-upon, forehead pressed against Johnny’s. “You’re lucky you’re still concussed or I’d drop you.”

“I knew you cared,” Johnny whispers dramatically, then kisses him again, softer this time.

And Simon, despite himself, melts right into it...

They stay there for a beat—Simon braced awkwardly over him, caught between exasperation and affection, and Johnny clinging like a barnacle, head tilted back against the pillow with the smuggest smile in Scotland.

“You’re a child,” Simon murmurs, but there’s no heat behind it.

“A very injured child,” Johnny corrects, fluttering his lashes for good measure. “One in dire need of affection.”

Simon rolls his eyes, but his hand’s already smoothing over Johnny’s side, tucking under the hem of his shirt to check for warmth. “You need to eat.”

Johnny hums. “I need you to cuddle with me. My head still hurts. Emotionally. Spiritually. And a little physically.”

“You faked being unconscious, Johnny.”

“I said I was injured!”

Simon huffs out a breath, like he's two seconds from laughing. “We’re eating first.”

“Fine,” Johnny relents, but not without a dramatic sigh. “But I wanna eat in bed.”

Simon raises a brow. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” Johnny says, already smug again. “My body’s weak. You said that. Fragile. Like a Victorian maiden. Don’t you want to be my sturdy war husband and bring me soup in bed?”

Simon does laugh at that. Just once, quiet and dry, before leaning down and kissing Johnny’s forehead. “Alright, love."

A few minutes later, they’re tucked under the blankets again—tray balanced on Johnny’s lap, bowl of soup in Simon’s hand, one spoon shared between them even though they definitely own more. Johnny rests his head on Simon’s shoulder between bites.

And when the food’s finally gone and the dishes are abandoned on the nightstand for Future Simon to worry about, Johnny snuggles in closer with a groan.

“You said cuddling,” he mumbles into Simon’s shirt.

“I meant it,” Simon replies, already shifting to pull Johnny into his arms.

Quiet falls and the rain starts up again outside, but Johnny doesn't flinch quite so hard.

[Talking about William]

John: You should date him!

Sherlock: Why?

John: You guys would be cute together!

Sherlock: So I'm not cute by myself?!!!

Obito awakened his Sharingan while he was protecting Kakashi and Sasuke did when he was protecting Naruto.

Let the soulmate saga continue.

I'm gonna give him a kiss on the forehead

f1 kuna

"It's her first time being a mother."

It's my first time being a child too. She can be a mother again, but I cannot be a child anymore.

It's so hard to fight with parents that broke their back to provide for you, a mother who raised you against so much injustice in your father's family. But she has left scars I cannot heal, pain that cannot be replaced, a void I cannot fill up, and a gaping emptiness that keeps on gnawing at my feet like an animal clawing at me cruelly. At night I'm left to cry in the blankets which are supposed to provide me warmth but acts as a shield instead. Everyday, every second. I know she didn't have the privilege to pursue her dreams, but how is it fair to rip mine apart? How is it fair to crush my hopes, my interests, my confidence. Telling me how useless I am, how no one will ever love me, how I will never be good for anything. Is this what a mother should be like?

Was her resentment towards her life born as me? Is that why I'm subjected to her venomous words and my silence? Her anger and my sadness? Her slaps and my bruises? While my brother recieves her calm and gentle love? It hurts because you know she's capable of loving, but not towards me. Towards him. And I'm left crying like a pathetic dog starving for a shred of affection.

Found your spirit bird then.

This you?

yes.

Yesterday, I was talking to my ma about how it should be a rule to not let people who doesn't handle kids or young people in general work in universities and schools. Especially, old/middle aged men in girls' colleges. I had such a bad experience with the staff member and had to step in to stop a man from harrassing a girl. And they hit me with this line. It felt more like an insult to be fair.

a canon event for every oldest daughter is being told “you would be a good lawyer”

might as well just steal you from 'em shadows then, sweet boy :)

I had this intense urge to just pick you up bridal style and carry you around. BUT you ain't allowed to smack me for it.

I could be convinced t'let you and be nice about it.

I will hunt you down, watch your back Cap.

(I don't mind it's public for a reason)

Really luv? Fine I turned my anon off. When can I smack that ass then?

Find yourself an opportunity, enjoy.

(also ignore me stalking your blog)

This is why we can't have nice things.